The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

  —Hello, you say.

  —Hello. She bobs, her cheeks coloring.—Would you please help me?

  She produces a comb that has seen better days, hands it over, turns, and presents the back of her head. She might be twelve.

  —We’re supposed to wear braids, she says.

  —I see.

  —I forgot until Mrs. Wood reminded me. She said I have to keep my hair neat or I won’t be allowed a deviled egg.

  You nod.—That sounds like Mrs. Wood.

  —I’m not good at braiding. And I have never had a deviled egg.

  You take the comb.—Not to have had a deviled egg is a tragedy.

  The girl twists around and follows your movements with warm brown eyes. The flatulent sound of practicing tubas continues from the side room. Mrs. Wood has migrated into the kitchen to dispense wisdom to the cook. And time has slowed to the pace of—what? A snail. A stone. A snail glued to the underside of a stone, buried at the bottom of the ocean.

  This is how it is, this is what you have become: a volunteer at whatever sad place will take you. When they send you away—and they will—you’ll find another institution that gives women something meaningful to do. When you die someday, people will say: Marilyn Plageman braided the hair of orphans.

  That’s all right. That’s fine. You’ve moved on. Passed through. You’ve reached the other side of wishing life would make sense. You’re fine, perfectly fine, thank you.

  Each year on your son’s birthday, you think: Today he would have turned . . . three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Year nine was especially bad.

  Ten was as rough as could be imagined. Eleven you don’t remember. Twelve—you came down with the flu, which helped, because you couldn’t walk anywhere, were too feverish even to swivel your eyes left to right to take in the gold-patterned wallpaper. Sickness allowed you to stay in bed, which is all you want to do on this date anyway. Stasis is the temptation; it is the enemy.

  —It’s fine if you stay home, Henry said.

  But it’s not. You mustn’t. He should know this. You must fight each year, each time this day descends. You must not let the day vanquish you.

  You explained this resolution to Henry, and he seemed to understand, but then the next year he said the same exact thing, as if he hadn’t heard anything you’d said, as if he had completely forgotten your conversation from the year before. He sat on the edge of the chair, the skin beneath his chin starting to sag, the vulnerability of his flesh taking you by surprise, affecting you so much you had to turn your head.

  —I can’t stay in bed all day, you said.—Don’t you see?

  —But you’re not well.

  —I’m as well as I will be.

  Henry has gotten better on his own but doesn’t say how. You asked him about it a while back, a couple of years ago, it must have been.

  —How did you do it? you said.

  —Do what?

  It was late; he sat hunched at the kitchen table, knees bumping against the underside because they do not make tables for people with legs as long as his. He was eating salted peanuts and riffling through committee reports from the Richmond Property Owners Protective Association.

  —Get better, you said.

  —I’m not sure that I did.

  You pressed him.—No, you are better. You used to have no hope and now you have it.

  —I’m not sure it’s that simple.

  —I didn’t say it was simple, you said.

  —What, then, Marilyn?

  Your eyes felt drier than usual. Dry and gritty.—How do you do it? How do you get through? you asked.

  —Get through what?

  —Through the day. Make it through each day. How do you do it?

  He peered at you over his reading glasses.

  —I wasn’t aware we had a choice.

  Normally you two are not so direct. And yes, this is direct, at least for you. Normally you and Henry sail in and out of each other’s day, in and out of each other’s peripheral vision, peripheral marriage, gently and without jousting.

  A few hours later he resumed the conversation. In the parlor, he pulled your chair close, pulled it with you still sitting in it. He slid you away from the bay window, so that you lost your view of the curtains. He grasped your hands and raised them to his lips, kissed your fingertips, and urged:

  —We have to give thanks.

  —For what?

  —For the gifts of each day.

  —What are those? you shot back, wounding him.

  You felt guilty, but Henry has this effect.

  —I don’t always know what they are, he admitted.—The point is to keep searching. The point is we have to remain open.

  —Be more specific, you commanded.

