Michael’s Wife

by Marlys Millhiser

  “This is a place that I wanted for you to see, Mrs. Michael … so that maybe you would understand.” Consuela’s eyes were still expressionless as they studied her face, but there was something watchful about her. This must be what she’d been leading to.

  “Understand what?”

  “Come and see.” The old woman stood aside for her to enter.

  Laurel’s first impression was that this was a storeroom for broken furniture. Dusty pieces of chairs, picture frames, wooden cabinets, and a table lay on the floor. She soon realized that it was instead a scene of ugly destruction. How could there be such a room in a house like this?

  A drum with a jagged hole in its center … a battered toy truck lying on its side … books torn from their covers and scattered … a barred dirty window, the lower pane replaced with boards.

  The room darkened as Consuela closed the door and locked it. And Laurel felt smothered in the dry, dusty air.

  “Consuela, what is this place? I don’t like it. Unlock the door.”

  Consuela lowered her heavy body into the one chair still intact, a wicker rocker that creaked as she rocked. “Here, sit.” She motioned to the single bed which sagged at one corner. “Before you leave I want you to know of this. This was the nursery. He did it with an ax; he cried afterward and then he screamed. We had to call a doctor to quiet him … oh, poor baby.” Tears dripped over pudgy cheeks. “Mr. Paul and I … we had to hold him until the doctor came.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that Jimmy did all this? He couldn’t possibly.…”

  “No, not Jimmy. Jimmy’s father.”

  “Michael?”

  “He was only ten, my poor Michael … such a big strong boy … his brother would not let me clean it up. He would bring him here and make him look at it when Michael was bad … then Michael grew too big to be forced to come … and now no one comes here.” So much emotion in her voice, so little on her face, just the wetness of tears.

  “Why did he … do this?” There was something wrong with a child who would do such a thing, and she thought of the burning metallic eyes against the dark skin.

  “Because of the death of his mother. Did he never tell you of her death?”

  “If he did I don’t remember.”

  “My Maria and Mr. Devereaux and Michael were coming home one night in the car … and there was an accident. Maria, my lovely Maria … she died … and poor Michael was there and saw it. He was not hurt bad … a few scratches. He loved his mother. He was only ten.”

  “Mr. Devereaux—was he killed, too?”

  “No, but for many months he was in the hospital. He was a big man. So handsome and full of spirit. But after he came home from the hospital he was never well. He grieved so for my Maria, he became suddenly an old man.”

  Sunlight filtered through what was left of the dirty pane and dust speckles floated through abandoned cobwebs.

  “Your Maria?”

  “I raised her from a little girl. I worked in her father’s house and then she brought me here when she married Mr. Devereaux.” Rolls of loose flesh sagged from the housekeeper’s arm as she raised it to wipe her cheek with her hand.

  “Paul wasn’t along when it happened?”

  “They never took him with them. He was always in his books, that one. Maria did not like him.”

  “Her own son?”

  “Oh, no. They were the same age, Maria and Paul. Paul was her stepson. His mother died before we came to this house. There is twenty years between Paul and Michael. Paul, he was never strong or big. He did not like to hunt or do man things with his father. When Michael came, his father was so proud of such a big healthy boy who could do such things. And Maria would sit in this chair and rock her baby, and she would play with him when he got older. They were so good together, those two.”

  “Consuela, why did you bring me here and tell me this?”

  The old woman got up from her chair and unlocked the door. “Because you are Mrs. Michael and you should know what he can do when he is hurt inside. And because you too are a mother.”

  Laurel was glad to return to the sun. She felt cold.

  5

  The rest of the week went by with little comment about her dark past. They waited and watched her. Through it all—Janet’s bickering, Paul’s stiffness, Claire’s disdain—Laurel knew they were watching her and waiting for Michael.

  He was due home for the weekend and it would be left to him to force the issue. Whenever she saw Consuela, she thought of the dusty debris in the old nursery and felt panicky at the thought of Michael’s return.

