by Wall, Carol
Dick tried to pull on the jacket in the suit bag. The sleeves were inches too short. The buttons didn’t reach. He laughed again and I joined in at first, then my laughter turned to weeping. He took off the coat and then, to my surprise, he gently pulled me up from the floor and took me in his arms.
We were both shaking, as if we’d just escaped being run over by a speeding train. Cancer had turned our lives upside down, and we’d lost some of our faith in how the world works. Even Dick, who knew for a fact that he hadn’t cheated on me, had been terrified. My illness had threatened to tear us apart—and in my worst moments, it still felt like a shadow hanging over us. Although I’d healed physically, the deeper wounds were still there, like a form of post-traumatic stress.
Finally, he held me away from him and we looked at each other.
It was almost more than I could bear. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”
Dick held me again and assured me that I wasn’t. He’d been as confused as I was. Later that evening, after dinner, and when our hearts had stopped racing, Dick suggested that we go out to dinner for our anniversary the following night. He said he’d make reservations.
The next morning, Dick and I woke up to falling snow. School was canceled and I begged him to stay home from work. But being his obsessive, firstborn self, he pressed on. I watched him cleaning off his car, and wondered if he was as energetic as he seemed, or if it was only his eagerness to escape. He’d been sweet and understanding last night, but I sensed him pulling back into his shell again, turning away from the ugly truth that we’d faced together last night—that I could die and we were terrified of losing each other.
I sipped my second cup of coffee and watched from the doorway as Dick’s shovel made repeated stabs around each tire to set it free. We used to love to watch the snow together.
Dick came in for a quick kiss goodbye, then left, his footprints crisply outlined in the snow. He didn’t turn back. I decided to cheer myself with wrapping the presents I’d gotten him for our anniversary—a handsome leather wallet, which he really needed, and a favorite picture of the kids, which I’d enlarged and framed for his office.
Dick phoned as soon as he got to the office to tell me that he’d made reservations at Charlee’s, my favorite restaurant, for that night. Then he added, “If you’re looking for something to wear, there’s a green dress in my suit bag.”
The warmth had returned to his voice, and I sensed a hint of the playfulness that had always made him so attractive to me. How silly I’d been since my surgeries and chemo—doubting him, when he didn’t deserve to be under suspicion, not for one second.
I tried out several outfits. A low-cut black V-necked sweater looked best—it showed off my new breasts. I still wasn’t entirely used to them, but I had to admit they looked good. I decided on tan wool pants and a pair of black leather boots to go with the sweater.
Later, when Dick picked me up for dinner, he said, “Well, look at you.” I wondered if he realized how long it had been since he’d given me that kind of affirmation.
That evening we sat in our favorite corner booth. The glow of candlelight cast slimming shadows on our faces. The music of a string quartet and murmurings from other diners mixed in with gently clinking tableware.
Dick gave me a single, polished amber stone set in a silver necklace. I was pleased when he told me that he’d had it custom-made. He said he returned to the jeweler three times to add tweaks and adjustments to make sure it was just what he had in mind. The necklace hung down almost to the enhanced cleavage that was still new to me. I looked up quickly from the deep V of my sweater. I wasn’t accustomed to such abundance. The skin of my breasts was still numb, and I could have been spilling out without noticing it. So I kept a careful check.
I wanted to say, We’re still us. Right? But although I desperately wanted to know the answer to that question, I kept it to myself. It would only start a testy conversation and lead to an argument.
Dick wore a passive, thin-lipped smile that was hard to read. In the wash of wobbling shadows I lifted my wineglass to my lips. I thought how, many years ago, there was a time when we were less self-conscious. One of us might have asked the playful, clichéd question:
“Happy?”
Then we both would have laughed. Now laughter was no longer easy, and every word had to be measured in advance. Still, I asked Dick the clichéd question, this time from my heart. “Happy, Dick?”
