The Doctor's Wife (39 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
He tugged open her underwear drawer, stuffed with little white panties that had at one time been the prurient substance of his affections. He picked up a pair of panties and examined them, amazed to see that their tag read
Delectable Intimates.
Fiercely interested, he searched the entire dresser, but found nothing more with that label on it. Perhaps it was a popular brand, he thought, and moved on to the closet. The closet was full of new clothing still fastened with tickets from McMillan & Taft, clothing, it seemed, that she had no intention of wearing. He wondered if she had stolen it. Sitting on the top shelf was an old sewing box that he vaguely remembered from her father’s house. The box was oval in shape and had a cloth exterior that portrayed a scene of children at a skating pond. He took it down and lifted off the lid, under which was a tangle of embroidery thread and a piece of fabric that resembled burlap—a sampler, folded neatly across the top of the box. He removed the sampler and examined it and saw that Lydia’s mother, Frances, had stitched it when she was a child. It showed a little red barn, four white chickens, and a yellow-haired girl tossing feed. He turned his attention back to the box, where he found the white Bible Lydia had received from one of the nuns in school, a dour Sister Louise he had met only once, and a leather-bound volume of nursery rhymes that was so old the pages had come loose from the binding. Gently turning the brittle pages he discovered an inscription from Lydia’s mother.
To my darling daughter, Love, Mama,
she had written in ornate script. Taped to the page beneath it was a small photograph of the woman and child; Lydia’s mother, Simon presumed, and Lydia as a little girl.
Delectable Intimates.
Fiercely interested, he searched the entire dresser, but found nothing more with that label on it. Perhaps it was a popular brand, he thought, and moved on to the closet. The closet was full of new clothing still fastened with tickets from McMillan & Taft, clothing, it seemed, that she had no intention of wearing. He wondered if she had stolen it. Sitting on the top shelf was an old sewing box that he vaguely remembered from her father’s house. The box was oval in shape and had a cloth exterior that portrayed a scene of children at a skating pond. He took it down and lifted off the lid, under which was a tangle of embroidery thread and a piece of fabric that resembled burlap—a sampler, folded neatly across the top of the box. He removed the sampler and examined it and saw that Lydia’s mother, Frances, had stitched it when she was a child. It showed a little red barn, four white chickens, and a yellow-haired girl tossing feed. He turned his attention back to the box, where he found the white Bible Lydia had received from one of the nuns in school, a dour Sister Louise he had met only once, and a leather-bound volume of nursery rhymes that was so old the pages had come loose from the binding. Gently turning the brittle pages he discovered an inscription from Lydia’s mother.
To my darling daughter, Love, Mama,
she had written in ornate script. Taped to the page beneath it was a small photograph of the woman and child; Lydia’s mother, Simon presumed, and Lydia as a little girl.
Simon sat down on the bed and sighed, all at once overcome. He studied the photograph. At three years old, the child was already exquisite, a rare and dazzling jewel. Why had he been the one to find her? And what would have become of her if he had not?
He was putting the book away when an envelope dropped out. The envelope was full of cash: an assortment of bills, ones, fives, tens, twenties, and a fifty, totaling nearly six hundred dollars. He wondered where she’d gotten it. Simon deposited all of her paychecks and had sole control of their checking account. He gave her a weekly allowance for groceries and whatever else she needed. In truth, his wife was innately penurious. She spent modestly. The perfect match for a fledgling painter, although, as it had turned out, he hadn’t struggled for long. Money had never particularly interested him; it had certainly never motivated him. As long as he had paint and canvas and food in his belly, that’s all that had ever mattered to him. When he’d hit it big in the art world and the money had gushed in like a river tainted with pollutants, he couldn’t wait to get rid of it. Unbeknownst to her, he’d stashed most of it in a private account and had hired a local management firm to invest a portion of it in the stock market. The rest of it he’d spent quickly, foolishly, and when there was little left he did not regret it.
When Lydia had told him she needed to work to pay off creditors (he was terrible at paying the bills), he had acquiesced, wanting to promote in her mind a sense of responsibility that she was contributing to the family till, so to speak. But this money, this money she’d been saving. Perhaps she’d gathered it like a little squirrel, loose change left around the house, piling up in the ashtrays, ceramic bowls, five dollars here, ten dollars there. He supposed it added up. But to this amount?
