Unwilling Wife

by Renee Roszel

  He sagged imperceptibly against the door frame. “Me? Not comfortable?” he responded as steadily as his physical condition would permit. “Why? Don’t I look comfortable?”

  2

  “What are you doing now?” David asked, his patience ebbing fast.

  Gina emerged from the bedroom closet with an armload of bedding. “I’m getting everything I’ll need out of your bedroom so that I don’t have to come back in here tonight.”

  He pursed his lips. Gina could tell he was perturbed. He always pursed his lips in a last-ditch effort to keep from saying something unpleasant. She inched carefully past him as he leaned against the doorjamb. “Go ahead and say it, David. It can’t make things any worse between us.” She dumped the bedding on the couch. “But if you’re going to stand there looking like a flounder, you’ll have to shout it, because I plan to fix myself some dinner.”

  She flung herself away from him into the kitchen, her shredded jeans leaving little of her hips and long, shapely legs to the imagination. David’s eyes narrowed. Who was this braless woman in the lacerated clothing? Certainly not Gina Baron, his compliant wife.

  He hadn’t moved when she began to bang pots and pans around. Somehow the cacophony of noise she was setting off roused him from his befuddled stupor. Here he was, with his wife, but separated from her by a stupid piece of electrician’s tape! No one back at AEI would believe this. Damnation! He didn’t believe it. With renewed determination, he walked into the kitchen. “I haven’t eaten all day,” he announced over the noise. “What are you having?”

  She looked askance at him. Ignoring his question, she asked, “May I get something out of the refrigerator? It’s on your side.”

  He scowled. “Get whatever you damn well please. The divided house was your idea, not mine.

  She crossed the line. “I’m having a bacon-cheeseburger, hash browns smothered in catsup and a double-chocolate shake.”

  His laughter was sudden and unexpected.

  With her arms loaded with the makings, Gina glanced over at him, her face glowering. “What was that for?”

  He sobered quickly enough. “You are joking. Aren’t you?”

  She crossed back over to her side and dropped the ingredients carelessly to the counter. “I never joke about bacon-cheeseburgers.”

  He walked to her, or at least as close as the dividing line would get him. “Honey. The cholesterol. On your last checkup you had a reading of 197. You really need to watch—”

  “Don’t call me honey, and don’t quote cholesterol to me. If you don’t like watching me pack my arteries with fat globules, then go back to Boston!” She ripped open the cellophane on the hamburger and began to fashion patties with the zest of a boxer pummeling a defenseless opponent.

  After the meat had been beaten into two patties and they were sizzling in their own grease, plus the grease of four strips of bacon, David asked, “Do you have any chicken?”

  “No.” Back on her side of the kitchen, Gina glopped ice cream and chocolate syrup into a blender and turned it on.

  “Any fish?” he shouted over the loud whirring.

  “No.” She crossed to his side and flipped a patty. “And I don’t have any tofu or unprocessed bran, either.”

  “Do you have anything I can eat?”

  She eyed the spatula in her hand and muttered, “Don’t tempt me or I might just feed you this!”

  A short time later when she’d turned off the blender and poured its contents into a large glass, she heard him clear his throat. He was trying to control his temper. She’d never tested the limits of David’s wrath before, and this was proving to be a very interesting experiment. Gina wondered how long he could continue to put up with her antics before he’d explode and kill her. No, she decided, David wasn’t the explode-and-kill-a-person type. He was the soul of reason. The reigning king of prudence. He would try to calmly and reasonably dissuade Gina from her wayward path. Exploding—for David—was out of the question. Well, she would just see how far he could be pushed. Maybe, when he reached the point of exploding, he’d realize, at last, that he would never again be in control of Gina Johnson Baron and that he might as well leave.

  She heard him pass behind her toward the refrigerator. As she turned the popping bacon, she eyed him covertly. His long, lean body was bent almost double as he scanned the crowded contents. He looked grim and she smiled. There wasn’t a green thing in there—nothing fibrous, if you didn’t count the chocolate-milk carton—and nothing that would be caught dead within a square mile of a health-food store.

