The Carpenter's Wife

by G. H. Holmes

  An animal had its claws out for her.

  God! Help me!

  When the light changed, he drove up next to her again. This time he shook his fist at her, and the grimace shouted words she couldn’t hear.

  “God!” What do I do?

  She thought of the nearby Autobahn. The Beamer was capable of going 250 kilometers—150 miles—per hour before its electronic limiter shut the motor down; Tom had told her that once. The old Mercedes might conk out at 180—at 160 if it was a Diesel. She’d outrace him. But she had never gone faster than 180 herself, and that had been a wobbly adventure. And she might run out of gas if he kept up the chase. The Beamer was one thirsty monster at 160, how much more so at 250… She glanced at the gauge; a quarter remained in the tank.

  She should talk to him again; maybe she could talk him out of his pursuit, tell him she wasn’t available, wasn’t interested. Not even remotely. Modern people, cosmopolitans, could talk to one another, couldn’t they? Clear up the misunderstanding, find a solution, and get on with life—with their separate lives.

  She found herself rolling across Max Bridge, the left blinker already set for pulling into the tree-lined Wehranlagen parking lot, when she caught herself. Not a lot was going on there this Monday morning. What if he’d threaten her? The Wehranlagen park was long and lonely at this time of day… No. Meeting him was not a good idea.

  She released the blinker and drove on straight. The white Mercedes followed, one car behind.

  What now?

  She had a few errands to run. Should she pull into the Aldi lot, go get her stuff, and act as if she didn’t know him? Then she’d have to face him again. He might even try to enter the car with her.

  She wanted to scream. In the Aldi lot, she could scream. Or talk to somebody. Maybe they’d help…

  Nah. People didn’t want to get involved. Besides, she’d sound like a nut, like a whiny doll fussed over nothing. She could picture the conversation:

  “Help me! This guy’s stalking me!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes!”

  “Gee, Lady. You don’t exactly look like stalking material.”

  “But he is stalking me.”

  “Take it as a compliment.”

  “But… but…”

  “Exactly. Check your girth.” Then they’d walk off.

  She’d look like a complete fool. She’d look like—

  Ledward Barracks! The Americans. The Army.

  But she wasn’t military. And they were particular. Post 9/11, they wouldn’t even permit her through the gate without her passport.

  Her eyes began to well up.

  What about the mosque on Hauptbahnhof Straße? It was big, even had a minaret. She could go there and tell the imam to get a handle on this guy. Of course, he might not listen. She was a Christian woman—American Christian woman. Chances were, they wouldn’t even let her in. No, no. The whole idea felt wrong. Mad at herself, Romy squeezed the leather-bound wheel.

  Upon entering the harbor industrial area south of the river, she thought of the church three streets away. Nobody was there now; this was Monday, not Sunday, and its only employee clowned around at home in his garden house, having a good old time, while his wife got stalked by a madman in a Mercedes.

  But suddenly an idea popped into her mind, and a great calm spread in her belly. She sat back.

  She knew what to do.

  Slowing down, she drove onto Carl Benz Straße, then turned right on Bosch and headed across the huge concrete arch of Hahnenhügel Bridge, back into the gray canyons of town. On Rummert Ring, before entering Marienbach Straße and the Panorama intersection, she drove right, all calm now, down Alte Bahnhof Straße, until Schweinfurt’s gigantic police station came into view on the left. It spanned almost the entire block. The complex of tall buildings with their maroon-colored façades shone with calm authority. She set her blinker, waited until the Toyota coming at her had passed, and pulled into its parking lot. When she did, the white Mercedes behind her accelerated and sped away.

  Leaning back, she shut her eyes and sighed with relief.

  She was safe again.

  Then she sobbed.

  14

  Monday, 7 July 2003, Night, 81°F/27°C

  “He thought you’re for sale,” Tom said to the tune of the humming fan. He lay next to Romy in their bed upstairs. It was after 10:00 PM and the kids were finally asleep. “The Beamer is a luxury car. Not a lot of young and good-looking women drive around in a shiny seven thirty-five.”