The dogs began to bark and a moment later he heard her car pulling into the garage. Swiftly, he put everything away exactly as he had found it. He hurried downstairs to the kitchen, put up water for tea, and situated himself at the kitchen table with his small sketchbook and charcoals, as though he’d been there all afternoon. She came in through the side door, the fire of winter in her eyes. In their early days together, she’d liked interrupting his work. On some occasions, she would spend whole afternoons watching him work, content to just sit and see the thing come to life before her. It was an aspect of their lives that had come to an end when he’d stopped painting. He knew she blamed herself. He ventured that she believed he no longer painted her because she’d grown hips and breasts and the fertile intelligence of a woman. He could see this in her eating habits, which verged on anorexia. It seemed to him that she no longer knew where she stood in the world now that her body, her persona, was no longer on public display, vulnerable to the malicious interpretation of strangers. And not knowing drove her mad. It made her do things to herself.
“How was work today?” he asked her.
She turned around, startled by the question, her long yellow hair rushing over her shoulder. “Fine.” The teapot whistled and she took it off the flame. “Would you like me to make it for you?” Not waiting for his answer, she began to fix him a cup. Then she brought the two cups over to the table, her face bright with expectation like a little girl at a tea party.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Do I like what?”
“The job. Working there. Is it a nice place to work?”
She shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m on the phone all day. Taking orders. It’s nothing great.”
“What do people order usually?”
“Clothes, of course. From outerwear to underwear,” she said in a charmed voice. “That’s the company motto.”
“Underwear, too?”
“Why all this sudden interest in my work?”
“Just wondering, that’s all. Just wondering what my wife does all day. Isn’t that all right?” He manufactured a tone of propriety. “Doesn’t a husband have the right to know what his wife does all day?”
Her eyes looked glassy. She smiled, seemingly pleased by his attention, and her face bloomed like a flower, a dahlia with its crimson secrets. “It’s really very boring.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“Yes. A few. From church. We eat lunch together in the lunchroom. We talk about our work. Our charity. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You don’t give of yourself, Simon. It’s not your nature.”
“No,” he said softly, slightly spurned by the comment. He’d given to her, hadn’t he? He’d saved her. He’d given her plenty. But he said, “No, Lydia, I suppose it’s not.”
“But you’re an artist,” she reminded him. “You give differently.”
“How very generous of you to put it that way.”
She flashed a grin and sipped her tea.
“You look very pretty today. It’s a pity I never see you.”
She smiled richly, obviously flattered. “I work like everybody else,” she said, her girlish enthusiasm betraying every attempt at seeming womanly. “That’s the best part. I’m just another employee, not Simon Haas’s wife. It feels good to just be me for a change.”
He nodded, uncomfortable suddenly. “And after work. What takes you so long to get home?”
“Church meetings. Stuff like that.”
“What stuff?”
Her eyes darted this way and that, minnow-quick. She was deciding whether or not to tell him the truth. It was an expression he knew well when it came to his wife. “You may as well know I’m part of Life Force, the pro-life movement.”
“You mean those people who protest in parking lots?”
“We fight for the lives of the unborn.” Her voice sounded dead.
“What the hell for? What interest do you have in that?”
She summoned tears to her eyes. “We could have
had
that baby, Simon.”
had
that baby, Simon.”
“Don’t bring that up.
Jesus.
”
Jesus.
”
“We didn’t have to kill it.”
“Oh yes we did.”
“You made me do it. That awful woman. What
was
she, a prostitute?”
was
she, a prostitute?”
“A dubious line of work, but it pays.”
“You
forced
me.”
forced
me.”
“The hell I did. You were
fourteen.
”
fourteen.
”
She shook her head, tears falling thickly onto the kitchen table. “We could have saved it. We could have taken care of it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Lydia, you were
raped.
”
raped.
”
Her back went stiff and she gazed at the window, where darkness had pulled down its heavy shade and only a sliver of orange remained.
“I could have taken care of it.” Her voice quavered. “That place she took me to. It was
horrible.
It was the worst experience of my life.”
horrible.
It was the worst experience of my life.”
“Worse than being raped?”
“It was a
life,
Simon. It was a
gift.
How it got there makes no difference.”
life,
Simon. It was a
gift.
How it got there makes no difference.”
“Boy, they’ve done a good job on you.”
