My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

“Great,” Bobbie Jean says. “I’ll meet you at your apartment at six o’clock.”

  “Six o’clock,” I repeat. And, sure enough, at six o’clock I’m back at my apartment.

  Bobbie Jean is waiting on the steps in front of the building. The first thing she says is, “If you even try to spank me, so help me God I’ll break your arm off.”

  x

  We spend the entire evening in bed.

  We listen to the couple downstairs.

  “Oh, baby.”

  “You’re the best cook I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re a master chef.”

  “Oh.”

  “Grill me.”

  “I am.”

  “Cook me like you’re cooking for royalty.”

  When the news comes on at eleven o’clock, Bobbie Jean walks to the bathroom.

  “Potty time,” she says.

  I make myself smile.

  Bobbie Jean’s still going potty when the phone rings, and I use the remote control to turn the volume down on the television set before I pick up the phone. I answer it after the third or fourth ring and say “Hello?” only there’s no answer. Again, I say, “Hello?” and I’m just about to hang up when I hear someone say “Hello.”

  I say, “Hello. Who is this?”

  And a young man says, “Hello.” His voice is on the verge of cracking. “I’m sorry to be calling you so late, but there’s a problem.”

  Bobbie Jean sticks her head out of the bathroom. “Is it for me?” she asks, and I shrug in response. Bobbie Jean walks back into the bedroom.

  “There’s a problem?” I say to the man on the phone.

  And he says, “Yes. It’s just that, well, I don’t even know where to start.”

  And I say, “Calm down, calm down. Just tell me what the problem is.”

  And he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just that, well, do you know where the Tara Theater is?”

  And I say, “Yes, of course.” I know exactly where the Tara is: it’s right near where Renée and I used to live. It’s where we saw Sleepless in Seattle.

  The man says, “Well, you see, that’s where I’m calling from right now. The Tara Movie Theater. You see, I work here, and the last show just let out. So, I went into the theater to clean things up, you know, popcorn boxes and soda cups, and, well, I didn’t even notice her at first.”

  And I hear myself say, “Oh, God.” I can’t control it, it just comes out of me like a breath, and I put my hand right over my heart. “Who is it? What happened?”

  Bobbie Jean covers her mouth for a moment, then removes her fingers to say, “What’s the matter?”

  I hold up a hand to quiet her.

  The man says, “You see, she was just lying there on the floor, and I couldn’t wake her up, and I thought she was dead, but she wasn’t.”

  And I say, “Thank God.”

  And he says, “Yes, you’re right about that. Like I said, I thought she was dead, but she wasn’t because when I shook her, she sort of let this sound out of her mouth.”

  And I say, “Thank God. Thank God.” My heart begins to calm down some. I catch my breath and say, “You still haven’t told me who it is.”

  Bobbie Jean sits on the bed beside me, and I twist the phone slightly so we can both listen.

  The man says, “Well, that’s just it. I wish I knew who she was, but I don’t. You see, I didn’t know what to do when I found her because I’m the only one left here. Everyone else is gone, and I was just supposed to clean up and then shut off the lights and lock up, but then I found her lying on the floor. Maybe I should’ve called the police or something, but for some reason I decided to check her purse to see if I could find out who she is. You know, maybe there would be something in her purse that would explain why she was lying there on the floor. Like one of those medical cards, or something like that. But there wasn’t one of those, and there wasn’t even a driver’s license in there. All there was was a piece of paper with your telephone number on it.”

  And I say, “My telephone number?”

  Bobbie Jean puts a hand on my forearm lightly.

  The man says, “Yes. That’s why I called you, because I had your telephone number.”

  And I say, “Oh my God. Who is it? Who is it?” I’m trying so hard to figure out who it could be that I can’t think of anyone at all. “Is it Carol Mosca?” I finally say. Carol Mosca was a girl I knew in grade school.

  The man says, “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I don’t know.” He sounds apologetic, and he seems to be just as scared as I am.

