How It Ends

by Laura Wiess

  She slept.

  When she woke up the next morning, he was already gone and she spent the day in a delicious delirium, wondering what would happen when he got home. Would he sweep her up in his arms and carry her straight to the bedroom, or would they flirt with each other, prolonging the anticipation over dinner, and then fall into bed? Or maybe not bed at all, maybe he’d ask her to dress up again and they would use the couch this time instead of stumbling together into the bedroom like they had last night?

  Oh, it could be anything!

  Except that when he got home he ignored her upturned mouth, went straight to the bottle of gin on the counter, and poured it down the sink. “I will not have any more alcohol in this house,” he said without looking at her. “I don’t know what got into you last night but if it happens again, which I promise you it won’t, I will arrange for you to see a colleague of mine who specializes in female disorders.”

  “What?” she’d whispered, hand at her throat.

  “Last night’s tryst was…tawdry,” he said, still without looking at her. “You’re the wife of a highly respected physician. You have a responsibility to remain above reproach—”

  “Thaddeus, we’re married,” she cried. “What we did was between a husband and his wife—”

  “I cannot reason with you when you’re like this,” he said coldly, turning away.

  “Like what?” she cried. “Upset because for the first and only time in five years my husband made love to me and now he won’t even look at me?”

  “Lower your voice,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

  “Thaddeus, please don’t shut me out,” she said, coming up behind him and touching his arm. “I love you.”

  He stiffened but didn’t pull away and when he spoke, his voice was stern but tired. “And I you, Margaret, but what happened last night cannot happen again.”

  “Ever?” she said, voice cracking.

  He nodded once and went into the living room to smoke his pipe and wait for dinner.

  “And it hasn’t, but, Louise, my God, it has to just one more time before I die,” Mrs. Boehm said, blotting her eyes with a tissue. “It won’t be the same, I know that, since this last operation, but if only he would lie down beside me and hold me again, touch me, and…I know I shouldn’t say this to you, but there are other things a man and a woman can do besides intercourse. It’s true. I’ve read about them.”

  I rose and went to the window, far too embarrassed by what she’d confessed to look at her. These were the most personal of moments, intimate interactions that no stranger should be privy to.

  I didn’t know what to do except to help her be beautiful and get Dr. Boehm up into that room.

  “Argh!” I buried my face in my hands. “This book is making me crazy. One more chapter?” I peeked out at Gran.

  Her eyes were closed.

  Sighing, I rose and turned off the CD player.

  “If we ever get through this book on tape and you get a chance to listen to it, trust me, you’re not going to believe it,” I said to my mother after supper, and then, trying to gauge her mood, said casually, “If Daddy only messed around with you once in like eighteen years of marriage, would you have stayed with him?”

  She stopped rinsing a plate and gave me a funny look. “Well, I guess it would depend on why.”

  “Because he had syphilis?” I said brightly.

  “Because he…what the hell kind of book is that, anyway?” my mother said.

  “A very intense one,” I said, half to myself. “And not at all what I thought it was going to be.”

  “No serial killers or stuffed wives?” my mother said.

  “Not so far,” I said, retrieving the glasses from the table. “It’s actually kind of sad. Women didn’t have it so good in the olden days, did they?”

  “Are you asking me because you think I was there?” my mother said, eyebrows high.

  No,” I said, cracking up, and then my mother highjacked the conversation and took me back to her glory days and we didn’t get serious again.

  But I thought about Margaret Boehm that night, doing everything she could to win her husband’s affection and attention, and I really didn’t like the way it made me feel at all.

  It made me feel like I understood.

  I was helping Seth clean out his SUV because he finally found just the right classic MG online and needed to sell the SUV to buy it, and I found an earring—definitely not one of mine—under the back bench seat.

