The Man Who Loved His Wife (16 page)

She carried the ice bucket, announcing herself with little noises, coughing lightly, rattling the ice, swishing the petticoat under her skirt. If only she could please Fletcher, belong to him again. She had committed the unholiest sin, not with the act of infidelity, but with the act of confession. Absolution could be gained only by making sure of her love.

He was writing in the diary and did not look up when she crossed the room. She set the ice bucket down upon the bar and walked out quietly, like a servant.

THE DIARY HAD been on the desk, open and in plain sight, but did not look as if anyone had touched it. Fletcher was relieved, for he had seen himself unmasked, shamed, and confronted with all sorts of questions and accusations. In his anxiety he had known the diary for what it was, the pitiful plaything of a man bereft of physical and moral power. Belief had been shattered. He had vowed to destroy the wretched book. Once he had found it, apparently untouched, relief turned to irritation. His wife did not care enough to examine his diary and learn his secret thoughts. She had given it to him, often teased him for being so secretive about his diary, put on an act of interest. That's all it was, a pretty feminine act. She cared more about that half-naked fellow in the kitchen. How had those two spent the afternoon?

He brought out his best twelve-year-old Bourbon. The act of pouring brought back the searing memory of the latest humiliation,
the bartender's masked curiosity, the whispering group at the end of the bar. He turned to the diary, read and relished an item written that morning:

Yesterday she hit me with the news she had a lover. How much can a man take? No matter what schemes are in her mind she ought to be loyal while I am alive. Maybe she is too passionate to control herself. But what a shock to a loving husband. I drove to the ocean and stood on those steep rocks and looked down at the water and was tempted. Then a terrible thought came to my mind. I saw through her devious plans. She may not be brave enough to strike the blow herself so she is trying to provoke me to do it myself. This thought saved my life. I refuse to make it easy for her.

The entry showed rare insight. Fletcher poured another Bourbon, and thought about the incident in the kitchen. “She flaunts her . . .” he wrote, but got no farther because Elaine came in to tell him the soup was on the table.

“I made you minestrone.” Her tone was humble.

This time Fletcher was careful about locking up the diary before he left the room. Don came to dinner in black trousers and a white dinner jacket, which gave brilliant contrast to his dark eyes and ruddy skin. “Don't you look distinguished!” cried Elaine.

Fletcher said the soup was too salty and pushed his plate away.

Cindy floated in late but grand in her beige organza, new sandals, green paste on her eyelids, pearly tips to her fingers, and the hauteur of a young empress. One would think she was a member of the two-thousand-dollar-gown class. She was piqued because Don had not noticed her new hairdo.

“But I did, love. Indeed I did. The moment you got home.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

He had been binding Elaine's thumb when Cindy and her father came into the house.

“It's very becoming, dear,” said Elaine, who wondered if she sounded like a mother-in-law. “Don't you think so, Fletch?”

“Looks like a haystack.”

“But Daddy, it's supposed . . . I mean . . . it's casual. Bouffant casual. Really. All the girls are doing it now.”

“Your father doesn't see many girls.” Elaine spoke slowly as to a backward child. “He's not used to these new styles.”

“I'm used to them, and I agree with Dad, that hairdo's downright ugly. How much prettier Elaine is without makeup and her hair natural.” The remark was ill-timed. Don had meant to show agreement with Fletcher, but he had made the error of praising Elaine. He saw that she had gone rigid and looked away lest Fletcher, aware of every glance and inflection, might misinterpret the flattery.

Cindy noticed nothing. She was all wrapped up in her glamour and the anticipation of the party. Again she chattered about the affair, showing condescension to the pitiful older people who had to stay home and watch TV while gay youth mingled with the rich and famous, danced to irresistible rhythms. Smugly she offered compassion.

Fletcher became more and more irritated by the arrogance. All that fed his daughter's pride, the filmy dress, the new sandals, the pearls at her throat, the hideous arrangement of her expensively tinted hair, even the good-looking husband, had come from her father's labors. The silly girl had neither gratitude nor humility, not even the grace to keep quiet about his affliction. On and on she went reminding him that he, too, might have caught a glimpse of this night's glory if he had not been so rude to Nan Burke.

