My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  I hear Renée when she unlocks the front door, but I don’t move. I don’t even open my eyes.

  I hear the bedroom door swing open, hear her unbuckle her belt and unzip her skirt, hear her pull off her skirt and her sweater. She opens and closes drawers in the dark, slips into a nightgown and then gets into bed.

  Sometime during the night, my hand finds its way to Renée’s hip. She doesn’t wake, and I keep my hand there.

  Her back is to me, and I try to remember what her face looks like, but can’t. Then, suddenly, I remember. I remember what she looked like on that trip to Sea World, when she held the fish over the tank, and I fall asleep, keeping my hand still on her hip.

  In the morning, I hear Renée calling to me from the kitchen.

  “Ham” she calls. “Ham, what happened to the bread?”

  And I call back, “What? What?”

  And she says, “The bread. What happened to the bread?”

  CHAPTER 14: SOMEONE FELL AND WE ALL LAUGHED

  Renée’s in the kitchen chopping vegetables like she’s playing the drums: chop-chop-chop-chop, chop-chop-chop-chop. I’m in the bedroom, but the sound of the chopping carries throughout the apartment. I walk to the kitchen and pour a glass of soda as Renée chops. Chop-chop. The toaster is still in the same spot where I’d left it. Renée doesn’t look up from her work, her fingers moving, chop-chop, and I return to the bedroom.

  A short time later, the doorbell rings. Before I can say anything, Renée calls out, “I’ll get it,” as if she’d been waiting for someone. She hadn’t said anything about company. I hear her say, “Hello,” then I head footsteps moving toward the kitchen. I can’t tell if they’re Films or Archeologies with her. Probably Films. Probably some of them from the party last night.

  Probably Guitar Walter.

  Guitar Walter, who had his hand on Renée’s waist like it belonged there.

  I take my wallet off the bureau and slip it into my pocket. I’m going to pick up a newspaper at the pharmacy and then watch a football game on television. Before I leave the bedroom, though, I hear a crash in the kitchen, and then a scream.

  It’s Renée.

  I race to the kitchen to find Renée sitting on the floor beside the toaster. There’s no mistaking her pain: it washes up in her face like high tide. I pick up the toaster and put it on the counter beside the cutting board.

  “She knocked it off the counter when she was reaching to get coffee from the cabinet,” Guitar Walter says. He sounds excited. “It hit her right on the foot. Right there, on the front.”

  Guitar Walter’s hands flutter. Claire is standing behind him with her hand over her mouth.

  I remain calm. I bend down and rub my fingertips over Renée’s ankle. A bone along her foot juts out like a broken umbrella rib, and Renée winces and pulls back.

  “It’s broken, Sweet Potato,” I say.

  And she says, “Are you sure?”

  And I say, “It’s too ugly not to be broken.”

  Renée licks her lower lip, then says, “God, Ham, it really hurts.”

  And I say, “You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” Then, to Guitar Walter, I say, “Give me a hand, will you?”

  Guitar Walter helps me lift Renée from the floor. She leans against me, keeping her injured foot an inch or so above the floor. It’s already turning purple-blue, like a piece of bruised fruit, and it’s begun to swell. I pull a chair away from the kitchen table and help lower her into it.

  “Now, Guitar Walter,” I say, “go out and open the doors to the car, will you?”

  He gives me a puzzled look, and I realize that I just called him “Guitar Walter” instead of just “Walter.”

  So sue me.

  I pull my keys from my pants pocket and hand them to Guitar Walter. Guitar Walter gallops out of the kitchen and nearly trips in the living room. We hear a clump-clump as he bumps against the recliner, and Renée and I smile at each other.

  “You should move that chair,” she says. “Someone’s going to break a leg on that someday.”

  And I say, “People don’t break their legs on chairs, Sweet Potato. They break them on kitchen appliances.”

  She grins at me.

  And I say, “I read that in a medical journal. Forty percent of all broken legs are caused by toasters. I think twelve percent are caused by blenders. Food processors are responsible for ten percent.”

  And she says, “What about refrigerators?”