  “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a plastic tub.

  “Penicillin,” she quipped. “I grow my own. But, I think it was beef gravy two weeks ago.”

  He made a disgusted face, putting it back. “I’ll pass.”

  “It’s green—well, gray-green, anyway. You’re always harping on eating green things.”

  “Very whimsical,” he muttered, renewing his search on a lower shelf. “Don’t you have any lettuce or tomato for that hamburger?”

  “No. They’re vegetables.”

  “Actually, a tomato is a—”

  “Don’t say it!” She held up the metal turner in a threatening gesture.

  He stood, eyeing her skeptically. “Or what? You’ll spatula me to death?”

  Disgruntled, she turned back to her burgers and muttered. “It’s a thought.”

  He opened the refrigerator freezer and examined the frosty occupants minutely, finally opting for the lesser of numerous evils. “Do you mind if I have these frozen fish sticks and some chocolate milk?”

  She shrugged. “As long as you pay me back.”

  “I’ll go shopping tomorrow. Is the nearest town Maryvale?”

  “Yes.” She flopped a dripping burger onto a bun and David flinched at the sight. As she dumped the frozen hash browns into the grease, she said, “Don’t tell anyone who you are. I prefer to keep our personal problems personal. Maryvale’s a small town and I’d like to become involved in civic activities—without the cloud of scandal.”

  “Scandal? We’re married, dammit!”

  “Barely,” she countered. “And I don’t care for the nice people of Maryvale to know about—your visit.”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m just passing through and I got the munchies for a little snack—two or three raw chickens, several pounds of fish, all manner of vegetables and a chunk of tofu to tide me over until I reach the Oregon state line?”

  “Works for me.” She turned back to her burger, slapping a slice of cheese on top of the meat and bacon. A hefty dollop of mayonnaise finished it off.

  She added her hash browns and doused them with catsup. Obviously appalled, David tensely asked, “Do you have any vegetable cooking spray?”

  “No. And the oven’s on the blink. Clute, at the hardware store, has the part on order.” Gina eyed him with disdain. “For pete’s sake, David, just this once try living on the edge. My leftover grease is hot. Use it.”

  When his fish sticks were done, he joined her at the table, on his side. “How are they?” she asked, knowing by his face that he would rather be eating shoe leather dipped in gasoline.

  “Fine,” he mumbled.

  “I thought you were going to have some chocolate milk.”

  “Changed my mind. Water goes better with mystery-fried-fish parts.” He looked up at her, his eyes somber. “Gina, this is no good.”

  “Don’t blame me,” she shot back defensively, understanding instinctively what he meant but avoiding discussing it. “You cooked the stupid fish.” His expression was so dispirited that it made her greasy burger hard to swallow. She looked down at her plate, vowing not to allow his expression to taunt her. It wasn’t her problem that he didn’t want this divorce. It was his. He would just have to deal with it.

  “You know I didn’t mean the damned fish.”

  “You’d better mean the damned fish, because there’s nothing else for us to talk about.” Suddenly losing her taste for
bacon-cheese burgers, she dropped the remainder of her second burger to her plate. “Please go away. Your being here looking woebegone at me won’t do either of us any good.”

  “My leaving won’t do us any good, either. I left you alone for a month and that did nothing but harm. Look where we are now.”

  “We’re nowhere. I’m somewhere, though. I’m starting to live my own life.”

  “For how long?” he scoffed, eyeing her plate with repugnance. “If left to your own self-destructive devices, you’ll have a stroke.”

  “At least it’ll be my decision!” she retorted, jumping to her feet. She grabbed up her plate and glass and left him staring after her as she dumped the leftovers into the trash. “I’m going to bed!” she declared, stamping out of the kitchen.

