**** This short story, "The Stove", is an original, previously unpublished, fiction story that I wrote. The story is fiction, although I do live in an apartment with an old stove that is much like the stove in the story.****
It was electric with four burners. Three of the burners were small and one in a larger size. Having only one large burner made it difficult to cook a proper meal on the stove, but Ann was used to the inconvenience by now. A person can get used to almost anything, given enough time.
She’d been cooking on that same stove over thirty years now. It was narrow with the oven built into the front of it, and it would have been more suitable in a little apartment than in the three bedroom home where it was located. Ann figured that, if her home was any example, the people who built houses in the 1970s never expected the kitchens in them would get much use. Why else would they have made her kitchen so tiny and put in only a small stove?
Obviously, her kitchen wasn’t designed for a couple raising three children. Yet, it had been used by such. Countless meals she’d cooked on that stove! Burners had gone out and been replaced. The oven had been repaired. The drip pans had worn out and new ones put in. Still, it was always the same stove, always narrow and inconvenient.
Ann had asked her husband, Ray, for a newer, bigger stove many, many times over the years. He’d shake his head every time and tell her, “There’s not much point in getting a new stove. It’s not going to make your cooking any better, is it?”
Ann tried not to let it hurt her feelings too much when Ray insulted her cooking. She wasn’t the best cook in the world, she knew, but she thought her food usually turned out fine. The kids hadn’t complained about it, but, then again, they had eaten most of their meals at the same table as their father, and they knew better than to complain about anything in front of him. Mostly, they tried to stay quiet during meals. They’d figured it was safer that way.
The children were all grown now. They’d moved out as soon as they were old enough to support themselves financially. Ann knew that all of her children were barely getting by, but they’d never ask their parents for help. Certainly, they’d never ask to move back in with mom and dad, no matter how bad their financial circumstances became. Ann could hardly get them to come over for a visit. When they did come, it was usually on a weekday afternoon, while their father was at work. They’d leave not long after Ray got home. He made it clear he preferred them not to linger long enough for dinner.
So, these days, Ann stood at the old stove and cooked meals for either the two of them or for herself alone, if Ray was at work or had gone out to eat with his friends. Ann didn’t work outside of the home, and Ray didn’t like her to go out without him, unless it was to grocery shop or run a household errand. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken her out anywhere. Ray said preferred his friends company to hers when he went out. He told her that he had more fun when she wasn’t there, hovering around, worrying about this or that.
If anyone had asked her (not that anyone she knew would ever ask), Ann would not have told them that she was unhappy with her life. Even in her own mind, she didn’t think of the feeling as unhappiness. Maybe, she’d call is discomfort or disquiet or dissatisfaction, but, no, she wouldn’t have said that she was unhappy. She cooked his steak (which Ray only liked served medium-rare) until it was black and tough as boot leather. She boiled him some white rice, scooped out grains while they were still hard and crunchy, and placed them on a plate next to Ray’s overdone steak. On the stove, she cooked up a large pot of lima beans (something Ray absolutely loathed) and dumped a pile of them on the plate next to the burnt steak and the undercooked rice.
Shortly after Ray got home from work, he called out to Ann. When she didn’t immediately come out of the kitchen, he didn’t think much of it. He figured that she was doing her usual last minute fussing over dinner. He’d told her many times not to bother. Her cooking was terrible. It had always been terrible. Why did she waste her time when it didn’t make any difference?
The stove was a perfect example. Why did she keep nagging him about buying a new one? Hadn’t he told her and told her, over and over again, that it wasn’t worth the money? If he gave her a new stove, what would she expect next? That he’d hire a chef to come in and cook it for her?!?
Ray sat in his regular chair at the table in the dining room. He unfolded the newspaper, read awhile, and started to feel a little thirsty. “Hey, Ann!” He bellowed. “Get me a beer!”
He was surprised when his wife didn’t respond right away. Normally, she would have been scurrying into the room by now, beer in hand. Come to think of it, he realized, he didn’t hear her usual clattering in the kitchen. In fact, the house had been oddly quiet since he’d walked through the door.
“Ann! Ann!” Ray briefly glanced in the kitchen, saw it was empty, and began to search the house for her. He called out her name as he went from room to room, but Ann wasn’t in any of them.
“She must be out in the yard.” He muttered to himself as he returned to the kitchen.
Intending to cross the kitchen to the back door, he stopped short when he saw the plate of food sitting on the stove. Burnt steak, undercooked rice, and lima beans! What the...?!? Then, Ray saw the note. It read:
"Dear Ray,
I’m leaving you. I took some of my things, the car, and half the money in our bank account. Enjoy your dinner! I know you hate my cooking, so you’ll be relieved to known that it’s the last meal I’ll ever cook for you.
Ann
P.S. You can keep the stove.”
Kami
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