  And I say, “That depends. Now, your regular refrigerator is responsible for six, maybe seven percent of all broken legs. If you’re talking about one of those models with the ice machines on the door, well, those are killers. Twenty, maybe twenty-five percent of all broken legs are caused by those things. They’re monsters. They really should be outlawed.”

  I realize that Claire hasn’t said a word. She’s standing against the wall, her hand over her mouth.

  “It’s okay, Claire,” I say. “It’s just an accident.”

  Walter returns. He’s out of breath. He says, “Where are you? Shouldn’t we hurry up?”

  And I say, “She’s not having a baby, Walter. Now, go get Renée’s blue coat from the hall closet. There’s no reason to panic. Let’s all stay calm.”

  Guitar Walter brings the coat into the kitchen, and I help Renée stand again and slip her coat on.

  Renée’s eyes are moist. “Are you sure it’s broken?”

  And I say, “I didn’t go to medical school for three years for nothing.”

  And she says, “Ham, you didn’t go to medical school.”

  And I say, “Medical school, high school—what’s the difference?”

  I wipe a teardrop from Renée’s nose, then lift her in my arms like a fireman. Her arms loop around my neck, and I carry her through the apartment and out to the car.

  Guitar Walter holds the car door open. “Can I help?” he says.

  “It’s okay,” I say, “she’s my girlfriend,” then slide her into the back seat and drive to the hospital.

  x

  Renée’s foot is broken, all right, just as I said. The doctor in the emergency room is a young black man with a receding hairline and an athletic build. He puts a cast on it and tells her to stay in bed for a few days. He gives her a pair of crutches and a prescription for pain killers, which I have filled at the pharmacy on the way home. If I’d remembered, I would’ve picked up a newspaper while I was there.

  I park the car in the parking lot, then carry Renée into the apartment, weaving through the living room and to the bedroom, and set her down on the bed. I’m careful not to bump her cast against the doorjambs or the walls. Claire keeps Renée company while Guitar Walter and I go to the kitchen with to make some tea. On closer inspection, Guitar Walter isn’t handsome at all. His nose is bony. His cheeks, too. He has the gangly, startled look of a teenager unsure what to do with his arms and legs. He folds his arms across his chest, then unfolds them, then folds them again. I’m making him very nervous, which is fine with me.

  “So, Walter,” I say, “do you just go to school, or do you work, too?”

  And he says, “I work.”

  And I say, “Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?”

  “Where I work we sell electrical supplies. Not electrical supplies like lamps and light bulbs, but supplies like wiring and conduit. Most of our clients are large construction companies right here in Atlanta.”

  And I say, “That sounds very interesting,” to be polite.

  He says, “It is. It really is. You know, when I first saw the advertisement for the job in the paper, I remember what I thought the company would be like: boring with a capital B. But it isn’t like that at all. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Someday I’m going to sit down and write a movie script about it, about all the funny things that happen at work. The hard part for me is that sometimes something comical will happen at work, and I won’t write it down right away, and then I’ll forget all about it. Sometimes, when I get home, I’ll tell my mom abo
ut the funny things that happened that day, and she won’t even laugh. She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, being from the South.”

  You live with your mother?”

  He nods his head. “I’m thinking about renting a place for myself. I did that once before, but then I moved back so my mother didn’t have to eat alone, which will give you a sinking feeling.”

  “I didn’t notice her at your party last night.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t there. She was out of town. Hell, she’d never let me have a party.” Guitar Walter tugs at the collar of his shirt with his middle and index fingers. “Want to hear something funny that happened the other day at work?” he says. Before I can answer, he says, “Bob Gaffrey, Nancy Syms, and I were engaged in a conversation when Cliff Whalen passed by. When he was a good ways away, Bob Gaffrey said, `Cliff Whalen’s so old that when he was in school they didn’t teach history.’ We all laughed and laughed when he said that, and Nancy Syms turned red. `Stop it,’ she said, `just stop it. I’m going to pee in my pants, I’m laughing so hard.’ Funny things like that happen all the time at work. They just happen right out of the blue.”

