His Wife Leaves Him

by Stephen Dixon

  They were in bed, watching Key Largo on Maryland Public Television for the second time that year. She was laughing and said “The dialog really kills me. ‘All right, you guys, I’m Johnny Rocco, see? See?’” and he said “I think the ‘see’ part of your impersonation is from another Edward G. Robinson movie. And the ‘All right, you guys,’ is James Cagney, if he ever said it in a movie. But let me watch it, will ya? It’s a good picture, good acting, and some of the lines are classic.” She sat up against the headboard and made as if she were chomping on a big cigar and then holding it and flicking its ashes to the floor and said “Listen, wise guy, nobody tells Johnny Rocco what to do, see? You think you’re a big war hero, but you’re nobody compared to me. I’m Johnny Rocco, king of the rackets, once. That’s who I am. And after my deal goes through I’m gonna be on top again, you wait and see.” “Okay, Johnny, but the movie—” and she said “Okay, nothing, wise guy. Mess with Johnny Rocco and his boys and you’ll get what’s coming to you, or what’s coming out of you, your last breath, see? See?” when the phone rang. “Late,” he said, and got out of bed, lowered the television sound and picked up the receiver. “I’m sorry for calling at this hour,” their real-estate agent said, “but I have good news. The Hendricksons have taken your offer”—he raised his fist above his head and said to Gwen “They’ve taken our offer” and she yelled “Hurray”—“and if there are no unexpected setbacks,” the agent said, “—mortgage, financing, deed; you know—the house is yours.” “Oh, that’s wonderful,” he said. “Call anytime you want with such great news. My wife and I are very happy,” and she said “Have a good weekend.” He hung up and said “That was Mrs. Blinkova, of course. They actually took our low offer. We’re in,” and she pretended to puff on a cigar and blow smoke out of her mouth and said “Know how we got the house, wise guy? Hey? Because Johnny Rocco told them to. Nobody says no to Johnny Rocco and lives to tell it. Nobody, you hear?, or they’re dead meat.” “Okay,” he said, “we can see the movie anytime,” and turned it off. He sat on the bed and put his arms out and they hugged. “You can be very funny sometimes,” he said, “did you know that?” “Well, as my mother likes to remind me—” and he said “You’ve told me, you’ve told me, but it just ain’t true. You were always clever and had a great sense of humor and flair for mimicry. I had nothing to do with it. It’s just, once you got rid of your suspicions about me—” and she said “And what were they?” “That I was a bit of an oddball or strange. Just the way I approached you the first night we met. ‘You probably won’t want to speak to me—’” and she said “You keep saying you said that. I forgot what you did say when you first spoke to me, but it wasn’t that. I admit I was a little leery of you. First of all, the shirt you wore to the party,” and he said “I’ve told you. I didn’t know it was going to be a party. I thought—” and she said “I know, but it was such an ugly shirt. And the way you stared at me every chance you could, without coming over and introducing yourself. Or just coming over and standing there and saying nothing would have been better. And that you waited to speak to me till I was at the elevator. Strange, really; as you said, odd behavior. I’m surprised I didn’t think you were a little creepy.” “Then I’m lucky you even consented to meet me the first time,” and she said “Oh, you were nice looking, and when you finally did speak, you spoke well. Those were pluses, and you seemed smart. Besides, it was only an hour out of my time—on my way home from my therapist—and if it didn’t work out, no great loss for either of us. But after our first date—or after the second. No, the first, for coffee, the Ansonia, I was no longer leery of you and thought you were just fine.” “That’s what I meant. You relaxed. And you were funny, showed a terrific sense of humor, or one I certainly appreciated, from the second or third date on. But what are we talking about this for? The new house, Gwen. Baltimore County. More land and trees around us and the nearest neighbor a few hundred feet away. A carport. A garden shed. Cheaper real-estate taxes and auto insurance than in the city, I hear, and better schools for the kids. A screen painting on the front door. And a complete house, not semidetached, so windows on all sides and everything on one floor and no more going up and down stairs.” “A ranch house,” she said. “An unfinished basement we’ll have to pour several thousand dollars into it to make it habitable.” “As my father would probably have said: ‘You own a ranch house, you could buy a horse.’ But this is great. We got what we wanted, and at a steal. Let’s open a good bottle of wine to celebrate. I’d say champagne, but we haven’t got one that’s cold.” “No wine for me—too late for it—but you have,” and he said “I don’t mind if I do,” kissed her and went downstairs and got an expensive bottle of wine from the wine rack in the dining room, opened it and poured himself a glass. He should bring up a glass for her too, he thought. He drank his glass, poured himself another and one for her, sipped at his because he’d filled it to the brim and he didn’t want to spill any carrying it, and brought the glasses upstairs. “Do you want to go back to the movie?” she said. “It still has a long ways to go. The hurricane; the two dead Indians; Bogart knocking off the whole gang in the boat,” and he said “I’ve had enough. How about you?” and held out a glass for her and she said in her Johnny Rocco voice “Johnny Rocco told you he didn’t want a drink, din’t he? Din’t he? Why you always got to do what Johnny Rocco says he don’t want you to? But okay, he don’t want to ruin your fun, so he’ll let you get away with it today,” and she took the glass.

