The Man Who Loved His Wife (7 page)

“Oh, no, please. Please not . . .”

He became fiercer, murmured that he loved her, that he had tried to forget about her, that no woman had ever moved him so deeply and completely. Elaine seemed not to have heard. Both trembled and shrank into themselves. They heard wheels on the dead-end street, became paralyzed at the thought of having to face her husband calmly. The car turned and drove down the hill. Elaine rose and once again sought protection in the shadows. Ralph followed. Overhead a plane buzzed. They listened
like people waiting for a bomb to destroy them. She threw back her head and stroked her neck in a way that Ralph found unbearably seductive.

Having once rejected him, Elaine did not expect to be seized again. The second shock swept away all defenses. She grew limp, pressed her breasts against his body, arched backward, supple and ready. Ralph carried her to the couch. “Not here, not in this room,” she whispered as though it were the place rather than the act that would betray her husband. Her mind had cleared, she knew precisely what she was doing and loathed herself, but she had been so long deprived that she had no more will to resist. Her body felt remote from mind and heart as Ralph lifted and carried her to her own room and there, upon her own bed, took her. They made love in silence with no words of passion, no moans of rapture. Her lover was ardent and experienced, but Elaine felt less delight than the cessation of throbbing need.

Poor Fletcher, she thought.

Afterward she lay still, neither fully released nor repentant, but only arid and indifferent. Ralph came alive to the situation and groaned, “What are we going to do now?” All Elaine could say was, “Hurry, hurry. Please get dressed and go quickly.”

HELPLESS IN THE padded chair, his jaw weighted with clamps, pipes, and tubes, Fletcher became the most captive of audiences. Not even the consolation of revery was permitted. Dr. Gentian indulged in the conversational flux that is the occupational disease of dentists and barbers. Although Fletcher had become accustomed to muteness he found these sessions particularly irritating because the doctor could not restrain his admiration for Fletcher's wife. In the most jocular way he reminded the poor man of his tremendous luck in having won the devotion of a delightful girl.

“So much younger, too. You must have something on the ball to keep her so faithful. At your age and with your trouble.” The dentist touched his own Adam's apple.

Medical authority gave Dr. Gentian special privilege. He
did not feel restrained in speaking of the laryngectomy and its physical and psychological effects. He always had tidbits of unpleasant information. While he drilled and hammered he gave dull, repetitious lectures studded with technical phrases. From this he went on to another painful subject. One of his patients had been sued by his wife for half a million dollars. The drama had been covered by the morning and evening papers but the dentist, having looked into the protagonists' mouths, had extra tidbits about their teeth and their passions. He knew better than any reporter why Mr. X had failed to hold the affections of his wife. “Not that you're anything like him,” Dr. Gentian shouted over the whirring of the drill, “a big good-looking man like you. He's a runt, a regular Mr. Five-by-Five who goes in for these tall, bleached dolls. She's nothing, if you ask me, but a run-of-the-mill gold-digger while your wife's true blue, all wool and a yard wide. And a million dollars' worth of sex appeal.”

Held prisoner in the padded chair, Fletcher thought of the chocolate-colored blotch on Elaine's flowered silk dress. He saw her startled eyes, the shocked and graceless movement as she backed away. A groan escaped.

“Am I hurting you?”

The patient, bereft of larynx and encumbered by a mouthful of instruments, could give no more answer than another strangled moan.

A moment of rest was permitted. Then Dr. Gentian went on with his drilling and his story: “And one fine day when he was out on business his wife packed her things, priceless jewelry and four minks, and left him flat.”

Elaine had not allowed her husband to buy her a mink coat. She had handsome wool wraps of various colors, satins and brocades for evening and an ermine-lined velvet cloak for cold nights. He saw her wearing it in New York, a young woman who had left a brutal, demanding, and impotent husband to enjoy freedom. A new vision rose. Somewhere beyond the dentist's drill and cabinets he saw his house deserted, too bright and glaring without his wife's gentle shadow. The house was Elaine; she had selected and furnished it, fixed its proportions,
determined its colors, arranged its routines, filled it with her past, the looks and ornaments that had belonged to her family.

