Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (42 page)
Feeling the pressure, Simon coughed and turned onto his side, powerfully, knocking the pillow to the floor, and the idea, entertaining as it was, flew out of her head.
Exhausted, she crept into bed and lay on her stomach, turning away from his sour breath, and went to sleep, hating him slightly less than before.
Lydia did not tell her husband that she would be taking Annie’s class. In fact, she said very little to her husband, as little as possible. With him painting again more intensely than ever, perhaps he was relieved. Anyway, he was too busy to take notice.
Too busy fucking Annie Knowles.
That morning she dressed for work as usual, but paid special attention to her hair and makeup. She even sprayed a little cologne on her neck. She hoped Simon would notice, but he scarcely looked up from his bowl of oatmeal. At eleven-thirty she left work and drove to the college. Reverend Tim had given her some special pills for her nerves and she took them now to calm down. She parked in visitor parking, wanting to keep her little secret from Simon. Well, he would find out soon enough, she guessed. She bought herself a cup of coffee in the little café on campus, and waited until it was time to go to the class. The classroom was located in a small octagonal building just a short distance from where her husband taught his classes in the art building. Walking toward the door, she swallowed hard, her throat parched from nerves. It had been ten years since she’d been inside a classroom. She hadn’t been much of a student, and she had never liked the other girls, the vicious scrutiny of the nuns. So when Simon had put an end to her education, convincing her that life on the road with an artist would teach her everything she needed to know, she hadn’t argued. Years later, after they’d moved to High Meadow and he’d gotten the job at St. Catherine’s, he suddenly became eager for her to know more. Simon Haas needed a smart wife. “Your ignorance is an embarrassment,” he’d told her once when he was drunk. He’d been the one who’d sent for the application for the high school equivalency exam. He’d helped her study. And when she’d passed, he’d bought her the Mercedes.
Entering the building she encountered a small group of students, waiting outside the classroom with their bags and books. They all looked smart, involved. She hovered near the drinking fountain, hoping no one would notice her. Even with the pills, she felt desperately anxious; her hands were sweaty and cold, her throat dry no matter how much water she drank. Annie Knowles came through the big noisy door at the other end of the hall and rushed toward them, her enormous leather bag swinging wildly from hip to hip. Her coat was open, as if she had put it on hastily, and she wore a silly wool hat, pink as a snow cone. She didn’t seem terribly organized, Lydia thought, not like the nuns at her old school. In fact, Lydia thought, Annie Knowles seemed more like a student than a professor. She found it amazing that the girls were so enamored with her.
Annie Knowles didn’t notice her at first, and Lydia followed the other students into the classroom, where they took seats around the table. There were fifteen students in all, most of whom were now seated and waiting expectantly. Lydia advanced toward her husband’s lover, who was already busy talking to another student, and suddenly the whole world slowed and went quiet and all she could hear was the wind inside her head and the howling of her own heart. She felt, at that moment, that she could do anything, even kill.
The professor looked up, confused by Lydia’s approach, her forehead as wrinkled as a basset hound’s. Their eyes locked, and in those fleeting seconds so much seemed to pass between them. Lydia reached into her pocket and everything slowed down to a whisper. Annie Knowles turned white and her lips trembled slightly and her long white arm went stiff on the tabletop, as if to ward off evil.
It’s not a gun, stupid, not yet,
Lydia thought, and it was in this potent and silent exchange that she realized all she was capable of.
It’s not a gun, stupid, not yet,
Lydia thought, and it was in this potent and silent exchange that she realized all she was capable of.
42
IN A FLEETING SPASM of panic, Annie imagined her own death. Simon’s wife reached into her pocket slowly, deliberately, then pulled out what Annie thought was going to be a gun. It wasn’t a gun, of course. It was a pink slip, an add slip for her course. Annie took the piece of paper and excused herself and went into the bathroom to wash her face. In a matter of seconds, her shirt had been soaked through with sweat.
When she returned to the room, Lydia Haas was sitting at the table, doodling on a pad of paper. “Excuse me, Mrs. Haas, but this class began over a month ago. There’s no way you can possibly catch up. I don’t know how they could have let you in.”
“I’m only auditing the class,” she said. “They told me I could do it.”
The room had grown quiet. The other students watched the famous artist’s wife with dire fascination. Annie was acutely aware that they were watching her, too. Annie knew that her handling of the situation was critical.
“Do you have any writing experience?” The words stuck to Annie’s tongue like Velcro.
“Yes,” Lydia Haas answered tentatively, but Annie doubted that she’d ever taken a serious class.
“Are you a degree candidate?” Again the confused expression. “Are you working toward a degree?”
“No.” She paused a moment. “Not officially.”
Annie felt the sweat trickling down her back.