  I try to put my thoughts in order. “What does she look like?” I ask.

  And he says, “I don’t know, I’m not very good at describing people. She’s white. She’s got long blonde hair. I don’t know how tall she is because she’s lying down all crooked.”

  And I say, “How old is she?”

  And he says, “I don’t know. Twenty-five, thirty maybe.”

  And I say, “My God, I can’t think of who it could be.” But then it comes to me: Renée? Maybe she dyed her hair. Maybe it’s Renée.

  Bobbie Jean puts her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Hang up the phone,” she says. “Ham, hang up the phone.”

  And I say, “What? I can’t hang up the phone. There’s trouble.”

  And Bobbie Jean says, “Hang up the phone. It’s just kids. They’re making a prank phone call. They did the same thing to my friend Amy last week. They’re probably drunk and don’t have anything better to do. Just hang up the phone.”

  And I say, “Bobbie Jean, it’s a Thursday night. Kids have school tomorrow. It couldn’t possibly be kids,” but she just says, “Trust me. Hang up the phone.”

  I say, “Goodbye,” into the mouthpiece before hanging up and getting into bed. I can’t fall asleep, though; is it Renée? I try counting backwards from one hundred to make myself sleepy. I get to seventy-seven, seventy-six, seventy-five, and then I think about Renée lying on the floor in the movie theater and I forget where I am.

  The phone rings again almost an hour later, and even though I’m wide awake I’m still startled. I have to put my hand over my heart again.

  “Hello?” I say. “Hello? Hello? Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” the man says. “Where are you?”

  And I say, “What?” I keep my voice down so I won’t wake Bobbie Jean up, and I cup my hand over the mouthpiece.

  The man says, “It’s me, from the movies. When you hung up I thought you were coming to get your friend, but then you didn’t show, and I started worrying that maybe something happened to you. I started thinking that maybe you were in an accident or something and that maybe I should call the police.”

  “No,” I say, “I’m still here.”

  And he says, “I don’t understand. That doesn’t make any sense. Your friend is here, and, well, I just don’t understand.”

  And I say, “She’s not my friend. I mean, at least I don’t think she is. I don’t have any idea who you’re talking about.”

  And he says, “But she had your phone number written down on a piece of paper in her purse. I have the piece of paper right here. I’m looking at it right now.”

  “Hang up the phone, Ham,” Bobbie Jean says. Her voice surprises me, just like the telephone ringing had. “It’s just kids. It’s probably some boys from the high school who got your number somehow, that’s all.”

  I hang up the phone, but, still I can’t sleep at all. I can’t close my eyes for more than ten seconds at a time. I just sit upright and fold my arms across my chest, waiting for the phone to ring again, but it doesn’t. Several times I think it’s about to, I think I hear the faint beginning of a ring, the brr of the brrriiinnggg, but I’m wrong. Once I even pick up the receiver to see if the phone is still working and hear the dial tone, so I know it isn’t the phone.

  Finally, I turn and hang my legs over the side of the b
ed, push my feet into my slippers, and sneak down the hall, my shoulders hunched up, moving as quietly as possible. I take my coat from the closet and pull it on over my shorts. I walk out to the street, and when I start the engine, I close my eyes for a moment and inhale deeply before shifting the car into reverse, then drive slowly, moving in small bursts. When I turn the corner of our street, I allow the car to move for longer stretches before forcing it to a stop.

  The streets are mostly empty, and I begin to drive more normally until I reach Piedmont Road. There are a couple of cars on the street, but that only makes me feel more uncomfortable than I already felt: what kind of people who would be up and around at this hour of the night? I lock the door on the driver’s side by pushing the button down with my elbow. The other side is already locked. I can feel myself sweating in my coat.