  It came out in a handful of McDonald’s wrappers, which made it worse because we always went to Burger King. I stood there staring at it, a small hoop with three little blue beads, kind of bent like it had been ripped from an ear, and he noticed my stillness and said, “What?” I held it up and said, “An earring…and it isn’t mine,” and he got all insulted and went into this rant, saying I’m so suspicious and what else does he have to do to show me that he loves me, and then I started feeling bad because he said it hurt every time I doubted him and he hated being blamed for things he didn’t do. He was getting loud and that was embarrassing because we were out in front of his garage, so I was just like, Okay, forget it, but he said, No, it’s not okay, and then I started to cry because he was so cold and distant, so I went over to him and whispered, I’m sorry, okay? I do trust you and maybe the old owner left it, right? Maybe I jumped to conclusions, and he said, Yeah, maybe you did, but he then put his arms around me and said, You have to trust me, Hanna, okay? And I was like, Okay, I do.

  And I do, I do…I just…I don’t know.

  Maybe it’s me.

  I was setting the table for supper one night and my mother was making the pasta salad and I said real casually, “What would you do if Daddy ever cheated on you?”

  And I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t her easy, “Divorce him.”

  “You would?” I said, shocked. “Just like that?”

  “Of course,” she said, giving me a curious look. “Why, what did you think I would do?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but not that,” I said. “You would break up our family?”

  Oh my God, my mother hit the roof, and I was so not expecting it that I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

  “I can’t stand that you just said that,” she said, grabbing a bottle of Italian dressing by the neck and shaking it like she was trying to kill it. “If your father cheated on me, then he made the decision to risk every single thing we had together, knowing that this would destroy us, so no, Hanna, it wouldn’t be me breaking up the family, it would be him.”

  “But you could forgive him,” I said warily.

  She snorted. “Why? Why would I want to live with a deliberate cheater and a liar and a betrayer, with someone who was willing to hurt me like that just to get off?”

  “Mom,” I said, flushing.

  “No, I’m serious, Hanna. Why would I? Why would I think so little of myself to do that? And how could I even stand to look at him, not to mention touch him? No,” she said and twisted open the cap of the bottle, “we told each other way back in the beginning that there were several absolute relationship breakers and topping the list was cheating, so we both know that if either one of us did it, it would mean the end of everything.”

  “Really,” I said, leaning back against the wall and watching her. “So that means if you cheated, Daddy would divorce you?”

  “Absolutely,” she said with a brisk nod. “And I would expect him to.”

  “Wow,” I said, more than a little uneasy. “I never knew that. What about unconditional love?”

  She shook her head. “Think about what those words mean, Hanna, and then you tell me. Unconditional love. Love without conditions.”

  “Yeah…?” I said, not getting it.

  “All right, suppose your father came in from work every night, screamed in my face, called me all sorts of vile names, beat the crap out of me in front of you, beat you, too, brought home hookers, and did all sorts of disgusting things
—”

  “Ew, stop,” I said, scowling. “Daddy’s not like that.”

  “Right, but if he was, and we had no conditions on our love, then I would still love and stay with him, right? Because with no conditions, then any behavior is acceptable, then I would just take whatever I could get, right? Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “So there are conditions,” I said.

  She sighed. “If you don’t believe me, go ask your father.”

  So I did, plopping down onto the ottoman in front of him and poking the newspaper until he sighed and lowered it. “Yes?”

  “What would you do if Mommy cheated on you?” I said.

  “Beat the crap out of the guy and then divorce her,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Do you believe in unconditional love?” I said.

  “Only for you, kiddo,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Would you ever cheat on Mommy?”

  “No,” he said with absolute certainty. “No roll in the hay is worth losing what I’ve got.”

  And that made my eyes sting, and in a little-kid move I hadn’t done in I don’t know how long, I reached over and hugged him, crushing the paper and making him grumble, but I knew it didn’t matter because he smiled and hugged me back.

  It took me almost two hours of frantic digging through my catch-all drawer and the memory boxes in my closet but I finally found the worn, red talisman bag Gran had made for me back when I was little.

  An acorn, for growth and potential.