  I nod and look away, but Guitar Walter continues: “You know, one of the first people I met at work is named Wilson Downey, who has the cubicle next to mine. Wilson Downey is black, and he does crazy things that will make you laugh. For instance, sometimes I’ll be on the telephone talking to a customer, and he’ll stick his head over top of my cubicle and stick his tongue out or make a face at me so I’ll burst out laughing on the phone. And if you try not to laugh, you’ll just laugh louder. Also, sometimes Wilson Downey will pretend he’s sticking his finger up his nostril when he really isn’t. I’d like to have Bill Cosby play Wilson Downey in the movie. Bill Cosby was in some funny TV shows. He does some very hysterical things.”

  I’m beginning to feel ridiculous for having been jealous of this boy.

  Guitar Walter keeps talking. “Theresa Valvano has some very entertaining sayings tacked up on her bulletin board. One says, `The Floggings Will Continue Until Morale Improves,’ which is very ironic. Another says, `A Waist Is A Terrible Thing To Mind.’ Last year on my birthday, Theresa brought me a cupcake with a candle in it, and everybody stood around my cubicle and sang the song `Happy Birthday to You.’ Theresa Valvano looks like Shirley MacLaine, only with black hair and not red. After they finished singing, I said to Theresa Valvano, `Theresa, I can’t believe you remembered my birthday.’ To which she replied, `I remember everything. My mind’s like a steel trap. Sometimes it even sets off the metal detectors at the airport.’ Everyone laughed and laughed because she’s so witty. Don’t you think.”

  And I say, “Yes, she sounds very witty.”

  Guitar Walter bounces on his toes. He grins, showing two uneven rows of teeth.

  Then he says, “Bob Gaffrey once put a sign on the bathroom door that said, `Ed Standell Memorial Library’ because Ed Standell will oftentimes read the newspaper while he’s using the facilities. Bob also has some very hilarious nicknames for everyone at work. He calls Henry Mueller `the Astrodome’ because Henry Mueller has a bald head that looks like a picture of the Astrodome in Houston, Texas. He calls Sarah Feelney “Sarah Feel Me,” which is a sexy play on words. He calls Susan Nile `Porky Pig’ because she has a pushed-up kind of nose. He calls Ed Standell `Mr. Ed’ after the horse on the TV show called Mr. Ed, which was about a horse that had the power of speech. He calls Melissa Horn `Melissa Horny,’ which is another sexy play on words.”

  What was taking the water so long to boil?

  WHAT?

  Then he says, “I remember one time it was winter, and the parking lot outside became like a sheet of ice. It looked like an ice skating rink. Sarah Feelney was looking out the window, and she yelled out, `Hey, everyone, come look at this!’ So we all went over to the window, and when we looked outside we saw cars sliding all over the parking lot, which was very funny to view. The people who were walking on the ice kept slipping and sliding around, then someone fell, and we all laughed. Not five minutes later, someone else fell.”

  Guitar Walter smiles broadly, and I make myself smile, too.

  Then he says, “Not only am I writing a movie about work, but I’m still writing songs. I hope to have an album out soon.”

  And I say, “Really?”

  And he says, “Yes.” Then he says, “Would you like to hear one of my best songs?”

  Before I can say anything, he starts singing a song to me right in the middle of the kitchen. He closes his eyes tight when he sings. It’s a song about a boy who eats an entire apple, including the seeds, and an apple tree grows in his stomach.

  AN APPLE TREE!

  It’s WORSE than Renée’s song about the dog who ran away and came back with his ear missing.

  When he sings—

  Johnny,

  Johnny Apple Tree,

  Apples for you,

  Apples for me

  it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.

  “That’s very good,” I say when he’s through.

  And he says, “Do you want to hear another? It’s about a girl who’s an ugly ducking, then ends up being a beautiful swan. It’s called `Beautiful Swan.’”

  Then he closes his eyes and winces like someone stepped on his toes.