  The new lab assistant joined them for lunch in the courtyard. Even he watched her, fumbling with his silverware, looking away when she stared back. She grew to loathe salads. As she slept less it became more difficult to avoid Jimmy and her own thoughts. Her memory refused to budge, and everything she learned about herself made her hate this Laurel the more. She began to think of herself as having two identities—herself as she wanted to be and this Laurel everyone thought she was.

  But Jimmy was the hardest to bear. At first he just seemed curious, but she soon suspected he was looking for a friend. His lot was not easy in this magnificent house with only adults for company. His needs were seen to, but he was expected to find love and companionship from toys too old for him and a TV set. Claire spent most of her time scolding him. Janet and Paul ignored him.

  One afternoon she found Consuela rocking Jimmy in his room. There was no rocking chair so the old woman sat on the bed rocking her body back and forth, crooning something gentle in Spanish. And Jimmy who sprawled on her ample lap, a thumb in his mouth, the other hand stroking her dress, gazed sleepily up at her face and looked as though this was all the heaven he would ever need. Laurel couldn’t sleep that night.

  Friday morning as she walked along the inside hall, she heard an enraged scream from Janet’s room at the head of the stairs.

  “Claire! Get that child out of here.”

  And Jimmy came running out of the door his eyes wide and his plump little face white with terror. Laurel caught him before he could reach the stairs. He shivered in her arms but didn’t cry.

  Janet stood in the doorway and Laurel was startled at the change in her appearance. She wore a filmy peignoir, but her hair was in a net, a greasy mixture smeared over her face and a strap under her chin. She was a sight to scare any child.

  “Don’t you ever come into this room again, brat!” The strap made her speak through her teeth with a nasty hissing sound.

  “Please, he’s only a baby. You’ve scared him half to death. He could have tumbled down those stairs and.…”

  “Oh, gone all motherly, have you? Well it’s more than a little late. Claire has orders to keep that … child out of my way. I don’t want to hear him, see him, or even think about him.”

  “But he’s your nephew.”

  “Is he?” Janet sent her a knowing grimace and closed the door on them.

  Laurel looked at Jimmy. He really didn’t resemble his father much. She pushed the ugly thought from her mind; she had more than she could handle already.

  She awoke early Saturday morning, her first thought that Michael would be coming home. He’d want to know what she’d been doing for the last two years and she wouldn’t be able to tell him, and God only knew what he’d do then. A woman who’d deserted her baby couldn’t have been up to much good. God, I’m scared. Her only hope was that she wasn’t Laurel. She had no proof of this, just a feeling.

  As she dressed she stood before one of the barred windows by the bed, the bars reminding her of another problem. Would they send her to prison for deserting a child she couldn’t remember having? But no one would believe that she couldn’t remember. Would a doctor be able to prove it? Would the Devereaux’ pay for a doctor to cure an amnesia they didn’t believe in? A cure might prove beyond a doubt that she was this hateful Laurel Devereaux. It might also identify the nagging thing she feared. She was afraid to regain her memory … and she was afr
aid not to.

  Just before lunch Laurel sat on the stone edge of the fountain, trying hard to think of nothing at all, watching sunlight glimmer on the clear water as it ringed beneath the dripping jaws of the creature.

  She looked up and Michael Devereaux walked across the flagstone toward her.

  He walked with a rapid smoothness, a flowing control that brought him up to her with startling suddenness. She knew it was partly her fear of him that made him look so big in the black sweater.

  “I see you’re still here.” He rested one foot on the ledge beside her and gazed down at the water. “Have you called your parents?”

  “No.” She realized she’d been holding her breath.

  “You don’t think they’d be interested to learn you’ve rejoined the world?”

  “I … suppose I should call.…” She could sense the contempt under the gruff sarcasm in his voice and it added to her uneasiness.