  I steer the car past the restaurants and the shops. I drive through two red lights because I can’t stand waiting, being as close as I am. I imagine Renée on the floor of the movie theater. If she passed out from drinking, I’ll take her to the donut shop to get some hot, black coffee to get the blood circulating in her veins again. If it’s something more serious, I’ll put her in the back of the car and race to the hospital.

  From a distance I can see the movie theater. The marquee lights are turned off, but you can still make out the names of the movies. One movie is Meet Me In Brazil, the other is Every Whisper Is A Beat Of My Heart.

  I pull the car into the No Parking zone in front of the movie theater and switch off the headlights, then I lean over and look out the passenger’s side window and see that the lights in the theater have been turned off. The only light inside is a yellow neon sign that says: “Buttered Popcorn!”

  I look up and down the street to make sure it’s safe to get out of the car, then check in the rearview mirror. There’s no one there, so I step out of the car, locking the door first and clutching my coat closed as if it were winter and chilly out. I walk to the main door and knock against the glass, then look up and down the street again. When no one answers, I knock again, harder this time, then put my hands to the glass and peer in. I prepare myself for someone to appear suddenly on the other side of the glass, or for a hand to touch my shoulder, but neither happens. I can only see the candy counter inside and, off to the side, the restrooms. Next, I walk to the ticket window and look in. Still, nothing.

  I walk back to the main door, look in again, then take several steps back.

  “Hello?” I call out. I try not to be too loud. “Hello, is anyone there?”

  I wait a couple seconds before I say, “I’m here about the girl. Hello? I’m here about the girl,” then step backward until I’m standing beside the car. I look up and down the street, at the Original Pancake house across the parking lot, a Thai restaurant, a gas station, then at the theater. The movie poster next to the ticket window is of a man and woman embracing, their eyes closed like nutshells.

  “Hello?” I call. “Hello? I’m Ham Ashe. You called me about the girl. Hello? Renée? Hello?”

  I climb back into the car and lock the door. I start up the engine and listen to the radio, stretching my neck out every few minutes to see if I can spot anyone in the movie theater. I keep looking in the rearview mirror and the side mirrors, too.

  When I finally convince myself that it was just a prank phone call, like Bobbie Jean had said, I shift the car out of park and head back home. When I get home, I pick up the phone and I dial Renée’s number. It rings seven or eight times before she answers.

  “Hello,” she says. It’s the voice she uses when she talks in her sleep.

  I can’t think of anything to say.

  “Hello,” she says again. “Hello. Hello.”

  I hang up the phone.

  Renée’s fine.

  I’m embarrassed by how foolish I’d been, driving all the way to the movie theater because of some kids playing a prank.

  But what if it HAD been Renée?

  What then?

  CHAPTER 22: KEATS, YEATS, BROWNING, FROST AGAIN

  I have to break up with Bobbie Jean.

  I HAVE to.

  I’m not President Eisenhower, and I’m not Robert DeNiro, and I’m not a college student who failed his test.

  I’m Hamilton Ashe.

  I’m Hamilton Ashe, and I’m a normal man. I don’t leave work early to go to bed with a girl. I don’t say dirty things in bed. I don’t date girls who say dirty things in bed. I’m just Hamilton Ashe, that’s all I am.

  I have to break up with her. I just don’t know what I’m going to say.

  After work, I drive to Bobbie Jean’s apartment to pick her up for dinner. I walk up to her apartment. She’s wearing a blue-and-orange sweater with black-and-red pants. She has a blue kerchief in her hair. She looks like something glimpsed through a kaleidoscope. She kisses me on the cheek, then puts a hand on my chest.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she says. She holds up a finger. “Just have a seat and I’ll be right out.” She gestures toward the couch in the living room. There’s a blue blanket with little yellow suns draped across the back.

  I say, “Okay.”

  And she says, “Read a magazine or something.”

  She runs back to the bedroom.

  I sit on the couch and wait for her to come out. I look at the magazines on her coffee table. They’re all fashion magazines. Glamour. Vogue. Cosmopolitan. They all have pictures on the cover of girls who look like scarecrows.