“Go stick your flaming shish kebab!” His anger rose like the belch that it was, a sickening excrement of sound.

“What, Daddy?”

“We're just a bit bored with the flaming shish kebab,” Elaine said with determined joviality.

“You're jealous,” Cindy teased, “because you're not going to the party.”

“Not at all,” Don put in quickly. “Different people have different tastes.”

“Shut up, you phony!”

This, too, erupted like vomit. Fletcher found it humiliating to have Elaine speak for him, but Don's taking on the role of interpreter was galling beyond endurance. No doubt he and Elaine had discussed “poor Fletcher,” had agreed on a technique for handling the deluded, disabled husband. At one moment they exchanged conspiratorial glances, at the next avoided each other with conspiratorial indifference. It was quite obvious that Elaine admired the young man in his white dinner jacket. As though her husband did not own three white tuxedoes; as though he had not taken her to Bermuda and Jamaica and Palm Beach for winter holidays and in the summer brought her to parties in Greenwich and Oyster Bay.

“Sorry, sir.”

Was that the best reply Don could offer? With all of his prep school and university and family background, he showed no more spirit than a kindergartner. If anyone had ever called Fletcher Strode a phony—and at Don's age—the answer would have been a fast one in the puss. At twenty-nine Fletcher Strode had not owned a white dinner jacket, but he had supported his mother and sister, married a demanding woman, made and lost a fortune, and started a second. Until he was laid low by illness he had worked for every dollar he had ever spent. He did not deserve to be patronized by his daughter, pitied by a punk, deceived by his wife.

Elaine and Don tried to cover the empty silence with chitchat. It was hardly better than Cindy's nonsense. For want of something more intelligent, these college graduates discussed the movie that was to have its first showing that night. Elaine hoped it would be good. She did so admire the star. “He has such unique male vitality.”

“Terrific. Loads of sex appeal,” cried Cindy. “Almost as much as Don.”

What the hell was so unique about it? Fletcher's mouth opened in preparation for a lion's roar. Not even a mouse's squeak emerged. Fury jagged through his body in electric flashes. He struck the table. Silver and dishes rattled. He raised his fist again, pulled back in a mighty effort at control. With the
correct technique, a long intake of air into the esophagus and his tongue in position, he prepared for speech.

“I can't let you have the money.”

The words came out clearly yet the faces of his audience were as blank as if he had not articulated each syllable. Once more he went through the routine and this time, since the tones were all equal and could not show feeling, he used gesture and facial contortions for emphasis. His fist swung up once more, his eyes narrowed, a fierce scowl wrinkled his brow. “I am not giving you that five thousand dollars.”

They understood. “Oh, Daddy.” Cindy winked back tears that threatened her mascara. Elaine spoke as tragically as if her dearest wish had been denied. “Can't you possibly? Five thousand isn't so much to you.” She turned, soft-eyed, to spend her sympathy upon the younger man.

Breeding and discipline showed in the composure with which Don accepted disappointment. The stoic silence enraged Fletcher. At Don's age, possessed of a healthy voice, he would have shouted and fought back. With all the force he could command, he committed speech:

“You think I've got money to throw around? Let him go out and earn it like I did. Or do you girls think he deserves it for his unique sex appeal?” Without inflection, the voice failed in irony. His audience faced him blankly. One would think the words had not been uttered.

“God damn you . . . parasites.”

Fletcher's ear, tuned to the voice of his mind, caught it. The others heard nothing. No sound had come out. Emotion had destroyed control. They saw his writhing lips and waited.

Dumb anger whipped up fury. Why had he been so cursed? He, Fletcher Strode, who had worked hard all his life, taken responsibility, proved his usefulness on earth? The three of them stared like hicks before a sideshow freak. He tried again. His heart pounded, his head throbbed, his throat ached with the strangled sense of helplessness. Tears welled up. Before they could gape at the final disgrace, he sprang up and left them.

