The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  have a career of her own and would never release her willingly. And he would

  never give up controlling her life, at least not until old age dementia wiped away

  his will. But she was determined to try the impossible.

  The other undeniable fact was that her spiritual landscape suffered an

  enormous earthquake .Leaving it all behind and seek a safe and neutral place

  seemed the best option, even if it meant to return into the loveless politeness of

  an ill-conceived marriage. This self-preserving fact contradicted her supposedly

  unselfish determination in rescuing the marriage.

  And then with brutal clarity another thought occurred to her: was she just

  trying to please the man she loved in order to keep his respect? She knew that

  Paul wanted her to return to her husband and for a moment she feared that she

  was trading one dependence for a different one. This possibility frightened her.

  However, the new spiritual strength she gained during the summer reestablished

  her sense of security. She knew that her decision was a good one and also knew

  that she would try to make changes even though she could foresee the failure.

  With a mild shock she realized that she walked a similar path Adrienne was

  taking, but while her friend appeared successful in reentering marriage, Lena was

  not certain that she could accomplish it. Clyde’s age and unbending convictions

  prevented changes. But she would try; this she promised herself. Not because of

  Paul, but because she saw the truth and morality in it.

  Finally she gave up thinking about her future; it was beyond her to make

  two major life-decisions during a single night. First I must leave and put all this

  behind me before I can see which way I can turn next, she thought and made the

  twelve steps for the last time.

  Before she reached the window, she was already making plans for her

  return flight, and for saying goodbye to Sarah, George and Juli néni. She carried

  the teacups into the kitchen and washed them in the soap-soft warm water.

  Gradually the inner peace that left her a while ago returned and she also realized that at the moment returning home was the best, perhaps the only option. One day soon, she would have to face a second decision, but not just yet. I am like the classical Ariadne at her best, but most unsuccessful moment, she thought with bitterness, as she replaced the cups into the cupboard. But she was

  absolutely sincere in placing Paul into the past. Into past perfect.

  Back at her desk she made a lists of jobs she had to do before leaving.

  Making lists always helped her to create a sense of order out of chaos, even if the

  carefully created order turned out to be no more than just an occupation born of

  necessity.

  Time passed and the first light of the morning was trying to work its way

  through the fog. The valley, the village and the lake were as yet invisible. The fog

  was still thick on the ground, but the tops of the trees already stepped out of the

  whiteness and seemed to be floating over it as if they had no anchors in the

  ground. Her eyes were burning, she was thirsty and a headache was beginning to

  pound in her head, but after the nightlong roaming between window and kitchen

  door and the painful discussion with her soul, rationality and decency won the

  battle over confusion. She picked up the phone to make the arrangements for

  the flight home.

  EPILOGUE

  With her obduracy, her inexhaustible bank account and the travel agent’s remarkable ingenuity it was possible to arrange a flight home in less than three days. It was the end of tourist season, but the flights were still tightly booked; however the trip was finally successfully arranged without having to fly around the world twice with sixteen stopovers in between.

  Clyde Cambray had a massive coronary during the night when Lena was initiating the preparations to leave Hungary. His lawyer called her within the hour, but she was not able to speed up the flight arrangement. In a reverse situation Clyde could most certainly do it, but she could not. It was the first change in her life that she noticed: from now on problems would no longer be solved easily by the man, who never accepted defeat. But his death provided the obvious reason for her sudden departure and saved her from awkward explanations.

  This unexpected event must be the special heavenly help Paul talked about. Her problem was unexpectedly solved without her cooperation or the need for painful decisions. While she agonized about the right way to solve the problem, the divine Author arranged for a solution, a simplistic dénouement to her story. It lacked the magnificence of a difficult, but noble decision and it did not offer a cleansing transformation. This is not the age of Ariadne, or of any of the classical heroines, all bigger than life. The solution, because it was solution, was unoriginal.

  Life stories are often so fascinating and have such unexpected turns that the average human mind can barely believe the coincidences, connections and surprising events. In the stories of others life often can be heartbreakingly unsophisticated and so much of what happens is ridiculously common and the outcomes or solutions predictable. And yet death, especially unexpected death even if it comes at Clyde’s age and because of his frenzied life-style almost foreseeable, is never simplistic or one–dimensional, never easily accepted, but it breaks the heart just the same. However, it is not the stuff of great literature. An inventive mortal author would have found a truly spectacular, page-turning way to finish Lena’s story.

  The hospital notified his children and they arrived promptly at his bedside, together with Wife Number One. Surrounded by his concerned family he died the same evening of a second attack. Lena arrived in the USA in time for the funeral.

  The church service was solemn and in a way strangely comforting. It was a proper and dignified ending for a proper and dignified man. Adrienne attended the service on the side of her husband, but they did not follow the mourners to the cemetery on account of her condition. She was pale and still somewhat unsteady, but on the way to full recovery. Apparently they were at peace with each other. Lena glanced at her friend with understanding even a guarded sense of admiration. For a fleeting second she thought of the mystical God, who stepped out of an unimaginable dimension to arrange the closing of her story in such a manner that she was spared deceptiveness, unbearable compromises, failure and pain. Immediately she regretted the detestably absurd thought and felt deep shame. Why would a good man like Clyde have to die just to accommodate her spiritual needs and psychological wellbeing?