  —More specific?

  —Yes.

  —All right, he said.—I’ll give you specific. I give thanks for you. Every day. Despite everything. For you. My wife. Marilyn the Impossible. Marilyn the Irascible.

  —Despite everything?

  —I give thanks for the way you clomp your boots in the rain. For the slenderness of your fingers. See?

  He held your hands up for you to take stock of yourself. The touch was kind. Not romantic.

  —My fingers aren’t slender, you said.

  —And for the way you rest your chin on your knees when you’re reading curled up in a chair and no one’s watching.

  —No, you replied, suddenly unaccountably lonesome, suddenly feeling yourself the object of pity.—I need you to be thankful for something that isn’t about me. Or you. I need a gift that’s outside us, that’s away from here, as far as a person can see. Find me one of those, Henry.

  And you rose, tripping over the hem of your dress, and swept out of the room.

  —What do you want? you ask, rotating the girl so she’s facing you. She might be older than you thought. A wiry thirteen.

  —What kind of braid, I mean. One or two?

  —Two, please, she whispers.

  —French?

  —Is that all right?

  —Of course. What’s your name, child?

  —Ida.

  The girl studies the floor, eyes huge. She’s not used to having her preferences consulted.

  —Ida. Tell me what kind of hairstyle you really want.

  —Like yours, she whispers.—Yours is swell.

  —I can’t remember what I did to my hair this morning.

  You reach up to pat your head. Your hair’s in a heavy twist at the nape of your neck, beneath your hat. Henry hates this hat. It’s sage green, velvet, and topped with a genuine Mexican merle. They sew the birds on everything these days, whole specimens, or at least the quills. A woman can’t buy a decent hat anywhere without a dozen feathers attached to it. Henry says San Francisco is becoming a city full of hats but without any egrets or herons.

  —Are you sure you want your hair styled like mine?

  —Yes, Ida says.—Yes, please.

  So she wants to wear her hair up; she wants to be a woman. Mrs. Wood won’t stand for it. That’s all the incentive you need. Gently you turn her again and begin combing out her tresses.

  —I used to braid my little sister’s hair every morning, you say.

  —You have a sister?

  —Yes. Her name’s Penny. She lives in Oregon now.

  You wait for it, for the inevitable question: How many children do you have?

  —I used to live in Sacramento, Ida says.

  A relief. She’s not going to ask.

  Year thirteen was mild, almost peaceful. You walked through the cemetery at the appointed time and, without thinking, reached for Henry’s hand. He searched your eyes and regarded you with such troubled perplexity that you dropped his hand.

  —It’s still me, you said.—Sorry to disappoint you.

  —Don’t talk that way, he urged.

  He walked you down an overgrown path, until a stench near the paupers’ graves overtook the clearing. He gave you a handkerchief to cover you
r nose and mouth. He wrapped you in his arms and hugged you, pressed you to him. You removed his arms and stepped away.

  If you are not able to be with your husband, to make love to him, if your desire has died, then surely his desire has died too. You expired together. You both went down with the ship. Correct? If your sex shrivels, his must shrivel too. You cannot permit yourself the thought that he might still be alive down there.

  The two of you wound up before a lookout point not far from where the strait connects the Pacific Ocean and the San Francisco Bay. The water resembled a pane of green glass. Shoreline to horizon awaited. You rested your head, fleetingly, against Henry’s arm and looked out at the strait. You could feel his intake and exhalation of breath; his lips brushed your hair. For a week afterward, you slept poorly.

  Year fourteen was worse than anything that had come before. You were headed nowhere, growing worse instead of better. But you couldn’t not go; you couldn’t not visit. If you don’t remember your son, who will? The only two people on this planet who can keep Jack Plageman’s memory alive are the same two people who can no longer keep each other alive.

