The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “You are not a baby. Now, please apologize for sticking out your tongue.” The words stick to the roof of my mouth. At some level, I want to mimic my son’s behavior.

  How many times have I mentally stuck out my tongue at Michael or shot him the bird?

  “I’m sorry, Zandra.” The use of her nickname imbues Magnus’s tone with boyish regret.

  “I accept your apology.” No softness. Or graciousness. Or acceptance.

  Dammit. The energy to continue the standoff with Alexandra drains out of me. Hyper-aware Anastaysa has said nothing, I grit my teeth and lay my hand on my middle child’s shoulder, hoping to encourage her to speak up. “What do you think of our cookies, Anastaysa?”

  “They smell yummy.” Her quiet reply lacks any undertone of aggression. Is her timidity because of my passivity?

  “Let’s ask Monsieur Lefebvre,” Alexandra says. Her rosy cheeks betray the crush she has on our twenty-five-year-old Swiss chef.

  “Monsieur Lefebvre’s busy preparing dinner,” I counter. “Let’s ask him, though, to make ice cream to serve with our culinary delights.”

  “I’ll ask, I’ll ask. I know what flavor Papá prefers.” Alexandra removes her apron. She walks toward the back of the kitchen with a little hip-sway. At thirteen she is losing the coltishness of a girl and developing the budding breasts and gentle curves of a young woman. Her behavior, attitude, body language, and mood swings mirror Michael’s influence.

  How much longer do I have to ensure she grows up normal?

  “Mamá, Mamá.” Anastaysa calls me back from the abyss. “It’s time for our shower. We have to hurry. Papá’s coming home early. We should be ready.”

  Is it my imagination, or does she sound worried?

  “Let’s go.” I glance at the cookies and laugh. Alexandra’s right. They’re clones of horse patties. Surely he’ll figure out they’re a subtle reminder of my dog-shit gift.

  *****

  Of all the rooms I hate in this house, I hate the master bedroom suite the most.

  Specifically, I have to fight my wobbly legs every time I enter the area bigger than some people’s entire homes. The oversized bathroom with its huge, obscene Roman tub shrieks ostentation. Michael considers the place his masterpiece.

  All three kids usually approach the bathroom as if approaching a water-park. They love the multitude of skylights in the mirrored ceiling. The imported, antique Italian marble floors and gold-plated fixtures impress them less. The six dozen varieties of orchids barely get a glance. The Japanese bidets and toilets definitely capture their imaginations.

  But the tub—big enough for them and four adults—grabs their imagination like nothing else except the shower.

  The shower is an homage to hedonism.

  A wall of softly lit water in shades of turquoise trickles down one glass side cantilevered over a canyon two hundred feet deep. Taking that first step into the shower is like stepping out of an airplane without a parachute. Magnus vehemently denies he shrieks every time he enters.

  Today, Anastaysa and Magnus frolic under the multiple rainfall showerheads. Their shouts and screams remind me of kids running through sprinklers on scorching summer days in Minnesota. Dozens of showerheads positioned throughout the doorless space and controlled by individual remote controls, spray streams of mist or geysers of hot or cold or tepid water.

  Michael boasts we never have to visit a spa because our master bathroom sets the bar for all spas. Despite his bragging, I only breathe in the architectural joke if I’m accompanied by one or more of my children. If Michael insists we shower together, my lungs collapse. The air gets sucked out of them and the entire space. Panic threatens to suck the life out of my body.

  The man I married designed a place to play out his sexual fantasies.

  Unfortunately, he chose the wrong playmate.

  Today, I urge Anastaysa and Magnus to finish more quickly than normal so Alexandra can have the bathroom to herself. The changes in her body have destroyed the long years of communal showering. Soon, I imagine, she will insist on exclusively using her own bathroom. She has her right to privacy, but I admit I feel nostalgic for the closeness she and I once shared.

  Her father would never admit it, but she is his favorite. The son he wanted so much, the son he blackmailed me into having, is his second favorite. Poor Anastaysa, who I suspect reminds him of a family member, barely comes up on his paternal radar.

  Finished rewrapping my black and blue toe, I apply a new layer of aloe vera cream and a thin bandage to my blistered wrist. A long-sleeved sweater and the kids’ dinner chatter may divert Michael from asking about the burn.

