Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (54 page)
Although it is not smart to be there, Lydia is in no particular hurry. Killing time, she puts on more makeup, gobs of it. Finally, Annie appears on her driveway, nervous, pale, urging her children into the car, squinting in the bright reflection of snow. The boy carries a violin case and a floppy stuffed dog; the girl clutches a fat white cat. Swatting tears from her face, Annie tells the children to hurry up, to get into the car. What does Simon see in her? Lydia wonders.
What does he see in her?
Lydia takes a deep breath, concentrating on controlling herself, tempted to step on the gas and run the woman over.
What does he see in her?
Lydia takes a deep breath, concentrating on controlling herself, tempted to step on the gas and run the woman over.
Annie balks and jitters around her children like a nervous chicken. Pretending that they are just going to Grandmother’s house for an ordinary visit. Throwing in knapsacks and books, stuffed animals, a haphazard pile. Annie hauls her bossy breasts up the driveway, plump, logy breasts that have been fondled and pinched and sucked by Lydia’s husband. Annie slips behind the wheel with her cunt that has been pounded and prodded and savagely fucked by him as well.
Hammered,
she thinks with vulgar delight,
corked, rammed, pounded.
Thinking about it makes her mad all over again, steaming mad, but there they go now, backing out of the driveway, and she remembers that it’s time to focus. Work to be done, work to be done, she thinks frivolously as Annie races down the road with the children still grappling for their seat belts, a look of vacant determination on her face. She is pathetically oblivious to Lydia, who simply gets out of the car in her black wig and sunglasses and walks toward the house thinking,
I am invisible.
The street is empty, the house set back from the road; isolated.
Isolated,
what a stunning word. That’s what you want when you live in the country. You want land. You want space. You want to be left alone.
Hammered,
she thinks with vulgar delight,
corked, rammed, pounded.
Thinking about it makes her mad all over again, steaming mad, but there they go now, backing out of the driveway, and she remembers that it’s time to focus. Work to be done, work to be done, she thinks frivolously as Annie races down the road with the children still grappling for their seat belts, a look of vacant determination on her face. She is pathetically oblivious to Lydia, who simply gets out of the car in her black wig and sunglasses and walks toward the house thinking,
I am invisible.
The street is empty, the house set back from the road; isolated.
Isolated,
what a stunning word. That’s what you want when you live in the country. You want land. You want space. You want to be left alone.
Leave me alone!
Lydia wanders up the driveway, around to the back. Takes the doctor’s key out of her pocketbook and opens the door, steps into the bright chaos, so different from her own life, her own dead kitchen. The glaring window light floods in like a spectator. All through the house is the presence of the children, their scattered shoes and woolen hats and mittens. Their bright paintings of big skies, enormous suns, brown trees, purple flowers. And Annie’s things, the blue pitcher full of wooden spoons, the cracked green vase, the clay bowl full of coins, a pair of earrings left on the counter. Envy swarms her heart like a hive of bees. She scoops the earrings into her pocket and goes upstairs, the carpet plush under her flats. The house hums, it has a heartbeat. She hurries past the children’s rooms, stuffed with toys, because she knows they will depress her, and she tries to squeeze out the memory of her own childhood room, the stained yellow walls, the bed with its awful creaking springs, but she cannot. A darkness whirls up in her body, a darkness like ink spilled on her soul so deep and wide there is no containing it. The only refuge from it is hate. Hating Annie.
Wandering into the couple’s room. The
bedchamber,
she thinks, but the room is simple and ordinary. Only the skylight draws her interest, the weak sun pouring down. Annie’s things scattered on the mattress, her makeup, and the lipstick she favors, like garnets. The fat candle on the nightstand. Books scattered like flat stones across the floor. The bathroom smelling of lavender, vanilla. Her cologne from Paris. Lydia opens the small blue bottle and dabs its tiny mouth, glides her sticky finger down her neck. It’s not enough, she thinks, wanting to reek of her, and she pours some more into her hands, splashing the wanton smell over her breasts.
bedchamber,
she thinks, but the room is simple and ordinary. Only the skylight draws her interest, the weak sun pouring down. Annie’s things scattered on the mattress, her makeup, and the lipstick she favors, like garnets. The fat candle on the nightstand. Books scattered like flat stones across the floor. The bathroom smelling of lavender, vanilla. Her cologne from Paris. Lydia opens the small blue bottle and dabs its tiny mouth, glides her sticky finger down her neck. It’s not enough, she thinks, wanting to reek of her, and she pours some more into her hands, splashing the wanton smell over her breasts.
Smelling fervently of Annie, she returns the Taurus to the rental agency, appreciating the fact that she doesn’t have to speak to anyone. Wearing the black wig, she hands the attendant the keys. They already have the credit card. Not her own. Several days earlier, she’d gone to the public library in the center of town, the children’s section, where the women were always dumb with trust. A woman’s pocketbook sat on the floor, next to a toppled pile of blocks. The woman was tending to her crying child. It had been the easiest thing, slipping her hand into the purse and retrieving the wallet as if it were her own. Fussing through it, selecting the Visa and driver’s license, putting the wallet back, safe and sound. It hadn’t taken her long to assume the woman’s persona. She’d purchased a wig at a shop on Wolf Road.