He nodded to say that he was. It struck me with fresh pain that I wasn’t sure of Dick anymore. I’d always felt that Dick considered me an asset. I was nice-looking and friendly, and once I’d gotten over my youthful awkwardness, he often had me join him for social occasions with important clients. I was good at softening Dick’s sharp edges—and Dick had a lot of those. I always laughed when someone in town asked me if I was the Carol Wall married to Dick Wall, the lawyer. Dick had pissed off so many people over the years that my typical response to that question was, “Well, I don’t know, tell me more. Was he for you, or against you?”
Dick hadn’t asked me along on a client dinner in a long time. Of course for months and months I wasn’t well enough to go. Now I wondered if my absence had become a habit. I’d gone from being an asset to a liability—or perhaps a cause for sympathy. I knew that Dick had told his colleagues and clients all the gory details of my illness and in my less charitable moments I accused him of making an avocation of being the cancer spouse, the long-suffering husband. It took all the strength I had to hold on to a vision of myself that was firm and solid, and not permanently shaken by cancer. And that included how I viewed myself as a wife. It shook me to the core to realize that it wasn’t enough for me to be a good wife. To hold on to my husband, I would also have to be a lucky wife to have chosen a man who would stick by me, no matter what.
At home, I opened more wine and Dick unwrapped his gifts. He especially loved the picture of our children.
I leaned over his shoulder, looking at it. “This is really a handsome group, don’t you think? Those are all the children I’m going to have. I’m not so sure about you, though. You may not be finished yet.”
Instantly, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.
Dick looked at me with a wounded expression. “With you, no one can win. When you found the dress, I could defend myself. But how can I take responsibility for something that may or may not ever happen? You may outlive me. All I have to do is come home late from work and you accuse me of avoiding you, or for God’s sake, having an affair. You’re mad at everyone. You’re pissed at the people who sent you sentimental cards when you were sick and you’re pissed at those who didn’t send cards at all. Are you the only perfect person in the world? Are you some kind of saint because you have cancer? This is not my fault.”
I was stunned, and I felt the velocity of our emotions increasing all around me, as if I’d fallen from a cliff but hadn’t hit the ground yet. “When did things start to change? Was it the first diagnosis, or the second? The surgeries, the complications, or the chemo? Something’s wrong,” I insisted. “I’m not crazy to feel this way.”
Our argument continued up the stairs, my footsteps pounding out a jagged rhythm on each wooden step. Dick followed me, telling me that I was in fact crazy. I replied by calling him a “rotten bastard,” rage erupting inside me with a force that frightened me. I yanked the sheets and blankets from our king-sized bed and piled them on the floor. I pounded the mattress with my fist. Dick snagged my wrist and held on tightly.
“Let go!” I said, but he ignored me. “Are you sorry you married me?”
“No,” he said. “Are you?”
His gaze was unwavering. It was one of the first things I loved about him, back in high school when he was willing to take a stand for something that was right, even if it meant he would be unpopular. Our sadness was like a broken wafer, half of it in his hand, half in mine. We each had our portion, and our ability
to bear it was a far more meaningful token of our love than any of the happy talk we’d shared in less troubled, less tested times. I started to weep, considering all the ways I loved him. I prayed he felt the same for me. I wondered how I could ever be sure.
Later, I was calm enough to realize that no one could ever be sure. And I knew that I shouldn’t still need the reassurance. I had thought I was cured of that kind of uncertainty years ago—I even remembered the exact moment when I thought I’d learned my lesson once and for all. We’d been married only a few years, and we were invited to a barbecue at a neighbor’s home. They seemed perfect in every way—perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect clothes. The food and table settings were like something right out of Southern Living. After dinner, the husband, an amateur photographer, brought out all these gorgeous pictures he’d taken of his wife in various tasteful poses. It all seemed so romantic, and I wondered to myself, Why doesn’t Dick take pictures of me? He could at least write me a poem. Of course, about a year later, Mr. Perfect was caught writing graphic letters to his teenage assistant and his marriage was over.
