The Man Who Loved His Wife

by Vera Caspary

  The entry showed rare insight. Fletcher poured another Bourbon, and thought about the incident in the kitchen. “She flaunts her . . .” he wrote, but got no farther because Elaine came in to tell him the soup was on the table.

  “I made you minestrone.” Her tone was humble.

  This time Fletcher was careful about locking up the diary before he left the room. Don came to dinner in black trousers and a white dinner jacket, which gave brilliant contrast to his dark eyes and ruddy skin. “Don’t you look distinguished!” cried Elaine.

  Fletcher said the soup was too salty and pushed his plate away.

  Cindy floated in late but grand in her beige organza, new sandals, green paste on her eyelids, pearly tips to her fingers, and the hauteur of a young empress. One would think she was a member of the two-thousand-dollar-gown class. She was piqued because Don had not noticed her new hairdo.

  “But I did, love. Indeed I did. The moment you got home.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  He had been binding Elaine’s thumb when Cindy and her father came into the house.

  “It’s very becoming, dear,” said Elaine, who wondered if she sounded like a mother-in-law. “Don’t you think so, Fletch?”

  “Looks like a haystack.”

  “But Daddy, it’s supposed . . . I mean . . . it’s casual. Bouffant casual. Really. All the girls are doing it now.”

  “Your father doesn’t see many girls.” Elaine spoke slowly as to a backward child. “He’s not used to these new styles.”

  “I’m used to them, and I agree with Dad, that hairdo’s downright ugly. How much prettier Elaine is without makeup and her hair natural.” The remark was ill-timed. Don had meant to show agreement with Fletcher, but he had made the error of praising Elaine. He saw that she had gone rigid and looked away lest Fletcher, aware of every glance and inflection, might misinterpret the flattery.

  Cindy noticed nothing. She was all wrapped up in her glamour and the anticipation of the party. Again she chattered about the affair, showing condescension to the pitiful older people who had to stay home and watch TV while gay youth mingled with the rich and famous, danced to irresistible rhythms. Smugly she offered compassion.

  Fletcher became more and more irritated by the arrogance. All that fed his daughter’s pride, the filmy dress, the new sandals, the pearls at her throat, the hideous arrangement of her expensively tinted hair, even the good-looking husband, had come from her father’s labors. The silly girl had neither gratitude nor humility, not even the grace to keep quiet about his affliction. On and on she went reminding him that he, too, might have caught a glimpse of this night’s glory if he had not been so rude to Nan Burke.

  “Go stick your flaming shish kebab!” His anger rose like the belch that it was, a sickening excrement of sound.

  “What, Daddy?”

  “We’re just a bit bored with the flaming shish kebab,” Elaine said with determined joviality.

  “You’re jealous,” Cindy teased, “because you’re not going to the party.”

  “Not at all,” Don put in quickly. “Different people have different tastes.”

  “Shut up, you phony!”

  This, too, erupted like vomit. Fletcher found it humiliating to have Elaine speak for him, but Don’s taking on the role of interpreter was galling beyond endurance. No doubt he and Elaine had discussed “poor Fletcher,” had agreed on a technique for handling the deluded, disabled husband. At one moment they exchanged conspiratorial glances, at the next avoided each other with conspiratorial indifference. It was quite obvious that Elaine admired the young man in his white dinner jacket. As though her husband did not own three white tuxedoes; as though he had not taken her to Bermuda and Jamaica and Palm Beach for winter holidays and in the summer brought her to parties in Greenwich and Oyster Bay.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Was that the best reply Don could offer? With all of his prep school and university and family background, he showed no more spirit than a kindergartner. If anyone had ever called Fletcher Strode a phony—and at Don’s age—the answer would have been a fast one in the puss. At twenty-nine Fletcher Strode had not owned a white dinner jacket, but he had supported his mother and sister, married a demanding woman, made and lost a fortune, and started a second. Until he was laid low by illness he had worked for every dollar he had ever spent. He did not deserve to be patronized by his daughter, pitied by a punk, deceived by his wife.