I always wanted to be a brunette, she had told the woman. Everyone knows brunettes are smarter. They exude intelligence, whereas blondes are just plain dumb.
“Thanks, Mrs. Wilson,” the boy says to her and for a moment, just a split second, she is somebody else.
I always wanted to be a brunette, she had told the woman. Everyone knows brunettes are smarter. They exude intelligence, whereas blondes are just plain dumb.
“Thanks, Mrs. Wilson,” the boy says to her and for a moment, just a split second, she is somebody else.
Lydia walks briskly back to the commuter parking lot where she left her car and gets in and turns the radio on loud. There is nothing so pleasant as blasting a radio when you are fucked up out of your mind.
Be a good wife,
Reverend Tim had told her, so on the way home she stops at the market and buys two steaks, salad fixings, a box of rice. Two chocolate brownies. A bottle of Jim Beam.
I am the perfect wife,
she thinks, driving home to her big silent house. The dogs sniff at her curiously. Simon is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Waiting for her.
Be a good wife,
Reverend Tim had told her, so on the way home she stops at the market and buys two steaks, salad fixings, a box of rice. Two chocolate brownies. A bottle of Jim Beam.
I am the perfect wife,
she thinks, driving home to her big silent house. The dogs sniff at her curiously. Simon is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Waiting for her.
He snaps the paper open, startling her with the face of Michael Knowles blazing across the front page. The headline reads: “MED CENTER DOCTOR DISAPPEARS: Drifter Found Dead in Doctor’s Car, Investigation Under Way
.
”
.
”
Simon folds the newspaper back up and slaps it on the table. “Where’ve you been, Lydia? We had an appointment at Blackwell today.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so awful, Simon. I’m sorry.” Unsteady, she leans against the counter, the glorious drugs rushing through her, making her breasts full and warm like Annie’s, making her belly quiver.
“That’s not good enough,” his voice drones.
“I want to make things up to you.” She sinks to her knees before him, putting on her little-girl face. “Let me try, please.
Please let me try.
” Her tongue is big and thick inside her mouth.
Better to eat you with,
she thinks, and laughs out loud.
Please let me try.
” Her tongue is big and thick inside her mouth.
Better to eat you with,
she thinks, and laughs out loud.
He studies her over his bifocals. “You’re in a mood tonight.”
“Let me make you supper, all right?”
Let me suck your cock.
“Let’s just sit together and have dinner. In the spirit of Thanksgiving.”
Let me suck your cock.
“Let’s just sit together and have dinner. In the spirit of Thanksgiving.”
“All right,” he says evenly. “I suppose we could do that. But what are we giving thanks for?”
“For each other. For having each other.” She looks up at him cautiously, afraid, and he looks away just as she knew he would. He is not thankful, she realizes. He is not grateful that she is his wife.
“Give me a chance, Simon. We need to
be
together. We need to talk like a normal married couple.”
be
together. We need to talk like a normal married couple.”
“There is nothing normal about us, my dear. Never has been.”
“We need to try,” her voice begs, weepy. “Please. Can we please try?”
He reaches out and takes her hand and pulls her gently onto his lap. He studies her the way he used to when he’d paint her. “All right, Lydia. We can try.”
Yes, yes, Lydia, you can suck my cock.
Yes, yes, Lydia, you can suck my cock.
She concentrates on making the meal, sensing that he is watching her every move. The smell of the meat fills the small kitchen and her mouth waters for it.
Drooling all over yourself,
she thinks of the doctor. On the table her pocketbook waits, a loyal subject. It holds three things of interest: the scent of her husband’s lover, the lipstick that has roamed his lover’s lips, and the fat candle that she stole from his lover’s bedroom, which she will light later, when she lets him fuck her.
Drooling all over yourself,
she thinks of the doctor. On the table her pocketbook waits, a loyal subject. It holds three things of interest: the scent of her husband’s lover, the lipstick that has roamed his lover’s lips, and the fat candle that she stole from his lover’s bedroom, which she will light later, when she lets him fuck her.
66
SIMON FINDS THE WIG by accident. Tuesday morning, before Lydia wakes, he takes her car to be inspected. It happens at the garage, when he opens the glove compartment to find her registration and there it is, shoved in like a furry black kitten. He jumps back in fear, not knowing what it is. He pulls it out and curls it around his fist.
He realizes that Lydia has become completely delusional. In a manic fury, she had begged him to have sex with her the night before, all part of her merciless plot to make him want her again—that would never happen. Sickened by her behavior, he’d gone to sleep in the guest room. He has decided to call Blackwell and have her committed.