Does she know?
She wondered if Simon had mentioned the article for
Vanity Fair
to his wife. Perhaps his wife admired her work; perhaps she should be flattered. No, Annie thought darkly, she should not be flattered. Lydia Haas exchanged shy smiles with the other girls. The fact was, she might have been one of them, yet she had a sneaky, sly demeanor that thoroughly disarmed Annie. Lydia’s complexion was sallow, sickly, as if she lacked fresh air. Sitting there with clasped hands she looked as if she were calculating some elaborate scheme. “Well, then,” Annie said, “welcome to the class, Mrs. Haas.” She tried to smile at her, but Lydia did not smile back. The other students gazed at Annie attentively, waiting to hear her opening remarks. Acutely aware of Lydia’s presence at the table, Annie awkwardly reviewed the last assignment, then launched into a meandering lecture on the elements of writing the personal essay, encouraging them to dig into their own lives as a means of producing effective social commentary. “I’m looking for essays that tell the stories of how we live, stories that attempt to provide a context for the way we behave.” Hearing her own words, she began to formulate an idea. “I’d like you to try a writing exercise at home tonight. Write a page or two describing a close friend, someone who means a lot to you. It could be a sibling. Or even a parent. Or, in your case, Mrs. Haas, a spouse.”
Does she know?
She wondered if Simon had mentioned the article for
Vanity Fair
to his wife. Perhaps his wife admired her work; perhaps she should be flattered. No, Annie thought darkly, she should not be flattered. Lydia Haas exchanged shy smiles with the other girls. The fact was, she might have been one of them, yet she had a sneaky, sly demeanor that thoroughly disarmed Annie. Lydia’s complexion was sallow, sickly, as if she lacked fresh air. Sitting there with clasped hands she looked as if she were calculating some elaborate scheme. “Well, then,” Annie said, “welcome to the class, Mrs. Haas.” She tried to smile at her, but Lydia did not smile back. The other students gazed at Annie attentively, waiting to hear her opening remarks. Acutely aware of Lydia’s presence at the table, Annie awkwardly reviewed the last assignment, then launched into a meandering lecture on the elements of writing the personal essay, encouraging them to dig into their own lives as a means of producing effective social commentary. “I’m looking for essays that tell the stories of how we live, stories that attempt to provide a context for the way we behave.” Hearing her own words, she began to formulate an idea. “I’d like you to try a writing exercise at home tonight. Write a page or two describing a close friend, someone who means a lot to you. It could be a sibling. Or even a parent. Or, in your case, Mrs. Haas, a spouse.”
Their eyes locked for a daunting moment, until Annie looked away. The classroom emptied. Lydia Haas was the last to leave the room.
Annie had a date with Simon that afternoon and considered breaking it. Did he know his wife was taking her class? If he
didn’t
know, she reasoned, she could possibly use it to her advantage by keeping it a secret, glimpsing the Haas household from the tormented wife’s perspective, if she
was
in fact tormented.
Thinking like a true journalist again,
Annie thought with irony. Perhaps she was getting her fangs back after all. Annie remembered Simon’s treatment of Lydia at the Spaulls’ party, his apparent violence, and she had sensed in his lovemaking a power that could do great damage to someone if he wanted to.
Don’t be shy,
she remembered her editor at
Vanity Fair
saying.
didn’t
know, she reasoned, she could possibly use it to her advantage by keeping it a secret, glimpsing the Haas household from the tormented wife’s perspective, if she
was
in fact tormented.
Thinking like a true journalist again,
Annie thought with irony. Perhaps she was getting her fangs back after all. Annie remembered Simon’s treatment of Lydia at the Spaulls’ party, his apparent violence, and she had sensed in his lovemaking a power that could do great damage to someone if he wanted to.
Don’t be shy,
she remembered her editor at
Vanity Fair
saying.
Simon’s car was parked in the motel lot. Still uncertain of what she would say to him, Annie went to the door. Music surged within; was it Mozart’s
Requiem
? He’d pulled open the curtains and she could see him through the window, sleeping on the bed. He was fully dressed, hadn’t even taken off his shoes, listening to the music so intently that he had no idea when she entered the room. On the table was a bottle of wine, half empty, a baguette, a saucer of olives, and a small blue bowl full of figs.
Requiem
? He’d pulled open the curtains and she could see him through the window, sleeping on the bed. He was fully dressed, hadn’t even taken off his shoes, listening to the music so intently that he had no idea when she entered the room. On the table was a bottle of wine, half empty, a baguette, a saucer of olives, and a small blue bowl full of figs.
For a moment she just stood there, watching him, as if he were the subject in one of his own paintings. A still life.
Still Life with Figs,
she thought. Now she, too, was in the painting.