  David, his jaws clamped to keep from saying anything he’d regret, tore his gaze away from her and stared down at his dismal dinner. Gina was going to bed—on the blasted couch! His lips twisted bitterly. And he’d thought the fish had left a bad taste in his mouth!

  GINA WAS AWAKENED the next morning by the sound of the front door closing. Her eyes flew open, but momentarily she was fuzzy-headed about where she was and why. “Who is it!” she called, sitting up quickly only to cry out and grab at her lower back before slowly and agonizingly lowering herself to the couch.

  “Damn!” she heard David’s familiar voice growl, and a moment later he was kneeling beside her, his chest bare and glistening with moisture. She blinked away to stare up at the ceiling. Her teeth bared in pain, she demanded, “Where have you been?”

  “Jogging along the beach—it’s your back, isn’t it,” he asked, his voice concerned.

  A traitorous whimper escaped her lips and she nodded very slowly.

  “Want me to rub it?”

  She shook her head, continuing to stare at the ceiling. Her back felt like someone had stabbed her with a pitchfork.

  “Gina, this is no time to be proud. I know what to do.”

  “No,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and began to inch her way up to a sitting position. Her life flashed before her and the idea of dying seemed almost pleasant. When she was sitting upright, she strangled a moan.

  “Don’t do this,” David admonished gently. “Do you have any pain pills?”

  “Go away,” she ordered, her voice raspy as she pushed up to stand. She wasn’t sure she was totally straight, but she hoped David didn’t notice.

  “Hell, Gina,” David persisted, “you look like a poor imitation of a lower primate. For your own sake, let me help you.”

  She inched toward the bedroom with slow, agonizing steps. “No, thanks, Tarzan. This cheetah just wants to take a shower. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

  He shook his head at her stubbornness. “Make it a hot bath. Try to relax.”

  “I’d be relaxed if I’d had my own bed,” she reminded him, her voice strained with her effort to show no pain.

  He frowned, unable to find any argument. They both knew it was her own willfulness that had driven her to the couch, but rehashing that would do no good now. As her hunched form disappeared into the bedroom, he offered, “What if we divide the bed? Would you share it with me, then?”

  The slamming of the bathroom door was his only answer.

  Thirty minutes later, Gina emerged from the bathroom, having taken his suggestion, though she would not have admitted it under torture. She amended that—more torture. David was sitting on the edge of the freshly made bed, hunched forward, his elbows on his spread knees. He was still clad in nylon jogging shorts and his running shoes. He looked thinner than he had a month ago, but not so thin that his muscular attractiveness was lessened. When she came out, clad in a short terry robe, he looked up. His lips were pursed, his eyes contemplative.

  She had taken her prescribed medication when she’d gone into the bathroom, and after the hot soaking, she was able to stand almost straight. With careful steps, she moved around the bed toward her dresser, retrieving fresh panties.

  “I have an idea,” David offered.

  “I’m sure you do. I, however, am through being interested in any of your flashes of genius.”

  She was walking slowly and carefully back toward the bathroom when he said, “Remember It Happened One Night?”

  She didn’t face him, but kept her eyes on her objective—the bathroom door. “Oh, please. The doctor said it was a complete fluke that that sexual position you got us into seemed to help my back. So, don’t try to talk me into anything—”

  “Gina,” he cut in, sounding weary, “I was referring to the old Clark Gable movie where he and Claudette Colbert divided their bed with a rope and a blanket. Would you come back to this bed if I divide it like that?”

  She stopped her plodding and turned to eye him with distrust. “I don’t know a blanket in the world capable of keeping you at bay, David—not when you’re—Well, don’t try to con me.”

  He sat up, appearing offended. “I don’t attack women, Gina—not even my own wife. You may not realize this, since you’ve never been a hesitant participant in our sex life, but I’ve never forced women into having sex with me, and I certainly don’t intend to start with you.” He unfolded himself to his full height to look down at her. “What do you say?” he asked gravely. “Would you come to bed if I divide it?”