  There was the interminable long drive to the cemetery, which some romantic soul named euphemistically “The Garden of Eternal Sleep”. Times change. We easily use words our grandmothers would never say, and laugh at jokes they could not even understand, but at the same time we insist on euphonic terms for things, events or concepts our ancestors found natural and part of life. We disrobe the body and strip its mysteries without shame, but are too bashful to mention life, death or the soul. And we talk of cemeteries as of places where people go to sleep.

  This Garden of Eternal Sleep was dismally different from that other cemetery she left behind with all the flowers, bees, birds and lizards; it was depressingly different from the quietly mirthful place that was forever singing, humming, moving, growing. Stillness and sleep came there only after sundown when the night was disturbed only by the occasional complaint of a dog, or the sonorous hooting of an owl. On the other hand, this Garden was quite convenient for the caretakers. They could mow the lawn over the graves without flowerbeds blocking the tractor’s work.

  During the graveside ritual Lena stood alone on one side of the grave, Clyde’s family on the other side. She felt strangely out of place as if she were an intrude
r. The real loss was not hers, but his family’s. His daughters cried openly and his son, an almost perfect copy of his father in a twenty-five year old edition, was visibly shaken. Lena was grateful that her dry eyes were hidden behind the widow’s veil. She was shaken of course, but not devastated She recalled that there was a time she loved him, or thought she had. Now, just when she was at the point of trying to bring back the old magic once again, he left suddenly. She felt pain, but it was mostly the sorrow over the wasted, lost years and the bitter taste of failure. Always fair and honest, she admitted to herself, that she lost a decent man with whom she shared many good years. Although he choreographed every detail of their life and controlled her every step, he was always good to her in his own way. Father Paul’s words echoed in her mind and she deeply regretted missing the opportunity of becoming something more to him than just an expensive ornament. He left, and wherever he went, he did not carry any part of her with him.

  Friends and some Very Important People said their farewells. Lena was wondering whether Clyde was at this very moment facing a heavenly judge to give account of more than six decades. She hoped that the jury would be kind and understanding. Even though he was blinded with the obsession of his career and was a wretched control freak, Clyde was a decent man. That they were sadly mismatched and should never have married was by now a thing of the past and could not be changed.

  In this poignant moment of farewell, she forgave him and hoped that if it were somehow possible, he too would forgive her, and that the heavenly judges would be lenient when debating his case. But she wondered: would his political maneuverings count on that heavenly scale? Would his social achievements tip the scale in his favor? Would the celestial jury be impressed by the luxury he amassed, the designer clothes and jewelry he put on his second wife? Could he answer with confidence why he was born, and what was the real content of his life? Did he really believe that the brilliant political career would be accepted and valued beyond the reality of death? She was afraid that these achievements could not count for much in the final reckoning, and she felt responsible, because she did not help him to see the real purpose of life. It was partially her fault that he could show nothing of much value when giving the final account. Or did he die still clinging to the belief that all is over and he owed no answers to anyone? She hoped that during those last dim hours of his life somehow he was able to recognize the truth.

  Considering the mourners through her dark veil, Lena suddenly knew that his three beautiful children were his real achievements, and they alone would speak for him in the hereafter. She looked at the First Wife, who was obviously no longer young, but had class and a quiet dignity. She would have made an excellent consort in his ascending career, perhaps a better one than Lena. What is wrong with men, why can’t they see the obvious? These two had a decent life together, full of shared love, worries, struggles, and when he left her, she did not put a Wiccan curse at him or on Lena. Yet, this cheated first wife was the one at his deathbed to hold his hand at the great departure. Now she stood with poise at the graveside, surrounded by the children they both raised. The First Wife was indeed the one who earned the right to stand there and to receive the condolences. Not one to store grudges, this good first wife, when given a chance, would surely plead for mercy on his behalf.

  The voices expressing splendid and profound thoughts for the solemn occasion at the grave were deeply emotional, but since no one really paid close attention to the eulogies, like puffs of smoke the words of praise and respect ascended up and away and floated into the azure blue of the early autumn sky. Somebody, attired in a properly dark three-piece suit, was surreptitiously wiping his perspiring face and reminded the congregation that we do not know the day or the hour when we are called. Indeed, he said in a mournful tone, we do not know who among us would be the next one lowered into the grave. Some of the mourners shivered, and were honestly but secretly grateful that once again somebody else was called and they were granted some respite. The speaker droned on and Lena said her private farewell. She recalled the impressive figure of Clyde as they parted at Dulles; he wore no signs of imminent mortality. Life is difficult enough, and when you least expect it, death enters to make its claim. There must be some logic to it, but the meaning escaped her.

  The pain came later and it was unexpectedly brutal. One moment Lena was still detached, rational, in full control of her emotional landscape, and followed the graveside ritual calmly; the next a searing pain swept away her cool restrain. She wanted to stop time and undo what could not be undone. Don’t leave, don’t die, she begged him. We have unfinished business, you and I. Stay for a little longer. Now I understand what I did not know before. Now I could be good to you.