Elaine did not hurry to offer comfort. Probably she preferred
to console Don. From the den Fletcher heard guarded murmurs. Shortly afterward Don and Cindy drove off in the car that Fletcher Strode's generosity had provided. The rattle of china, followed by an avalanche pouring through the dishwasher, told him that Elaine was in the kitchen. Once more Fletcher turned to his diary. He read words, but the phrases and thoughts that had filled him with pride had become meaningless marks on paper. Where was Elaine? Time had passed, the dishwasher had quit churning, but she had not come to find him. The house had never been so quiet. Outside, a rising fog had silenced birds and crickets. A strange weight pressed upon him, the sense of muteness. To hear sound he beat both fists upon the desk. He was neither deaf nor dead. Death is silence. He beat the desk again with the fury of relief.

Life returned with the rustle of silk in the hall. He pulled himself up in the desk chair, seized his pen, and pretended to be busy. “Fletch, dear.” She had painted her mouth and contrived a smile. “What did I hear? I was afraid you'd become angry again. Please, darling,” she used the word shyly, “don't keep hurting yourself.”

Don't be angry! Why not, for God's sake? You tell me he's not your lover, but I've got eyes in my head. And a good pair of ears. What am I to think when I hear you bragging about his sex appeal, showing off your shameless passion? Expect me to support him, don't you? Reproach me for not showering money on your gigolo.
All in his mind. From his lips came only broken sound. He had lost control, become as mute as when he lay in the hospital bound down by clamps and tubes, helpless.

Elaine hurried around the desk to touch him with gentle hands. “Darling, please, please don't try so hard. Just relax and—”

He pushed her off.
“Don't touch me, you whore.”

This, too, was merely mouthed. She did not hear the words. Only his movements rebuffed her. Just the same, she tried to soothe him. “Don't get panicky. You're too emotional. When you've calmed down a bit, you'll be able to talk.”

He seized her shoulders and whirled her around so that she
could see his lips. Their movement and a nasal whisper brought forth a word.

“Whore!”

She had come to offer remorse, to soothe him with tenderness. Instead she flared, “If that's how you feel, I'm leaving. I've withstood enough, I'm through.” At its peak, her fury collapsed. His wounded animal look defeated her. “Tell me you didn't mean that.” She offered the memo pad and a pencil.

He backed away.

She went on, “You can't believe it's Don. Your daughter's husband. You know I'd have nothing to do with him. Tell me you didn't mean that.” Once again she thrust the memo pad toward him.

He made no effort to answer. The silence was piercing and endless, like acute pain. She thought of the pills hidden in her jewel case. “All right, it's my fault. I hurt you. Unforgivably. But please,” she begged as for a small favor, “believe me, Don was never my lover.”

Fletcher took hold of her shoulders, his fingers like hot claws digging into her flesh. He jerked her close to him. His lips moved but no sound came forth.

Elaine read the question in his face. “He wasn't important. Someone you don't know. Just a terrible moment, an impulse. I never want to see the man again as long as I live.” Guilt compounded the lies. Her flesh betrayed her by turning red. She twisted out of the mental claws. Fletcher caught her in flight and struck out with his fist. She reeled backward, recovered balance and, mute too, stared at him in shock. Both hands protected the injured jaw.

He was paralyzed, his body no less impotent than his voice. Often, when his heavy hand had come down upon her in the play of love, Elaine had protested that he did not know his own strength. Fletcher Strode had made many mistakes in his life, committed not a few sins, but he had never before struck a woman. He knew that there were men, many wellborn and educated, who habitually beat up women. He had always thanked God that he was not that type. He could not look at Elaine, who
stood there with both hands protecting the injury and her eyes flashing with justified fury. He wanted to speak, to say he had not meant to hurt her, to beg her not to leave him. It was less the physical handicap that kept him from it than his stubborn, rockbound pride.