  Elaine and Don tried to cover the empty silence with chitchat. It was hardly better than Cindy’s nonsense. For want of something more intelligent, these college graduates discussed the movie that was to have its first showing that night. Elaine hoped it would be good. She did so admire the star. “He has such unique male vitality.”

  “Terrific. Loads of sex appeal,” cried Cindy. “Almost as much as Don.”

  What the hell was so unique about it? Fletcher’s mouth opened in preparation for a lion’s roar. Not even a mouse’s squeak emerged. Fury jagged through his body in electric flashes. He struck the table. Silver and dishes rattled. He raised his fist again, pulled back in a mighty effort at control. With the correct technique, a long intake of air into the esophagus and his tongue in position, he prepared for speech.

  “I can’t let you have the money.”

  The words came out clearly yet the faces of his audience were as blank as if he had not articulated each syllable. Once more he went through the routine and this time, since the tones were all equal and could not show feeling, he used gesture and facial contortions for emphasis. His fist swung up once more, his eyes narrowed, a fierce scowl wrinkled his brow. “I am not giving you that five thousand dollars.”

  They understood. “Oh, Daddy.” Cindy winked back tears that threatened her mascara. Elaine spoke as tragically as if her dearest wish had been denied. “Can’t you possibly? Five thousand isn’t so much to you.” She turned, soft-eyed, to spend her sympathy upon the younger man.

  Breeding and discipline showed in the composure with which Don accepted disappointment. The stoic silence enraged Fletcher. At Don’s age, possessed of a healthy voice, he would have shouted and fought back. With all the force he could command, he committed speech:

  “You think I’ve got money to throw around? Let him go out and earn it like I did. Or do you girls think he deserves it for his unique sex appeal?” Without inflection, the voice failed in irony. His audience faced him blankly. One would think the words had not been uttered.

  “God damn you . . . parasites.”

  Fletcher’s ear, tuned to the voice of his mind, caught it. The others heard nothing. No sound had come out. Emotion had destroyed control. They saw his writhing lips and waited.

  Dumb anger whipped up fury. Why had he been so cursed? He, Fletcher Strode, who had worked hard all his life, taken responsibility, proved his usefulness on earth? The three of them stared like hicks before a sideshow freak. He tried again. His heart pounded, his head throbbed, his throat ached with the strangled sense of helplessness. Tears welled up. Before they could gape at the final disgrace, he sprang up and left them.

  Elaine did not hurry to offer comfort. Probably she preferred to console Don. From the den Fletcher heard guarded murmurs. Shortly afterward Don and Cindy drove off in the car that Fletcher Strode’s generosity had provided. The rattle of china, followed by an avalanche pouring through the dishwasher, told him that Elaine was in the kitchen. Once more Fletcher turned to his diary. He read words, but the phrases and thoughts that had filled him with pride had become meaningless marks on paper. Where was Elaine? Time had passed, the dishwasher had quit churning, but she had not come to find him. The house had never been so quiet. Outside, a rising fog had silenced birds and crickets. A strange weight pressed upon him, the sense of muteness. To hear sound he beat both fists upon the desk. He was neither deaf nor dead. Death is silence. He beat the desk again with the fury of relief.

  Life returned with the rustle of silk in the hall. He pulled himself up in the desk
chair, seized his pen, and pretended to be busy. “Fletch, dear.” She had painted her mouth and contrived a smile. “What did I hear? I was afraid you’d become angry again. Please, darling,” she used the word shyly, “don’t keep hurting yourself.”

  Don’t be angry! Why not, for God’s sake? You tell me he’s not your lover, but I’ve got eyes in my head. And a good pair of ears. What am I to think when I hear you bragging about his sex appeal, showing off your shameless passion? Expect me to support him, don’t you? Reproach me for not showering money on your gigolo. All in his mind. From his lips came only broken sound. He had lost control, become as mute as when he lay in the hospital bound down by clamps and tubes, helpless.

  Elaine hurried around the desk to touch him with gentle hands. “Darling, please, please don’t try so hard. Just relax and—”

  He pushed her off. “Don’t touch me, you whore.”