Lovers,
she’d call it, or
Afternoon Tryst.
Annie tossed her keys down on the nightstand and Simon woke with a start. “You’re late,” he said, reaching out for her hand.
Still Life with Figs,
she thought. Now she, too, was in the painting.
Lovers,
she’d call it, or
Afternoon Tryst.
Annie tossed her keys down on the nightstand and Simon woke with a start. “You’re late,” he said, reaching out for her hand.
“I know. I’m sorry. My class ran over. I had a new student.”
Simon looked surprised. “A new student? Mid-semester?”
“Someone very unique, in fact.”
“They can’t do that to you. Kick her out!”
Obviously, he had no idea that his wife was taking her class. “Oh, this student is very dedicated.”
“Are you all right? You’re pale.”
“I have something to tell you.”
“What? What is it?” He looked at her, waiting, his face shaped with concern. If only she didn’t love his face. If only she didn’t want to kiss him.
Tell him,
she thought, but instead she whispered, nearly inaudibly, “Kiss me.” Simon pulled her down gently onto the bed and kissed her and then she kissed him back, their kisses rushing at each other with urgency, and then they were rolling around like two boys in the grass, two boys wrestling, and she pulled on his hair and laughed a little wickedly and he pulled on hers and laughed, too, and then his mouth covered her neck with kisses. His mouth covered her shoulders and breasts and belly and thighs with kisses.
Fuck you, Lydia Haas!
she thought gleefully, clinging to his back. She wrapped herself around him so hard that neither of them could tell where one body began and the other ended, and they were one as they fucked, they were one, and tears fell from her eyes onto his face and became his tears.
Requiem,
she thought, the music storming through the room, thinking of the painting their bodies made.
Requiem for Two Lovers.
she thought, but instead she whispered, nearly inaudibly, “Kiss me.” Simon pulled her down gently onto the bed and kissed her and then she kissed him back, their kisses rushing at each other with urgency, and then they were rolling around like two boys in the grass, two boys wrestling, and she pulled on his hair and laughed a little wickedly and he pulled on hers and laughed, too, and then his mouth covered her neck with kisses. His mouth covered her shoulders and breasts and belly and thighs with kisses.
Fuck you, Lydia Haas!
she thought gleefully, clinging to his back. She wrapped herself around him so hard that neither of them could tell where one body began and the other ended, and they were one as they fucked, they were one, and tears fell from her eyes onto his face and became his tears.
Requiem,
she thought, the music storming through the room, thinking of the painting their bodies made.
Requiem for Two Lovers.
She didn’t want it to be over, no, she didn’t want it to end, but she knew it must.
I must end this now!
I must end this now!
But she didn’t.
The chorus sang its desperate chant of loss and it was her loss, too, it was both of theirs, and they would both suffer for it. Oh, they would suffer.
She looked at him in the gray light. He had fallen asleep. It began to rain, the drops twitching on the window. “I have to go,” she told him.
His hand slid down her naked back. “So, go.”
She dressed quickly, feeling his eyes on her, watching her. There was a taste in her mouth, like copper, like blood, and she wondered if perhaps he had bitten her.
“I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Me, too.” She looked at him directly, wanting him to read her thoughts, all of their unspoken words crushed together inside her head. She leaned over and kissed him and left him alone.
The air stank of rain. Crossing the parking lot, she noticed a white car parked near her own. A Subaru. There was a woman sitting in it. Just sitting there. The woman had on big sunglasses and a ski hat. Annie saw a little girl playing in the backseat. The car seemed familiar to her.
Was it Christina’s mother?
What her babysitter’s mother would be doing at the Hum Drum Motel at two-fifteen in the afternoon Annie could not imagine, so she quickly discounted it. Suddenly, the Subaru started up and drove away. The car had a bumper sticker: BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, CHOOSE— but the rest of it had been scratched away. Standing alone in the empty parking lot with the rain falling down her face, Annie wondered what to do next.
Go to your children,
a voice told her.
Call your husband.
But she suddenly could do none of these things.
Was it Christina’s mother?
What her babysitter’s mother would be doing at the Hum Drum Motel at two-fifteen in the afternoon Annie could not imagine, so she quickly discounted it. Suddenly, the Subaru started up and drove away. The car had a bumper sticker: BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, CHOOSE— but the rest of it had been scratched away. Standing alone in the empty parking lot with the rain falling down her face, Annie wondered what to do next.
Go to your children,
a voice told her.
Call your husband.
But she suddenly could do none of these things.
Her cell phone rang, startling her, and she ran to her car and answered it, the rain pounding down on the windshield. “We know what you’re doing,” a man said, “we’ve been watching you.”
“Who is this?”
The man said nothing, but she could hear his breathing, the sound of the rain, a car horn in the background.
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