So yes, I knew better than to doubt Dick. But while some people might have pointed out to us that my illness should have brought us even closer together and deepened our relationship even further, I felt like our relationship was deep enough, thank you very much. I didn’t need cancer to make me love or appreciate Dick more. I already loved and appreciated him so much that it was almost more than either of us could bear.
Dick walked away from our argument, the way he always did after an emotional storm. It was for the best, I knew. I glanced in the mirror and was shocked to see how haggard I looked. My fingers sought the smoothness of the amber stone Dick had given me. Touching it, I was given the grace to know that Dick and I would soon be face-to-face again, with our apologies at the ready. I retrieved the covers from the floor and made the bed. I spotted my marble notebook on the nightstand, and, remorseful, I began to write:
Dearest Dick,
I hope you are receiving mail this evening. And even if you are not, please do give consideration to this writer who loves you quite a bit more than you may imagine. You were right. You have done nothing to cause my suffering or your own. Still, you have not yet weathered the experience of tucking yourself into bed each night and wondering if the sun will come up tomorrow for you.
This is the hell of it. Should I succumb to my disease, much will be lost. Yet until the end, I can’t help but be haunted by the specter of you putting your arms around another woman—probably younger, healthier, and a little less crazy than I.
When we were arguing, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d better do whatever it takes to make myself a little less crazy. How ironic it would be if my love for you actually made my world a sort of living death. Unlike you, I must bear some of the blame. Not everyone is perfect, like you are.
Rules for a happy marriage (over Time)
1. Kiss. A lot. The world can wait.
2. Clear your mind of your imaginary troubles, as the real ones need some neurons to bounce off of.
3. As to thoughts of “other people . . .” The spouse you pledged your heart to is an “other” person. Guard your words and actions in the sanctity of that.
With love,
Carol
I heard Dick coming back upstairs. His footsteps were measured, a sure sign that his anger had subsided, too. I tore out the page and stashed the letter under his pillow.
19.
Tomato Plants
I celebrated the first day of summer vacation by sitting on our front porch, wearing shorts and flip-flops. Rhudy accompanied Giles as he walked slowly through the yard with stilted steps. Giles had come back to work in the spring, and Rhudy was his constant companion, somehow sensing that Giles needed watching over.
Giles leaned on his cane, engrossed in his work. He seemed to be feeling stronger each day, at a pace that matched the increase in temperature and the blooming of the flowers.
Robert Maxim’s new wife wandered over, pointing toward their house and seeking Giles’s wisdom on a matter in her garden. I swore I heard the word “azalea,” and I winced.
As Giles spoke to her, I thought I saw a kind of resignation in the way he stood, and I hoped it was just my imagination. There was more gray threading through his hair, I noticed. He and I hadn’t spoken much about his health lately. He much preferred the close inspection of a blighted leaf, or a consultation on a slug that was causing damage, to a conversation that caused him to dwell on how sick he’d been. That only led to the question that plagued my thoughts but that I hadn’t dared to ask. It had now been almost two years since his stroke—would Giles ever regain what he’d lost?
Later that week, I agreed to pick Giles up from his routine doctor appointment. Returning home along the quicker back route I’d at last discovered, I was surprised when Giles abruptly called out, “Mrs. Wall, we must stop here.”
He was clearly tired, but grew more cheerful as he pointed me toward some handsome-looking produce at a roadside stand. I steered my van along the uneven shoulder of the road. My tires protested with a little squeaking sound as they rolled along the asphalt, and before I solved the problem of logistics (how to go around and help Giles out, among these knee-high weeds?), I heard a creaking. Giles had already opened his car door and pushed it wide with his cane. Then he struggled out with no help from me.
His spirits lifted even more while showing me some small tomato plants he wanted me to bring home to my yard. He reminded me how important the angle of the sun would be to whether the tomatoes thrived or not. Then he stopped himself. “In any case, you’re ready to be on your own,” he said.