  This, too, was merely mouthed. She did not hear the words. Only his movements rebuffed her. Just the same, she tried to soothe him. “Don’t get panicky. You’re too emotional. When you’ve calmed down a bit, you’ll be able to talk.”

  He seized her shoulders and whirled her around so that she could see his lips. Their movement and a nasal whisper brought forth a word.

  “Whore!”

  She had come to offer remorse, to soothe him with tenderness. Instead she flared, “If that’s how you feel, I’m leaving. I’ve withstood enough, I’m through.” At its peak, her fury collapsed. His wounded animal look defeated her. “Tell me you didn’t mean that.” She offered the memo pad and a pencil.

  He backed away.

  She went on, “You can’t believe it’s Don. Your daughter’s husband. You know I’d have nothing to do with him. Tell me you didn’t mean that.” Once again she thrust the memo pad toward him.

  He made no effort to answer. The silence was piercing and endless, like acute pain. She thought of the pills hidden in her jewel case. “All right, it’s my fault. I hurt you. Unforgivably. But please,” she begged as for a small favor, “believe me, Don was never my lover.”

  Fletcher took hold of her shoulders, his fingers like hot claws digging into her flesh. He jerked her close to him. His lips moved but no sound came forth.

  Elaine read the question in his face. “He wasn’t important. Someone you don’t know. Just a terrible moment, an impulse. I never want to see the man again as long as I live.” Guilt compounded the lies. Her flesh betrayed her by turning red. She twisted out of the mental claws. Fletcher caught her in flight and struck out with his fist. She reeled backward, recovered balance and, mute too, stared at him in shock. Both hands protected the injured jaw.

  He was paralyzed, his body no less impotent than his voice. Often, when his heavy hand had come down upon her in the play of love, Elaine had protested that he did not know his own strength. Fletcher Strode had made many mistakes in his life, committed not a few sins, but he had never before struck a woman. He knew that there were men, many wellborn and educated, who habitually beat up women. He had always thanked God that he was not that type. He could not look at Elaine, who stood there with both hands protecting the injury and her eyes flashing with justified fury. He wanted to speak, to say he had not meant to hurt her, to beg her not to leave him. It was less the physical handicap that kept him from it than his stubborn, rockbound pride.

  She ran off. The rustle of her silk petticoat died away. Fletcher barely noticed. To appease his conscience he grasped at the vision which did not, this time, show the face of the unimportant lover, but only the tangle of limbs accompanied by sighs and purrs, blended gasps, the outcry of consummation.

  Tears moistened burning eyes. He was crying. It was unthinkable . . . he, Fletcher Strode. He tried to exorcise self-pity by thinking of sums added daily—stocks, real estate holdings, industrial investments, bonds, and bank accounts. Bitterness would not be bribed. Elaine, the fair, Elaine, the lovable. He heard his voice, the old strong voice of Fletcher Strode, heard echoes of raucous laughter, and deliberately revived the vision, watched the embrace tighten, heard the sighing, moaning, singing out of joy in love. He knew the name of her unimportant man. There were not many lovers in Elaine’s life these days. Surely she would not squander herself upon the delivery boys who came to the door, not the clerks with whom she flirted while she questioned the ripeness of melons. The red-haired doctor was not an unimportant lover; he was pale, stringy, thin, Jewish, but not unattractive, and what was more important to Elaine, he was a man who could talk to her about things that were Gothic or ambivalent or nonobjective. Irrelevantly Fletcher recalled a night, shortly after he had started his diary, when he had asked Elaine if she had ever questioned the meaning of life. “Doesn’t everyone?” Her tone had snubbed him. “When you’re a sophomore it’s the burning question.”

  Fletcher Strode had never been a sophomore. At sixteen he had left school and become an errand boy, at eighteen he was a salesman, at twenty-three a success. His mind had been filled with schemes and tactics. He had never questioned his purpose in life because he had known it was to make money. Profit had been habit and reflex. His mind had not been permitted the luxury of abstract thought. And his reward was a wife who snubbed him as though he were no more than a sophomore. How much did the red-haired doctor make a year when he was twenty-two? Could that skinny highbrow, with all of his education, think more deeply than Fletcher Strode? If Elaine were to read her husband’s diary, she would recognize the quality of his meditations.

