by Peggy Webb
“For Pete’s sake. You don’t have to make a federal case out of this.”
“What do you want me to do? Relax and enjoy it? Throw a party and celebrate?”
“You know what? That just pisses me off.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m not fixing to spend the evening quarreling with you.”
“If this is about last night, Elizabeth, I told you I was just too tired. I’m not a performing seal, you know.”
“You’re always too tired, Howard.”
His hot silence blisters my eardrums. I can almost see his bald spot turning red. Which is exactly one of the reasons I never tell him anything. Confrontation leads to all sorts of unladylike behavior, and I’m a girl—past my prime, granted, but we won’t get into that—who was taught to mind her manners.
“Is that what this is about, Elizabeth? Sex?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t say anything. You never do.”
Now it’s my turn to curl what’s left of his hair with a weighty silence. My stomach’s churning, and I’d blame it on my barbecue dinner if I didn’t know better. It’s all that unsaid stuff knocking around, looking for a way out.
Maybe I’ll put it in a letter.
Someday.
“You don’t give me a chance, Howard. You know every damned thing.”
“You don’t have to use that kind of language, Elizabeth.”
“If I’d wanted a lecture I’d have dialed 1-800-God and asked to talk to Aunt Bonnie Kathleen.”
I don’t give him a chance to say anything else before hanging up. Instead I climb into my Cadillac and drive to the marina where I stomp around until my anger wears off. Then I settle into a quiet stroll, enjoying the path of moonlight on the water and the mournful sound of an oncoming barge.
I wonder where it’s going.
I wonder where I’m going. Not my short-term destination, but my lifelong one. Somewhere wonderful, I hope.
CHAPTER 3
“If I break my fool neck, who’ll find me in an empty house?”
—Howard
All my life I’ve viewed myself as a reasonable man, so when I found Elizabeth’s note I didn’t overreact: I folded it and stuck it in my pocket thinking it was another of her jokes. Not that she’s played one on me in a long time, but she used to be quite a prankster.
Take, for instance, that Halloween when Kate was a freshman at the “W” and Jenny was staying overnight with friends… Elizabeth loves all holidays, especially Halloween, so there we sat in our matching recliners reading, a tray of popcorn balls and candied apples towering between us.
Elizabeth turned down the page in her book and said, “You might as well take off the Frankenstein outfit. I don’t think anybody is coming.”
She’d gone to a lot of trouble to buy the costume and do my monster makeup, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her being disappointed. “Just wait and see, Elizabeth. Somebody will show up.”
“You wait, Howard. I’m going to take a bath.”
When I heard the water running upstairs I thought about calling the new young couple across the street and asking them to bring their children over, but I decided to wait it out. Surely somebody would show.
The doorbell rang just as I was settling back into my novel. Al Young’s Seduction by Light. I remember it well. He’s now the poet laureate of California. Anyway, I called Elizabeth to tell her we had trick-or-treaters, but she didn’t answer—probably still in the tub—so I picked up the tray and hurried to the door.
There stood this woman with her back to me, wearing a red fright wig, black trench coat and flip-flops. Not much of a costume, if you asked me. Still, if adults wanted to go parading around the neighborhood dressed like that, who was I to judge?
I cleared my throat and all of a sudden she whirled around and flung her coat open, naked as a jaybird. I’m talking not a stitch.
“Trick or treat,” she yelled, and all I could see was this long expanse of advancing flesh, pale as a new moon. Naturally I moved back, but I miscalculated the location of the umbrella stand, crashed sideways and gashed my head.
The way Elizabeth tells it, I screamed and leaped back, but of course she’d say that because her version makes everybody laugh harder, and she does love to do her public comic routines. Or used to.
Anyhow, I had to have stitches. She wanted to rush me right to the emergency room, but I told her I was not going to die within the next five minutes and besides, the doctors would take us more seriously if I ditched the Frankenstein look and she ditched the fright wig and put on some underwear.
So you can see why I treated her note as some kind of joke. After I checked her closet and discovered she’d taken nothing with her, I was even more convinced that she was either playing a prank or suffering from some temporary fit of anger that would wear itself out by the time she got to the mall or wherever she was going.
When I saw that she hadn’t cooked dinner and that Rufus was slinking around as though he’d lost his best friend, I deduced that she wasn’t joking, she was mad, so I just ordered Chinese takeout for one—no use subsidizing her bad behavior—and settled in to watch the evening news. I’d give her time to cool off, then I’d call her cell phone and politely inquire what was going on.
You can imagine my surprise when she called me and announced out of the blue that she had run away from home.
It’s hard to shake my cool. That’s why I’m so successful in my profession. My patients confide secrets that would make an ordinary person lose sleep at night, but I’m renowned for my ability to never internalize their problems. I’m that way at home, too. Living with a houseful of women, that’s a darned good thing. All those raging hormones. All the angst and drama and tears.
But Elizabeth’s phone call shook me. That’s why it took a while for the truth to sink in: my wife has left me.
So now here I am in the unnerving quiet of an empty house with nothing to keep me company except a box of congealing Chinese food and a depressed dog.