  Nothing will make me mention my toe—not even torture.

  An extra glass of wine and a Xanax will put me to sleep, I hope, before he finishes reading bedtime stories. The quiet voices of Magnus and Anastaysa at play fade in and out of my awareness as longing pools in my stomach. God, what I’d give for a glass of wine. To take the edge off of seeing his smirk. Why not? I’m an adult. Shivering under the water, I glance at the clock and blood pounds in my temples. Time to stop daydreaming.

  “Time to get dressed, kiddos.” I step out of the shower and scrub my skin till it stings.

  “Awww, Mamá.” Magnus’s voice carries a whine.

  “Not yet,” Anastaysa says. “Alexandra hasn’t even showered yet.”

  “Papá said he’s coming home early.” I hurry into my dressing room. My closet contains enough clothes to fill a warehouse. I pick up the house phone and call Monsieur Lefebvre.

  “He never comes home early,” Anastaysa calls in a you-know-better tone.

  “Alexandra is no longer here, madame. She said she must get dressed for dinner.”

  Thanking Monsieur Lefebvre, I return to the bathroom. Magnus and Anastaysa have on thick, white terrycloth robes and flip-flops. Their cheeks are pink, and their eyes glow. They greet me with smiles so innocent and trusting, I have to hug my waist against grabbing them.

  In that instant, sadness slices through my arteries. An ache wells up, filling the crevices and fissures in my chest. I want to cry. Cry for their compliance. Cry for my cowardice.

  Occasionally, we should all rebel.

  Magnus drops his robe and rushes to me. “What’s wrong Mamá? You’re crying.”

  The muscles around my mouth refuse to turn up in a liar’s smile, but I squat down next to him and press his sturdy body into mine. “Crying? What do I have to cry about, sweetie?”

  “Mamá, will you help me pick out a dress?” Mouth tight, Anastaysa presses into my other side. “Papá said he’d read my story tonight, so I want to wear something nice.”

  The back of my throat closes, shutting off a scream threatening to hijack logic once I loose the fury. I hate seeing Anastaysa nervous and scared about Michael’s reaction to her story. She’s too young to want to please him so much. Linking her self-esteem to clothes and acceptance is dangerous.

  Her bottom lip is trembling, and tears sparkle in her eyes.

  “Of course I’ll help you, sweetie. I’m thinking that lavender . . .” I swallow the sour cocktail of guilt and impotence and fear. I stand and lace fingers with each child. “If you want, I’ll lend you my amethyst necklace.”

  Anastaysa’s face lights up as if I’ve offered her my diamond engagement ring instead of an inexpensive twelfth-birthday necklace from my mother. “Yes, yes. Yes, I want.”

  “All right. What if I wear my lavender turtleneck and matching trousers?” When we’re at home, Michael prefers me in low-cut, easy-to-remove blouses and long skirts with deep side slits. Four-inch strapless sandals satisfy his not-so-latent shoe fetish.

  What can I wear tonight that’s equivalent to a modern chastity belt and military boots?

  Anastaysa presses her lips together, then asks solemnly, “Do you want to wear your necklace?”

  “No.” I squeeze her hand. “I want you to wear the necklace.”

  She dances in
front of me and Magnus. “Do you think Papá will let me get my ears pierced before I’m sixteen?”

  “No.” Magnus shakes his head. “Papá says nice girls don’t wear lotsa earrings.”

  “Will you talk to him, Mamá? Pleeeeze.”

  Gazing down into her pleading eyes, I catch myself a second before I bob my head. “I will. But you must promise not to get your hopes up.”

  Chapter 17

  HE

  Driving back to my car after Tracy’s demise takes two minutes. A moonless night shrouds the parking lot. I’m not even breathing hard as I shuck off the hazmat suit. It fits perfectly in the empty Nordstrom box. The picnic hamper with the leftovers, I’ll throw in the trash at the penthouse tomorrow. More adrenaline surges into me. I could leave them detritus in the Camry for Dimitri, but where’s the thrill in that option?

  Far more fun to risk getting stopped by CHP with proof of my crime in the trunk. My heart rate kicks up. Christ, I love living on the edge. My gambler’s soul makes me invincible—in business and in my personal life. AnnaSophia’s sad-sack face flashes.

