My Wife's Husband

by E H Davis

  He knew he was no Hemingway, but he cared deeply about his work and his family, and he was resolved to find a way to protect them and do his job.

  ________

  The next morning Jens got up at 7:00, showered, shaved, and awakened Teddy at 7:30. By 8:30 they’d breakfasted and were packing and cleaning.

  “Aw,” complained Teddy, “what’s the point in going to all this bother? Nothing can get in here. It’s tight as a drum.”

  Jens tied off the trash bag and lifted it from the receptacle built into the cabinet beneath the sink.

  “You know why, buddy boy.”

  It was necessary to remove all trash from the house and carry it down to the township’s dumpster at the foot of Black Mountain. Food with a shelf life of a month or longer could stay in the refrigerator. Everything else had to be carted back to Lee or dumped. Because of bears and other animals, outdoor trash cans were useless and no one kept them.

  “Okay, I’m going to shut off the hot water heater,” he added. “Why don’t you take the trash out to the car along with your suitcase? I’ll lock up.”

  Teddy stepped in front of him with an upraised hand. “I got this.”

  He bounded down the stairs, leaving Jens to wonder what had inspired him to be proactive. He shrugged to himself and went for his luggage. When Teddy didn’t return immediately, he called down to him.

  “Hey, what’s taking so long?”

  “Coming!”

  ________

  They were just approaching the town of Ossipee, where they’d had their first run-in with Daniel, the suicidal doctor, and saved the store clerk’s life. Jens sensed Teddy glancing his way; they exchanged looks. Their weekend adventure was coming full circle.

  “When you get back to school, you’ve got something to write about on your ‘What I did over the summer’ essay,” said Jens. “I’ll bet no one else faced down a bear.”

  Teddy guffawed. “That bear — think she’ll attack someone again? Maybe we should’ve put her down.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “Maybe she’s got a taste for human blood.” Suddenly he reared back and let out a howl halfway between a horse neighing and a hysterical laugh.

  “Ahh-ugh-ha,” he whinnied.

  Jens chuckled. “Is it that time of day again? I thought you werewolves only came out at night.”

  “Naw, it’s good any old time.”

  Jens had discovered Teddy’s tick when they drove together to Florida one winter, to go fishing in the Gulf. He recognized it as a venting reflex, a way of externalizing tension. Every evening on the road as the sun went down, Teddy howled for approximately a half-minute. Jens bet Teddy that he couldn’t stop doing it. Teddy insisted that he could, he just didn’t want to. In the end, it became a ritual, though it was never really clear whether Teddy could stop.

  Jens’ research into ADD informed him that it was likely a mild expression of his OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, often associated with ADD. Teddy’s doctor told Jens not to make his son feel weird about it — he’d outgrow it, like a lot of youthful quirks.

  “I think that bear was just protecting her cubs, to answer your question.”

  Teddy nodded as though he understood the implications. Jens thought this as good a time as any to bring up his unanswered questions.

  “Trooper Morrison wanted me to check with you — if you had any idea as to what might have become of Daniel’s gun.”

  Teddy didn’t hesitate with his answer.

  “I gave that some thought, too. I can only conjecture”— Jens smiled at his word choice — “that the gun fell over the ledge and got trapped in a crevasse or against some roots that Ferdie overlooked. I know you don’t like coincidences in fiction, Dad, but they do happen in real life.”

  Jens smiled to himself, gratified that Teddy had been picking up on the tricks of his trade. Who knew, maybe he would become a writer after all, though he preferred that the boy choose a reliable career, in law, for example, like Jens’ college friend Vincent. The insecurity of Jens’ early years as a struggling writer was not something he would wish on his son.

  “So, when Ferdie calls, I can tell her with confidence that we have no idea what happened to the gun?”

  Teddy gave him a serious look. “I assumed you already did, Daddio.”

  Jens nodded.

  Now for the elephant in the room, thought Jens.