At once Fletcher felt that he must leap from the dentist's chair, desert the barber, jump into the car and speed to her side. He did not. Dr. Gentian was allowed to finish, to spend galling moments in trivial talk, to consult his book and arrange another appointment. Again prisoner in the barber's chair, Fletcher listened to political and scandalous gossip, heard praise of women, boasts of male prowess. He allowed the manicurist to pick at his cuticle and thought of his wife speeding in a taxi toward the airport. At long last he was free to pick up his car.

Cindy was to have waited at the parking lot. It was absurd to have expected her to be on time. Fletcher passed the time by studying displays in shop windows. He was tempted to buy an enameled brooch for Elaine, a box of chocolates, a twenty-dollar art book, a Japanese kimono. Before the operation, when his voice was whole, he used to burst into the New York apartment shouting, “Hi, lovable, I've brought you a present.” Recently he had brought her a pair of amethyst earrings which she treasured less for their value than the price he had paid in pride in letting a strange shopkeeper hear his mangled voice.

Today a gift would be a gesture of penitence. She would understand too well, offer tact too generously. Better let the whole thing blow over . . . unless she had already packed and left him.

At the parking lot he found Cindy waiting and reproachful, swearing that she had not been more than three minutes late. Her hands were empty. She had bought nothing, merely enjoyed looking at things too costly for her modest purse. Fletcher did not bother to comment. At the time of the divorce he had established a trust fund for his daughter. Cindy's income was around seventy-five dollars a week, secure and permanent. What had she to complain about?

“I think it's time we had a heart-to-heart talk, Daddy. It's impossible to say anything in front of Don, he's so proud.”

Fletcher only half listened. Rush hour traffic, changing lights, heedless drivers, the glare of late afternoon sunshine, long lines
of cars belching gas fumes, compounded his impatience. He drove too fast, cheated the changing lights in the urgent need to find Elaine at home, loving and unchanged. He framed the words of apology, heard her laughter and forgiveness.

Cindy talked on and on about Don's misfortunes, not only in the office where they gave the best cases to members of the partners' families, but in previous jobs. “He simply doesn't have the connections in New York. And it's too brutal there, Daddy, you don't know.”

The boulevard climbed a small hill. A shaft of sunlight smote Fletcher's eyes. Elaine's laughter dissolved, the smile vanished. He saw her empty room, the dressing table bare of her jewel case, her jars and bottles, a note on the polished wood. She would say she had borne his moods as long as possible and that she was sorry, so terribly, terribly, tragically sorry. Hidden in a place where no one would ever think of looking for them, Fletcher kept a secret store of sleeping pills.

“We've never asked you for any favors. Or money either,” said Cindy with a little grimace of humility. “Money doesn't matter so terribly much to us except that you've got to keep up appearances. People would never want to pay a man a decent salary if they think he
needs
it.” The absolving stream of laughter mingled with the shriek of a passing police car's siren. “Not that my husband expected anything, but people did talk a lot about me having a rich father. I told Don the truth, that seventy-five a week was every blessed cent I had in the world, but still there was the impression. Could I help it that Mom keeps up that big house and all? It wouldn't have been natural if he hadn't expected some excellent contacts at least. And when we came out here . . .” The laughter fluttered indecisively. Since Fletcher gave her no encouragement Cindy went on, “We did think you'd need a legal representative. Or something. Of course Don would have to pass his bar examinations but he's been reading a lot on California law. It's not too different basically, he says.”

They turned off the boulevard onto a shady street. In a passing taxi Fletcher noticed a passenger in a large black straw hat.
It was the kind of hat Elaine wore on sunny days. Fear stabbed at his heart again. He turned to look backward.

“Please, Daddy, watch where you're going!”

He had crossed over the yellow line. He pulled the car over and pressed his foot hard upon the accelerator.

“Daddy! We're in a twenty-five-mile zone.”