  He returned to his desk, found his favorite entry:

  Evil is in the air around us. Look at those nearest you. Every soul contains every sin. In the hidden self a murderer waits . . .

  And:

  When I used to sing in church I believed in good and evil. Nowadays it is the style to say evil is sickness. Where has goodness gone to? Is the modern world just a big hospital?

  And:

  When you defend what’s yours you have got to destroy something. It can be the very thing you are trying to defend.

  He could no longer hypnotize himself by rereading his profoundest ideas. Pride had deserted, too. The diary provided no more solace than the Bourbon. Nothing could console him. There was no peace on earth for Fletcher Strode.

  It would not do to let her see him with red eyes and moist cheeks. He rubbed at his face, refolded his handkerchief, thrust it back into his pocket neatly, locked away the diary, turned out the lights, checked the doors. Performing these small duties, he became himself again, master of the house, and reflected upon his thoughtfulness in leaving a light lit in the hall for Don and Cindy.

  He walked along the corridor aggressively so that Elaine would hear him. Her door was shut. Underneath he saw a pencil of light. He stopped there, waiting to be asked to come in. In other days after disagreement and a loss of temper, they had both shown contrition, sought forgiveness, and found it in each other’s arms. No quarrel had been allowed to last beyond bedtime. His standing there, meekly waiting for her invitation, showed the depth to which Fletcher Strode had fallen. “I am a cuckold,” he cackled, “I am a cuckold. Fletcher Strode!”

  His voice had returned, but he was too involved in contradictions to notice this minor miracle. He loved her, he hated her, he needed her, he never wanted to look into her eyes again. Certainly she had heard his footsteps, had noted the pause, had deliberately ignored his presence at her door. She would never forgive the blow, would forever loathe the sight . . . and the sound . . . of him. Since he had been forced to give up so much else, she was all he had, the only thing that made his life endurable.

  She had threatened to leave him. If, by God, she deserted him, he would end it now. There would be no more vacillation. Every day he counted the pills hidden in the riding boot.

  On the other side of the door Elaine waited, knowing that he stood there, humble and indecisive, this man who had never in his life wavered in decision. She had but to speak a word and he would open the door, bare his remorse, reaffirm love. She was afraid.
Of what? “I love him.” The words had no power. Her jaw throbbed, every nerve end twitched. After a while she heard him walk away. His steps were slow and heavy as though he carried a great load.

  8

  THE SKY RUMBLED, THE HOUSE QUIVERED, THE earth shook, windows rattled. Elaine was awakened but not alarmed; the breaking of the sound barrier was no more startling than any other of the daily shocks. Fire and police sirens, bloody accidents and hairbreadth escapes on the highways, the testing of civil defense alarms, motor horns, and Muzak had become the ordinary sounds of modern living. The explosion shuddered to silence. In its wake Elaine heard a voice. Or was the sudden frantic cry a fragment of a dream so terrifying that consciousness had driven it back into the cave of the unremembered? She felt bound to the bed, sodden. Last night, in despair, she had swallowed two sleeping pills from Fletcher’s hoard. Her limbs seemed not to belong to her body. Her jaw throbbed.

  “Elaine!” The voice was Cindy’s. She flung herself into the room. “Something terrible. Daddy—”

  Elaine threw off the blankets, leaped out of bed. Cindy followed her along the hall, saying that the telephone had wakened her, that no one had answered until she had dragged herself out of bed. It had been a long-distance call from Daddy’s broker in New York. He had commanded her to wake her father. “Some stuff about stocks, he wanted to answer a wire Daddy sent yesterday. He said it was more important than letting Daddy sleep.” By prattling about details, Cindy avoided the unspeakable truth.

  In Fletcher’s room the curtains were still drawn. Cindy had switched on the ceiling lamp. It threw cruel light upon the bed. Fletcher lay on his back. The body was covered to the hips with a sheet. His powerful, tanned torso was bare. White against the dark flesh was the triangle of porous cloth that protected the opening at the base of his throat.