  If you only knew what I have in store for you, Darling. I slam the trunk and chuckle. Once more, experience pays off. Planning for the smallest details provides the key to success.

  The stink of rotten jasmine blossoms follows me into the Benz. It’s a toss-up which was worse—Tracy’s perfume or the dog’s shit. Nose burning, eyes stinging, I start the engine and roll down the windows. Cool night air mingles with the A/C. The skin on my whole body—scalp, face, ears, neck, chest, arms, torso, legs, and feet—twitches and stings as I pull away from the Avalon. Every piece of clothing itches and chafes and irritates. Every piece includes my silk underwear. Even my dick and scrotum tingle.

  Visceral responses to the cocktail of potent biochemicals still surging into me.

  Electrical and chemical signals are firing into my brain and through my body. Feeling wired is not unexpected given the circumstances, but my reactions prove somewhat frustrating.

  Self-control under all circumstances is my goal.

  Tracy meant nothing to me, so I don’t feel guilt. Or regret. Or sadness.

  Neutralizing her ensures no one finds out about AnnaSophia and her friend. Her death guarantees no one will think I’ve lost control over my own wife. Neutralizing her protects the deal that will make me one of the richest men in the world.

  Brake lights flash. Several cars on either side honk. My patience unravels. I cut in front of the dithering idiot between me and the carpool lane. It’s too dark to see the driver’s face, but I discern he’s a solo driver too. Unlike me, he doesn’t have the guts to risk a ticket and drive in the fast lane. He weaves back and forth, back and forth—an accident waiting to happen.

  Wouldn’t surprise me if he doesn’t have a driver’s license. He’s probably Chinese or Indian or female. A woman like AnnaSophia—afraid of the power she has under the hood. Her fears drive her instead of her driving the vehicle. Someday she will have an accident. Plunge over the abyss below our driveway. Drop four hundred feet to the bottom of the canyon.

  SPLAAAAT. Ciao, AnnaSophia. The explosion of the gas tank rushes into my ears.

  The skin at the back of my neck tingles. As long as she didn’t have any of the children in the car, who would care? No one depends on her for transportation. Does she ever question why she’s not allowed to drop off or pick up the children from school?

  Or to take them to a doctor?

  Or to drop them off at their friends’ homes?

  The extent of her driving is to and from yoga. Alone.

  An idea pings. Takes root. Permutates. Expands in a kaleidoscope of sparkling colors with changing auras and coronas I can taste. Yoga. Twice a day, five times a week. So many accident-possibilities on our driveway alone. I glance in the rearview mirror. The weaving moron is still zigzagging across the solid white lines. High probability he’s drunk.

  Where’s the CHP when you need a gendarme?

  No other drivers occupy the carpool lane for as far as I can see. I call, reporting the location of the out-of-control driver. When I give my name as a concerned citizen, the dispatcher recognizes me immediately, thanks me, then feeds me a compliment.

  “Keep giving us tips, Mr. Romanov, and we’ll have to make you an honorary officer.”

  “My next career move, Tom.”

  He chuckles. “Keep us in mind, sir.”

  Seconds after I disconnect, a flashing blue light behind me brings traffic to gridlock. “What a Good Samaritan, you are, Michael Romanov.”

  Ahead, there’s nothing to slow me down. I settle back in my seat and tap the accelerator. The speedometer hits sixty, eighty, ninety. Some night I may have to insist AnnaSophia ride along with me. Perhaps she will then appreciate the effort I make to arrive home every evening by seven. Sitting on her ass all day in the lap of luxury, she has no idea what it’s like to work. To find creative solutions to problems. To take risks.

  Of course if she had an idea in her head, she’d never have hooked up with her friend.

  The memory of them together at Le Boulanger worms into my brain, and I give the Benz more gas. My fingertips—lightning bolts ready to rip open the night sky—tingle. The car leaps forward as if responding to my anticipation. Every neuron in my brain fires.

  Neutralizing Tracy was a good rehearsal for what’s to come.