  She huffed and said, “Let’s get rid of it.”

  “Don’t tell me you mind driving a BMW.”

  “I don’t like the car.”

  “That sounded different a while back, when you told your siblings about it.” Romy had three brothers and a sister in Kansas with whom she spoke often and long. At 2.6 cents per minute, calls from Germany to the U.S. were affordable even for a frugal person like her.

  “It’s old-fashioned-looking,” she said after a pause.

  “Come on, now.” He got up on his elbow. “It has heatable leather seats, leather steering, wood interior, aluminum wheels… Traction control, ABS, ESP and so on. Everything’s electric…”

  “It’s a car for old men.”

  His mouth became a straight line bunching his cheeks. “Like me.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t reply.

  She turned toward him. “It’s your Beamer, not mine.”

  “The church’s.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It doesn’t break down.”

  “The car is fine. It’s just… it’s a clunker for old men.”

  “But figure. You’ve got room, the kids got room, Coco can’t ruin the seats… And it’s your dad’s automotive dream. Your mom entered queen mode when she sat in it last year. Don’t tell me you weren’t proud.”

  She sighed. “Still.”

  “The price was right when Norbert offered it. I would have been a fool not to take it.” Tom had bought it used—it was a ‘97 model—but for a fraction of the regular price. “I still say it was a blessing.”

  “Attracts the wrong kind of people,” she said quietly.

  “The ladies always get real friendly when I come cruisin’. You should see them. They line the streets and wave. Like they do in that old Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin show. As if I were—”

  She ribbed him with her elbow.

  He coughed, rubbing his side, faking pain.

  She went back to staring at the ceiling. “It’s too big.”

  “It’s a luxury car.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Everything has its price, Rom’.”

  After a pause she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “There’s suffering associated with having things, or with being somebody. Or with having certain gifts. The guy you met today saw your car and thought you’d earned it by doing tricks. He—”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing tricks—selling yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “He didn’t know it’s a blessing from God. He misunderstood. That’s the price attached to that car. Other things carry other tags…”

  She remained silent.

  “Jealousy—the sin against the tenth commandment—is pretty commonplace. With a car like that—”

  “He wasn’t jealous, Tom; he wasn’t after the car. He was after me.”

  He adjusted his position. “He was after you.”

  “Yes. You didn’t go through this. But I did. He wanted to play a trick on me or whatever you call that, because he saw the car. You are saying that. It’s a shame.” She pulled a Kleenex from the box and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Well now…”

  She blew her nose.

  “There’s suffering attached to life, Rom’.” He reflected for a moment. “Some girls suffer because they’re beautiful. Car or no car.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. Real good-looking ones
are sometimes made into prostitutes. They don’t volunteer for that, you know. They’re forced into that lifestyle. That’s an awful—”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He fell quiet and stretched out on his back. “Never mind.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean, why do you keep talking about…”—she gestured—“such women?”

  “They weren’t my point.” He exhaled briskly. “Suffering was. You have something extraordinary, like beauty, you suffer in conjunction with it. That was my point.

  “It’s sort of the same way when you enter into a relationship with somebody. Most of the time there’s a reason for doing that; people are economical. They give and take. There’s give, and then there’s take. Giving means suffering, because after you give something away, you don’t have it anymore. You’re at a loss.

  “At first.

  “At other times, you take, and the other person suffers a loss. Of course, it’s really an investment. Receiving makes the other person happy. And willing to give in turn. Like in marriage. It’s give and take all the time. There are things one alone can’t do. There are needs that go unmet without another person. Needs. That’s why people enter into contracted relationships.”

  She squinted, wiggling her head. “What are you talking about?”

  He groaned.

  “No. I mean, I really don’t understand.”