  “But you don’t want to. You don’t care a damn for anyone, do you?” He had a slight stoop to his shoulders she hadn’t noticed before.

  The anger in his half-lidded eyes had given way to cold indifference. She knew he was going to ask about the last two years, and she knew that either truth or evasion would bring back the fury. She was too afraid to lie.

  Just then Jimmy came screeching from the kitchen, some of his lunch still on his face. When he saw his father, he did a mid-run left turn.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Laurel felt reprieved as she watched the big body stoop to catch the small one and lift him onto broad shoulders with unexpected gentleness.

  “Michael, be careful with him.” Claire appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “He’s a big boy, Claire. Aren’t you, slugger?”

  Jimmy drummed little fists on Michael’s head.

  “You two ruffians, honestly.” Claire laughed as she joined them and they walked off, excluding Laurel as though she didn’t exist.

  A stranger would have thought them a happy family group—Jimmy on his father’s shoulders going up the stairs—Claire fussing about, reaching up to pull Jimmy’s pants leg down, touching Michael with a familiar nonchalance. And Laurel felt resentment. Her situation was impossible. No one wanted her or needed her here. They had been happy enough before she came.

  That afternoon she lay on the big bed trying to make up a plausible story for the last two years. Michael had not brought it up at lunch, but he would. His clothes were gone from the wardrobe so she didn’t have to worry about his sleeping here. But she must have a story, a story that would hold up in court as well. She worked on it until her head ached, tossing on the bed until the cover was rumpled. Everything she thought of sounded just as silly as the truth.

  If I had someplace to go, I’d just leave. No one would really care. They’d be relieved to get rid of her. She couldn’t be any more miserable someplace else or more degraded. It’s awful being Laurel!

  The sounds from the courtyard had been providing a faint background for her thoughts for some time. It gradually intruded on her senses—the sound of splashing water.

  Jimmy’s scream brought her off the bed and to the door. She was on the balcony and then running down the stairs before she saw them in the pool.

  Jimmy clutched Michael around the neck, his blond head thrown back, pudgy legs trying to crawl up his father’s chest away from the water. Claire stood a few feet away in what looked like a black tank suit.

  “For Christ’s sake, settle down. Now, go to Claire. Just relax and let yourself float.” Michael had to force the child’s arms from around his neck and then pushed him toward Claire.

  “Consayla.” Jimmy choked down water before he reached the safety of Claire’s arms.

  “Now turn him around and send him back.”

  By the time she reached the edge of the blue pool Laurel’s panic had turned to anger. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m teaching my son to swim, obviously. Come on, Jimmy. You’re doing fine.” Beads of water clung to the black hair on his chest and arms.

  “He’s too young. Look at him. He’s terrified.”

  “Consayla.” And the sobbing child was passed back to his father, turned around, and sent skimming back to Claire.

  “If he’s going to live here, he’d better learn to swim.”

  “He’s not even two. Stop it!”

  “I was swimming by the time I was one.” Michael hoisted Jimmy out of the water onto the flagstone. “That’s all for now, son.” He lifted himself out of the pool in one quick graceful movement, dripping water on Laurel as she knelt to pick up Jimmy.

  She wrapped him in a towel and held him close. “Hush, baby, hush.”

  Michael stopped toweling himself and watched her, cocking his head to one side. “Is there really a mother instinct in you, Laurel? Or is this for show?” The soft irony was back in the deep voice.

  “I feel sorry for him. Anybody would—poor kid.” She stared back with all the defiance she could muster. I hate this man, she told herself and then looked away. She didn’t like the word “hate.”

  Claire had covered her ugly swimsuit with a towel; she had thick legs for a woman her size. “Come on, sweety. Claire will find some warm dry clothes for you,” she said, taking Jimmy from Laurel and walking off with him. Laurel had never heard Claire call him anything but “bad boy” before.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Laurel. There will be no interference between Jimmy and me. You walked out on that right two years ago.” Michael followed Claire across the flagstone.

