The Man Who Loved His Wife (11 page)

Cindy served Fletcher's toast and eggs. In the softest of little-girl voices she asked if Daddy would like to have her come and play golf with him. “Not that I'm good enough . . . I'm more of the tennis type . . . but if you'd want me . . .” She had dressed for the links in a misty pink and gray plaid dress and flat shoes.

She played deplorably, and the sun beat down like punishment. Fletcher tested her by going the full eighteen holes. She bore it valiantly so that he felt sorry and invited her to lunch. He suspected that she was out after a gift, perhaps a new dress for that shindig on Monday night. Why not give it to her? Fletcher Strode's daughter need not feel inferior. She had large blue eyes very much like his own, and her mother's pale skin, now prettily tanned. A good-looking girl deserves good clothes. He had not been generous to her lately, nor fair in judging her charms.

She imitated Elaine in suggesting his lunch menu, selecting
things he liked, protecting him from the waiter. All through lunch she chattered so that people, observing them, probably thought the middle-aged man extremely patient with the prattle of his young companion. When they were drinking coffee she slid her hand across the table, rested it upon his and asked gently if he would like to help her and her husband. “We do so want a home of our own.”

There were a number of questions in his mind but he did not care to expose his infirmity in the restaurant. He signaled the waiter, and Cindy, tactful today, announced that Mr. Strode would like the check. It was not until they were in the car that Fletcher spoke. Would she like a new dress for that party? Anything she chose at the shop. The price did not matter. Fletcher Strode's daughter could dress as well as that big-bosomed friend of hers. Ordinarily Cindy would have been ecstatic, not only having bought an expensive dress but wangled a wrap and a pair of slippers to go with the outfit.

“Thank you very much, Daddy. You're so wonderful but”—she slid toward him and rested her hand upon his knee—“my beige organza is just perfect for Monday night, and no one out here's seen it yet. There's something else,” she paused for a deep breath, “money, Daddy. But only as a loan. Don will pay it back. He's practically been promised that Carter job, you know.”

“How much?”

“We're not asking you to give it to us. Really. We've decided to live very economically so we can pay you back soon.”

Fletcher barked out the question again.

Cindy hesitated. She was afraid he would remind her that the income from her trust fund was a lot of money for a young girl, that she did not appreciate the sacrifice it had cost to make this liberal settlement on his daughter. He had to ask once more before she tightened her hand on his thigh and asked tremulously, “Could you afford to lend us five thousand dollars, Daddy? One thousand Monday and the rest—”

A roar interrupted. That was a damn fool question, an insult, a slur on his name. Could he afford five thousand dollars? Did
she think her father a pauper? Whenever he was angry and spoke too fast, neglecting the control of abdominal muscles and the rhythm of breath, he sounded like a defective machine. Cindy could not half understand, but experience had taught her that his rage would be increased if she reminded him of the horror.

He knew. A few blocks before they reached the house he parked the car, turned off the motor, and asked in painfully controlled syllables how much the house would cost and how Don expected to finance it. She told him all that Don had explained. Fletcher did not approve.

He kept her waiting. The suspense was unbearable. She was tempted to jump out of the car and run away from the sound of his breathing. She found a handkerchief in her bag, wiped her eyes, turned away and blew her nose. Fletcher pretended not to notice but was fully aware of her agitation. His blood ran faster, his pulse raced, the glow of power sent up his blood pressure. Fletcher Strode had become a man again. Others waited and feared his decisions.

His daughter eyed him timidly.

“Let me think about it.” He had the voice of authority.

“You will, Daddy!” The girl was ecstatic at not having been rejected.

He switched on the motor, thrust his foot hard upon the gas pedal. The car raced up the hill like a creature freed from bondage, moving with swift and certain power.

“DON'T MOVE. STAY just as you are. I want to enjoy this pretty picture,” Don said.

In spite of the warning, Elaine raised her head. Sunlight threw upon her face varied patterns of tree and shadow and the latticework of the pavilion. “Cindy went off to play golf with Fletcher. They're probably staying out for lunch so I'm enjoying the working girl's special.” She had brought a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a book to the wicker table. “How'd it go? Did you meet Mr. Carter the First?”

“What a character!”

“Any luck?”

“I'm thinking over the offer.” Don's sly wink could be interpreted in a number of ways.

“What about money? Will they pay you well?”

“I could do with more, but it's a hell of a lot better than what that bastard in personnel offered me last month.” Don did not wish to admit that once again he had seen none of the Carters but only that bastard in the personnel office, that he had been told once more that there was a fair sort of job open, that several applicants were being considered and that Don's original application would be reviewed. All the bastard had offered was another appointment for Monday. Adding a bonus to the lie, “It was a tense hour with the tycoon,” he said. “I could use a drink.”

“Have you had lunch?”

Elaine enjoyed serving lunch to a young man with a hearty appetite. Don enjoyed eating with her in the charming pavilion. While he told her about the house, he watched her slender hands with the coffeepot and cream pitcher. His perverse mind caught glimpses of her, rather than Cindy, in the rooms and upon the windswept decks of the new house. Elaine had many talents that his wife lacked, chief among them the ability to listen. She asked for a cigarette. He held his lighter to it long after it had caught fire. Elaine backed away from the small flame.

“Sorry.” Don moved off, too, stiffening slightly. “I was so busy admiring you that I didn't notice.”

“Don't let your admiration set me on fire.”

“I wish it could!”

Both laughed away the tasteless compliment. Elaine shifted her chair so that she was not facing him directly. Presently he moved around to see her better. Never, during his days as a lawyer, had Donald Hustings pleaded with greater brilliance. Elaine's attention excited him. Every word was cogent, every pause had meaning.

Elaine readily understood what he wanted of her. “Do you honestly think I can get Fletcher to help you?”

