The Man Who Loved His Wife (8 page)

“Sorry, dear, I dawdled. I'll have supper in half an hour.” Moist eyes and a nasal huskiness gave her away. She had been crying. This was not like Elaine. She had cried prettily at their wedding, had given in to small, sporadic cloudbursts when she had sought the comfort of his arms the day her mother died, had once at the hospital, just after his operation, turned away with clenched fists and muffled sniffles of fury against her weakness.

Fletcher tried to find a comfortable way of saying he regretted his stupid gesture with the pudding.

“I have something to confess,” she said slowly.

He was shaken by a sudden chill.

“I broke the lunch dishes, all we used today, the Haviland. I”—she raised her head and offered the sight of her moist and swollen eyes as a sacrifice of pride—“I did it on purpose. In a hideous tantrum.”

In relief he offered broken laughter. She floated toward him, touched her gentle palm to his cheek. Caught by her fragrance, he could not control the impulse to pull her hand over his mouth and kiss it tenderly.

4

THE NEXT NIGHT, AFTER HE HAD FINISHED HIS HOSPITAL rounds, Ralph stopped to pick up his hat. This was the excuse he gave the Strodes. The reason was quite different. Those few minutes of unleashed love had not eased the pressure of his desire for Elaine. For eight endless weeks,
knowing her situation and her husband's temper, he had kept away. When he had stopped by on Thursday afternoon he had not consciously intended to start an affair. Both he and she had been swept off their feet. At the end Elaine had said, “We must never see each other again. Never.” Ralph had neither promised nor protested. But a man is justified in reclaiming property left behind. His pale, freckled skin was sensitive to sunlight, the hat his newest.

The night was clear and unbearably hot. No fog rolled in from the ocean, no breeze blew. Sullen air lay heavy upon the earth and after dark, the heat rose and smothered the hills. The sultry air suggested rain, hopelessly, for it would be many weeks before a storm blew in. From hundreds, perhaps thousands, of barbecues drifted the smell of burning fat and from all the swimming pools the shrieks and splashes of night bathers.

There was a smoky smell in the Strode yard, too, and dark silhouettes against the blue brightness of the lighted swimming pool. Instead of ringing the doorbell Ralph walked through the garden. “Good evening.”

They saw the visitor with amazement. His footsteps had not been heard. Fletcher grunted a greeting. Cindy looked up with bright interest. Don wrung water out of his trunks.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you. I left my hat here yesterday.”

“You must be Dr. Julian. I brought your hat to your office this afternoon. Your nurse was just closing the office.”

“Thanks. That was very kind of you.”

“Elaine asked me to. I'm Don Hustings.”

They shook hands. Don introduced his wife, who said she was delighted to meet the famous Dr. Julian, she had heard so much about him.

Elaine lay upon her back in the pool, dreaming as she floated. Her eyes were closed, her ears covered by a tight cap. She discovered Ralph as she started up the ladder. “Why, hello!” She could not let herself appear discountenanced and hurried to offer her wet hand as though he were no more than an old family friend who had dropped in for a visit. Fletcher watched. His scowl was for the two packs of cards laid out in rows on the
metal table under the light. He played solitaire compulsively, and whenever a game demanded choice, pondered it as grimly as if his entire wealth were at stake. A man who breathed through a hole in his neck could not swim nor dive into the pool.

He had always excelled at water sports, won his lifesaver's credentials and many medals at the YMCA when he was a kid; cherished a silver cup earned in a diving competition; had later, in his country club days, been a member of a businessmen's water polo team. Now, on hot days when there was no one except his wife to witness his shame, he could walk into the shallow end and cool himself to the chest. Elaine had not wanted a pool, but in that area pools were as much a part of a valuable house as the bathtubs. She had suggested that they fill it in and make a badminton court. Fletcher had insisted that they keep the pool for her pleasure. “I like to see you in a bathing suit, lovable.” As though he couldn't see her without clothes whenever he chose.

She stood at the edge of the pool. Water dripped down her long legs and gathered in puddles at her feet. Her toenails were tinted with coral enamel and her bathing suit was as green and shimmering as a mermaid's tail. Garden lights were reflected in drops of water on her neck and arms.