  This was at the cottage in Maine they rented together for two to three months every summer for seven years. Nothing much; the last summer they were there before Maureen was born. It was on what they called “A Maine day”: mild, sunny, low humidity, little puffs of white clouds, blue skies, temperature around 72. If they were lucky: a light breeze coming up from the water. They loved the cottage—she started renting it three summers before she met him—and would have bought it if they had the money when it was being sold. He was in the kitchen, taking the forty or so diapers out of the washing machine and dropping them into the laundry basket on the floor. They bought this huge used washing machine the summer after Rosalind was born. They had no dryer. At the time, they couldn’t find a cheap used one and didn’t think it worth buying a new dryer for just a few months every summer, especially when the cottage could be sold out from under them, and eventually decided they could do without one. They’d hang their wash out in the sun, and if there were repeated days of rain or cloudiness, they’d drive to Blue Hill about twenty miles away and make a day out of it by shopping for groceries and having lunch in one of a number of good simple places while the diapers and other wash were being dried in the coin laundry there. He brought the basket of diapers to the porch. They had a couple of clotheslines strung out on poles he’d cemented into the ground in an open space near the cottage. But he needed clothespins for that, which took lots of time to use for so many diapers, and after a few minutes of hanging them up, his arms hurt. Instead, he now hung them and things like socks and shorts and, when the sun was very strong, towels and jeans over the porch railings. “Need any help?” Gwen said. She was lying on a chaise longue, reading; wide-brimmed straw gardener’s hat shading her face. There were a few moth holes in the brim and he could see a spot of light from one of them on her cheek. He said “No, no, you rest; I don’t want you to get up. Besides, you want to deprive me of my next to most favorite domestic chore?” “And what’s your most favorite? I remember what your favorite day of the year always is, but this one I forget,” and he said “Stacking them after they’ve dried.” “You’ll get no fight from me on that score. It’s so tedious, hanging an endless number of diapers out to dry. And maybe equally as tedious to stack them, so the job’s all yours,” and she went back to her reading. She was in a bikini top and Bermuda shorts. Prescription sunglasses; sandals off. Probably they were special shorts with an elasticized waistband, she was so pregnant. Half-filled glass of something in arm’s reach of her on the floor. By the color of it, ic
ed coffee, with milk in it, and where the ice had melted. The four Siamese cats sleeping or resting under the chaise longue, their eyes closed. “You’re not going to burn?” and she said “Sun block. I’ve slathered myself silly with it.” “Still, you’re so fair; but it’s your body.” He started draping the diapers over the railings. The last few, when he ran out of room on the railings, he hung over the rim of the laundry basket and spread one out inside it. He used to also hang them over the porch’s staircase railings, but when they were done they often slid off. In an hour, if the sun didn’t disappear, they’d be dry. Then, on a small metal table out there, he’d very neatly stack them one on top of the other in two to three piles and bring them inside and take one pile to their bedroom upstairs where Rosalind’s crib was. At times, when he stacked them, he’d press a diaper to his cheek to feel its softness and warmth. He could see why she might not like hanging the diapers out to dry, but how could she not like stacking them? Not that she needed one with him, but it was probably just an excuse to get out of doing both because, unlike him, she liked reading more.

