His Wife Leaves Him

by Stephen Dixon

  They crossed the Bay Bridge and were driving on Route 50, he thinks, to Washington College for a reading he was giving that night. The school was putting them up at an inn: he, Gwen and Rosalind, who was still nursing. Tallis’s Lamentations of Jeremiah, he thinks it’s called, was playing on the radio, or is it by another English composer of the same period—Byrd, maybe? The music was beautiful and he said to her “What a moment. Gorgeous music, infant sleeping peacefully after a long tantrum, sky lit up in several pastel colors by the setting sun.” Then he heard geese overhead and said “Listen,” and opened his window all the way and motioned for her to roll down hers and they heard the geese honking louder and then saw a flock of about a hundred of them flying in formation. “Oh, this is too much, too wonderful, all of this at once. I almost feel like waking the baby so she could hear and see this too.” She said “It is wonderful, all of it. But the best part to me is that Rosalind’s finally asleep, so please don’t wake her,” and they drove without talking and with the sky getting even more beautiful and the geese flying in the same direction as them. Then the geese flew off to the side and they couldn’t see them anymore and only heard them faintly and then not at all. At almost the same moment, the music ended, and he turned the radio off. “That was truly something,” he said. “It was,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” and she put her hand over his on the steering wheel. “Better on my shoulder, so I can drive in absolute safety,” and she put her hand on his shoulder and they drove like that most of the rest of the way.

  Whenever they drove back to Baltimore from their apartment in New York, he got off at exit 7 on the New Jersey Turnpike, got on 295, and a few miles south on it pulled into a rest area run by the state. He’d get from the back a takeout container of basil rolls or sushi he’d bought at an Asian fusion restaurant before they left New York and give it to her with a couple of napkins. Then he’d go into the building and use the restroom and get a cappuccino or hazelnut-flavored coffee out of a vending machine there and sometimes either peanut butter crackers or a bag of salted peanuts from the candy machine. He’d sit in the car with her or, if it was a nice day, outside on a bench or at a picnic table and drink his coffee and eat about half his crackers or all the peanuts while she finished her sushi or basil rolls. Sometimes he’d get her both, but she’d only eat one at the rest area—usually the sushi because she was afraid it’d spoil—and save the other for home. Once or twice, after he told her they had them, she asked for an ice cream sandwich from another machine. He doesn’t ever remember her coming into the building. And she never had anything to drink. She didn’t want to have to pee so soon after, she explained. If the kids were with them, they’d get what snacks and drinks they wanted with the money he’d give them, or wait in the car till they got to the big rest stop in Delaware on 95, where they’d always get a plate of spaghetti and a garlic roll with it and iced tea and he’d get another coffee. At the New Jersey rest area, Gwen once said “This is the best part of the trip. Thank you for always thinking of getting me this food. Coffee smells good. Is it?” and he said “Not bad, coming from a machine. And certainly cheap enough, cappuccino for a buck.” Then, about three years ago, they saw a sign a few miles after they got on 295, saying something like “Public rest area open, facilities permanently closed.” “Do you think that means the building?’ he said. And she said “Probably everything but the benches outside, if we’re lucky.” “Damn,” he said. “No restrooms and vending machines and the end of our little traveling ritual. You could still eat your basil rolls there, which is what I got for you today, but it wouldn’t be the same for my bladder.” “Just get the container for me and I’ll eat out of it while you drive.” “It might be too sloppy,” he said, “and it’ll also mean stopping and getting it from the back. Let’s wait till the Delaware rest stop. It’s the nearest one to here, unless we want to get back on the turnpike, and I’ll get gas and maybe something to eat and the kids can get their usual, and we can all pee, if I’m able to hold out that long. If I’m not, I don’t know what.” She said “How disappointing. I hate sounding pessimistic, but it’s like bread in Baltimore. Just when we think we’ve found a good place to buy some, it closes.”

