Kill Me a Husband

by Tedd Thomey

  “I’m sorry about those loans,” he said. “I’ll start paying you back as soon as business gets better. The trouble is-”

  “I know what the trouble is, darling, so you don’t have to tell me.”

  “But I do want to pay you back. The trouble is that I’m losing all those sales on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and sometimes I don’t feel like going out in the evening and trying to make up a few sales. I feel like—” He paused, then finished with a grin. “Hell, Mommy, half the time after you leave I don’t even feel like going out for dinner on those nights.”

  “I know, darling, I know, but don’t you see that—”

  “Let me finish,” he said. “I know I should stay away from you, Alma. These trips here, three times a week, and all this drinking—I ought to let up for a while. I ought to get back to business and make that two-week swing through Pennsylvania, the way I should have last month—”

  “Well, I like that!” she exclaimed. “And leave me sitting around like a dried-up old maid? If you think you’ll get away with something like that, you’re off your rocker, buster! I’m going with you on that trip, buster!”

  She glared at him hotly. She always knew what to do when he began to talk like this. Taking his hands, she pulled him up from his chair and then pressed his palms to her breasts. She leaned forward, moving her shoulders, wriggling against him. When he backed away, she pursued him, still wriggling and when he opened his mouth and licked his lips, she knew she had this small victory half won.

  “Damn you,” he said. “I ought to have more sense, but every time you start jumping around and rubbing yourself against me I guess I go a little crazy. I ought to-”

  “Shut up and listen to me.” she said. “Forget about all those little worries of yours. Forget about the loans and the lost sales and the fact that business is lousy and all that small stuff. My God, Bud, don’t you realize that when the Governor’s gone we’ll be able to live the way we want, go to the Waldorf, rent drawing rooms on the train, have a party every night—”

  “Wait a minute!” He raised his hand, gesturing for hej to be silent. “When the Governor’s gone? What the hel are you talking about?”

  “I’ll give you two guesses, sweetheart. What do yoi think I’m talking about?”

  Reaching around his neck, she clasped her finger; together. She tried to hold him, but he tilted his bacl sharply, breaking her grip.

  He backed away from her, his gray eyes deepl) disturbed.

  “Alma, don’t ever say things like that! Don’t you knov what it means to even think things like that? Eternal damnation and worse. Eternal—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said impatiently. “I’m not just thinking about it. I’m going to do it! And what’s more I’ve already tried!”

  “You what?”

  “Yes, lover boy, I’ve already tried!”

  Too late she realized she had gone too far, said too much. His gasp and the pale spots which appeared suddenly on his cheeks warned her to retreat, to say something which would turn the whole thing into a joke or at least a partial joke.

  But her mind, which had been turning and twisting so brilliantly, deserted her, frozen when she needed it most. Unable to think of another thing to say, she watched, fascinated, as he backed away from her, a large blue vein bulging at the side of his forehead, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “What did you do?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

  “I didn’t! Bud, I didn’t!” Again she groped for the right word, the right phrase, but none came. “I lied to you! I didn’t—”

  “You did! I can tell by your face! You bitch—you crazy bitch! What did you do?”

  For a moment there was silence in the room while he stared at her, waiting for her answer, and she stared back, unable to think of one.

  Then he turned and with short, abrupt movements went to the buffet and poured himself a drink. She watched him down it, pour another and drink it just as rapidly, amber beads of liquor shining as they fell from his lips to his shirt front.

  “I’ll give you—” He wiped the droplets from his mouth. “Alma, I’ll give you one more chance to tell me the truth. What did you try to do to him?”

  “Nothing. Believe me, Bud, I didn’t do a thing!”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not. Bud. Honest!” She went to him, tried to embrace him, but was rebuffed. “Please, Bud, I—”

  He put on his coat. Twice he tried to button his collar and twice his fumbling fingers failed, but when she tried to help him he thrust her aside. He picked up his leather sample case and started toward the door.