  Mica, because all that glitters is not gold.

  A piece of the catalpa tree, for us, together.

  I wanted to bring it to her, offer it up and say See? I still have it, it still means something to me, but I was afraid she’d start crying and choke so I just tucked it into my pocket, and went to sit with her, and listen to the next chapter.

  How It Ends

  It would be an understatement to say it went badly.

  We waited, Mrs. Boehm and I, from seven o’clock when we heard him come in from his workshop until almost ten, her with curls drooping and makeup fading, making pitiful small talk, indulging in busywork like cleaning off the other side of the bed just in case, and her lighting up every time there was so much as a creak in the hall.

  At ten, angry and unable to bear her sinking hopes and humiliation anymore, I excused myself, went downstairs, found Dr. Boehm in his study poring over a taxidermy manual, and said as politely as I could, “Excuse me, Doctor, but could you come up and see Mrs. Boehm, please? It’s important.”

  “Is she hysterical?” he said without looking up.

  “No,” I said, wanting to slap him. “Will you come, please?”

  “In a moment,” he said.

  I waited, knowing what would happen if I didn’t, knowing he would either forget or willfully dismiss the request as he had dismissed so many of her others, and when several moments had passed, I coughed. More moments, and I cleared my throat.

  “Are you coming down with a cold, Louise?” he said finally, glancing up at me.

  “No,” I said, holding his gaze.

  He heaved a sigh, closed the book, and rose. His gloves were stained with old blood and his clothes were rumpled and putting off that same unpleasant odor, but I didn’t dare make mention of any of it, plus I knew Mrs. Boehm wouldn’t care.

  “Congratulations on the doe you killed today,” I forced myself to say, and we made our way through the hall and up the stairs.

  “Yes, well, she wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but I can still use her,” he said cryptically, pausing outside his wife’s bedroom door.

  I waited, watching as he hesitated, and then, when he finally drew a deep breath and turned the knob, I went on past to my room next door, not to listen but to be…aware.

  I had just taken out fresh pajamas and unbuttoned my blouse when I heard voices rising, his harsh and hers wild.

  I went to the adjoining door and put my ear to it in time to hear him say, “You cannot keep doing this! I’ve done everything in my power to help you, Margaret, but it won’t work if you don’t try!”

  “Try for what, this horrible, sterile existence? Why would I want to live this way for another thirty years, Thaddeus? I’m dead to you already, you’ve all but buried me, and—”

  “I won’t do it, Margaret. I can’t. I’ve had to live with what I’ve done for eighteen years now, and—”

  “So have I, Thaddeus! Don’t you think I have to live with it, too? Don’t you think I deserve some small happiness out of—”

  “I will not discuss this again,” he said. “From now on any request you make to see me must come through Nurse to ensure it’s for a valid medical emergency. Good night.”

  “Thaddeus.” Her voice was flat. “I know.”

  Silence.

  “Pardon me, Margaret?”

  “I know,” she said, and her voice was rising again. “I know everything about you. I know about your mother—”

  “Margaret.”

  “And how my father found you—”

  “Please.” His voice was wire tight and shaking. “Don’t.”

  “I know it all, Thaddeus, so yes, I think you will spend time with me, because I’m all you have, do you see? I know everything, even how my father treated your mother—”

  “He eased her pain,” he said automatically.

  “Oh, yes, he certainly did that,” she said with a strangled laugh. “You’re a physician, Thaddeus; deep in your heart of hearts, you know what he did to your mother. You know and you just can’t bear to acknowledge that your beloved mentor deliberately took her from you while you stood right there trusting him, isn’t that right? No, do not turn away from me! I know about your family and their disease, and even knowing everything, every ugly, filthy little detail, I still love you and…where are you going? Thaddeus?”

  I stepped away from my door right as hers clicked closed and held my breath, praying he wasn’t going to call me out and punish me for my part in this. Instead, his abrupt footsteps passed and I heard the door to his room close.

