His Wife Leaves Him

by Stephen Dixon

  It makes him think of another time he said something that made her cry. Maureen, no more than four at the time, ran into the room and said “Mommy, Mommy, don’t cry. What’s wrong? Does something hurt?” and Gwen stopped crying and said “No, it’s nothing, my darling.” “It’s something,” Maureen said. “People don’t cry for nothing. Is it something Daddy said?” and Gwen shook her head. “I was angry,” he said, “and said something I shouldn’t have,” and Maureen said “You have to say you’re sorry to her.” “I’m sorry, Gwen,” he said. “I was wrong,” and she nodded. “Don’t make Mommy cry again, Daddy. Listen to me. Don’t get angry anymore,” and he said “You’re right, I won’t,” and looked at Gwen and started shaking his head and then laughing at what Maureen had said, and she smiled and mouthed “I know.” “Good,” Maureen said. “Now I can go away,” and she left the room. “God, that kid is great,” he said. “Both of them. Two great kids. And I got off easy,” and he made a move to try to kiss or just hold her, but she opened and turned the pages of the book she was reading a minute before she began crying.

  He doesn’t know why but he suddenly thinks of her Cuisinart, which she had even before they first met. One of only three food appliances they used, the others being a toaster and coffeemaker. Of course a stove and refrigerator, but he means the ones that sit on a kitchen countertop. Maine, that’s it. They used to send it there every summer by UPS, and at the end of their stay send it back the same way, at first to her New York apartment and then to their Baltimore apartment and next to their house in Baltimore and finally to this one in Ruxton. It’s a big Cuisinart, so no room for it in the car and later in a succession of vans, what with his two manual typewriters, which he didn’t trust sending up, and her electric typewriter and then her computer and printer. And her two cats to one carrier and her parents’ two cats in theirs. And their manuscripts and some writing supplies to start off with before the UPS boxes arrived. Also, for a while, a kid’s stroller and whatever that infant carrier’s called that he used to carry the kids in on his back. And a case of good wine. Wouldn’t send that up and didn’t think he could by law. Would have taken two if he had the room. And a suitcase and boat bag or two of clothes and some of her mother’s things for when she came up, since she didn’t like to carry too much on the plane, and necessary books. Dictionary, thesaurus, French and Italian dictionaries and scholarly works she was writing. Cat supplies: litter box and ten-pound bag of kitty litter for the overnight motel stay in Kennebunk and then Kennebunkport and for the house in Maine. Cotton linen for the motel—Gwen had trouble sleeping on polyester pillowcases and sheets. Blankets and quilts and pillows and other things, like a four-cup coffeemaker, which they didn’t send up by UPS but often sent back. Plus they needed room in the car for three to four shopping bags of food and other goods, which they’d buy at the Bucksport Shop ’n Save thirty or so miles from their destination, for their first night and morning in the Brooklin cottage they rented for seven summers and the Sedgwick farmhouse for close to twenty. Gwen taught him how to use the Cuisinart. Which blade did what, and so on, but he only used the sharp metal one for things like hummus and pesto and chopped salad and smoothies and to puree soups. They had about four toasters and maybe as many coffeemakers in the time they had this one Cuisinart. The toasters and coffeemakers were cheap and always broke down in a few years, while the Cuisinart never stopped working or needed fixing. About a year ago she said “Do you think we should get the Cuisinart serviced before we send it up to Maine again?” and he said “Why, it’s not running well?” “No, it’s just that we’ve had it for so long, altogether for more than thirty years,” and he said “We’ll see; we’ve plenty of time. It must have been a big investment for you when you bought it,” and she said “It was. I didn’t think I could afford it at the time. I was just a graduate student, barely getting by. But it’s proven to be worth every cent I spent on it. But what do you think if we bought a much smaller one for Maine—the one we have was the only model they sold then—and leave it at the farmhouse every summer? If it’s not there when we come up the next summer, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t be, at least we’d know it didn’t cost much—Cuisinarts of all kinds are much cheaper than they used to be. And think how much we’d save by not shipping it back and forth every summer, especially so because UPS rates have gone way up.” He said “Good idea—we don’t need one so big up there—and the box you originally bought it in is on its last legs. We can buy it at Wal-Mart in Trenton on our way to Acadia Park. Might as well get it at the cheapest place possible, and while there we’ll buy a couple of reams of copy paper for your printer and my typewriter. That way we’ll also be creating a little extra space in the van by not bringing all that paper up with us.” “You think we need that much paper?” and he said “There hasn’t been a summer that I remember, except two of them when you were still using your typewriter and we had to cut our vacation short to get back early to have our babies, when we haven’t gone through as much as that. I alone use a ream and half.”