  My exit looms. I peel off I-280 and roar into the desolate hills. The glitter of the valley lights swim up behind me, and infuses my being with a sense of buoyancy—as if the Mercedes is about to lift off the road and fly across the valley. A snapshot of Tracy’s lifeless face pops in my mind as I turn onto the private road. God, to have the power to erase all my enemies. Grinning, I blink my headlights at one of the cops patrolling my fiefdom of one hundred pristine acres sitting on top of the world. In five, six minutes max, I’ll reach my front gate.

  Here I come, AnnaSophia. Ready or not. I pull down the driver’s visor and check the mirror. Not a hair out of place. A smile that will catch her by surprise. I flip up the visor.

  Nothing like a little cat and mouse to make dinner more interesting. Remind her who’s the cat. Imagining her discomfort in front of the children makes me hard.

  God this is going to be fun. Unable to wait, I call the house.

  “Hello, Darling.” I speak in a sing-song inflection, “I’m hooooome.”

  Ten minutes early. Calm as the Pope.

  “Hello, Papá. Welcome, home.”

  My taunt dies unspoken, but I’m totally unflappable.

  “We’re glad you’re home early.” The low, breathy quality in Alexandra’s voice reminds me of Tracy, The Tart.

  Is my daughter becoming a smart-ass? I punch in the security code at the gate and smack OPEN. “You sound surprised, Alexandra.”

  “Not at all, Papá. I told Magnus and Anastaysa you’d be here early.”

  “Thank you, dear, for your trust.” The massive gate swings slowly, slowly, slowly outward. I choke the steering wheel. Goddammit. Snow White’s seven dwarfs could pull it open faster.

  Tired of holding onto my impatience, I demand, “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s in the kitchen speaking to Monsieur Lefebvre about the dessert we—”

  “Put her on the phone.” The Benz bucks as I stomp the accelerator too hard and shoot through the gate, clipping one of the vertical frames. “Now, Alexandra.”

  “Yes, Papá. I am sorry, Papá.” Her voice thickens.

  “Are you crying, Alexandra?” Hurtling around the driveway’s hairpin curves, I must keep my attention focused on driving. At this speed, the reinforced iron side railings offer as much protection as toothpicks. “Alexandra?”

  “No, Papá. Shall I get Mamá?”

  The top of the hill looms. I tap the accelerator, smile at the Benz’s instant response and throw a glance at the blaze of lights from the valley. “Do I ask too much of you, golubushka?”

  “No, Papá.” Her voice drops to a whis
per.

  “Thank you.” The house, aglow with enough lights to land a 787 at SFO, occupies the top of the hill like a modern-day castle. It is truly one of my most prized possessions. I smile. “Will you have a big kiss for the papá who loves you, golubushka?”

  “Yes, Papá.”

  “You are the perfect daughter. My golubushka. My little dove. Go call your mother.”

  Why the hell has she gone to the kitchen so close to the time of my arrival?

  A brisk wind blows across the hillside and rocks the Benz. Instead of slowing, I rely on the car’s stability and press the accelerator. Less time to reach the front door means less time for AnnaSophia to dawdle with the chef. Growing up in suburban Minneapolis the only child of Finnish immigrant parents, she adopted the primitive custom of eating dinner between five-thirty and six. She forgets my expectations for a more refined lifestyle and continues to cling to the erroneous belief that eating at seven is too late for children.

  I point out that when my father and I lived in Buenos Aires, we often dined as late as nine or ten. AnnaSophia hates this anecdote. She always presses her lips together in that Puritanical, Finnish way that implies I am the barbarian.

  Eating together offers me the best chance each day to take my family’s pulse. Inevitably, one or the other of the children drops a tidbit about their mother I would never have learned had I eaten at the penthouse.

  Tonight, fresh from my experience with Tracy and despite rush-hour traffic, I arrive home early. Just as I promised. Tonight is definitely an evening I do not want to miss. Forcing AnnaSophia to sit through five full courses is a small price for time spent with her friend.

  My disgust with her recent attempts at destroying everything I’ve worked for momentarily distracts me. I take my eyes off the road. A split second later, when I refocus, a deer stands frozen in my headlights. My throat constricts—too dry to yell. Time speeds up as if running on jet fuel. I stare at the blinded doe, but AnnaSophia’s laughing face flashes, fades, sears into my memory.

  My instinct for survival kicks in. I grip the steering wheel, tap the brakes with a foot that feels like lead, and smack the horn.