  Year fifteen: You tripped on the lane leading to Jack’s grave; you twisted and nearly sprained an ankle. The pain helped. It distracted you from the blank unyielding sky. You stood, balancing on one foot, and clung to Henry for balance, the two of you alone together once again, alone as you always are on this day. The grave lay feet away. Coyote brush had tried to invade the garden just beyond Henry’s ridiculous granite angel. You could see the places where your husband had failed to vanquish the brush fully. Patches of wild thistle poked up. When you pointed out these areas to him, he said:

  —I guess your old mule is wearing out, Marilyn.

  You stayed longer than usual. When you returned home, Henry drank more than usual. He did not ask to lie down beside you. You lay in bed with your ankle elevated. Richard would keep you company; Richard was not allowed to leave the room.

  May 22 is hard on the dog too. Richard’s fourteen now. Sometimes he urinates inside. He cannot decide if he should stay in the front room or in the back, if he should ally himself with you or with Henry. He becomes immobilized on the porch steps, where you’ll find him halfway up or halfway down, eyes wet with panic. He will whine, unable to move. When he sees Henry, he’ll moan louder and fling himself up or down the remaining steps, nails scrabbling, until he reaches the landing: safe, ebullient, whew. Until the next time, whereupon the cycle begins again.

  You and Richard are pretty steady most of the time, pretty ordinary for 364 days out of 365. Does that help? Yes on most days. No on May 22.

  Lucy

  STONE STOPS IN THE CORRIDOR as the door to the pavilion closes. He turns to regard you. He’s out of place here, with his overalls and uncombed red hair. He’s rough-hewn.

  —What that doctor said? About you being a poor excuse for a mother? That wasn’t right. He shouldn’t of said that.

  He takes your elbow.—C’mon, let’s feed you something.

  Together you make your way downstairs to a second hallway streaming with natural light. This floor reeks of antiseptic solution and lemon. At the end of the hallway, the kitchen pavilion is airy and almost empty, with windows overlooking a courtyard, a green lawn precisely manicured, its shrubbery tasteful and trim: a private oasis for those who can afford it. A decorative fountain plumes at the end of the quadrangle. It’s the kind of place for a woman who walks around with a parasol.

  You can’t remember the last time you carried a parasol. Certainly not in the Outside Lands. The wind would take it.

  In the dining area, servers are setting tables for the noontime meal. Stone pulls one of them aside and prepares to order.

  —What do you want? he asks you. What’ll it be?

  Henry would have ordered two roast beef sandwiches.

  —A cheese and cucumber sandwich? you say; the words feel stilted.

  —Sounds good. Sounds like a very good plan to me. Waiter, two cheese and cucumber sandwiches, please.

  He points to a small table in the corner.

  —Here’s a spot. Ladies first.

  White linens drape the table, and a single yellow rose in a glass vase stands alone as a centerpiece. You seat yourself without allowing Stone to pull out a chair for you, without giving him an opportunity for chivalry. A poor excuse for a mother? Try a poor excuse for a woman.

  —Do you think about your wife when you’re with me?

  You posed this question to Henry once. Early on, in the first months. His hand lowered to the table, relinquished his fork.

  —I hadn’t until you brought her up.

  —How can you not think of her?

  —Because I’m with you. When I’m with you, Lucy, I think of you.

  You leaned forward, pushed aside the remnants of the meal you’d hastily cooked, stewed tomatoes and beans. With your thumb, you rubbed a speck of tomato off his chin.

  —And do you think of me when you’re with her? you asked.

  His eyes stayed calm, desolate, his contemplation steady.

  —Yes.

  —You sound unsure.

  —I try not to.

  —You try not to sound unsure, or you try not to think of me when you’re with her?

  Henry lowered his head, toed the tightrope.

  —Yes.

  Stone tears into his sandwich. It’s fancier than the ham rolls he packed in his lunch basket, the same basket he abandoned back at the pump station. The gulls must have devoured those rolls by this point.

  Behind him, kitchen workers push in and out of swinging doors, getting ready to serve lunch. Hospital workers in their crisply starched uniforms will gather soon for their repast.