  They were sitting in the balcony of a Broadway theater, waiting for the curtain to go up. Or maybe the curtain was up when they took their seats or there was no curtain, and they were waiting for the houselights to dim and the actors to come on stage. Pinter’s Betrayal, and he thinks it was the St. James Theater. That’s what pops into his head. “Look,” he said, “two available seats in the first row of the orchestra. I know they’re not going to be taken. It’s getting too late to and they’re the last seats to sell because they’re all the way over to the right. Let’s grab them before somebody else does.” “No, I couldn’t do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right and I’d be too embarrassed if we were caught,” and he said “It’s done every day, at the opera and here, and we’ll see and hear the actors better and enjoy the play more. And there won’t be any embarrassment. If we’re stopped, I’ll do all of the explaining, and we’ll just go back upstairs or find two other available seats down there that I can’t see from here.” “Suppose the real ticketholders are late and want their seats while the play’s going?” and he said “Slight chance, and they’re two end seats, so easy to leave. Come on, follow me,” and took her hand and led her out of the row and balcony and down a flight of stairs, maybe two, and down the right aisle of the orchestra, not letting go of her till they sat in the seats, she the second one in, he on the aisle. Nobody stopped them. And an usher up the aisle even wanted to give him a playbill, but he showed her the one he already had. The actors came on stage but didn’t speak for a while. He doesn’t think there was an intermission. He could tell by glancing at her every now and then how engrossed she was in the play. After it was over and they were standing by their raised seats to let some people farther in get by them—he’s not sure why they didn’t move out to the aisle to make passing them easier—he said “That was terrific. Play, performances and from where we saw it from. So much better than the balcony. I bet it’d be like seeing a somewhat different play from up there, and all the lines and facial expressions you’d lose. But I’m always giving my opinion first. What’d you think?” and she said “The same; I loved it. And I haven’t sat so close to the stage since I was a little girl and saw Peter Pan. Here, you could see the spit flying. And it was exciting what we did, taking these seats. I never would have done it if it wasn’t for you. I don’t even think I ever thought of doing it before. Good thing you held on to me. My heart was racing when we came down the aisle and I thought for sure we’d be caught, so I doubt I could ever do it again,” and he said “Sure you will, if you stick with me and we get another chance to, and you saw how nothing happened. Maybe sometime when we have enough money to spare we’ll buy our own orchestra seats to a play we really want to go to, though the way Broadway ticket prices keep rising, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to. Maybe for your birthday or mine, if we’re in town, or our wedding anniversary—then, we’re always here on winter break,” and she said “That’d be nice. Exciting as it was, I’d rather
buy them, and every so often we can splurge.”