  He thinks it was at Alice Tully Hall. Anyway, Lincoln Center. They were at the first of a series of five Sunday afternoon concerts of the complete quartets and Grosse Fugue of Beethoven. It was May or June, they were both done teaching and he was back living with her in their apartment in New York. They sat high up in the balcony, which was all they could afford. He was looking around before the concert began and saw someone he knew. “What do you know,” he said, “Adam Nadelwitz—the bearded guy there,” pointing to a man two rows down and about ten seats over to the right. “He handled my work for a couple of years. First-rate rep as an agent and a really nice guy. So nice, that he didn’t have the heart to tell me my work was unsalable—afraid, if you can believe someone thought this of me, of hurting my feelings—so I had to ask for it back myself. I want you to meet him.” They went over to him at intermission—Adam stayed in his seat, was reading the program—and he said “Adam, hi; Marty Samuels,” and Adam said “Why hello there,” and they shook hands. “My wife Gwendolyn Liederman,” and Adam said “Nice to meet you, Gwendolyn,” and they shook hands. “So how are you? How’s Ellie?” and he said to Gwen “His wife represented my one Y.A. novel and also had no luck in selling it. Well, not much to sell. I went to some great parties they gave at their apartment for their writers—Adam handled the adult fiction and Ellie the juvenile.” Adam said “You’ll have to forgive me, Martin, I thought you knew. I don’t know why I assumed all my former clients did. But my dear wife died a little more than a year ago,” and gave the date in March. Then he seemed about to cry, said “Excuse me,” and covered his eyes with his program and then wiped them with a handkerchief. “I’m so sorry, Adam,” he said, and Adam said “As am I for making you uncomfortable by springing the news. I thought I was finished with falling apart and making a terrible scene when I meet someone who knew Ellie but didn’t know she had died. It was of something rare to do with one of her organs, if you were about to ask. Very quick. I won’t go into it. Please excuse me, you two. I have to go to the restroom. If I don’t see you after the concert, Martin, we should get together someday, although I know it’s difficult for you to, living down South. You see, I’ve kept up with you.” “We still keep our apartment here. Gwen hasn’t moved down yet but will in August, when we’ll be waiting out the birth of our first child.” “I thought so,” Adam said to Gwen, “not that you’re showing much. This is wonderful, just wonderful. Good luck to you both,” and he went up the steps to the exit. “Damnit,” he said when they got back to their seats, “I wish I had known about Ellie before I so smilingly approached him. And I called myself ‘Marty.’ I don’t know why; I never do. Was there a memorial for her and I wasn’t told? I would’ve gone, if I were in New York. They were very close, personally and professionally. Had no children. He was very open about it. Said they’d tried for years and she wanted to adopt and he didn’t. So it must have been a combination of you being visibly pregnant and that we seemed so obviously happy, that upset him so much.” And she said “I’m sure his reaction to seeing you for the first time since she died would have been the same, especially when he had to tell you she was dead. I can’t imagine such a loss,” and he said “Neither can I, and I don’t want to.” Adam didn’t come back to his seat. They looked for him at the next concert and the one after that. “It’s possible he only had a ticket for the first concert,” she said, “or is sitting downstairs,” and he said “Maybe, but I bet he bought for all five. And like us, the same seat, which was empty the last time till someone, probably from higher up in the balcony, took it during intermission, and all the seats in that row are taken today, which could mean he gave his ticket away. Nah, when we weren’t talking about why publishers weren’t taking my work, we talked about music. He was as much a lover of it as I, and Beethoven wa
s his favorite.”