“How are you?” asked Ralph.

“Fine. And you?” she said.

“Okay.” Ralph took an uncertain step backward, looked away, but could not resist the temptation to look at her again and make love with his eyes. “I'd better be getting on,” he said diffidently.

“Why don't you have a swim? It's a big relief on a night like this.” Don welcomed young masculine company. He had become bored with Cindy's squeals, Fletcher's moods, and Elaine's indifference. “Let me get you a pair of trunks.”

This pool had been the focus of Ralph's growing summers. He dived into his past, heard the shouts of youthful cronies, the voice of his foster-mother begging for quiet and offering cakes. He swam dreamily, eyes closed, until he was recalled to the present by the voices around the pool: Don Hustings's eastern
college affectations, his wife's nervous giggle, the mangled efforts of Elaine's husband. Perhaps the harsh notes were distortions of Ralph's conscious.

He did not relish the role of clandestine lover.

“You shouldn't have come here.” Elaine had dived in and come up beside him.

“I had to see you again.”

“I asked you not to.”

“Damn it, I'm in love with you.”

She swam away. With long strokes Ralph was beside her again. “What are we going to do?”

Fletcher watched them moving along the pool, side by side. He was irritable because no red king had turned up to relieve a row of cards guarded by a black queen. He muttered something that no one could understand. At the far end of the pool and with a rubber cap over her ears, Elaine—usually so perceptive—could not make out a word. “Yes, dear,” she said sweetly, and swam toward him, but collided with Cindy who had dived in without looking to see if anyone was in the way.

Elaine camp up coughing and spluttering, hoisted herself out of the pool, pulled off her cap and, still coughing, danced up and down, tossing her head from side to side to drain water out of her ears. In a flash Fletcher was beside her, pounding her back. The sensation pleased him. His sense of power grew.

“Darling, please, you don't know how strong you are.”

She had quit coughing so that there was no reason beyond pleasure for Fletcher to go on beating her back. He stopped with the air of a king granting clemency. Magnanimity did not end here. He would not allow Ralph to leave without joining them for a drink. The two young men had climbed out of the pool, and as Fletcher watched them shaking themselves like wet dogs, he compared their bodies with his own.

For sheer brawn neither could come near him. His torso was bare above his white duck custom-made shorts. Around his neck, knotted like a brigand's kerchief, was a silk scarf that concealed and guarded the stoma. Except for this small, hidden area his body was deeply tanned. Ralph Julian, as tall as
Fletcher, was as pale as a Victorian beauty. With neither the time nor complexion for sunburn, he allowed his flesh to stay as white as a ghost's. The pale, freckled skin barely covered the gaunt bones. Don was darker than Fletcher, sturdily built, but short.

The sense of size and masculinity restored Fletcher's temper. He told Elaine to get out of her wet bathing suit, sent Don to fetch drinks, ordered Cindy to quit chattering, bade Ralph sit there and amuse him. Everyone obeyed.

Don brought the drinks. The service was impeccable. His son-in-law, Fletcher reflected, would make an excellent bartender or butler. When Elaine came out, the three men were standing up, drinking, under the lamp. Fletcher wondered if she noticed the contrast in their bodies and appreciated his superiority. He pulled in his stomach, straightened his shoulders.

“Why don't we sit down?” she said.

They did. The patio lamps thrust bright artificial rays upon them. Cindy took a cigarette from the box on the table; Don bent over to light it. Ralph stretched back on a chaise lounge, trying not to look at Elaine. She recrossed her legs. Fletcher studied his drink in which small flecks of lime drifted like tiny fish under the glass of an aquarium. Conversation lagged. The group seemed as static as models in a color advertisement. Then Ralph turned his head and caught Elaine's eye. Both looked too hastily in opposite directions. He hurried to swallow his drink and to say that he must not outstay his welcome. No one was sorry to see him go.