  His favorite day of the year. Didn’t he go over that? Even if he did, maybe something will come out of it that he hadn’t thought of before. He’d begin talking about it with her and the kids days before they left New York for Kennebunkport. “Guess what? We’re getting close to my favorite day of the year. I can hardly wait.” Or “Two days till my favorite day of the year. Everybody thinking about what they want to pack? I know, it’s crazy, but I so much look forward to it.” Gwen and he would share the driving, even the times she was pregnant—“No; my stomach doesn’t get in the way”—so that part of it wasn’t difficult. Six, seven hours. If they left on a Friday, which he liked to avoid, maybe eight. He’d sleep for about an hour in the front passenger seat. “Where are we?” he’d say when he woke up. “God, we’ve made great time.” Lunch at a family restaurant they always stopped at in Connecticut right off the highway—81? 94?—about ten miles from the Mass Pike. The kids loved its homemade pies with two scoops of ice cream on top. “Can we get two flavors?” He’d start singing moment after they crossed the Pisca-something bridge into Maine and the kids would join in—Gwen never did: “It’s too silly a ditty”: “We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here-e-e-e,” their voices rising on the last “here,” and then a repeat of the line without a rise at the end. It was something—not a song, really—his busload of summer campers when he was a kid used to sing when the bus pulled into camp, also for two months. Bringing into the motel room their briefcases of manuscripts and one of his two typewriters—hers and then her computer and printer were too heavy for someone to steal, though he covered them and his other typewriter with blankets—and a suitcase for them and knapsacks for the kids and stuff for the cats. And a shopping bag of cotton sheets and pillowcases for them to replace the linen already on their bed. The kids didn’t mind the hotel linen and didn’t understand why they did. “They all feel the same.” “That’s because your body isn’t supersensitive yet,” he said, and when she started crying—he forgets which one—he said “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You’re sensitive; I know. Please, darling, don’t spoil a great day.” Running around the beach with the kids—being chased and then chasing them—three of them jumping into the water together at least once. “Br-r-r-r, it’s cold, our annual membership renewal in the Polar Bear Club.” The kids able to tolerate the cold water much better than he—even swimming in it a few minutes—all while Gwen read or napped or both in the room. “If you can swing it, I’d love to have two hours alone. Even to see what’s on cable,” since they didn’t have it at home. Showering. “You too, kids. If you want to sleep without scratching your feet all night, you have to wash the sand out of your toes.” He’d get cheese from the little cooler they brought from New York and put it on crackers and pass the plate around and then just leave it on the night table. Vodka over rocks but probably two before heading off for dinner. He always offered her a beer or glass of wine in the motel, but she’d hold off drinking till he ordered a bottle of wine at the restaurant. “A half bottle or wine by the glass won’t do? After all, it’s just the two of us drinking.” “What we don’t drink, I’ll cork and bring back to the room and we’ll finish it tomorrow night. But you know me. It’s the one evening I don’t mind getting a bit lightheaded, and we’re not driving.” Delicious food. He thinks he ordered the summer’s first New England clam chowder as a starter every year and then scallops as an entrée. Sunset from the glass-enclosed porch they always tried to sit in. He’d call the restaurant before, sometimes from New York a week ahead, but if he didn’t he’d stop by the reservation desk on his way to or back from the beach with the kids to see if he could reserve a table by the porch window around seven. Because they always ate at the Breakwater Inn: just a short walk from their motel. After dinner, the kids usually ran ahead. “Give us the key.” “It’s dark, and there are no streetlights, so watch out for cars when you cross the road.” Gwen and he either held hands when they walked back or he put his arm around her waist or shoulders. Because of the wine and food and that they were feeling so good with each other and everything had gone smoothly that day and this was the first day of their long stay in Maine, with no classes to prepare till the end of summer, and maybe something to do with the sea smells and air, he could almost say they always made love that night, but only when they were sure the kids were asleep in the next bed. When Rosalind got older—fourteen? fifteen?—which would make Maureen eleven to twelve—the girls got their own room in the motel. “Come on, kids; it’s getting late. Time to turn off the TV.” “Ten minutes?” “Okay. Sounds fair.”