  And I heard Mrs. Boehm weeping as though her heart was breaking, so I knocked tentatively on the connecting door and called softly, “May I come in?”

  The weeping didn’t stop, didn’t pause, and so I eased open the door and hurried across the carpet to the bed, heedless of anything but the wrenching sound.

  “Shh,” I said, perching on the edge of the bed and brushing her wet curls back from her face. “Everything will be fine.”

  She just shook her head, hands over her face, shoulders shaking.

  “He’s just surprised,” I said, hating to make excuses for him, but the strength of her sobs was beginning to scare me. I did everything I could think of to ease her pain; rubbed her arms and stroked her hair and handed her tissues and shut off the overhead light and switched on the bedside lamp and wetted a washcloth and blotted her hot, streaked face, and when she finally opened her eyes in the dim light, her gaze was broken, disconnected, and feverish, scaring me even more, and when she took my hand in hers and whispered, My heart is breaking, oh God, feel it, and placed it over her breast and I stiffened in shock and tried to pull away, she whispered, No, don’t, like she was carrying on a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. I sat frozen as she whispered to herself and held my hand to her racing heartbeat, and sweating, I prayed she would release me so I could go.

  What additional horror that lay beneath the covers should never have been shown to me, but in her delirium—and I must, I must think of it as a delirium or it will haunt me—she revealed the final operation meant to cure her unseemly desires, not a hysterectomy as I’d been told but a madman’s artwork of amputation and stitching, the scar tissue shiny and tight and streaked red, the genital mutilation bringing a panic so strong that I wrenched free of her grip and wiped frantically at my hands and my arms as if ridding myself of a thousand insects, backed away, leaving her lying there, eyes closed, breath heaving, sinking in on herself.


  I stumbled to the door and Dr. Boehm was there, eyes unfocused, bloodshot, and damp with tears, syringes in his bare, ungloved hands. He looked at me and said, “Go,” and I went, I ran to my room, and while I was grabbing things, my Ciro’s photo and for some reason a pair of bedroom slippers, I heard him say with infinite tenderness, “I’m going to administer something that will end the pain, Margaret, for both of us, and then I’m going to lie down beside you. Will you have me?” and her voice, cracking with joy, “Yes, oh yes, please…”

  Oh, God, I ran, I ran down the stairs and out the door, and there was no one there. I saw a flashlight bobbing at the back of the property and it was Peter, saw him open the workshop and pause, then slip inside, and a dim light went on and I took off running to him. I smelled the place yards before I reached it and, unable to call, ran inside and skidded in a slick, spreading puddle, skidded into Peter, who stood frozen, and I followed his gaze…

  The pregnant doe had been gutted and laid on her side on the table, her front legs parted and the fetal fawn laid in between them, front legs broken to form humanlike elbows stitched up to encircle the mother’s neck, head tilted up as if nuzzling her nose. A doe skin lay in a heap on the floor, buzzing with flies and leaking terrible fluids, and there amid a pile of partially chewed entrails and awash in chemicals, lay one last starving, shrinking, terrified fawn, hiding its face in the wet carcass, jerking to rise and falling sideways, cringing and thrashing, and I shrank back because its belly was eaten open and its intestines—

  “No,” I whispered and would have gone down had Peter not grabbed me and pushed me back toward the door.

  “Go,” he said grimly, looking around the slaughterhouse and seizing a cinder block from the floor. “It’s too late.”

  “No,” I sobbed. “Wait, we can take it—”

  “Go!” he shouted, voice cracking, and I went, and behind me I heard a terrible thud, and then the cinder block fall and he was beside me again, breathing hard and leading me across the yard and helping me into the front seat of his rattletrap old truck, and I couldn’t stop crying and patting my pocket for the Ciro’s picture, but it was gone, I’d lost it somewhere, along with my bedroom slippers, and as we pulled out I saw Nurse on her knees in a pale spill of porch light, disinfecting the cement lions flanking the front door, and she didn’t even look up when we drove away.