  “Okay. Look. Me Tarzan.” His thumb bounced off his chest. “You, Jane.” His right index finger stabbed her a couple of times, tickling her.

  But she didn’t laugh.

  “I swing from tree to tree, gather bananas for Jane. Jane doesn’t swing. No matter. Tarzan can’t bake banana bread. No matter; Jane can. Jane bakes banana bread. Tarzan says, ‘Oooh.’”

  “Tom,” she said, digging into her pillow, turning her back on him, “you’re an ape.”

  “No no, wait; I’m not done. Tarzan tells Jane: ‘We married. Tarzan tired from gathering bananas. Food good. Let’s lie down. Tarzan tired. Sleep with Jane.’”

  She bolted up, clutching the loose sheet to herself, her brown eyes wide. “Tom. Don’t do this to me.”

  He closed his eyes and groaned. “And if I sell the car?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “But—”

  “You have no idea what I went through.”

  “That seems to be mutual.”

  “I-I can’t…”

  He sighed and stretched out on his back. “Never mind.”

  15

  Tuesday, 8 July 2003, Morning, 81°F/26°C

  Wearing only shorts and a wet towel around his head, Tom sat by the computer in his home office and stared at the wallpaper above the monitor, too tired even to yawn. The day hadn’t begun in earnest and the heat was already closing in on him like a boxer flexing his muscles. Both windows stood open, and he had tricked the hot draft into cooling his face a bit by dampening it. Stark scooted his office chair back on the parquet floor and stretched out his legs.

  He was alone again, and unfulfilled. Romy had left a moment ago to attend an informal ladies’ breakfast they held every Tuesday at the mansion of an older medical doctor from church. It started at nine.

  Even though Tom’s wife was very popular with the congregation, not many women called on her for counsel. Instead, they talked to Betty Leiermann, wife of Dr. Siegfried Leiermann, an internist with his own practice in Bad Kissingen, 20 kilometers north of Schweinfurt. Betty was 59, had short, reddish-blond hair and an impish smile, and wore her gray temples with pride. Her Bible knowledge and self-confident, mildly authoritarian ways rang a bell with many parishioners, so that Tom had made her—and her mild-mannered husband—members of the church board early on. Both Leiermanns were not ambitious, they weren’t jockeying for position. Both already had the respect of society at large, and their hunger for glory and honor was stilled, which made dealing with them so much more enjoyable.

  Stark respected Betty’s opinions, even asked for them at times, but Betty was for the women, not for men like him. Though she might have understood—she could have been his mother—he couldn’t seek her counsel. If he, the pastor, would open up to her, he’d hand her vast powers over him—which she wouldn’t misuse, he was sure. But the idea was still too uncomfortable. He couldn’t even tell her to talk to his wife, to encourage her for once.

  Tom thought of calling Abe Lincoln in Munich again. He reached for the phone in the topmost of the three stacked paper trays to his right. Abe could counsel him. But he’d just talked to him yesterday and Stark didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself. “Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor’s house, lest he be weary of thee, and so hate thee.” Proverbs. He creased his cheeks, thoughtfully weighing the black object in his right hand.

  No. He couldn’t talk to Abe right now.

  After putting the phone down, he unwound his head-towel and rubbed his upper body down with it. Then he threw it over the back of his chair and leaned back. Clear thoughts, come! In Jesus’ name… He pulled on the hair above his forehead. Then he reached for the mouse and opened Outlook Express on the computer, clicked on “new message,” and closed his eyes, pondering what to write. His fingers began to move, the keyboard clattered. “Hi Tina.”

  He stopped. Hi Tina.

  Something sounded wrong.

  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but…

  Tina.

  What was it? He blinked heavily, the expression on his face dull. Heaving a drawn-out sigh, he decided he was still too tired. He pushed back and got up to get another cup of coffee.

  Tina…

  What was wrong with Tina…?

  Nothing. He shrugged.