“This will be my first attempt at growing food,” I said.
“Lok also is very good at cultivating,” he said. “She always has a little kitchen garden.”
I didn’t ask about Lok. The timing didn’t feel right—I sensed that it would only make Giles sad. Instead I held up one plant, and then another. He nodded and said that I had made good choices. They were healthy, green and sturdy, with nice branches, which would soon be set with tiny, star-shaped yellow flowers.
“These are the best ones, right?” I asked again, eager to meet his approval, as if I were his horticulture student and this might be weighed in my final grade.
As the vendor counted my change, I was alarmed to hear Giles stumble on the gravel. His hand went out against the makeshift produce stand, and it trembled under his weight. His mouth drooped slightly at one corner, as I’d noticed it sometimes did when he had pushed himself too far.
“What did the doctor say?” I asked, as if I had a right to know. “Are you okay, Giles?”
“I am fine,” he managed to answer.
I phoned ahead to find out if the boys were at home, and then I drove Giles there. They helped us as we struggled up the ramp and through the door. With his sons giving him support, Giles sank down onto the sofa, leaning back against the cushions with a sigh. Within minutes, he began to recover. His features looked more balanced, and he asked for some water. He even said he was hungry, which I took as a good sign.
Back home, I turned my attention to the assignment Giles had given me. In the stubborn soil of my backyard, I channeled the instructions he had demonstrated over time. I heard him telling me to space the tomato plants well, allowing for their doubling in size in twelve to fifteen days. For a stronger stem, I needed to prune soon after that. One should never prune or tie plants when the leaves are wet, he had told me. You don’t want them to mildew, rot, or break.
I set my gardening gloves aside to feel the warmth of the fertile soil between my fingers. It seemed like such a small thing, and yet it was monumental to me. I was suddenly reminded of Mama teaching me to ride a bike. In the first few sessions, she held on to the back of the seat, running along behind me. Then one day, when I turned around, I was astonished to see I’d left her far
behind.
I felt joyful and wistful in equal measures as I guided my tomatoes’ roots into the ground. So much had happened since the day I discovered Giles’s loving gift of white flowers in my yard. And today I had officially become a gardener.
• • •
The rest of summer passed all too quickly. Giles and I kept up our routine of seminars and visits to my “compound.” And from my kitchen window, I admired the growth of my thriving tomatoes. They were impossibly beautiful, yielding small red globes that seemed to glow in the afternoon sun.
The day before school started, I drove across town to place my very best tomato on Giles’s kitchen windowsill. I found him sitting in his wheelchair by the front window.
“Giles, you are truly a great teacher if you can help someone like me produce such beauty out of my backyard. I never dreamed I could do this.”
Giles smiled. “I have always enjoyed helping others discover the process, and I find myself learning each time I work with students.”
I sat down near him. I didn’t want to rush this visit. With school starting again, I might not feel so free again for a while. “I’ve always been curious about that picture on your bookshelf, Giles, the one of you in your white lab coat, and the students proudly holding those large cabbages. Was that taken in Kenya?”
“Yes. I was teaching at Egerton College, near Nakuru. The picture was taken on a three-acre demonstration unit we had in the horticulture department. I taught vegetable production, including field preparation, rotation, irrigation, pest control, management, and even marketing. The produce was sold at reduced prices to staff and faculty.” He held up a finger as if to emphasize the point he was about to make. “I always told my students that it is necessary to go out in the field. A book is just a start, and a laboratory project pales beside examination of the thing itself.”
I thought of the hundreds of students who must have heard this, marching along behind their teacher in his white coat. Giles kept his eyes fixed on the photo, and I wondered if he was pondering all the future accomplishments he’d looked forward to that day. I imagined how proud he must have felt to have already taken such a big step on his and Bienta’s journey toward their ultimate goals.