  —See here, you say to him.—You’ve been extremely helpful—

  He cocks one eyebrow.—Never good when a woman starts with See here.

  —But I don’t want to inconvenience you more than we’ve already done.

  —There’s no inconveniencing. Not from where I sit.

  —No one’s watching the pump station.

  —Pump station’ll be fine for another hour. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll survive for you to beat it to death with questions another day.

  He’s smiling at you.

  You don’t have the concentration to look at this man. Let alone talk to him. You can’t string two sentences together. So much for working on being a reporter. What time is it? Your clock is still set to Henry. You memorized his routine ages ago. You wanted to be able to imagine what he was doing during all the hours and days you couldn’t see him.

  When it’s six in the morning, Henry’s rising. When it’s seven, he’s shaving and putting on coffee. By eight, on a normal day, he’s walking to his store. By half past, he’s behind the counter, waiting for customers, who ask advice. Everyone wants a piece of Henry Plageman. They walk into Plageman’s Hardware and General Merchandise, with its scuffed wood floors and crowded glass display cases, lean against the counters, and unburden themselves to him. A wife who won’t stop crying. A diagnosis: tumors mushrooming along the spine. Henry listens. He absorbs every word. He’s still a pastor. He’s just changed venues. He sells tambourines, castanets, veterinary medicines, tonics for digestive difficulties. Poultry netting, rat traps, electric rings for rheumatism, birdcages. What else? Box cameras. Lamp wicks. Almanacs. About the only thing Henry’s store doesn’t carry is buttons. If you can’t find what you want at Plageman’s Hardware and General Merchandise, Henry will order it for you.

  Right about now, he’s knee-deep in weeds, clearing refuse. The city cemetery is one of the few places where you can hold Henry’s hand in the open and not worry about being seen.

  But you’ve called a halt to all that. You have given May 22 back to him.

  Stone reaches for a tumbler and fills it with water from a pitcher. He sets it before you. In the glass, your reflection is visible. You’re washed out. Pale and peaked, your mother would say.

  —You look like
you’d rather be someplace else, Stone observes.

  —I need to be with Blue.

  —Course you do. But you’re wandering. You have a wandering look.

  If you give up Henry for good, then Blue forfeits him too. She grows up fatherless.

  —I was thinking about a place I used to visit, you say.

  —Good place?

  —I used to visit there every year. On this date.

  —Gravesite? Husband’s grave?

  You look at him, and he shrugs, a little embarrassed.

  —My ma used to do that, he offers.—My pa passed fifteen years ago, rest him, and she still shows up once a year at his grave. Doesn’t bring him flowers. Bakes him an apple tart. Ma’s losing her reason, demented as they come, but she still remembers once a year that Jimmy Senior needs his tart. She sets it out on the headstone, and the crows eat it.

  —I visit the city cemetery every May twenty-second, you say.—Or I used to.

  —The city cemetery? God Almighty. That dump?

  He helps himself to a swallow of water.

  —You interest me. You’re interesting, Lucy Christensen.

  He points at the sandwich you haven’t eaten.—Something wrong with your food?

  —Nothing’s wrong, you say.—It’s delicious. I’m sure of it.

  You slide the plate in his direction.

  —Lucy, Henry said that very first time.—I have a family. I have a wife.

  —I know, you said, and you stood on your tiptoes to reach him, on the carpet of mismatched hides.

  He stopped talking. His hands were hard and soft both.

  He kissed the top of your head, a fatherly gesture, and rested his chin there. For a minute you thought that would be all; that would be enough. Then he tipped up your chin and kissed you on the mouth. That was the moment you understood Henry Plageman would not be any one thing in your life. He would have to be everything. You would require of him both too much and not enough. There was no one else you could ask.

  The gas lamp snapped and smoked. The deer head thrust itself forward from the wall. That reminder of an untamed life cut short hung in your line of vision, behind Henry’s shoulder.