  “Ted,” he began, “I accidentally overheard you say something to your mom about some letters.”

  Teddy stared straight ahead.

  “Look, Dad, you know I love you and Mom, and I want you to stay together, right?”

  “Teddy, from what I gathered, this is more serious than a romantic fling. There’s a history between Mom and this man that we need to deal with. He’s a criminal.”

  Teddy looked conflicted, on the verge of tears. He nodded slowly to himself.

  “This guy, Laurent — they were involved as teenagers. Then he got sent away, for what I haven’t been able to figure out. Probably something stupid, like stealing a car, maybe B&E or manslaughter, I don’t know, he never mentions it exactly in his letters. Calls it ‘the thing that ruined our lives.’”

  “What made you hold out the letters from your mom?”

  The look Teddy gave him was all the answer Jens needed: he’d done it for him.

  “Okay ... I get it.”

  Jens turned back to the road and concentrated on driving. In a few hours they’d be back in the seacoast and home. Perhaps he’d over-reacted and Vivian would reassure him that he had nothing to worry about.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” said Teddy, mirroring his thoughts. “She had no idea that he’d been writing to her. Maybe he’s given up.”

  “Given what up, exactly?”

  Teddy looked away.

  “Her. He’s out of jail. He wants her back.”

  Over my dead body, Jens told himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Walking briskly from the bus stop, Laurent arrived early for his appointed rendezvous at the park along Dover’s scenic Cocheco River.

  Ignoring Warren’s warning to stay away from Vivian, Laurent rationalized that he could tell Warren, if it came out, that he’d been gathering intel from her.

  Getting her to agree to see him was the easy part. Over the phone, she’d sounded as if she hadn’t been expecting him. Now, he wondered if she’d even received his letters. No matter; he’d see her soon and he’d know — know exactly how she felt about him.

  He’d expected the park to be crowded on such a sunny, breezy, autumn day, but it was a weekday and was practically deserted. He occupied a bench overlooking the river’s bend to calm himself and wait.

  What would Vivian say when she saw him? he wondered. And think, once she saw how he’d changed? Would she cringe? He couldn’t bear that.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of joggers running past, a middle-aged couple in designer track outfits and sneakers with brand names he’d never heard of, Mizuno, Prono, Balenciaga — expensive no doubt. He envied them their leisure — and their money.

  His was dwindling fast, now that he'd bought a phone, paid a month’s rent, applied for a state ID, bought a bus pass, and had to eat all of his meals out, as he’d never learned to cook. Money was like sand in an hourglass — slipping through his fingers. What would he do when it was all gone? Get a shit job flipping burgers at McDonald’s? Would they even hire him? Did he really believe that he and Warren would get away with blackmailing Vivian’s husband?

  That part of him that keenly felt everything he’d missed out on and would never have — education, career, family, self-respect — welled up inside him.

  He looked to the sky, a cloudless, sparkling, blue canopy. Not for him were the simple blessings of sun, sky, water, and trees. But a curse that he must bear to the end of his days. Murderer!

  No, no, not true, he told himself. For he knew in his heart of hearts that the life he’d taken had been justifie
d — just not in the eyes of the law. Familiar leaden thoughts returned — down-spiraling, repeating. He was helpless to stop them.

  Across the river, sunlight glanced off the windows of new upscale condos, searing, blinding him.

  Was that Vivian ... an apparition?

  “Armand,” she said.

  “You came,” he stammered, his voice husky with emotion.

  Shielding his eyes from the ring of St. Elmo’s fire surrounding her like an aura, he forced himself to look at her.

  “You haven’t changed,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm.

  “Nor you,” she said, her voice quivering.

  He laughed, choking back his tears. He was standing now, without remembering how he’d gotten there.

  She took an involuntary step back, caught herself, smiled, and raised her brimming eyes to his.