  They were out for a walk. It was Sunday, around five, getting dark, and when they still lived in the Baltimore apartment on West 39th Street. Rosalind was in a sling on his chest. He was holding her head up with one hand and holding Gwen’s hand with the other. They passed a neighborhood Chinese restaurant on the way back—The Poison Dragon, he started calling it after the incident, when its real name was The Golden Dragon—and he said “Like to get takeout tonight? We’ve never had any from this place and we should try it,” and she said “I already have dinner prepared—salmon and a quinoa dish and you said you’d make a salad.” “Then just soup. We’ll have it when we get home. It’ll warm us up. But not egg drop or hot and sour. Something different.” They went into the restaurant and ordered a large container of the “neptune house soup,” with scallops and shrimp and rice noodles and black mushrooms and baby corn. About a half-hour after they ate the soup—maybe fifteen minutes: he knows it was an unusually short time—he got stomach cramps and felt nauseated and he said “Oh, no, shrimp again,” because he’d got sick like this twice before from bad shrimp, and she said “You too? Cramps? Nausea? It has to be the soup. I’m so glad we didn’t give Rosalind any. Both of us have to induce vomiting before it’s completely digested.” “You mean to stick your finger down your throat?” and she said “It’s briefly uncomfortable and disgusting, but it can save days of being sick.” “I can’t do it. Never could. I don’t know what it is, but something stops me, even though I know it’s for my own good.” “Well, I’m certainly going to do it. One of us has to stay well to take care of the other and Rosalind,” and she went into the kitchen bathroom and he heard her throwing up. He waited a minute and said through the bathroom door “Gwen. I’m really not feeling well, so I’m going to lie down,” and she said “I’m sorry, my sweetie. I only wish you had done what I did. I’m already feeling better.” “Just so you don’t think I’m a complete chicken, I did try to in our bathroom, gagged a little but nothing came up,” and she said “Maybe you didn’t go down far enough. Try again. It’s always worked for me,” and he said “I’m just going to have to hope it doesn’t get worse than it is.” “Well,” she said, “yell for me if you need anything. I’m going to wash up, change Rosalind and get her set for the night, and then treat myself to a very weak tea.” He rested on their bed, tried to fall asleep but couldn’t, had to rush to the bathroom several times to vomit or because of the runs. She came in every half-hour or so, felt his head, said “No temperature, but I wouldn’t have expected any,” asked how he was and he said “Much worse,” or just looked at him and said nothing and left. Then she came in and turned on the TV to the public television station. A promo was on for a Masterpiece Theatre series starting next Sunday. He said “What are you doing?” and she said “It’s the final episode of the James Herriot program—the English vet. I know you don’t like it, but I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” “But I’m sick; very sick. Been doing nothing but vomiting and shitting diarrhea the last two hours. The TV noises and flickering—just the voices—will make me feel even worse. I need quiet and rest,” and she said “I hate saying this, but if you had done what I first suggested you do, you wouldn’t be feeling this bad. Now it’s too late, and I don’t think I’m asking too much. An hour, that’s all.” “There’ll probably be a rerun of it sometime this week. Isn’t that what they normally do with a series?” and she said “I checked the monthly program guide. If it were on this coming week I wouldn’t have come to watch it now, but it isn’t scheduled again. I’ll keep the sound low and you could turn over so you don’t see the screen. But what you should do is go into the guest room and try to sleep there.” “I like our bed,” he said. “I feel better on it and in this room,” and she said “Listen, Martin, I’m sorry you’re so sick. But you have to give me a little too. This is the only television I’ve watched since the previous episode last Sunday. If we had another television set in one of the other rooms, I’d watch it there. But we don’t, and now the program’s starting. So, my poor little sweetheart, I’m afraid I’ll have to watch it here. Now please let me.” “Okay,” he said, “go ahead. But I have to say I’ve never seen you act this way to me before. You’ve never shown such inconsiderateness, such…well, you know, lack of sympathy…everything,” and she said “Oh, if you want to call what I am asking for here that, which I don’t think I’m being, then I’ve shown it. Maybe you just didn’t pick up on it before.” “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “I won’t forget this, Gwen, I won’t.” Then he felt sharp pains in his stomach again and got up and rushed to the bathroom. The television volume was much lower when he came back. He got into bed, lay with his back to her and the set and stayed in that position and said nothing to her till the next morning. When she came to bed she said things like “Want me to sleep in another room? Are you feeling any better? Can I get you anything? Do anything for you? I’m sure you’ll be much better in the morning. I certainly hope so. All right. Goodnight, dear.”

  The time he slapped her hand. This was long into their marriage. She was sick with a stomach flu and he was spoonfeeding her soup from a bowl. They were at the dining-room table. The kids couldn’t have been in the house or else they would have come when they heard him yell and her crying. He held the spoon to her mouth and her hand jerked up and knocked the spoon to the floor, some of the soup splattering his face. “Damn you,” he yelled, and slapped her hand. Then: “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to do that. I swear I didn’t.” She looked at him as if she was about to cry. Then she cried. Some of the soup had got on her neck and he wiped it away with the cloth napkin on her lap and then wiped his face. “Do you want me to wipe your neck with a damp towel?” he said, and she shook her head and continued crying. “I’m really sorry, Gwen. I’ve never done anything like that to you before. With Maureen, once, when she was around two and got out of her stroller and I caught her just as she stepped into the street, and I slapped her hand and told her what she’d been slapped for so she’d know not to do that again. I regretted slapping her that one time. I’ve told you. I should have made my point in a nonphysical way. But this with you is much worse. Please say you forgive me. I don’t know where it came from. For sure not some up-till-now hidden animosity to you that even I didn’t know was there, and I promise it’ll never happen again.” She stopped crying and wiped her eyes with her napkin. He picked up the spoon, went into the kitchen and washed it, and came back to the table. She pointed to the floor. There were a few drops of soup on it—he thought that was what she meant. He went through his side pants pocket for a paper towel—there was usually one there; wasn’t any, and he wiped the drops up with his handkerchief. He held up the spoon and said “Here, let me get you some more soup. It’s light, more like a broth—it has a little miso in it; brown rice miso, the kind you like—and you need liquids in you and nourishment.” She shook her head and looked away from him. He put the spoon back on the table. “I understand,” he said. “You’re angry at me now, and for good reason. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. And that I did it when you were still so weak and feeling so lousy. I’m so ashamed, Gwen. But you’ll forgive me sometime for it. Isn’t there something I can do for you?” She pointed to the spoon. “You want me to resume feeding you,” and she shook her head. “You want to feed yourself?” and she said “Let me, but I can’t reach the spoon.” He gave her the spoon, moved the bowl closer to her, straightened out the place mat under it and said “Excuse me, I’m sure you don’t want me sitting here, so I should probably leave you alone for the time being. If you want something, just yell for me.” He got up. She put the spoon into the bowl, brought it to her mouth, swallowed the soup and put the spoon in the bowl for some more. “It must mean you’re getting better,” he said. He went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water and drank it. “Like me to put on some water for tea for you?” he said. She didn’t say anything or look at him. “I’ll be in the living room,” he said, “reading.
”