  And then she cried. But the tears and the plea were futile; she knew that. The ultimate tragedy of death is the great opportunity missed, the deed not done, the words not spoken.

  After all the formalities and obligations that accompany death, were completed, life returned to a quieter, more sedate routine. The trial of the youngster was less public and less spectacular than expected and of course, he was found guilty. Because he was a juvenile and also a drug addict there were concerned debates about his future, but Lena attempted to keep a distance to preserve her emotional balance. On Adrienne’s account she felt responsible for that tragic occurrence, although she could hardly have prevented it, unless she would have refused the keys to her cottage. It is so easy to be smart in retrospect.

  She finished her novel, but it was repeatedly rejected and that, of course hurt. After her husband’s death she was no longer a Prominent Person, and one of the consequences of her new, unimportant status was this uniform rejection of her work .After her rapid dethroning, all former interests in her person and in her work dried up. Just a few months ago, when she was the celebrated and glamorous wife of a prominent man, agents were actually welcoming the manuscript, unseen, not even completed at that time, Now suddenly the previously acceptable novel was no longer “right for our agency”, and the regretful agent “could not quite get enthusiastic about it”, because it did not “grab” her.

  Lena was bitter but not overly upset. She understood that an agent is first of all a salesperson, but instead of Avon products, Fuller brushes or Tupperware, she sells the written words of others. To be successful she must like the story in order to be convincing when she presents it to a publisher. If an agent is not enthusiastic about the book, she obviously cannot fire passion in a publisher and cannot convince him. As simple as that. But her foolish heart rejected the logic of it.

  However, the failure did not hurt as keenly as the rejection of October Thoughts did. At the time that story was the central interest in her life and the negative response dwarfed everything else. Now she had to face so many losses, worries, responsibilities that the refusal lost its overwhelming importance; it was not an exclusive pain, only one more of those things that burdened and hurt her. For a while she did sink into depression of a short duration, but it was a luxury she could not permit to enter into her life and shook off the demon fast enough.

  Eventually she remembered Father Paul’s advice about transforming her craving for children into the act of writing about and for children. She unearthed the outline for the story she once planned for the middle grades. In the story she wanted to tell youngsters about summer gardens, flowers, bees and the wonder of the created world. However, the project seemed minor, not grand enough to satisfy her craving for success and self-actualization, and she put it aside. n this new frame of mind success lost its priority, and other values took its place. She considered the project with renewed interest.

  On a late November evening she read again the outline of the story about bees and flowers. The memory of the summer returned and it hurt. Not badly, but with a bittersweet pain. She again saw the vineyards, the lake, the fields of wheat with the occasional scattering of poppies, the bees humming among the flowers in the cemetery, the lizard sunning itself on the gravestone and the taste of honey
on melons. And of course, she remembered Paul. It was a sweet-sad memory and for a while she sat listlessly with the outline on her lap. Just a few months passed since she left him, but already his face was somewhat blurred in her memory and she could not recall his voice, only his thoughts and ideas lived with her as they always would. She knew that she had made the right decision, and it gave her some inner peace, but the logic and decency of the decision did not lessen the pain and the longing. She was certain that his thoughts and prayers were sent her way, and wondered if he too felt the sorrow of parting. Can anyone understand the abyss between the wisdom of the mind and the wisdom of the heart?

  But life had to go on. At first reluctantly, then with increasing enthusiasm she completed Mike’s story about his friendship with the bees.

  The juvenile novel entitled SAFE IN A BEE HIVE was after several inquiries finally accepted. It did not turn into a resounding success, and her earning from it was a mere pittance in comparison to the generous provision Clyde left her, but that was not the point. Finally she was not just a mere decoration, not just an accomplished hostess, who received her guests in rooms furnished by trendy interior decorators. She was no longer the hostess, who offered wonderful dinners prepared by an excellent cook. She was actually doing something on her own, which touched at least some children. She was accepted in the field, where only a few can enter, and she achieved this by her personal effort and not because of her husband’s position or connections.

  Discounting the short period of time while she worked at a publishing house between college and marriage, this was the first time she actually earned money. She deposited the modest advance and the just as modest royalties into a separate bank account and it gave her a giddy sense of independence. She tried a door into publishing and to her genuine surprise, was admitted and was ecstatic about it.

  But old habits take their time to become extinct and when least expected they start showing signs of life again. Buoyed by the unexpected success, for a short time she indulged in the old fantasy of writing a novel of literary significance, but just in time she recalled Gertrude Stein’s warning about becoming a slave to pride and to ambition. Sarah would say that she behaved like the actress, who shines in comedies, but her secret desire is for the role in a grand drama, as if comedy would not be an art. Or in her case, as if a story for children would be so much less than one for adults. Father Paul living a life of solitary contentment near his humble little church would certainly not understand her sporadic relapses into material desires and wanting more than what she was given. However, his teaching was not lost on her; therefore, most of the time she was quite content with what she had, and only rarely fantasized about eventualities that were beyond her to achieve.