  Then he sings:

  Oh, you used to be ugly,

  And you used to be round,

  And you had pimples on your face,

  And you weighed 200 pounds,

  But now you’re so beautiful,

  Like a beautiful swan,

  But now you’re so beautiful,

  And your pimples are gone

  I can’t believe he wrote a song that uses the word “pimples.” TWICE.

  Just then the teapot whistles. I practically run with the tray into the bedroom. Claire is sitting on the edge of Renée’s bed.

  “Tea,” I say, “get it while it’s hot.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, we sit on the bed and watch old movies on the television, which I carry into the bedroom from the living room. Me, Renée, Guitar Walter and Claire.

  x

  When Renée falls asleep, I walk Guitar Walter and Claire to the door, then return to the bedroom. Renée is still dressed in her blouse and skirt, so I take the chicken shirt out of a drawer, then pull her by her arms into a sitting position.

  “What are you doing?” she says. She’s half-awake.

  I say, “I’m helping you get changed, that’s what I’m doing.”

  Renée lifts herself up with her arms, and I undo her skirt and slide it off, careful as I pull it over her cast. I notice that Guitar Walter and Claire have already signed her cast. Over Guitar Walter’s signature it says, “This autograph will be worth millions when ‘Beautiful Swan’ is a #1 hit!”

  Renée pulls her blouse off herself, and I bunch up my chicken shirt so she can slip her arms through, then pull it down to cover her body. Then Renée lies down and closes her eyes, resting her head on her hands.

  “Listen,” I say, “you know what they tell you about falling off a horse, how you have to get right back on?”

  And she says, “Mm hmm.”

  And I say, “Well, I don’t want you to be afraid. As soon as you’re able, I want you to march right in there and make some toast.”

  Renée smiles and says, “Okay,” and then she’s gone.

  CHAPTER 15: MY DEAD WIFE

  As far as I know, Renée stays in bed for the next four days, lying there with her cast and watching television and reading her magazines. Maybe she moves around the house when I’m at work, maybe not. Who knows. Still, I bring her her breakfast and dinner on trays. I even come home from work at lunchtime to bring her a sandwich and some of the leftover Krispy Kreme donuts. The pills the doctor gave her make Renée hungry, and, despite her diet, she eats, and eating seems to make her feel stronger.

  Claire and Guitar Walter and some of the others come by each night to bring her the assignments for her night c
lasses and to share their notes, and, gradually, our bedroom becomes our kitchen. Coffee, cake, cookies, sandwiches, you name it, and me in another room by myself. Without a television to watch.

  By Thursday, Renée is feeling strong enough to move about. She’s able to do some of the cooking and some of the cleaning, but it tires her out, and she’s asleep early that night. Eight o’clock, maybe earlier.

  Claire shows up by herself, and when I tell her that Renée’s asleep, she stays to help me with the dishes and cleaning the living room, which is nice of her. When we’re through, we sit in the kitchen and eat some brownies.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she says to me.

  And I say, “Sure.”

  And she says, “Is it normal for a man to wear colored underwear?”

  And I say, “What do you mean, is it normal?”

  And she says, “My boyfriend Mark goes to the gym a lot, and he doesn’t like to wear an athletic supporter, so instead he just wears some tight bikini briefs. But they’re all colored. Red, blue, purple. Is that normal?”

  I shrug, and I say, “I have no idea if it’s normal. I have no idea at all what kind of underwear other men wear. They could all be wearing lacy underpants and garters for all I know.”

  “I thought Renée said you used to play basketball. You must’ve seen hundreds of men in their underwear.”

  “It’s true I played basketball, but I haven’t seen many men in their underwear.”

  “Even walking around the locker room? Men just seem so comfortable walking around undressed. Like the showers. In ladies’ locker rooms, we all have individual shower stalls. But guys all stand around under one, big showerhead. They’re more comfortable being naked.”

  I raise a finger like I’m about to make some big announcement, and I say, “Aha, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re not comfortable at all. That’s why we have rules. You can walk around naked, but you have to keep your eyes to yourself. You look straight ahead. You look at your locker. At the urinal, you stare straight ahead at the wall like there’s something interesting there. You…cannot…look…at… another…man.”