  Here’s one that’s come back a lot of times. He doesn’t know why, but it just stuck. They’re in the minivan. Left Belfast about a half-hour before and were heading south on Route 1 toward Bath and 95, which they’d take to the Kennebunkport exit. They’d spend the night at an inn there and next day drive to their apartment in New York and the day after that to Baltimore. He was driving, she was in the passenger seat next to him. The kids and cats were in the back. They’d stopped in Belfast for sandwiches and toasted bagels at the food co-op there, and rain forest crunch coffee for him—he always got it when they stopped there; no other place seemed to have it—and carrot juice for her and other kinds of juices for the kids. The van’s windows were open. He doesn’t think the radio was on. They were passing a long lake on the right. It was beautiful sunny day, temperature in the mid-seventies, the air dry. People were driving and jumping off floats in the lake and others farther out were kayaking and canoeing. Lots of people on a sand beach and there was laughing and squealing from the kids in the water and he thinks he even heard splashing. It was a happy lake; that’s what he thought. And no motorboat noises—not even in the distance—so those boats were probably banned on that lake. It was Saturday. They always left Maine for home on a Saturday. That way, they could drive into New York on Sunday, when traffic would be lighter in the city and there’d be far fewer trucks on the road and it was easier finding a parking spot on their block, or at least it always seemed like that. If they left New York around ten or eleven Monday morning and took the George Washington Bridge, traffic would also be lighter all the way to Baltimore. They never traveled on the Labor Day weekend. Too much traffic, and most times the kids started school the week before. Anyway, they were driving past the lake, whose name he looked up on a road map but now doesn’t remember, and he had that “happy” thought and he looked at her and smiled and felt good about himself and her and everything. She turned to look at him, as if she’d seen from the side he was looking at her or just sensed it, and smiled and seemed happy and content too. This is a good moment for us, he thought. He’ll no doubt forget it, but it’s good to have it now. Then he faced front and concentrated on his driving. He looked at her again soon after they were past the lake. China Lake, was it? No, that’s the one going the other way from Belfast to Augusta. She was looking at him, smiling the way she did before. Did she look away after he’d looked back at the road? he thought. Probably. He just didn’t see her continuing to look and smile at him after he’d stopped looking and smiling at her. No matter. She’s feeling good about me, he thought, and I’m feeling good about her, but especially good. It’s going to be a nice stopover in Kennebunkport. They’ll go to the beach. He and the kids will run around on it and jump in and out of the water and she’ll read. Maybe they’ll all walk out to the end of the breakwater together. When they get back to their rooms, they’ll shower one at a time and wash the sand off their feet. He’ll have a couple of vodka on the rocks before dinner while he reads yesterday’s Times. She’ll have a cup of tea. They’ll go to a good restaurant within walking distance of the inn. He’ll order a bottle of wine and drink most of it. He’ll say to her when they’re having dessert “This has been a great day, one of the best, and it isn’t over yet, and I continue to love you more and more each day.” She’ll say to the kids “Same with me to your father. And although I believe him, I think he’s had a little too much to drink.” Later at night, after the kids are asleep in the other bed, they’ll quietly make love.