  He was in his study in their Baltimore apartment. They also used it as a storage room. It had no door, just a door-sized space to walk through. He’s not being clear because it’s not easy to picture. To get in and out of this small room, which once could have been the maid’s room in this big apartment—three bedrooms, separate living and dining rooms, large kitchen leading to his study—you walked through an opening the size and shape of a door. There was probably once a real door there—in fact, he knows it, since the marks where its hinges and screws had been were still on the jamb—but there wasn’t one now to open and close; just an open space. Oh, he gives up. Why can’t he come even close to describing it? Maybe not enough sleep. Gwen knocked on the wall outside his room, or maybe the jamb. He was typing, his back to her, and was startled by the noise. “I’m sorry,” she said; “didn’t mean to scare you. I have some good news that I don’t think you’ll entirely like. I just got a call—” “The phone rang?” he said. “I was so absorbed in my work I didn’t even hear it.” “Am I disturbing you then? I can tell you later,” and he said “No, go on. You got a call from whom?” “Someone at the NEA. She said I got a fellowship in translation.” “Oh, my goodness,” he said, “that’s great,” and stood up, almost knocking over his chair as he did, and went over to her and hugged her. “Jesus, you really did it. I’m so happy for you. But why would you think—” “Because you didn’t get the one you applied for.” “How do you know?” and she said “I asked the person who called me—an official there—if my husband, who also applied for one this year, got it in fiction. She checked the list of this year’s winners in everything, said she didn’t think she was supposed to be doing this—revealing other names—and your name wasn’t on it.” “So what?” he said. “I love it that you got one. You deserve it.” “You deserve one to. And you’ve applied five years straight, or something, while I only applied this once and mostly because you urged me to. I’m sure I got it because so few translators apply. And it could be they don’t give it the same year to husband and wife applicants, even if they’re in different fields, and if I hadn’t got mine, you would have got one,” and he said “Nonsense. How would they even know we’re married? We’ve different surnames.” “But the same address and apartment number.” “I’m sure they don’t look at the addresses very carefully,
” and she said “They do. What state the applicant’s from and what city. I heard they try to spread the fellowships around the country so no state or city seems favored.” “Please,” he said, “you got it because you earned it, and the panel of judges for translations was probably the most selective one, since they really had to know what they were doing.” “I wanted you to get it more than I,” and he said “Same for me with you. But I get lots of things. Nothing as big as an NEA yet, but I’m in a field where more things are given for it than for translation. I’ll just apply again, that’s all. My sweetheart, I’m so proud of you, and it’s so much money. Baby asleep?” and she said “Yes.” “Let’s get her up and tell her.” “No, let her sleep.” “You’re so modest.” “And you can be so silly sometimes.” “Should we celebrate with a glass of wine?” and she said “Too early. I’m still working.” “The news of the fellowship doesn’t stop you for even a few hours?” and she said “This is for school.” “Then dinner tonight at a good restaurant and with good wine.” “No, I’ve already prepared dinner. You’re being very nice about it, Martin.” “You still don’t know how happy I am for you?” “You’re not even a little bit jealous or bitter?” and he said “What a thing to say.”