With the new inspection sticker, he drives home and finds her in the kitchen, drinking coffee, dressed for work, looking like any bushy-tailed psychotic. The memory of the wig swirls back and he can hardly look at her. As it turned out, it wasn’t the only suspicious thing she’d shoved into the glove compartment. There was a red marker in there, too, a Sharpie. It was the same kind of red marker that an unidentified woman had used to draw a cross on Rosie Knowles.
67
ANNIE WAKES from a deep sleep in her childhood room. Sunlight pours through the shutters. Her eyes drink in the beauty of the room: the rose-bud wallpaper, the magnificent Chippendale highboy, the small monogrammed handkerchiefs that her mother set out for her on the nightstand in lieu of ordinary Kleenex. Annie is continually amazed by the plush civility of her parents’ home, a quality of life that she and Michael could never duplicate.
“You’ll be fine, sweetie,” Annie tells a tearful Rosie as she hugs her good-bye after breakfast. They’re standing in the foyer. Annie takes Henry’s shoulders because he does not seem to want to hug her. “I’ll find him, all right? I promise.” He nods, but she knows he doesn’t believe her—he doesn’t trust her. He thinks it’s all her fault.
“They’ll be just fine,” her mother interrupts, flapping the back of her hand at Annie.
Go!
“Who’s going to help me make the pumpkin pie? We have a lot of cooking to do before Thursday.”
Go!
“Who’s going to help me make the pumpkin pie? We have a lot of cooking to do before Thursday.”
Rosie immediately volunteers. As usual, Henry pretends he isn’t interested. Annie watches her mother guide the children through the swinging door of the kitchen. She peers through the oval window and watches as they begin to make the pie. Even Henry helps, scooping the sloppy seeds out of a pumpkin. Annie is grateful that her parents have this beautiful home, grateful that she could bring the children here, where they are safe.
She steps outside and walks down the circular driveway to her car. As much as she has tried, she cannot seem to warm her bones. The air seems colder today, it cuts right through her. Her head hurts and her breasts ache. Her nipples feel raw. Even the hot tea her mother made for her and poured into a thermos does not warm her.
If I begin to cry,
she thinks,
I will never stop.
She does not mind the two-hour drive back to High Meadow. It is the first time she’s been alone for days, and it makes her sad and a little frightened. Where is Michael now? she wonders. A feeling of dread comes over her. She can’t help feeling as if God has taken him from her to teach her a lesson.
Selfish wife,
she thinks. He was selfish, too. They are
both
at fault, she argues to the heavens. And no amount of apologizing is going to change anything.
If I begin to cry,
she thinks,
I will never stop.
She does not mind the two-hour drive back to High Meadow. It is the first time she’s been alone for days, and it makes her sad and a little frightened. Where is Michael now? she wonders. A feeling of dread comes over her. She can’t help feeling as if God has taken him from her to teach her a lesson.
Selfish wife,
she thinks. He was selfish, too. They are
both
at fault, she argues to the heavens. And no amount of apologizing is going to change anything.
Crossing the river under a dusting of light snow, Annie sees the gushing smokestacks of the chemical plants down by the port, fat yellow clouds rising into the sky. The river is black and the scrawny trees on its shore grieve for the distant sun. The streets of Albany are slippery at this hour, a pandemonium of school buses and pedestrians and early rush-hour traffic.
When she gets to South Pearl Street it begins to snow again. She parks and enters the clinic, happy to see that Anya, the Russian receptionist who was injured in the bombing, is back at work. Anya puts down the phone and comes around the counter to greet her. “Annie.” They hug. “How are you?”
“Not so good.”
“Any word? Anything from the police?”
Annie shakes her head.
“How are the children?”
“With my parents.”
“Take a seat in the waiting room. Dr. James will be with you soon.”
Annie waits in the crowded room, wondering how all these people can possibly be seen. Without Michael, she knows, they will have to wait longer than usual. She looks around at the faces in the room. A young couple sits across the room, each in headphones, plugged into a shared Walkman, moving to the same beat in exactly the same way, their eyes half-moons of tranquillity. Next to them, two women, a mother and daughter, jerk and twist with impatience. The daughter, a teenager in studded blue jeans and a Puma sweatshirt, holds a swaddled infant with pierced ears. The girl diligently chews on a wad of bubble gum, blowing bubbles for her baby. The baby stares blankly at the expanding pink bubble until it pops. “Pop!” the girl says. The mother, who wears a Proud Grandma T-shirt, irritably flips through
Good Housekeeping
magazine and continually glances at her watch. Good housekeeping, Annie thinks, that’s all anybody really wants. Shelter. A safe place to raise their kids. The package deal of American life—the way Rockwell had painted it—but there is no package deal, she thinks.
Good Housekeeping
magazine and continually glances at her watch. Good housekeeping, Annie thinks, that’s all anybody really wants. Shelter. A safe place to raise their kids. The package deal of American life—the way Rockwell had painted it—but there is no package deal, she thinks.
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