  Mutely she met his eyes. After a long minute, she nodded rigidly, deciding she had no choice if she planned to walk erect on a permanent basis.

  Averting her gaze, she retreated into the bathroom to dress, missing his faint, half smile.

  IT WAS FOUR O’CLOCK in the afternoon when David returned grocery laden, from the small logging community of Maryvale. When he entered the lighthouse, he was met with the most noxious odor that he could ever recall smelling. He went to the kitchen, where the smell was strongest, and was rewarded by the sight of his wife, again braless, wearing a snug T-shirt and the same lacerated jeans. This time the phrase across her back read: A Woman’s Place Is In The House—The Big White One In Washington, D.C.

  The major difference in her appearance was that her rich brown hair was wadded up in curlers and she was applying some sort of toxic chemical to each dark mass.

  “Oh,” she said, looking up from her bent position over the sink. “That didn’t take very long.”

  “What are you doing?” David demanded, realizing he hadn’t asked that question as many times in the last ten years as he had in the past twenty-four hours.

  “Perming my hair.”

  “But your hair was beautiful the way it was.”

  She leaned over, letting out a little moan. Her back was rebelling at being bent at this unnatural angle-especially since she’d already mistreated it by sleeping on the sagging couch.

  “David?” Gina remarked through clenched teeth, preparing him for yet another of her tests. “Do you recall that time at the physics award dinner, when you were working late so you asked me to join you there?”

  He put his two sacks of groceries on the counter beside the stove and began to put the staples away. “Last November? Yes.”

  “And do you recall how my hair looked that night?”

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  “So do I. It was curly. I’d experimented with a curling iron. But what did you do when you saw me?”

  “I was concerned,” he defended.

  “You looked shocked and you asked me if I’d reported to the police the description of the bum who’d mugged me. My Lord, do you have any idea what that sort of reaction to a new hairdo has on a woman’s self-esteem?”

  “I was worried, Gina. You looked—well, a little undone. I didn’t know that was a—style.”

  “Well, I had to go through the whole evening enduring your pained look.” She made a squinty face, imitating it. “I hate that look. You give a good impression of Mick Jagger when he wails he can’t get no satisfaction! It’s an anguished, hostile look, and I hate it!”

  “Who’s Dick Jagger?
” David asked, confused. “Is that the Jagger that teaches ancient Mediterranean civilizations at Boston College?”

  She squirted more liquid on her head and sighed impatiently. “Never mind. What I’m trying to say is, my hair will always look like I’ve been mugged now. So, just don’t bug me about it.”

  “Will it always smell like that, too?” he asked morosely, putting groceries away without much interest in where they went.

  “I wish it would. Maybe it would drive you away.”

  He stopped in the act of putting a jar of bran in the refrigerator and turned to look at her petulant profile as he asked, “How can you hate me, Gina, when I love you so much?”

  She aimed a bleak glance at him. “I don’t—hate you. You’ve done your best. I’ll never forget, just after we were married, when you took me to my first opera. My folks had been plain folks, without much money. And there you were, my Prince Charming, buying my gown, all the accessories, telling the hairdresser how to do my hair. I was in complete awe of you, and of the whole, exciting experience.” She paused, frowning sadly. “But, David. I can’t go on being a fairy princess forever. That only happens in fairy tales. In the real world, it’s boring. Real people want to make their own decisions—even wives. To be brutally frank, I can’t stand the idea of being your little—’thing’ anymore.” She had to stop and grab a towel as solution began to drip down her face.

  “You’re not my thing,” he objected.

  “That’s true—now, anyway. I wish you’d get that through your head and go back to your precious students at Albert Einstein Institute and leave me be.”

  He watched her dab at her face, his mood darkening. Just as he was about to be forced to say something he knew he’d regret, the phone rang, saving him.

  “Could you get that, David?” she called, her voice muffled by the towel.

  Without any interest whatsoever in the phone, but realizing that a little distance might help, he walked into the living room and answered curtly, “What?”