  Then there was the time—he might even have put it in one of his fictions—when he and Gwen and the kids and his in-laws were walking on the south side of 72nd Street toward Broadway. He was carrying Maureen, so she must have been one or two. Gwen was pushing Rosalind in the stroller. If Maureen wanted to be in the stroller, or he got tired carrying her, then Rosalind would have to walk. They’d just had an early dinner at a Jewish restaurant-deli a little ways up the street. Moscowitz and Lupkowitz, he thinks it was called. No, that was the restaurant-deli his father used to speak about going to, on the Lower East Side, he thinks. He knows Moscowitz was the first name but he’s not sure if Lupkowitz was the second. Fine and Shapiro. That’s what the name of the restaurant they went to was. Had been in the same location for about forty years, and for all he knows, is still there. “They bought the building they’re in,” his father-in-law once told him, “which means they’ll never have to go out of business because of the landlord tripling the rent.” When a car pulled up and double-parked in front of a grocery they were passing. Two men jumped out, the driver stayed, and ran into the store. It was owned by Koreans. They sold mostly produce. Before he moved to Baltimore, he bought some fruit and vegetables there a few times. They were more expensive than the Korean grocery on Columbus and 73rd, but both stores had some of the best produce in the neighborhood and were convenient because they were so small. The store was completely open to the street, its glass front folding all the way in to both sides. In winter, thick plastic sheets covered the outside of the store. One man had a gun—maybe the other did too, but wasn’t showing his—and said something to a Korean man sitting on a milk crate, who’d been taking green peppers out of a cardboard box and arranging them on a display stand. The Korean man went to the cash register, opened it and began filling a brown paper bag with cash. “Robbery,” Gwen’s father had already said. “Let’s get out of here,” and pulled the stroller with one hand and grabbed his wife by the arm with the other, and said “Martin; quick what’re you looking at? Come with us,” and they all walked quickly toward Broadway, Gwen pushing the stroller. “Wait a minute,” he said to Gwen. “They can’t do this on the street, in broad daylight.” He handed Maureen to her and started back. “Martin; don’t,” she said. He didn’t know how far he’d go or what he was going to do, but he’d at least get the license-plate number. The rear plate was covered with mud, or something brown—even the state it was from, and he didn’t want to go around to the front because the driver would see him. A Korean woman was filling a second paper bag with money from a metal box under the cash register. The gunman was making motions with his hand for the woman and man to go faster. Nobody else on the street seemed to notice what was going on. They walked past without looking at the store, or if they did look, didn’t think anything was unusual. The gun was now hidden by the man’s leg. His father-in-law grabbed his shoulder. “Are you crazy? It’s not your business. You’re a family man now; with responsibilities. I know all about your past heroics, but this time you’ll get us both killed.” Gwen and the rest were at the corner. His mother-in-law was waving frantically for them to come. Just then the two men walked out of the store to the car, the gunman carrying a plastic shopping bag, and they drove off. The Korean man ran to the sidewalk and screamed “Police. Please, police, police.” “Don’t even say you’ll be a witness,” his father-in-law said. “They’ll never catch the thieves. And if they do, you’ll have to come back to New York at your own expense and identify them and later testify against them, and that could take days out of your time. Your place is with your wife and children and job. Let’s get home. Do you have the doggy bag?” and he said “It’s hanging on the back of the stroller.” They went to the corner. “This the newsstand where you once stopped a robbery?” his father-in-law said, and he said “They just wanted to steal a few magazines, and I sided with the newsstand owner.” “You got a cracked head from it, no?” and he said “The city’s Board of Estimate gave me a Good Samaritan citation, which meant the city reimbursed me for all my medical expenses.” Gwen handed him Maureen and said “What were you thinking?” and he said “I’m not sure. To yell at the robbers and then get out of the way.” “I don’t know what you’re going to think of me for saying this, but I can guess what my father told you and I agree with him a hundred percent.” His mother-in-law said “Grisha just told me what you wanted to do, Martin. You’re very brave and normally quite smart, but you can also be incredibly foolish. You have to think of the consequences more.” “Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ve been outnumbered. You kids have anything to say about it?” and Maureen rested her head on his shoulder and Rosalind said “About what, Daddy?” There was a commotion now in front of the grocery. A police or ambulance siren could be heard getting closer. Maybe it was for this. “Come,” his father-in-law said, “before we get in even more trouble,” and they waited for the light and crossed Broadway and went to his in-laws’ apartment.