The Man Who Loved His Wife (14 page)

Outside, the wind howled in triumphant conquest over heat and fog. Trees were bent, flowers swept down. In her dark room Elaine listened for the sound of a car. The illuminated hands of the bedside clock dragged as though possessed of a human and malevolent will. She had no real cause for fear, but could not resist the ache for punishment. She knew that Fletcher had at last committed the act, smashed the car against a wall, plunged
over a cliff, dived into the sea. She had sent him to his death. If he had not acted voluntarily, hurt and rage had blinded him to danger; the will to death had driven him involuntarily into a fatal collision. She waited for the phone to ring, sirens to sound, his broken body to be delivered on a stretcher.

The wind shrieked and died. In the hall Elaine heard heavy footsteps. She ran to her door, said timidly, “You're back?”

He nodded and walked past to his own bedroom.

“Good night,” she called after him.

A rumble acknowledged her existence.

7

WHEN FLETCHER WOKE THE NEXT MORNING HIS head was clear, his temper even. His was not at all the mood of a man who has gone through a crisis. Incidents of the previous day returned in sharp focus: his blindly raging departure, horns bleating on the clogged highway, the sudden wind, an angry ocean, bright flags of bathing suits moving on the beach, lithe boys riding the waves; a world beyond his lonely pride. He had stood upon a bluff and watched the ocean hurl itself in senseless fury against the rocks. Sea birds had whirled above him in great arcs, dived into the water, rode back to shore like surf boys upon the foam. The air had a tang both sweet and salty that brought back pleasing memories of Coney Island, where he had first smelled the sea. Clouds hung low but the sun, fallen behind the western horizon, had tinted the sea with the gray-blue and rose-mauve of a dove's breast. The ocean took on a purple hue.

The colors of earth had never concerned Fletcher. His mind had always been fixed upon more immediate and personal matters. Were these, the wind and salt, changing colors, a charge of vitality, and the swift running of blood enough to keep a man alive? Five steps on the lonely bluff and it would all have been over. They would have found a body waterlogged and torn among the rocks.

The sky darkened, clouds turned leaden-blue, spume glowed white at the ocean's border. Fletcher had no wish to take the five
steps. Men will themselves to death when the future holds no hope. For the first time since he had lost his voice, Fletcher's life promised power and drama. His circle was small, limited to three dependents, but his decision and activities could shape their future lives.

After a long drive in the windy night he came home, still unsure of his strategy with Elaine. She was not the first wife who had committed infidelity nor was he the world's first cuckold. He had lived for almost three years without a larynx. Compared with this, the loss of his so-called honor was a small thing. But he could not show that he condoned the sin by greeting her with open arms. A faithless wife deserved a sleepless night.

On the table beside his bed Elaine had left the usual two sleeping pills. In the morning they still lay there, and his first act was to add them to the hoard in the vial he kept hidden in the riding boot. The house was very quiet. Elaine had not stirred herself to make his breakfast. He would show her that he could get along very well without her. He made a pot of coffee, toasted bread, cut a melon, fried two eggs. His hunger was not appeased, and he fried a third egg. In the morning paper he read one paragraph about foreign loans, half a column about abandoned twins, a caption under the picture of a squirrel mother who had adopted an orphaned baby mouse, an editorial on the threat of Communism, the revelations of a columnist critical of the administration, and the meditations of a columnist who approved. Over a garish two-page advertisement of startling price cuts on electric appliances, he saw Elaine come into the kitchen.

They faced each other for a long moment. Elaine did not look well. Her ivory flesh had yellowed like meerschaum, her eyes were sunk into muddy pools. He wished her a good morning.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” She was cool in asking a question which had been the day's vital beginning since the only purpose of Fletcher's days had become the preparation for his night's slumber. He answered with a grunt. It would not do to let her know he had enjoyed a good night's rest.

“I had an awful night,” she said; “didn't get to sleep until
almost four o'clock. That's why I'm late. Oh, Fletch, you had to get your own breakfast. I'm so sorry.”