“Who else has such influence with him? He worships you like a goddess.”

Her light died out. The lovely head drooped on the long stem of her neck.

“Please try, Elaine. I know he'll listen to you. God!” Don's fist struck the table with such force that cups leaped and saucers rattled. “A man needs a home of his own. Starting out the way I am, in a new field. A house is security. Especially out here in the West, if you don't own your home you're just dirt. White trash.”

Though not quite honest, Don was completely sincere. Self-interest is a strong hypnotic. His heart was set upon possession of the house which, he believed with superstitious ardor, would finally turn his luck. No matter how heavily mortgaged, the property would be recorded in his name, adding the luster and solidity demanded of a young executive.

His urgency restored Elaine. She saw the eager spaniel eyes, the mouth more than ever sculpted by a boyish pout, the tremor of his hands. She could not remain indifferent to the tension, the anguish, and the frankness. “I'll try but I can't promise a lot. Fletcher makes his own decisions. He's a very positive person.”

“But you'll try? Talk to him tonight.”

“It depends upon his mood.”

“I've got to have the first thousand on Monday. Otherwise we may lose the house. Bargains like that don't wait.”

A bee flew between them, buzzing impudently over the dish of sweets. Elaine brushed at the air. Don jerked her arm away. “You'll get stung if you're not careful. Promise to help me, Elaine.”

“I want to, but I can't argue with Fletcher. He's nervous lately and,” she had become agitated and looked at the bee, studied the polish on her fingernails, toyed with the sugar tongs, “unhappy. He's very unhappy.”

“You coddle him too much. He treats you brutally sometimes.”

“Worshiping me like a goddess?”

“I often wonder why you put up with his tantrums.”

“I love him.” Defiantly, “I do,” she declared. The bee flew around the pavilion, humming relentlessly. “Don't look at me so skeptically, Don. Probably Cindy and her mother have told wild tales about me, that I set a trap and caught Fletcher because he was rich. But I loved him. He was so wonderful.”

“And so rich.”

“Why must people always talk about money? I knew other rich men. Fletch was terrific.” Memory kindled delight. She could no longer sit quiet behind the coffee cups, but had to get up and move around restlessly like the bee. “You can't imagine the man he was. So alive!” She wrapped her arms about her body, ecstatically. “I've never known anyone with such a capacity for living. Just sheer living. He enjoyed everything. Crazy!” She danced around the table with small springing steps that showed the way she had moved in that magic spring when she and Fletcher Strode became lovers. “How we'd laugh, you could hear him miles away, he was so hearty. His voice . . .” A curtain fell over the show of lost rapture. “Fletch had a very loud voice.”

“And that made you forget that he was rich?”

“No. I don't want to lie. I like money. Perhaps without it Fletcher wouldn't have seemed so glamorous to me. But he wouldn't have been the same person either, there wouldn't have been such careless rapture. Money's wonderful not to think about. I love not counting the cost of groceries, I love charge accounts and expensive restaurants and beautiful clothes and . . .” She paused and thought about the present, laughed, and shrugged a shoulder to show the futility of her tastes. “Not that I have any use for them now. What good are pretty clothes if you never go anywhere?” The dancing mood was over. “It's wicked of me to talk like that. He's so desperately unhappy.”

Don could not disagree. “It's tough. I feel sorry for him just the same.”

“He wants to die.”

There! At last she had said it. Fear, long contained, had escaped by its own force. Reality was less real than her imaginary
conversations with Ralph Julian. Perhaps it was better this way; Don was a member of the family.

Fletcher's son-in-law was not shaken. “Wants to die? What makes you think so?”

Elaine sought protection in the pavilion's shadiest corner. “No. No, he hasn't actually threatened, but he thinks about it all the time.”

“How do you know? He must have said something to give you that idea. Lots of people think about suicide, and some even talk about it. But they don't do anything so final.” Don seemed to think the common formula would soothe her.

“Once,” Elaine faltered and thought carefully of what she meant to say, “we saw one of those hysterical shows about mercy killing. Euthanasia, they say on TV, very fancy. The actor smothered his wife with a pillow. Like Othello.” She looked through the lattice as though the drama were being played among the autumn flowers. “She was dying anyway, the wife. In ghastly pain. And the husband smothered her.”

Don led her back to the long chair, drew his own chair closer, held her hand. “What did he say?”

“He asked if I had the courage.”

“He was just talking. Probably didn't mean it.”

Elaine shook her head. It had ceased to matter that she had told her secret to the wrong man. Speech solidified the horror. All of a sudden, remembering another time when Fletcher had talked about his death, she began, “One day last spring he said . . .” but could not go on. Right here in the pavilion while she lay upon this very chair and watched the quail; and she had turned away her flaming face as now she turned to hide herself from Don. Bees had been flying around the garden on that day, too. In the buzzing she heard echoes of the mangled voice:
You wish I was dead.

Don held out a lighted cigarette. “Take it easy, dear. There's probably nothing to it. Probably it's all in your imagination.”

Elaine shrank from his cigarette. Ridiculous, she had cried at Fletcher's recognition of a forbidden dream. In the daytime
she tried never to think of freedom, but at night she sometimes woke abruptly and was ashamed because her dream had promised escape. Now that she had begun, she had to go on talking. “Sometimes at night, I'm frightened. I wake up . . . and go into his room to hear him breathing. Almost,” she produced a shamed trill of laughter, “every night. It isn't only because I dream. I go before I let myself fall asleep. I think it will keep me from dreaming.”

From a distance she heard Don beg her not to worry, say that she was building a mountain range out of a nonexistent molehill. It was easy enough for him, who had not been with Fletcher in the worst moods, to say that a man of that nature would never destroy himself.