  They were in Aix-en-Provence, had just attended an organ concert in an old church, were walking out of the church when he saw what looked like notices, a couple with drawings of hearts on them, pinned to a message board on the wall. “What are these?” he asked her, and she said “Banns—public notices of the couples announcing their engagements.” “What a nice idea. Let’s post one,” and she said “You can’t, unless you’re going to get married.” “Let’s get married, then: here, in Aix,” and she said “Are you crazy?” “Why? Linda and Lewis will be here in two days. So before we all drive up to Paris together, they can be our witnesses as well as best man and maid of honor.” “You’re really talking foolish, Martin. If we ever did marry, I’d want my parents to be there and I’d think you’d want your mother and a number of our friends there too. But the point is, if I’m to take you seriously, that I’m not ready to marry you,” and he said “Too bad—but think of it, though. Married in this sweet-smelling ancient city, birth and burial place of Cézanne and I think just the birthplace of Milhaud. A quiet simple ceremony. A delicious dinner that night of just the four of us, with the best wine and champagne and maybe an accordionist to play a few traditional Provençal tunes. Chartres and Paris and various chateau towns along the way for our honeymoon. And then flying home as new bride and groom and, if you want, a wedding reception we’ll give in our apartment for family and friends. And you say you eventually want children, so we could even arrange your being pregnant before we get back. I wish we didn’t have to pass up this opportunity,” and she said “We have to. Sweet an idea as it is, it’s ridiculous.” “When can I propose to you then, where you’d most likely say yes?” and she said “We’ll talk about it in four to five months. If we’re still a compatible couple and we feel about each other the way we do now, it’s possible I’ll accept. But, you know, you might change your mind by then,” and he said “Never. You’re the only girl for me.”

  It was their second summer together. They were driving back from Maine, on the Belfast road to Augusta. She was driving and he was trying to pick up either the Bangor or Portland public radio stations, when a dog ran out on the road and she hit it. The dog flew over the right side of the car and landed on the shoulder. She pulled over, was crying, saying “Oh, my God, I killed a dog. I didn’t mean it. I was driving carefully, but it jumped out on me,” and he said “I know; it wasn’t your fault; take it easy.” He unfastened their seatbelts, put his arms out and she went into them and he hugged her. “It’ll be all right. Don’t think you’re responsible. The dog’s probably done this with cars a number of times and this was the only time it was hit. But we have to deal with it. You’re too upset, so you stay here. I really don’t want to look at it, but I’ll go see how it is. Though at the speed we were going—and it wasn’t excessive—and hitting it front on—I’m sure it’s dead.” Other cars had stopped on both sides of the road. There were already a few people around the dog when he got out of the car. “I saw it all,” a woman said. “You’re not to blame for it. It’s its owner for letting it roam free like that.” A girl of about fourteen sat beside the dog, rested its head on her lap and petted it and felt its nose and chest and said “It’s not breathing, poor thing.” “My friend was at the wheel,” he said to the woman. “She was driving well below the speed limit. She’d be out here now but she’s too upset over it.” “I can imagine,” a man said. “I saw it too, but from the other way. The dumb dog just zoomed in front of your car as if he wanted to kill himself. I’ll vouch for your friend too, when the trooper comes.” “How will we get one?” and the man said “I’ll turn around and call from the convenience store no more than a mile from here. But you see, if you kill an animal on the road—even a deer but not something like a skunk or fox or raccoon—you got to stay with it till an official report’s made.” “Will that take long?” and the man said “It could. Not a top priority for a trooper to attend to, especially during vacation season. I hope you don’t have someplace you have to get to right away.” Then the dog stirred. “It’s alive,” someone shouted. Raised itself on its front legs and then stood on all fours, wobbly at first and then straight, and ran into the woods. “Well, what do you know,” the man said. “Here we were about to conduct funeral services for it, and it scoots away. Smart fella. Didn’t want to be buried alive.” “Did it look okay?” he said, and the man said “I didn’t see wounds or blood. I’d say you and your friend are off the hook. I know I feel good about it, and nobody has to wait around.” “Thank you all,” he said. “You’ve been very kind.” They went back to their cars. He checked the car they’d rented to see if there was any damage. There was some shit on the front bumper, but no dents or anything. He told himself he’d wipe it off the next time they stop for gas or to pee, if it didn’t fall off first. He got in the driver’s seat. She’d moved to the passenger seat. “Did you see?” he said, and she said “I saw. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. The dog must have been in shock. Did it seem all right when it ran away?” and he said “A bit slower, which is to be expected after such an accident, but everything else looked okay. Resilient little cuss. Gave us quite a scare and could have kept us here for hours.” “You were wonderful,” she said, and he said “Thank you,” and she took his hand and kissed it.