  I start leafing though one of them. There aren’t any articles about sewing. There’s an article about how eating two artichokes a day will help you lose weight. Who wants to eat two artichokes a day? There’s another article about eye shadow. It’s six pages long. That’s much too long an article about eye shadow. It’s a few minutes before I hear the door open, and when Bobbie Jean comes out she’s wearing a cheerleader uniform. A yellow sweater with a blue-and-white skirt, little white socks, saddle shoes. There’s a white megaphone sewn onto the sweater with the word “Raiders” stitched on it in script.

  “Surprise,” she says.

  And I say, “Surprise what?”

  And she says, “I figured every man’s fantasy is to be with a cheerleader.”

  And I say, “Oh.”

  And she says, “So, tonight I’m the head cheerleader, and you’re the captain of the football team, and my parents are out of town for the weekend.”

  And I say, “Oh.”

  And she says, “Come on, play along.”

  She stands in front of the television, and she starts to do a cheer. She shakes her pompons. She kicks her legs. She does a cheer that goes like this:

  Ham, Ham,

  He’s our man,

  If he can’t do it,

  No one can.

  Yeah, HAM!

  Then she starts another cheer. It sounds familiar at first:

  The other team is dumb,

  The other team is smelly,

  But we’re clean and smart,

  Like Percy Bysshe Shelley.

  Then she starts clapping rapidly and stomping her feet like there’s an army of ants beneath her. She shouts:

  Keats, Yeats, Browning, Frost,

  The Cadbury Poets have never lost.

  I’m confused.

  “That was our school cheer,” I say.

  And she says, “I know.”

  And I say, “How did you know the words?”

  And she says, “I called your brother.”

  I’ve never even introduced her to Carl. Carl doesn’t even know she EXISTS.

  “You called my brother?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes.” She smiles proudly.

  “Carl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on earth would you call Carl?”

  “To get the words to your high school cheer.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” I say. He’s very busy.”

  She tries to pull me from the couch
, but I don’t move.

  “Come on,” she says, “you’re not playing along. You’re supposed to be the captain of the football team. You’re supposed to rip my uniform off, then carry me to my parents’ bedroom.”

  And I say, “I don’t want to play, Bobbie Jean.”

  And she says, “I’m not Bobbie Jean. My name is Sammie Jo, and I’m the head cheerleader, and I’m a complete slut. Just last night I slept with your best friend Skip, the halfback.”

  And I say, “Bobbie Jean.”

  And she says, “Sammie Jo.”

  And I say, “Bobbie Jean.”

  And she says, “Come on. Isn’t this every man’s fantasy, to be with a cheerleader?”

  And I say, “For your information, I married a cheerleader.”

  And she says, “Oh, I didn’t know that.” Then she says, “We could do something else. I could be the editor of the yearbook, and you could be the president of the photography club.”

  I just stand there motionless for a moment. I think of Shellie, and I think of high school, and I think of how her brother died. I think of working with her at the appliance store, and I think of how we got married, and I think of how I tried to become intelligent so we could have a happy life together, but I failed. Then I think of Renée, and how we met, and how we moved in together, and everything that happened after she lost her job at the hospital.

  It’s the saddest moment of my life. I’m remembering everything. I’m missing EVERYTHING.

  I say, “Listen, Bobbie Jean, you’re a very nice girl, but I don’t think we should see each other any more.”

  I expect her to be disappointed or angry, but she isn’t. All she says is, “Okay.” She puts the pompons on top of the Cosmopolitan magazine.

  And I say, “So I’m going to leave now.”

  And she say, “Okay.”

  I walk to the door.

  And she says, “Ham, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been having a bad day.”

  “Something at work?”

  I say, “Yes,” which isn’t true at all. Work is the only place I like to be anymore.

  “Do you want to talk about it?

  “Not really.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Give me a call if you ever feel like fooling around.”