  Locating the youthful image of Armand from memory, she let it merge with the reality of the present. Though he’d changed, nothing had changed. His rugged looks, though scarred and battered, added to his appeal. She felt a shiver down below, tried to ignore it.

  “Armand,” she whispered.

  A cry escaped his lips. “I’m ... ugly.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Not to me. Never!”

  He thumbed away her tears.

  Choking back a cry, she held out her arm for him to take.

  “Shall we walk?”

  “Like we used to.”

  He fell in step alongside her.

  ________

  They spent the afternoon leisurely strolling through the park, talking about her life since their sundering years ago. He seemed reluctant to open up about his, like a man guarding a scab over a wound. They found themselves drifting into one of the designer cafes that banked the river.

  Here, finding anonymity among the young, boisterous happy hour crowd, they sipped beer and talked passionately about art. It had been the pretext that had brought them together as teenagers. They’d been wildly happy, in the grips of first love. A time of innocence, the world still a safe place, they’d basked in their passion for art as though it were a key to the mysteries of the universe. Coincidentally, their love grew, opening the way to other forbidden worlds.

  Recalling their time together was a healing balm. Now, Vivian couldn’t take her eyes away from his, which were animated, youthful, and sparkling; no longer the lifeless pools of the prison walking dead. The twinges of desire she’d felt a few days ago, upon discovering his letters, now coursed through her veins like the quicksilver waters of the river swirling below, barely contained by its granite banks.

  Their love rekindled, they wasted little time deciding to consummate it at his hotel room, a short drive away in her Volvo.

  On the ride over they were silent. Vivian wondered if she were making a big mistake, jeopardizing the comfortable life she was accustomed to. As for him, she knew this was why he had come here.

  How could she refuse?

  After the sacrifice he’d made for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jens glanced at Teddy as they exited the Spaulding Turnpike onto Route 125. Soon they were passing the country club, then Wheelwright Pond, a silver patch. In a moment, he would turn onto Bennett Rd and then Mast, where they lived.

  The afternoon sun lit up the landscape of trees and summer fields in green and gold Technicolor. A cloud of dust followed in their wake. The word “idyllic” popped into Jens’ head.

  Teddy seemed happy to be home. He grinned to himself and stared out at the countryside. Meanwhile, Jens began to prepare himself for his inevitable confrontation with Vivian.

  Her teal blue Volvo was in the drive, parked at a hasty angle. Jens pulled in beside it and turned off the motor. Teddy was already out of the car before he could caution him to keep his account of the shooting on Black Mountain sketchy, and to focus instead on their last day of fishing and hiking.

  But this now seemed irrelevant in light of what Jens had learned about Vivian, about Laurent. Had she seen him? Had she been with him?

  Bruzza came lumbering out of the barn to investigate their arrival. He lunged on his stubby legs, excited at the sight of Teddy, who scooped him up in his arms and cooed “Bruzza, Bruzza” into his ear. The dog whined and yipped in delight. Jens passed them and entered the barn through the open door.

  Her back to him, Vivian was at her easel in a pool of light from the skylight, dabbing at a watercolor of marshlands. She worked off a photo pinned to a corner of the easel. Jens watched as she made feather strokes, supporting her painting hand at the wrist with the other. Her rendition was detailed and realistic, the colors splendid, thought Jens, with vividly contrasting grass, water, sky, and sunlight.

  As Jens approached, her body language told him that she knew he was there but wanted him to wait. He waited. Finally, she stepped back, nodded to herself, turned around and smiled faintly, as though indifferent to his return. He whistled in appreciation at her painting.

  “Brilliant, darling,” he said, gesturing at the painting. “I see our absence did you some good.”

  She started to say something then shook her head, smiled wanly.

  He moved in to kiss her, but she turned and let him buss her on the cheek. He caught her in his arms, staring into her eyes.

  Was now the time to confront her about Laurent?

  He went on holding her, inhaling her familiar essence, of paint, perfume, and sweat, until she wriggled free, laughing girlishly. She brushed her long brown hair from her face.