I’m a logical man; if I think about something long enough I can always decipher a problem, find a solution. But no matter how many ways I wrap my mind around Elizabeth’s sudden departure, I can’t come up with any answers.
Why did my wife run away? I thought she was happy. Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs just like any ordinary couple, but I can’t think of a single incident that would make her want to leave.
Granted, I’m no longer Tarzan in the bedroom, but she said she didn’t leave me because of sex, and I believe her. Elizabeth’s not a shallow person.
But what if it’s not me? What if it’s somebody else?
My wife with another man. The thought chills me to the bone.
Elizabeth and I swore we’d never sneak around, especially after Jeff Jones from down the street high-tailed it with Wanda Slocoam, as well as the diamond bracelet he’d bought for his wife, Laura, for Christmas.
I can still see Elizabeth standing in her bathrobe with her hands on her hips after she heard the news.
“If you find somebody else, you just come right out and tell me, Howard.”
“I’d never do such a thing, Elizabeth,” I told her.
“If you do, she’d better be older than my tennis shoes. If she’s not I’ll come flog you with my full-support bra.”
I thought we had this sort of unspoken pact of fidelity and honesty, but what if she’s found somebody younger and more virile, somebody with all his hair? Of course, he’d have only half my brains, but still…
I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror to see if I can see myself as Elizabeth does.
Good God! My hair—or what’s left of it—looks like that limp stuff you throw into the street during parades and then everybody comes along and stomps on it. I try to hide the balding spot by combing a few strands over it, but it’s not quite long enough. Maybe if I let it grow a bit…
Loss and a sense of failure squeeze my chest so hard I slump against th
e sink.
What did I do to deserve this? Nothing, that’s what. I’ve provided everything a good husband should, and more. Our house is one of the most expensive in the neighborhood, I buy flowers and jewelry with real stones on her birthday, and I trade in our cars every year. One for me, one for her. If she’d wanted a Mercedes instead of a Cadillac, why didn’t she tell me? Heck, I’d get her a Jaguar if that’s what it takes to make her happy.
She doesn’t even have to work. I make more than enough to support my family. Have from the day I hung out my shingle.
After we married, Elizabeth was band director at Milam Middle School, but I could see how hard it was for her when Kate came along, juggling babysitters and band concerts. So when Jenny was born, I said, “Just quit that job and stay home, hon. Concentrate on the kids and that symphony you’ve always wanted to write.”
What does it take to make a woman a happy? And how are you supposed to know what they want if they don’t tell you?
I’m a psychiatrist, for Pete’s sake. It’s my job to get people to open up and express their feelings. How could I have failed with my own wife?
It feels as if there’s a gaping hole beside me, a huge airless space where Elizabeth ought to be. I actually think I might be having a heart attack. It would serve her right.
Instantly I regret the thought. I’m not petty and vindictive. I don’t cuss, I don’t smoke, I don’t run around and I don’t drink. Well, social drinking and maybe an occasional nightcap, but that’s all. I’m a good provider, a good father, a good husband. At least I thought I was. Until today.
My legs feel as if they’re buckling, so I sink onto the toilet seat. Who would pick me up if I fell down and broke my fool neck?
When the phone rings, I jump like somebody shot. Elizabeth. Calling again to say she’s sorry, she’s out of her mind, she doesn’t know what possessed her, she’s coming home immediately.
Of course, I’ll tell her to wait until morning. No use taking chances on a dark road. See. That’s the kind of husband I am. Thoughtful. Considerate.
In my haste to get to the phone I nearly trip on the rug.
“Daddy? You sound out of breath.” It’s Kate. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I clear my throat around this lie. But, by George, I’ve never showed weakness around my children, and I’m not fixing to start now. A child needs to look up to her father.
“How are you, hon?”
“I don’t know. I’m worried about Mom.”
“What did your mother tell you?”
“Oh Lord, Daddy…nothing. A big fat zero. Just that she was going on a mysterious, extended vacation.”
“How did she look? How did she sound?”
“Normal, I guess. But then, Mom’s let herself go recently, so maybe something’s going on that we don’t know about.”
“You mean like cancer?”
Dogs go off to die. Maybe some women are like that. A phenomenon not covered in current psychology textbooks.
“Has she been to the doctor recently, Daddy?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
Elizabeth always tells me about her doctors’ appointments. But then, she didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me she was leaving home, so why wouldn’t she keep a little thing like a doctor’s appointment secret?
“Are you saying you think your mother’s sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She’s gained all that weight. Of course, you’d know if she had a psychological problem.”
“Of course.” I can’t bear to admit the truth, can’t bear to be a failure in the eyes of my daughter, too.
I hear my own sigh echoed in my daughter, then we both just hold on to the phone, not saying anything. Finally she says, “Daddy, I don’t quite know how to handle this. Mother’s always been right there at home.”
“I know.”
This house is not even a home without her. She has this knack… I don’t know how she does it, but she can turn even the cheapest motel room into a place that makes you want to settle down, take off your shoes and dream awhile.
“I keep wondering if it’s something I’ve said. I can be pretty blunt and Mother’s sensitive.”
“Of course not, Kate. You put that out of your head. Mom will be back home before you can say, ‘Jack Robinson.’”