  I’ve got to get out of here. Laurel fled to the shadows of the arcade and almost stepped on Evan Boucher.

  “Hi.” He wore a lab coat over rumpled blue jeans. His soft hazel eyes watched her expectantly.

  “Is that the only word you know?”

  Evan blushed and looked down at his dirty tennis shoes.

  “I thought you were supposed to be in the lab.” She hadn’t been very nice to this boy, but she didn’t trust him.

  “I heard the kid screaming and came out to see what was the matter.”

  “And saw the whole thing, I suppose?” Laurel sat in a wicker chair and looked across the courtyard. Michael walked along the balcony and stopped outside Jimmy’s room to watch them.

  “Yeah. You don’t seem to be everybody’s favorite member of the family.” He sat in the chair next to hers and she saw him stiffen when he noticed Michael. “How come your husband’s so mad at you?” When she didn’t answer he leaned toward her and whispered, “Mrs. Devereaux, I know it’s none of my business, but if you need help.…”

  “Help?” Laurel giggled and then laughed. “From you?” Michael turned abruptly and stepped into Jimmy’s room. “Do you think I’d go for help to someone who sneaks around other people’s houses?”

  “Sneaks …?”

  “You were sneaking out of the house when I met you the other morning, not walking in to see about a job.”

  “Oh, that.” He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I did come about the job, but, you’re right, I was leaving when you saw me.” Evan’s shy smile moved the drooping corners of his mustache out. “I climbed that wall first thing in the morning so’s I’d be the earliest to apply, and when I got to the door, nobody answered it, but it moved a little and I saw it wasn’t locked … I peeked in … everything was so grand … I’d just never seen anything like this house before except in movies … please, don’t tell anybody. I just looked in one room, I swear it—the one with all the couches and chairs and velvet drapes—and I just stood in the door.”

  “But why were you leaving?” He looked so sheepish, she half believed him.

  “I realized the place was too much … you know what I mean? It was too grand for Evan Boucher, and I thought of what would happen if I got caught like that and I just chickened, I guess. And then you did catch me … when I saw you … please don’t be offended, Mrs. Devereaux, but I’ve never seen anything like you before either.”

  Now they were b
oth blushing.

  “And then Miss Bently came along and … what else could I do? But Professor Devereaux’s a nice old guy; I’m glad I stayed now.” Although he’d let it grow to his shirt collar, his brown hair curled and waved around his face and gave him a boyish look. “But you haven’t answered my question. Can I help you somehow?”

  Laurel found herself smiling at him for the first time. His story sounded silly enough to be true and not nearly as silly as her own. “Not unless you’re a doctor, Evan Boucher.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “I must be. My total memory of my life starts exactly six days ago.” Laurel expected to shock him but he just nodded casually.

  “Oh, amnesia. I wondered.”

  “Don’t pretend that you believe it,” she said bitterly. “Nobody would. I don’t expect you to.”

  “Oh, I believe it.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. It happens sometimes. I should know.”

  She leaned toward him. “Have you had amnesia?”

  “No, but I worked in an institution a year or so ago and they had a whole wing of just people … Who couldn’t remember.”

  “An institution.…”

  “Yeah. I was an orderly type. But I didn’t stay long. I couldn’t take it … you have to be.…”

  “What did they do to them … the people who couldn’t remember?”

  “Oh, hey. I didn’t mean to scare you. They didn’t mistreat them … just tried to help them remember … kept them there until they did … I better get back to my job … I seem to be making you feel worse … I always say the wrong things.” He stood and almost tripped over his own tennis shoes in embarrassment. “My feet are as clumsy as my mouth.”

  “Evan, how long did those people have to stay there?”

  “Some just a little while—few months—and others never did get out … sometimes depends on whether your family wants you back. Good place to get rid of people you don’t want hanging around.” He laughed and his mustache straightened a trifle and then drooped as he sobered suddenly. “I … did it again, didn’t I?”