He drove the rest of the way at thirty and felt like a cripple. The ascent of their hill seemed endless. In the driveway he sounded his horn. The signal often brought Elaine running out to meet him. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold and without the pots that ought at this hour to have been bubbling and giving out pleasant odors. Her bedroom was too tidy, but the jars were still there, the jewel box and perfume bottles. In the living room the cushions were plumped up and in place. No newspapers and magazines littered the tables of the den. Alone, deserted, voiceless, and spent, Fletcher thought once more of his hidden pills.

At the end of the corridor a door opened, “Are you back? Oh, dear, I'm late. I didn't hear you come in, the shower was on, I guess.” Elaine ran toward him, sweet-scented and warm. Of their own volition his arms curved around her. She pressed herself close to enjoy his strength. Resentment and fear fled, he forgot frustration, believed himself the man he had been, pulled open the white toweling robe to feel her soft flesh.

Cindy appeared. Elaine, self-conscious when her husband's daughter witnessed the most ordinary caress, jerked herself away. Fletcher grunted, furious because the priceless, hopeful moment had been interrupted.

“What's this?” asked the girl.

“A hat,” Elaine said.

Cindy held it aloft, a man's hat, high-crowned, narrow-brimmed. “Whose?”

“Dr. Julian's. He was here this afternoon.”

Elaine moved backward toward the wall, as if deeper shadow could make her invisible. After Ralph had left, she had changed the sheets on her bed, stood under the shower, soaped herself in the hottest water she could bear, rinsed with a cold stream, seeking discomfort as partial penance.

“Who's he?”

“A doctor. He took care of me when I had the flu, and he's a friend, too. He asked for you Fletch.” There was no response. Elaine's voice reached a higher pitch, was forced down as she added, “He used to live in this house. He stops in to see us sometimes. He was visiting a patient in the neighborhood.”

In the redundant, shrill explanation Fletcher sensed disquiet. Visions flashed, nude bodies writhed, sparks shot high, miniature suns dazzled, a carousel of arms and loins, caresses, attitudes, breasts, positions, all at a giddy pace. Fury rose, phrases came to mind, savage anger stifled by affliction and helplessness. Elaine had disappeared. Her bedroom door was closed. She had shut herself away from him.

At the corner bar in the den he filled a glass with ice, poured unmeasured whiskey. The drink brought no solace. This day had been an endurance contest against trivial irritations. Tomorrow would be no better. To regain self-esteem he looked backward to a past seen as a flashing parade of challenges and victories. Setbacks and losses were forgotten, for in the end he had put across big deals, recouped losses, kept ardent faith in himself. Fletcher Strode! Better off dead than enduring this life of petty defeats; showing the spleen of a spoiled child, throwing food at his wife, sulking because she had talked to another man.

Elaine had never given him any real cause, his reasonable mind argued, to suspect disloyalty. On another level he ached to punish the faithless creature, to keep her forever from the pleasures of love. The diary was brought out of its hiding place, touched reverently like a secret scripture or a secret weapon.

Her doctor paid another call on a healthy girl. Is the redhead in league with her? Perhaps Dr. Julian is only her sucker being used to provide her with some pill or poison that will do the job on me. Maybe a pain-killer because she is soft and would not want to see me suffer. I do not think she would dare tell him about her diabolical plan. Maybe she consults him about the psychological condition of her poor husband. It would be clever if she told him she worries about me wanting to commit suicide. How little they know about me. As if Fletcher Strode would take the coward's way out . . .

He stopped to read what he had written, proud and somewhat astonished by his use of words. Elaine came into the room so silently that Fletcher saw her as a vision transformed to reality; not the jealous vision of a woman writhing in lewd love, but the specter of a living angel. She wore a long hostess gown of some filmy material that swayed as she moved so that soft womanly curves and youthful suppleness were happily revealed. To shield himself from the thrust of pleasure aroused by her presence, he growled without the slightest effort to overcome disability, “What's taken you so long?” and at the same time locked his diary away in the desk drawer.