  In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stuck his head in. The 8 degrees Celsius spilling over his moist head and neck felt like an ice storm ravaging the roots of his hair. The cold clawed at his face and chest. Felt so good… Then he closed the door, fetched his cup from the sink, and poured some of the steaming black liquid from the blue ball on the counter. Sipping, he made his way back into his office, where he sat down by the desk again.

  Tina…

  Of course! He smacked his forehead. What was he thinking? He erased the T and typed a G.

  “Hi Gina,” he read out loud. Immediately, his face snapped toward the window. The neighboring house was barely ten yards away and somebody was always busy in the driveway.

  Stark growled at himself. His eyes went back to the screen. His hands hovered over the keyboard.

  “Hi Gina.”

  Gina.

  The keys began to clatter. “It sure was good to see you yesterday.” He paused. Did I tell you that you look like a million bucks? You think the same about me? Aw, shucks. He grinned stupidly, rubbed his face with both hands, and smacked his cheeks gently, effecting penance for his goofy fantasy. Maybe writing to her wasn’t such a good idea. Right now anyway.

  He inhaled and stretched. The fingertips of both his hands drummed on the table.

  What’s the big deal? He’d be short. To the point. I can do this. His eyes searched the screen. …Sure was good to see you… Then the keys clattered again. “Please let me know when Ralph can come by to pick up the broken window. I’ll pay him for fixing it, of course.”

  Of course.

  Why “of course?” He gnawed on his lower lip.

  “Or we split the ticket.”

  That was better. After all, Raffy-boy’s middle name was “demolition.” Just that Ben always tried to be the greater champ when they were together—to the general disadvantage of the world at large. The window wasn’t the first thing they had broken, and splitting the ticket this time was only fair and square. So…

  “When will I see you again?”

  He paused. Then he quickly erased the last sentence. He had no business asking her that. That was unlawful fraternizing; that was lewd. He’d be toying with her, and he didn’t know how she’d take it.

  Actually, he’d be giving away his thoughts, and he didn’t know how she�
��d take that. That could become dangerous; it might ruin his testimony.

  He pinched his nose.

  What would she be telling her friends? “Listen, girls! This evangelical pastor-guy up the street says he’s a mature Christian. Right. Girls, he is such a flirt! He’s, like, a regular papagallo. He came on to me the other day in an e-mail…” She’d think of him as a religious hypocrite. Even if she did play along for a while.

  Closing his eyes, he exhaled, pondering his next few words.

  Then he simply wrote, “Thanks for letting me know. Greetings. Tom.”

  There. He read the whole stanza again. It sounded harmless enough—it was harmless. It was supposed to be harmless, just neighborly chatter. Get a grip, Stark. But the thought made him nervous that the most attractive woman in his sphere would now be writing back to him, would speak to him in the seclusion of his office. He was making contact…

  He hesitated.

  But he wasn’t reaching out. So, there.

  Tom aimed the mouse pointer at the “send” button—when Coco outside began to bark frantically. Then she yelped with puppy love and young-dog excitement. Then the doorbell rang.

  Stark minimized the program, which collapsed on the screen, and went to look out the kitchen window.

  Ralph Delors’s white company van sat by the gate. The man himself, dressed in his khaki work clothes, stood by the front door, waiting, gently patting Coco on the head. The pup licked his hand and yapped intermittently.

  “Coming!” Tom yelled through the tilted window.

  A few seconds later he opened the door, and Ralph, still busy with Coco, turned to meet him. His meek brown eyes looked up at Stark, and his soft features slowly blossomed into a smile. “Hi, Tom.” His eyes slid across Stark’s scar while he extended a workworn hand.

  The missionary swallowed when he took it. Ralph stood six foot two inches tall, was muscular, and had a firm handshake. But Tom had never seen a more guileless face. Ralph was innocence incarnate. “Hi Carpenter,” he said genially.

  “I hear you got some work for me?”