  “Bud, don’t leave!” Seizing his arm, she tried to keep him from going, but he shook her off.

  “Get out of my way!”

  “But, Bud, what about our party?”

  “To hell with the party!”

  “Bud, please stay! I didn’t mean what I said. Honest! And I’ll make it up to you! We’ll have a wonderful party! The best ever, because I’ll—”

  She almost succeeded in locking her arms around him, but he escaped through the front door.

  Safe on the porch, because it was in full view of the neighbors’ windows, he halted and looked back at her. His face was pale, almost bloodless-looking, and his hands nervously clasped and unclasped the handle of his leather case.

  “Alma, I meant it. I think you’re—” He hesitated, then finished in a rush of words. “I think you’re crazy!”

  “But, Bud, listen to me! Please—”

  As soon as she stepped toward him, he turned, fled down the porch steps and out to the sidewalk.

  Even when he was half a block away at the intersection of Willard Street, even then he did not look back.

  CHAPTER 6

  The mornings were always the worst for Ward. Those on the road, when he awoke in unfamiliar hotel rooms, were dreary enough, but the bad taste in his mouth, the aches in bone and muscle were always helped by a swallow or two of rye. Here at home the situation was always twice as dreary and it never improved. There was no way to hide a bottle near the bed, because his wife Virginia snooped and found it every time and poured it down the toilet.

  So all he could do was lie here under the blankets, cold and aching, suffering, the taste of his tongue foul and evil, trying to find strength somewhere to rise and face the terrible morning.

  For the second time in five minutes, Virginia dashed into the bedroom, thumping his back, screaming at him with that voice of hers which could peel paint at six paces.

  “Ward Green, I’m warning you!” She put her mouth so close to his ear his nerves vibrated into the deepest centers of his brain, trebling his agony.

  Covering his ears with his hands, he waited for her to finish, but he made the mistake of taking his palms away too soon and caught a fresh blast of words.

  “Listen to me, you drunken bum! The Special leaves in just—”

  Again he blotted out her shrill cries. Through one partially open eye he watched her rush about the bedroom, brushing her hair, fastening her dress. Then she hurried into the hall, rapping on the door of their daughter’s bedroom. He knew it would take considerable time to get Josie up and dressed for wherever the three of them were supposed to go this morning. Josie, who was ten, was at that stage where she wanted to dress well and look nice. He was sure he could remain here, recuperating slowly, for at least ten more minutes while Josie hunted up her hair ribbon or her stockings or her belt or something else that was always getting lost.

  Now he heard Virginia clattering in the kitchen as she prepared breakfast, shouting at him to get up, making far more noise than was necessary.

  Drawing the blankets tighter around him, he turned his face to the wall and tried to doze. But it was impossible. Josie was in the bathroom now, running water noisily. Oh, God, he thought, if only they would go away and let me remain here all day to regain my strength. He felt weak and sick and it was in this condition that the guilt always weighed the heaviest, forcing it
self upon him, making him weaker and sicker. And more ashamed of himself.

  “Ward Green!” his wife shouted. “I’m warning you! The Special leaves in twenty-five minutes!”

  The Special? He tried to think about the Special, hoping it would draw his mind out from under its pressing guilt. Why were they going to take the Special? Where were they supposed to go this morning?

  “And the flowers, too!” Virginia shouted. “We’ve got to pick them up before we get on the Special!”

  He groaned and felt like throwing up. Now he remembered. The damn Special to the cemetery. The streetcar that left so damned early. What time did it leave? He racked his brain, trying to make its cells perform, trying to keep it from dwelling on his guilt and shame. Eight o’clock, wasn’t that it? So damnably early. And what day was this? He forced himself to think. Memorial Day, that was it. But what year? He forced himself to think harder. May 30, 1926, of course.