She had said she was sorry when she confessed infidelity. Fletcher did not mention this. Until he had decided how to act toward her, the subject was better untouched. It shocked him to discover that he was moved by her wan look. The eloquent eyes showed the need of consolation. He had only to mention forgiveness to get his gay and loving girl back again.

“Would you like to go someplace today, Fletch? Dorine's coming.”

The cleaning woman drove up in an ancient Cadillac. She was a lean, lively little creature with enormous energy and an overflowing heart. Among her numerous relations, friends, and employers she had known many fascinating maladies but none to equal poor Mr. Strode's affliction. She always spoke to him in a loud, compassionate voice as though he were deaf. Before she reached the kitchen door he had retreated to his den.

At his desk his first act each day was to turn the page of his desk calendar. Each page was divided into hours, every hour into fifteen-minute spaces that awaited notations of a busy man's appointments. The sterility of these spaces irritated Fletcher but he could not throw away the calendar which, bound in real leather stamped with his name, was the annual gift of his insurance agent. Today, importantly, two items appeared. The first reminded him to instruct his New York broker to report on the advisability of selling a thousand shares of a certain stock, which would bring him a handsome profit, enough to cover the down payment on that house Don and Cindy wanted so badly.

He heard their voices in the kitchen. How happy they would be if he summoned them to say that he had decided to let them have the money. He hesitated, not sure that he wanted to abet the foolhardy venture. It was not that he minded losing the sum so much as the prudence of a lender who could see nothing ahead but further indebtedness. His eyes were drawn to the picture of Cindy as a little girl. The face was tender, trusting, and vulnerable. He remembered the soapy smell of her youthful kisses. If only that husband of hers were not so smooth and
lordly, so firm in his belief that the world owed him a living. At Don's age Fletcher Strode had supported a family and fought in a war. How would this soft generation sustain itself during a depression?

Cindy and Don went to the garage and got into the Jaguar. There was still time to summon them with the news that he would write a check for the thousand that would put the house in escrow, and when that was completed, let them have another four thousand. Why not? He could, if he wished, finance the deal, keep his daughter's husband from asking help of Nan Burke's father.

He saw them go off in the Jaguar. This gave him more time to consider the decision. For a few more hours his power was secure. He felt strong and independent, a man who operated with firmness and decision. Instead of asking Elaine to talk on the long-distance telephone to his broker, he wrote out a long telegram, decided to drive down to the Western Union office with it. On the way out he passed her in the hall and slapped her seat indulgently.

Her spirits rose. “Mr. Strode's in an awfully good mood this morning,” she told the cleaning woman. “He ate an enormous breakfast.”

“Let's hope it lasts. With the afflicted you can never be sure.” While they cleaned Fletcher's closet, Dorine told Mrs. Strode about a lady she had worked for on alternate Thursdays. “Her son had a mental condition. Sometimes he was as gentle as a lamb, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But you never could tell. He'd get those whims. Like throwing eggs at the cat.”

“Strictly fresh, I hope.”

“It's nothing to laugh about, Mrs. Strode. The poor lady's heart was broken. He outlived her. What's this?” Something rattled in Mr. Strode's riding boot. Dorine pulled out the bottle of bright-colored pills.

Elaine had often blamed nervous imagination for her caution with the sleeping pills. Without asking its cause, Fletcher had agreed to her scheme of doling out two a night. Except on that spring afternoon when he had accused her of wishing that
he was dead, there had been no mention of the subject. Now, thrusting out her hand for the vial, her fear took body.

“Is he addicted?” whispered Dorine.

“Please give me that.”

“We had a neighbor once on West Adams, her niece used to hide stuff in her lipstick case. Pretty as a picture, too. You wouldn't believe it.”

Elaine pressed the vial deep into her pocket. “Please don't talk about it, Dorine. Ever.”

“They always hide it. Won't Mr. Strode be mad when he finds it gone?”

“They're only sleeping pills,” Elaine said irritably.