Furious, she shoved the chair violently against the table. For a moment she just stood there, as if she was surprised at herself, amazed even, her chest heaving with anger. Then she raced up the stairs and slammed the door. A moment later he could hear music playing, some Christian rock group, so loud that the walls trembled. He sat for a moment, but the music annoyed him.
How dare she,
he thought. Climbing the stairs, he wondered what he would find behind the door of their bedroom. He opened it, but the room was empty, and he walked in searching for her but found himself alone. She’d opened all the windows and the cold air blew in, swirling the curtains. He turned off the music and closed the windows. A moment later he heard a door slam downstairs. How she’d gotten down without him seeing her eluded him. He glanced out the window and saw the flash of her taillights as she turned the corner and vanished behind the trees.
How dare she,
he thought. Climbing the stairs, he wondered what he would find behind the door of their bedroom. He opened it, but the room was empty, and he walked in searching for her but found himself alone. She’d opened all the windows and the cold air blew in, swirling the curtains. He turned off the music and closed the windows. A moment later he heard a door slam downstairs. How she’d gotten down without him seeing her eluded him. He glanced out the window and saw the flash of her taillights as she turned the corner and vanished behind the trees.
Where in hell was she going? he wondered.
Back in the kitchen, he made himself a supper of bread and cheese and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He noticed her canvas bag on the back of the chair, full of newspapers and magazines, all rolled up together. Curious, he shuffled the papers out onto the table and put on his bifocals. There was a
Time
magazine, the cover of which showed Wally Nash and the president at their debate podiums. Lydia had drawn the horns of the devil on the president and an angel’s halo above Nash. Rolled up inside it was a catalog from McMillan & Taft. On its front cover, which showed an oppressively happy couple strolling in the autumn woods, was a little cloud containing the words
Delectable Intimates.
He scrambled through the pages to the very end, amazed to find a whole section of photographs of models in high-end lingerie. It did not take long to find the identical negligee that only hours before he’d admired on his lover’s body. Someone had circled it with black pen. Suddenly, his appetite was gone. The spit of rage filled his mouth.
Time
magazine, the cover of which showed Wally Nash and the president at their debate podiums. Lydia had drawn the horns of the devil on the president and an angel’s halo above Nash. Rolled up inside it was a catalog from McMillan & Taft. On its front cover, which showed an oppressively happy couple strolling in the autumn woods, was a little cloud containing the words
Delectable Intimates.
He scrambled through the pages to the very end, amazed to find a whole section of photographs of models in high-end lingerie. It did not take long to find the identical negligee that only hours before he’d admired on his lover’s body. Someone had circled it with black pen. Suddenly, his appetite was gone. The spit of rage filled his mouth.
Lydia had sent it to Annie. He was sure of it. She knew.
39
LYDIA’S FATHER had compared the sensation of dying to that of falling into quicksand. Over and over again during those long months, she imagined the gritty warmth enveloping him, suffocating him. He lay in bed, thin as a bundle of sticks, his skin the color of mustard. His manner was caustic and disagreeable, as if he’d swallowed lye. She fed him whiskey off a spoon, but that only made him sicker. Sometimes she dreamed of smothering him under his pillow. She’d play it all out in her head. Putting the pillow over his trembling face. The terror in his eyes. The way his legs would twitch and go quiet. Finally, she called a doctor, who came over at once. The doctor wanted to put him in the hospital, but her father wouldn’t hear of it, brandishing a flyswatter in the man’s face.
With her father sick and unable to work, there was little money. Lydia’s teacher, Sister Louise, secured a job for her at the nursing home in Gloversville. They paid her four dollars an hour under the table, since she was underage. Each day after school she rode her bike to work, where they used her in the kitchen to help prepare the meals. There was the red-faced cook with his bloodsucker veins. The smell of boiling sugar beets, wilted onions. Salisbury steak and peppers. Other girls worked there, girls like her, who were poor, who at the ages of fourteen and fifteen were already brittle and indifferent. Lydia would smoke with them on break among the old people drooping in wheelchairs. Sister Louise believed Lydia was performing a godly task. She said Jesus had chosen Lydia, but on some days it was hard for Lydia to see the benefits of her service. Pushing around the cart at feeding time, tying on the bibs, forcing the cook’s slop down their throats. The black-skinned women who cleaned the bedpans, murmuring complaints, the scandalous odors of the body’s decay permeating the walls.
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