  He started to congratulate himself on his clear thinking. And then, abruptly, it was all a mistake. Because he remembered last year, last Memorial Day, and what a pleasant day the three of them had enjoyed in the country after visiting the cemetery. Virginia, Josie and himself, picnicking near the river, fashioning yellow garlands from dandelions and tossing them into the stream.

  He rubbed his eyes, rubbed hard, trying to shut out the images. Was it only a year ago that they had been such a well-adjusted little family? He knew the answer too well. It had been only half a dozen days later, June 6 to be exact, that he’d met Alma. And that had been the beginning of everything.

  And now he was really sick. Now his belly boiled with nausea like a cauldron. Now the guilt was on him like a great marble stone, a tombstone. Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery. Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s wife. Alma and her body. Alma and her yellow garters. Alma on beds in a dozen different hotel rooms, Alma on a double bed, Alma on a twin bed, Alma on a sofa. He groaned and rubbed his stomach. Why had he gone to Truzzillini’s for lunch that day in June? Why hadn’t he gone to some other restaurant? But Ralph had insisted. And they hadn’t been seated there five minutes before Ralph spotted two friends at a table under the arch. Two girl friends. Alma and another woman. Mame somebody. Oh, God, if only he hadn’t gone to Truzzillini’s.

  “Out!” Virginia’s voice went off in his ear like a bomb. “Get out of that bed!”

  This time he had failed to hear her come in and be fore he could prevent her she seized his arm and rolled him off the bed to the floor. The impact made his head ring with pain.

  “Get in the tub!” She poked him with her foot. “Wash that stink off you! That stinking stuff you drink! Hurry now, I’m warning you!”

  Rising from the floor, he stumbled off to the sanctuary of the bathroom where he might steal a few more minutes of rest. Josie, coming out, met him at the door and gave him a nervous half-smile which told him that she knew all about the condition he’d been in when he came home long after midnight.

  He wanted to vomit but he did not have enough strength. For a minute, two minutes, he rested on the toilet while the bathtub filled with water. When he sat in the tub, he cursed because the water wasn’t even lukewarm. It was another of Virginia’s many ways of reminding him of their unpaid bills. To keep the fuel bill down, she turned the water heater flame so low there was only hot water enough for half a tub and Josie had used all of it.

  When he shaved, also with cold water, he gashed himself in the difficult whisker area beneath his left nostril. Dressed finally in his gray suit, white shirt, and wine-colored tie, he desperately needed several cups of coffee, but Virginia refused to let him take time even for one.

  Out the door the three of them went, hurrying along the sidewalk at a pace which made his head ache and his stomach churn. At McNaughtons Market, two blocks away, they made a quick stop for seventy-five cents’ worth of white carnations and when he looked into his wallet he was surprised that he had only six dollars left from the most recent twenty Alma had given him. It was after eight when they arrived at the streetcar stop, but fortunately the Special was late and by running the last twenty steps they got aboard just before the long, bile-green car got under way.

  All during the six-mile ride he was miserable, his stomach buffeted by the irregular motions of the heavy wheels directly beneath their seat, his head in agony from the continual shrieking of the steel brakes as they made stop after stop. When he tried to doze, Virginia poked him with her elbow, making him sit upright.

  He pitied himself, thinking how changed she was, how different from the Virginia of last year, how sharply she spoke to him, how rudely she pushed him. At thirty-three, she was still a fairly good-looking woman, but definitely not in Alma’s class. She was as tall as he, slightly taller than Alma, thinner—a brunette with small breasts and flat hips, a rather sexless woman. They had, in fact, stopped having sexual relations for a long time before he met Alma. Virginia had very little interest in sex and that was undoubtedly why she never suspected him of having an affair with another woman. For Virginia, sex was a chore, like rinsing the milk bottles and cleaning out the sink. There had never been any joy in their love-making and Virginia had never—not once in the dozen years of their marriage—indicated that she was impressed by his masculinity.