FLETCHER CAME TO Elaine's bed that night. On a high wave of elation, the conquering male who had shown up two inferior young men, he had chosen his best pajamas, opened a bottle of French cologne, combed his hair, and in the mirror found a man. The surge of youth was strong. He strutted down the short corridor. This was to be the night of the miracle, the end of anxiety, the fulfillment promised by doctors, the reward deserved by his loyal wife.

He found her reading with such intensity that she neither
heard nor saw him at the door. He watched her turn a page with a graceful hand, enjoyed the rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of lamplight upon her dark hair, the lace falling off her breast.

“Lovable!”

The whisper was so light that he had no need of the lost larynx. Her smile acknowledged the first step of the miracle. She knew he would not have come to her room to risk failure. Fletcher did not speak again lest the broken voice distress the mood. Elaine made room in the bed beside her. For the first moments they lay quiet, a husband and wife loving and normal at the end of a day.

“You're such a beautiful man. You've got a wonderful body.”

So she had noticed! Praise nourished his self-confidence. He played with her hair. From time to time she looked up sideways from her niche under his arm. Her brimming smile showed belief in the possibility of a miracle.

Nothing came of it. “I'm sorry,” Elaine said, as always taking upon herself the blame for their failure. As always the damn owl sat on the telephone pole, squawking derision. Fletcher shuffled off to his room. In the closet, hidden in a riding boot he never wore, he kept a vial of jewel-colored pills as lovely as fruit candies in a crystal jar. Whenever he had the strength to forego one or both of the two pills doled out to him at bedtime, he added to his hoard. Elaine was firm about the pills. She would never give him more than two. “You mustn't get into the habit of taking an extra one. The habit grows,” she told him. Often, in the tormented dark when sleep was denied and the fear of sleeplessness brought about panic, he had stolen from his hoard.

Inevitably on such nights he was haunted by the memory of the spastic shoelace vendor. The boy was young, had no experiences to remember; how had he faced the thought of hopeless days? Perhaps the boy had been blessed with dull wits. One could not tell from the sputtering speech whether the infirmity had touched his mind. Separate from life, the boy was spared the anguish endured by a man who yearned for a past he could not recover. Fresh agonies were born. Specters vomited nostalgia;
visions of virile years possessed him; he was visited by ghosts of long-forgotten women, recollections of high-spirited nights, of jokes and singing, of victories in business, of solemn board members shouted down and conquered by Fletcher Strode's vitality. Relived in sour retrospect, these pictures reflected only the glories, never the pain and struggle, of earlier years.

With the vial of pills in his hand, he walked in the garden. “Shut up!” croaked Fletcher at the owl. A hoot gave hideous echo. In the dark the man threw rocks at the telephone pole. “I want to die,” he challenged, his voice ringing out in full deformity. “No hope, no hope,” mocked the owl.

Back in the house, he poured a measure of whiskey. Two pills were already down, the vial in his hand. He had so often thought of swallowing the whole hoard, had seen himself forcing the last ones into his mouth, had grimaced at the bitterness of gelatin capsules, had gagged at the thought of so much swallowing, had felt a dark and lovely cloud descend. Once more he counted the pills. How many? In the newspapers he often read about sleeping pill suicides. Amounts were never given. Sometimes the poor slobs were saved. God forbid! No humiliation could cut deeper, no failure scar a man more cruelly, than the defeat of attempted death.

“No hope, no hope,” the owl repeated. Fletcher's hand trembled, the vial fell. Pills were scattered over the carpet, rolled under the furniture, hid themselves in shadows. He turned on all the lights, searched on hands and knees, counted, found three missing, went down upon his knees again to run both hands over the thick pile of the carpet. He had grown tired, the dark and lovely cloud descended so that he had barely strength to pull himself together and totter to his bed. The fog had entered his mind. He could not remember if he had swallowed more than the two pills.

DEATH, LIKE MONEY, cannot be acquired by wishing. Fletcher woke drowsily and in a vile mood, knowing that he had to live through the irritations of another day. When Elaine said she had been surprised at his having slept so long and had twice come
to his room, he flew into a rage and asked if she had hoped to find a corpse in his bed.