The Stepford Syndrome

by Hannah McLester

God these rooms are creepy. It’s not really as bad as the ones you see on Law and Order, but pretty close. It must have taken years for the white speckled walls to turn that shade of brownish yellow. Yet somehow, the long tubes of fluorescent light keep the room looking pale and sickly. Then again, I suppose that is the point of interrogation rooms. They are not supposed to feel comfortable or welcoming. Still, you would think they would find somewhere slightly more comfortable for someone who is not actually a criminal.

The door clicks open and in steps a cop. When he closes the door a gush of fresh air makes its way into the room. Unfortunately it smells of sweat and old coffee. The cliché was almost too much.

“Hello Rebecca, hope we didn’t keep you waiting to long.”

“It’s fine.” I replied shortly. They had kept me waiting too long. I noticed it was the same cop that I had talked to when I first arrived, but I struggled to remember his name.

“Before we get started is there anything you would like? A snack or a drink?” He said, synthetic concern coloring his voice. I could tell he was just itching to get this started. That was fine with me. The sooner I get out of this room the better.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Now, I understand you have been through a very stressful experience. You are probably still in shock, but please describe the event in as much detail as you can.” He retrieved a tape recorder from his pocket, turned it on, and placed it on the table. I looked around the stiff, stale room one more time before closing my eyes. A picture of that night’s events taking shape in my head.

It had all started at a block party our neighborhood was throwing. Our next door neighbors, the Fannings were hosting. They have a huge backyard, one of the only ones big enough to fit the three barbeques and five picnic tables that we use for the party each year. The parents were all standing around laughing, eating, and drinking wine. The neighborhood kids weaved themselves in and out of their parents legs as they argued about who had the most cooties. Good old American family fun.

“Rebecca! Rebecca dear, come here for a moment.” I tried, and failed, to pretend that I could not hear my mother’s screeching beckon over the din of the party. But it was no good. That woman could make herself heard in a hurricane if she wanted to.

“Yes mother,” I grinned hoping the note of sarcasm in my voice wasn’t too obvious.

“Sweetheart, you know where the Fannings put the wine don’t you?” Already knowing the answer to this question she continued without waiting for me to respond. “Would you mind getting another two bottles for us?” Of course my mother wouldn’t want to take a break from getting thoroughly sauced to fetch full for the fire. After all, the party was just an excuse for the parents to get smashed and exchange gossip about each other. Honestly, I’m surprised something hasn’t happened before.

I agreed if only for an excuse to duck out of the party for a little while. Pulling open the back screen door I stepped into the dining room. With three strides, I emerged into the gleaming white kitchen. Everything in it was polished to an almost blinding sheen. I quickly found the small pantry room in which the Fannings had stashed the wine everyone brought. I’d grabbed a couple bottles from the shelf turning to leave when a thought stopped me.

My mother would no doubt find another source of intoxication should I not return fast enough. Why not use this as an excuse to take a break from the festivities. I noticed a little foot ladder in one corner, so I crossed the little room to take a seat. The door to the pantry didn’t quite close all the way. This left a small gap between the door and the frame that allowed me to see out into the kitchen from my stool.

I leaned back against the shelves enjoying the new found peace and quiet. I’m not sure how long I was like that, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, when I was startled awake by a noise in the kitchen. It was Mrs. Fanning. She was pulling out another tray of hors d'œuvres from the fridge and she looked unbelievably angry. I had never seen someone handle deviled eggs with so much hatred in my life. She broke several of them as she placed them on different platters forcing her to just throw them out. Presenting broken appetizers to her friends and neighbors was, of course, out of the question. I hadn’t thought it was possible for Mrs. Fanning to lose her composure. She was always the perfect prim and proper suburban housewife. Obviously, I had been wrong. Unnerved by this, I was about to step out of the pantry when a new voice entered the room.

“Honey,” the voice said tentatively, “is everything alright?” I realized the voice was Mr. Fannings. “You seemed a little… put out earlier.”

“Put out Richard!? Do I seem put out? Because I feel pissed.” Her voice struggled to remain calm as she stared him down. Her eyes were wide, she had stopped arranging the food and had both hands pressing firmly against the kitchen island counter top. “I know alright, I figured it out. I was just talking to Bill and he said that you and him haven’t hung out for weeks, much less gone bowling together every Thursday. You’re seeing her again aren’t you?”

“Honey bear, it’s not what you think I-“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. And I don’t want to hear about you seeing her again understand? Lord knows what it would do to the children if they found out.” She had resumed her arranging of the eggs now and would not look up at him. “Now take this,” she handed him one of the platters, “and get back to the grill.”

“Yes sweetheart.” Was all he said before turning around and leaving the kitchen.

Mrs. Fanning stood up straight, took a deep breath, and tugged at the hem of her shirt smoothing out the wrinkles. She picked up a glass of wine and took a large gulp.