  They put most of the white carnations on the double grave of Virginia’s mother and father, who had died in the flu epidemic of 1918. The few blossoms left, less than a half dozen, went into a sun-frosted jar on the grave of Ward’s father. As he replaced the container, he tried to think of a phrase from the Bible, something appropriate to murmur, but he couldn’t think of anything. Well, it didn’t matter much. He hadn’t known his father very well. His parents had been divorced when he was small and he had been raised by his mother. His father, who had never been strong, had died when Ward was thirteen, and even after he was gone his mother never had a good word to say about the old man. Until Ward’s marriage to Virginia, the grave had gone flower-less year after year.

  Their duties at the cemetery completed, they walked across the street to Grant Park and selected a grassy site beneath two elms for their picnic tablecloth. Virginia always chose this spot and for a while she stopped criticizing him, content to play games with Josie. He welcomed the chance to rest, making a pillow of his coat, choosing a spot where the ravs of the late morning sun could soothe his tired muscles. Half awake, half asleep, he thought about his mother and how she was spending the holiday alone in her room in the boarding house. It was a shame that he and Virginia couldn’t take her somewhere today, but he had learned long ago that it was useless to ask Virginia to do things for his mother. His mother had always been good to him, and it was a shame that he couldn’t do more for her. His mother was one of the two people in his life who made him feel wanted and useful. The other person, of course, was Alma.

  Like a celluloid ball bobbing about a whirlpool, his mind toyed with thoughts of Alma, tried to avoid thinking about her, and then was sucked in. He remembered last afternoon and evening, how she’d worn only the yellow garters, nothing else, not even stockings. Twice she had removed her clothes. Twice she had forced him to display energy which he did not think he possessed. It had been excruciating but exciting. No matter what Alma did, it was always exciting. Again and again he had tried to break with her, not see her any more, and each time he returned, finding her even more desirable. She was like a fever in his blood. It was all wrong, but there was no changing things—not while the thought of her loveliness and wantonness was a fierce torment, an almost evil obsession.

  Licking the dry roof of his mouth and his drier lips, he wished he had something to drink. Even beer. Thoughts of Alma always made him feel dry, made his mouth feel strange. In so many ways she was a feline woman, stealthy and secret. There were times when she said terrible things and displayed terrible facial expressions which made him fear her. Like last November.

  When he’d left her house after that stormy lunch scene, he’d sworn to himself that he would never see her a
gain. His stern resolution had lasted not quite five days. And after the new and more violent passion of their love-making, he’d forced himself to ask her again about those things she’d hinted at previously, the things she’d been doing to her husband. Willingly she’d told him, her large blue-green eyes glistening with hatred for Norman. It was difficult to tell when she was lying, making up fantasies, and when she was telling the truth. With oaths and excited gestures, she’d boasted about how she’d closed the garage doors, hoping he’d suffocate on the exhaust fumes. She’d also boasted of other plans which had failed, like the time she’d kicked loose the gas heater hose near the sofa and almost asphyxiated Norman. And there was also her crazy story about the medicine for Norman’s hiccoughs. She had bottles and bottles of medicines. She told her family, of course, that she was making continual visits to the doctor on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and buying medicines for her alleged anemia. She said she’d dosed Norman for two weeks with iron tonic spiked with bichloride of mercury. Heaven only knew where she had obtained the poison. But it hadn’t worked. She claimed that Norman hadn’t even felt ill after the doses. Instead, the damn stuff had cleared up Norman’s hiccoughs completely.

  Closing his eyes tight, he tried to stop thinking about her. There was no really good reason why he shouldn’t break with her once and for all. All it took was a display of will power, like trying to sell a customer four dozen corselets when all he needed was three dozen. There was no doubt in his mind that things could not be allowed to continue the way they were. He was deeper in debt than ever. Some days he was able to make up for the lost sales, the lost accounts, but there were other times when he was too tired to make the extra trips and put on the extra pressure that a big sale required.