  “What’s gotten into you, anyway? Where’s Teddy?” She rinsed her brushes in a jar of water and dried them.

  ‘So you didn’t miss me, not even a little?” he asked.

  She took his hand and drew him towards the door and the sound of Teddy and Bruzza playing outside, growling and laughter mixed in equal proportions.

  He let her draw him out into the bright light, feeling simultaneously a shadow fall across his soul. He looked at his wife, who was oblivious to his discomfort. An old sound-worm rose up inside his head, reverberating with David Bowie singing, “Turn and face the strain ch-ch-changes.”

  Big as he was, Teddy ran into her arms and she hugged him to her. They walked arm-in-arm toward the house, Bruzza nipping at their heels.

  A charming sight, thought Jens, without irony. He watched, abandoned, cooling; wondering if his exclusion was a presentiment of things to come.

  Wondering whether his painstakingly arranged life, his marriage, his role as parent, and his satisfying work, was about to come crashing down around his ears.

  A killer was on the loose.

  And his wife was acting as if nothing was going on.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As usual, Vivian had been too engrossed with her painting to plan for dinner, so Jens ordered pizza from Milo’s on Route 9.

  With twenty minutes to kill before his order would be ready for pickup, he climbed the stairs to his attic study and pushed open the door, sending dust motes swirling. Sunset poured in through the skylight, washing his office in gold. He stepped behind his desk.

  After logging onto his desktop, he Googled “Armand Laurent” and clicked through a series of articles published in the Berlin New Hampshire Daily News. He found clips referring to Laurent’s arrest and sentencing. Grainy black and white photos captured the face of a callow young man, his boyish features bleak, fearful, shocked.

  The images contrasted sharply with the candid shots of him ten years later, on the occasion of his father’s death, when he reiterated his claim of innocence. In these, he’d matured, his gaunt face guarded and hostile; gone was the naïveté of youth.

  According to the coverage of his trial, there’d been no doubt among the jury that Laurent had killed Leroy D’Arcy, 41, of Berlin. But whether it was premeditated murder, that is murder in the first degree, or murder in the second, making it a crime of passion, had been contested hotly by the jurors. Laurent claimed that D’Arcy, the aggressor, had tried to back his car ov
er him, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d come at him with a tire iron. Laurent had only been protecting himself when, in wrestling the tire iron from D’Arcy, he’d accidentally stabbed him in the throat with it and killed him.

  Jens wondered if the authorities had been wrong in sending him to prison.

  As for the victim, D’Arcy, that was Vivian’s maiden name. In what way were they related?

  Jens pulled up a final picture, of Laurent another ten years later, as he was released from the Men’s Correctional Facility in Concord in August. The Berlin media, it seemed, had been keeping faith with him throughout his time in prison.

  But the face that stared back at him — dead eyes under scarred brows — dispelled his lingering sympathy and doubt.

  Laurent’s was the face of a killer.

  Where did Vivian, his wife, come into all of this?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vivian held the bottle poised over his glass.

  “Would you like some more wine, dear?”

  Her disdain became more apparent the more she drank.

  Reluctantly, he nodded yes. She did not like drinking alone. She poured the Chardonnay, spilling it. Then she filled her own glass to the brim. Jens glanced at the nearly empty bottle, noting that she’d had two glasses to his one.

  Over pizza, they sat at a padded nook in a corner of the spacious kitchen, with a view onto the lush garden, at summer’s peak. Gardening was Vivian’s second passion in life, after painting.

  Through the sliding glass doors that gave onto the patio, Jens could see her herb garden of neat rows of fennel, anise, laurel, mint, savory and lavender.

  It reminded him of the gardens in Aix en Provence they had visited on a belated honeymoon to France with newborn Teddy. It remained in his memory an icon of their first flush of joy and happiness as a married couple, when anything had been possible.