“People kill themselves with 'em. Take that movie actress. That's why I won't work for movie people. You never know what you'll find in the morning.”

Elaine retreated to her bedroom. She clutched the small bottle protectively as though someone threatened to take it away. What would Fletcher do when he discovered the pills gone from their hiding place? She counted them and realized with what self-control he must have resisted their use on sleepless nights. When she heard the car enter the driveway, she tightened all over as though she had been discovered in sin.

Feltcher was in a buoyant mood. “What have we got for lunch?”

He ate with good appetite. Cindy and Don had not come back, and it seemed natural for Fletcher and Elaine to enjoy a quiet meal on the terrace. A daring blue jay stole crumbs from Fletcher's plate.

“You know you're seeing Dr. Gentian this afternoon.”

Fletcher nodded. This was the second important item on his calendar page. Elaine was pleased when she saw him drive off to keep the appointment. A man contemplating suicide would not suffer the pain and ignominy, the hammering and probing, the useless imprisonment, of the dentist's chair. A visit to the dentist is a gesture toward life. The bottle of sleeping pills made a bulge in the pocket of Elaine's tight trousers. She had kept them there because she could not decide what to do with them.
She decided to hide them in the kitchen cupboard, but Dorine was there frying herself a hamburger. At the bookshelves, looking over her shoulder to be sure she was not observed, Elaine thrust the vial behind her father's
Origin of the Species
in Italian. She felt as guilty as if she were involved in crime.

DR. GENTIAN HAD good news. His next patient had canceled, and he could give Mr. Strode an extra half hour. He drilled and talked, filled and talked, discussed with zest the city's most recent murder. The case interested Dr. Gentian because the victim was a dentist. Gagged and forced to listen, Fletcher sympathized with the assassin. “Am I hurting you?” asked the dentist. Without the slightest notice of Fletcher's grunt of assent, he went right on with his devilish work, adding pressure to the pointed instrument piercing his victim's gums. “Take it easy, Mr. Strode. Won't be long now.”

Only longer than a lifetime. The ordeal became doubly excruciating because Fletcher suddenly remembered that he had left his diary exposed. He had been pondering over an entry when Elaine called him to lunch. She had had to shout for him three times, rather sharply, because she had cooked his favorite cheese soufflé, which could not be left standing. It had been careless of him to leave the diary exposed while he ate, unforgivable to have rushed off without locking it away. Oh, God, if she should find it!

“I'm not hurting you,” Dr. Gentian said reproachfully.

Fletcher shook his head. He was all nerves and uncertainty. The telephone rang. The nurse hurried to the anteroom and came back to say that Mr. Strode's daughter had called to say she was shopping in the neighborhood and would meet her father in the parking lot.

At long last the ordeal was over, a new appointment written in the book, Fletcher free. Cindy was not at the parking lot when he got there. Tardiness was characteristic of his daughter but imprudent at a time when she was begging for favors. He walked up and down the street, wild with impatience, wondering how he would face Elaine if she had found the diary. While
he tried to tell himself that it would serve her right for poking into his private papers, he could not accept the transparent excuse. She would consider him insane, consult a doctor; or worse, desert him altogether. He was in a frenzy of impatience. Small beads of cold sweat dotted his face. He returned to the parking lot. Cindy was still not there. To dull his nerves he went into a bar. Bourbon was his drink, but he ordered Scotch because the phonetics required less effort. The bartender was an idiot who asked questions framed so that they could not be answered with a nod or shake of the head. “Soda or water, sir?” “White Rock or Shasta?” “On the rocks or without ice?”

Fletcher's voice came out like the roar of a beast. Mangled sounds, exaggerated by an electronic device, caused an instant of shocked silence. At the end of the bar a couple of smart lads turned their heads to look, turned away too hastily. The bartender joined them in a whispered conference. He nodded toward the afflicted customer. Fletcher drank fast and returned to the parking lot. “Can I get your car, sir?” asked the imbecile attendant. “What kind, sir?” Fletcher walked away without bothering to answer.