Uncle Lyokha and His Retribution

  “No — who do you think you’re raising your hand against, you vile creature?!” howled Alexei Mikhailovich — also known as Uncle Lyokha — peeling himself off the wall. He was a well-known character in his hamlet, which had everything a self-respecting settlement ought to have: two grocery stores, a little square with swings, a basement bar selling drinks “by the glass,” and the restaurant Surf — with a markup and no conscience.
  “Who are you raising your hand against? Against your husband — your support, your breadwinner!” Uncle Lyokha raged, somehow managing to stand upright on a sidewalk that swayed like the deck of a steamboat.
  Admittedly, his role as breadwinner was largely nominal: he had the unfortunate habit of drinking away more than he earned as a night watchman. And as a pillar of support he was, to put it mildly, somewhat flimsy.
  His wife, Ekaterina Petrovna, on the other hand, was a woman of solid build — both physically and spiritually — righteous to the point of cruelty. The beatings she administered on a regular schedule Uncle Lyokha endured stoically, with masculine dignity and even a touch of philosophical calm.
  But today he had decided enough was enough. The time had come for the husband to assume the role of head of the household, ordained by nature itself!
  “You’ve lost your sense of smell, you mongrel!” he squeaked, pleased with his own wit. “Vengeance is mine!” he wanted to add — but he didn’t know Church Slavonic. Or, indeed, many other things.
  So, muttering “Just you wait,” he steadily advanced toward the house, carefully catching the escaping sidewalk with his feet…
  The noose was tied to the clothesline: one end to the chandelier hook, the other to his trouser belt. A little pillow under his shirt protected his stomach from pressure. The chandelier had to be removed, though — it got in the way and warmed his head.
  Fitting his neck into the loop, Uncle Lyokha kicked away the stool and hung there, his sock-clad feet — survivors of several decades — dangling in the air.
  Once settled comfortably, he admired his suicide note — composed in the spirit of the unforgettable Vasisualy Lokhankin, though in prose. In it, with the bitterness characteristic of a suffering intellectual, he reproached his wife for the coldness and heartlessness that had driven a loving husband to such a tragic step…
  The lock creaked. Uncle Lyokha hastily rolled his eyes back, stuck out his tongue, and froze in the pose of a martyr.
  But Ekaterina Petrovna, contrary to expectations, did not enter the room. First she went to the kitchen — to rattle pots.
  “Husband has hanged himself and she’s making soup!” Uncle Lyokha fumed silently, wiggling his toes in midair. “Never mind — she’ll come in soon and start kissing my feet!”
  At last footsteps sounded, the door creaked, and a short scream followed by a dull thud announced triumph.
  “She’s realized it!” Uncle Lyokha thought solemnly, gazing at Ekaterina Petrovna sprawled on the floor.
  “She’ll come to, cry, embrace me…”
  For some reason, Ekaterina Petrovna did not come to. Instead, the front door slammed, and hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway.
  “Who the devil is that now?” Lyokha thought irritably, resuming his corpse pose.
  It was Klavka, the neighbor.
  “Oh Lord, what horrors!” she wailed, surveying the room with lively eyes.
“Well, Katya — you really did it!”
  She flung open the wardrobe, briskly spread a sheet on the floor, and began piling onto it everything that had even the slightest value. When an almost new denim jacket — gifted by his wife’s brother — was added, Uncle Lyokha’s patience snapped.
  “Put it back, you bitch!” he growled, pointing at her with a crooked finger.
  Klavka yelped, looked at the pale, contorted face of the “dead man,” and, as if pierced by that very finger, staggered back — and dropped dead straight onto Ekaterina Petrovna’s body…
  When Uncle Lyokha was released from prison, he never married again.
  Probably he didn’t feel like it.
  Or perhaps there was simply no one left.