I was on my feet now closer to the gap between door and wall drawn forward by the confrontation. Who’d known my neighbors were so interesting? But the bigger question was, how the hell was I going to get out of there? I didn’t want to just come out and casually walk out of the kitchen with Mrs. Fanning still standing there. How awkward would that be? A conversation like that is not one that anyone wants to be caught overhearing. Well, apparently except for one person, the kind of person that doesn’t have any scruples about ignoring simple social guidelines. As I sat there, dumb founded, wondering how I was going to get out of this Margret sashayed her way into the room.

“Margret, I didn’t know anyone else was still in the house” Mrs. Fanning attempted to gather herself up. The last thing anyone would want was a town gossip like Margret spreading there busses around town. Mrs. Fanning should have saved her breath.

Margret was wearing an orange summer dress, which was a little too low cut to be really family friendly. She made Mrs. Fanning, in her black pants and lavender blouse, look practically Amish. To be fully honest Margret wasn’t truly pretty, she just tried to hide it with a lot of makeup and really small clothes. The more you got to know her, the more time you spent with her, the less attractive she seemed.

“Well I was just in the dining room admiring you gorgeous chandler, when I overheard you and Richard fighting. Of course I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I just couldn’t help but overhear.” Margret flashed a mischievous smile at Mrs. Fanning. Mrs. Fannings lips stretched tightly against her teeth in what I guess was supposed to be a smile.

“I trust that anything you overheard just now will stay between the two of us.” Mrs. Fanning said curtly.

“Of course dear, I wouldn’t imagine saying a word to anyone. But I’m afraid you can never really stop the rumor mill darling. You don’t really think no one will figure it out do you?” Standing ridged at the tone of condescension in Margrets voice, the only sign that Mrs. Fanning had heard what Margret said, was the slight tension on her jaw line.

“I don’t see why people would figure it out. There is nothing wrong with my family. With my mirage.” I could actually see a force welling up inside her. Mrs. Fanning’s head was down, her hands clenched into fists. But Margret was not paying attention. She was having too much fun with her game.

“Darling, one thing I have learned from living here is that the only thing people love more than having the perfect family, is knowing that others don’t.” Margret turned her back to Mrs. Fanning leaning against the island. She began playing with the folds of her dress. “Really I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. It’s not like it was your fault. As I’m sure everyone else will agree.” With a light laugh Margret pushed herself off the island and made her way towards the door.

She didn’t see Mrs. Fanning walk up quietly behind her, stainless steel pan clutched in her left hand. Mrs. Fanning raised the pan across her body and brought it flying down right onto Margret’s head. Just a few steps from the kitchen door Margret was knocked sideways onto the floor, where she did not move.

For one breathless second no one moved. I stood there silent, paralyzed with fear and shock. Mrs. Fanning stood above Margret’s body looking down at her, stunned disbelief plastered on her face. As I watched, stunned disbelief turned into stone cold determination. Calmly she walked over to the sink dropped the pan in, turned on the hot water, and left the room. I could just barely hear a small click from the other room. Mrs. Fanning came back to the kitchen, the backyard door locked, insuring that no one could walk in as she did what she did next. She cleaned.

Mrs. Fanning started with the obvious, Margret. She knelt down and slipped her hands under Margret’s shoulders. She hoisted her torso and leg off the ground and dragged her to the other side of the room. For one terrifying moment I thought she was headed for the pantry. Instead she moved just to the right of the pantry, opining the door to the basement. The thud, thud, thud, of Margrets feet hitting each stair echoed up from the basement. For one wild second I considered making a run for it. But it was too late, I had been so distracted by the sounds coming from the basement that if I’d ran Mrs. Fanning would likely hear me.

When Mrs. Fanning returned from down stairs, she grabbed a bottle of Clorox from the cupboard under the sink, turned on the hot water to soak the bloody pan, and began scrubbing the floor. The process was repetitive and unrelenting, like she was in a trance, she would not stop till all signs of tarnish were scrubbed clean. I stood there and watched as the scent of bleach chocked the air, unable to move, even to look away. After she finished with the floor, she washed the pan till it gleemed, and hung it right back up next to the stove.

Finished with her clean up Mrs. Fanning looked herself up and down. Satisfied with what she saw Mrs. Fanning walked over to the island, picked up a platter of appetizers that was still sitting on the counter, and walked out. Just like that. Like she was cleaning up after spilled tuna casserole, instead of a murder.

Finally I emerged from the pantry. I think I was in shock because the whole thing seemed oddly unreal, yet my mind felt perfectly clear. I walked through the house and out the front door, I didn’t want to risk her seeing me come out of the house. I walked home, sat down next to the phone, and called the cops.

I blinked as the interrogation room came back into focus, the officer that was recording my account, was staring at me, unblinkingly.

“Wow, well that was very… descriptive, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, is that all you need?”

“Yes, well if you will just sign this form swearing that your testimony was true.” He slid a pen and paper toward me. I signed quickly and got up to leave. I had had enough of this room. “So this nice neighborhood house wife snaps and kills her neighbor, because she was going to spread gossip about something that the husband did with another woman? I have to say that is actually a new one.”

“Clearly you have never lived in the suburbs, or watched Despret Houswives.” At that I turned on my heels, and walked into the lobby to waiting arms of my mother.