That’s what I used to tell the children when Elizabeth had to go out of town with the band. It always helped.
I wish reassurance were that simple now.
“Of course you’re right, Daddy. She said it was just a little vacation. Is there anything I can do to help you while she’s gone?”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“You’re no trouble. Besides, Rick’s working on that big hospital lawsuit and Bonnie and I have all kinds of time. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll take care of it.”
“It would be nice to come home to something besides takeout for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. I’ll just cook early and bring over a plate to leave in the warmer till you get home.”
“Thank you, hon. And if it’s not too much bother, could you see that my white shirts get to the laundry? I’ve got that jury consulting job in Nashville on Wednesday, and I don’t want to end up without any clean shirts.”
“You leave it to me, Daddy.”
I don’t know what I would do without Kate. Of course, I have Jenny, too, but I’d expect snow in August before she’d call to check on me. Not that Jenny and I have any major problems, but she’s always been closer to Elizabeth.
Of course, judging by the way I’ve floundered around my wife’s emotional terrain, I could be free-falling from an airplane with Jenny and never know I didn’t even have a parachute.
Jenny’s more complicated than Kate, more like her mother. Both of them have a wild kind of energy that reminds me of a tornado brewing.
Elizabeth thinks our youngest is going through a typical breaking-free phase, but that’s not true. Jenny’s always been restless and willful. And her recent actions are just plain irresponsible, even if she has been friends with the Clark boys and Sara London since first grade. If Elizabeth had sided with me, we could have stopped this backpacking trip out west, and Jenny wouldn’t be traipsing off God-knows-where doing God-knows-what right now. They’re probably going to places like Hooters.
Who knows if she even has a cell phone signal? I could have a stroke and die and it might take six weeks to locate her.
I’m going to tell Kate that if I die she can just go ahead and have the funeral without Jenny. Elizabeth, too, by George.
These thoughts are unworthy of me, but sometimes self-righteous indignation is the only thing that feels good.
Up until today life was simple. I had a home, a wife and kids, respect. All of a sudden I’m a psychiatrist with a dark side, a churlish, failed husband who wishes insomnia, warts and bad breath on everybody who has hurt him.
Especially if that Somebody is off with another man. I might as well face the facts: Elizabeth still has this sort of magnetic appeal, but nobody would describe me as appealing. I look more like Barry Goldwater than Tom Cruise…and Goldwater’s been dead for years.
My feet feel heavy going up the stairs. I might as well take an aspirin now or I won’t sleep a wink. Good Lord, while my wife’s off skylarking, I have to deal with patients threatening to kill themselves.
I shake two aspirin out of the bottle. Extrastrength. If it gives me heart palpitations, that’s all her fault.
I brush my teeth, put on my pajamas, then go into the bedroom and just stare at the bedcovers. Elizabeth always turns back the bed. Not that I can’t. But that one simple gesture is a small way for my wife to show she appreciates my hard work, she appreciates the freedom she has to stay home all day and do exactly as she pleases.
I turn back my side, crawl in and turn off the bedside lamp. It’s only after I’ve pulled up the sheet and folded it under my chin that I remember I didn’t floss my teeth.
I didn’t even put on clean pajamas. This will be three days for the blue-striped pair.
I’m not fixing to get up and do it after I’ve finally settled in. For one thing, the aspirin is beginning to take effect, and I might fall down and hurt myself.
For another, I don’t want to see Elizabeth’s side of the bed. Empty.
CHAPTER 4
“When did sand in your swimsuit stop being sexy?”
—Beth
Last night’s phone call from Howard tightened me up like a piano wire. I feel as if I’ve been driving three weeks instead of only three hours from Demopolis to Pensacola. When I get out of the car, I have to do stretches to unkink myself.
I don’t know what possesses me to stay at the same motel Howard and I stayed when we came to the Florida panhandle six years ago. The Palm Breeze. It’s the closest thing we could find to the little mom-and-pop motel where we spent our honeymoon, the kind that used to dot the Gulf Coast before it became homogenized in the name of progress. Pink stucco, a concrete patio out back featuring wind chimes, molded plastic chairs and pink plastic flamingoes.
Anyway…here I am, checking in without a suitcase. Standing in a lobby not much bigger than my walk-in closet with my slacks sweat-stuck to the back of my legs, my hair wilted and the elastic of my panties bunched up and pinching my waist.
The young man behind the counter looks like the Incredible Hulk, except deeply tanned instead of green. He’s hunched in a straight-backed chair immersed in a Spider-Man comic book, oblivious to a potential customer.
“I want a room with a view,” I tell him.
Finally he looks up. “What view are you talking about?”
“That lovely little park at the back, you know, the one with the live oak trees and the Spanish moss hanging down and that charming little wooden carousel.”
“The only view you’re going to get is the new Wal-Mart they put in over the park last year.”
I’ve never heard so-called progress described exactly that way. Put in.
A shaded playground for children vanished, hundred-year-old trees destroyed, an oasis of tranquility and beauty raped. Why didn’t somebody protest? Why didn’t the neighborhood’s parents carry signs and petition the city council and contact the newspaper?
