The Doctor's Wife

by Elizabeth Brundage

  The group went silent as they devoured Lydia Haas, her eyes skittish with embarrassment as she fumbled childishly with her pocketbook, looking for a place to put out her cigarette. She was dressed like a schoolgirl in a green plaid skirt and white blouse, a gold cross at her throat, her pale skin without even a hint of makeup, her blond hair pulled back severely in a bun. One could not overlook the protruding cheekbones, the full lips, the deep gray eyes. Few of the guests had ever spoken to her, but they had witnessed her every private act on his canvases. They knew her intimately, like a lover, and she drew their eyes with the voracity of a goddess. It was not beneath any of them to crave seeing more. Annie’s curiosity gnawed at her, a churning mixture of admiration and jealousy that both compelled and sickened her.

  Olivia handed Lydia a drink, and the two women went back into the house. Annie could see them through the French doors, looking at the painting. They sat on the couch. Olivia was doing all the talking while Simon’s wife just sat there, poised as a Siamese cat. It put Annie in mind of Simon’s work and she imagined one of his cryptic titles: Woman Sitting. Woman with Drink. Or simply Wife.

  Simon made himself comfortable at the table and poured himself a drink. Looking at him under the soft colored lanterns, she saw a big, lumbering man with powerful limbs, a man who could still rely on his physical strength if he needed cash. He wore worn khakis and a Mostly Mozart T-shirt and his tennis shoes were splattered ominously with red paint. His hay-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she found it highly appealing. His eyes were tinted with gloom, and suggested a lifetime of inner struggle. His students, she imagined, admired this quality. To them, he was the incarnation of a true artist.

  “Hello there, Annie,” Haas said to her now, extending his hand for a shake. When their hands collided, his was warm and big. He held on. “I was sort of hoping I’d see you.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “And your husband? Is he here, too? I was hoping to—”

  “On call.” She supplied the answer rather quickly.

  “Off saving lives, is he?”

  “Delivering them, anyway. He’s an obstetrician.”

  Simon Haas considered this. “He must be a busy man, your husband the baby doctor.”

  “That he is. We’re in the midst of another baby boom. Do you have children?”

  “God, no.”

  Except for your little wife, Annie thought.

  “I’m too much of a selfish bastard,” Simon added.

  “That’s a good reason then.”

  They didn’t say anything for a moment, and he lit a cigarette.

  “I saw your painting inside,” she said, “the one in the living room. It’s very good.”

  “It’s an old painting.”

  “Who’s the man in the gloves?”

  “You’re not going to make me talk about this, are you?”

  “I’m guessing it’s her father.”

  “Like I said, it’s an old painting,” he said dismissively. “He was a glove man.”

  “A what?”

  “Her father. He worked at the factory up there. In Gloversville.”

  “Oh, I see. That explains it.”

  “That explains nothing.” The moment wavered and she thought the subject was closed, but then he continued. “I was painting the factories. I liked the buildings. The windows. In the evening when the sun is low they turn copper. I was interested in the workers, too. Many of them had stained hands, you know, from the ink. I started to explore the area around the factory, where most of them lived. Trailer parks. Small houses. A gloomy town. I happened to turn down this dirt road and there was this old house, set way back. There were so many trees I almost drove right past it. I wish I had. But there was something about the house that interested me.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I sketched the house several times. It seemed like such a sad place. And then I saw her, this young girl. And I think the fact that she was there, in the midst of all this gloom—it intrigued me.” He went quiet suddenly. “She was,” he said, “astoundingly beautiful.”

  “Love at first sight,” Annie said a bit dryly, incredulous that she was actually feeling jealous.

  “I’m not sure it had anything to do with love. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I can see you’re a romantic.”

  She swallowed more wine, feeling her face growing hot. “I’m not sure what I am.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Remember how you apologized for being awkward? You probably don’t remember.”

  “I remember,” he said readily.

  “I feel awkward now.”

  He nodded at her and poured more wine. “Awkward interests me,” he said. “At least when you are feeling awkward you are always thinking. When you are feeling fabulous, for example, rare occurrence that it may be, you stop thinking altogether. Which gets you into all kinds of trouble. Hence, you are far better off feeling awkward. Just the sound of it on your tongue. Like chewing on screws.”

  She laughed. “Very tough to swallow.”

  “Most awkward things are,” he said.

  “Not for the weakhearted.”

  “Nor the weak-stomached.”

  They laughed and drank some more.

  “What are you working on these days?” she asked. “Are you still painting pictures of your wife?”

  “My wife is an intriguing subject,” he said. “I’m still trying to figure her out.”

  “Mystery can be useful in a relationship,” she said, eager to pry him open like the lid on a tightly sealed Mason jar. “It keeps you guessing.”

  “It can also be very tedious. I’m a painter, Ms. Knowles. I’m interested in the truth.”

  “The truth is a dubious pursuit,” she said darkly. “An abstract ideal. You never really know the whole truth about a person. You have to trust, that’s all. You have to have faith.”

  He lit another cigarette. “Tell me, Ms. Knowles, do you trust your husband?”

  “Implicitly.”

  He leaned toward her and whispered, “Liar.”

  She forced a smile, suddenly insecure. “I do.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” He sang it softly into her ear.

  “I don’t know what got us onto this conversation.” Embarrassed suddenly, hoping no one had overheard them, she glanced around at the other guests, who were huddled in small groups on the creaky patio chairs. Felice Wendell noticed her and gave a little wave.

  “I’m coming over to interrupt,” Felice said. “What’s the subject?”

  “We were talking about my wife,” Simon said. “The truth is, to answer your question, Annie, I haven’t painted my wife in years.”

  “He hasn’t painted anything in years,” Felice Wendell said, pouring them each a fresh glass of merlot. She stood behind Simon, rubbing his shoulders playfully. “He’s in a slump.”

  “While his public waits in vain,” Joe said sourly, joining them, pouring his wine into a tall glass and drinking it down like milk. “I should be so lucky.”

  “We’re all in a slump around here,” Felice said. “It’s the St. Catherine’s curse.”

  “We do a lot of landscape painting,” Simon offered as an explanation. “The board of trustees has an aversion to self-expression. I’m convinced it’s been the very thing that squelched my work.”

  “Squelched?” Annie said.

  Simon slammed his big hand down on the table. “Squelched,” his voice boomed. All the guests looked at him with alarm.

  “Ooh, that hurts!” Felice said.

  “Speaking of the board of trustees,” Joe Rank interrupted. “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you, Ms. Knowles.”

  “Here we go,” Felice said, rolling her eyes. “Big Daddy isn’t happy. Remember, Annie, I warned you about him.”

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion, Ms. Wendell,” Rank said.

  “Thank God,” Felice said.

  Rank gave Felice a s
harp look, then narrowed his eyes on Annie. “I was on the committee that considered your application, Ms. Knowles, and I’ve read all the work you submitted, including a disturbing article in a rather unimpressive publication that you carefully omitted. I think you should know that people don’t appreciate that kind of sentiment around here.”

  Annie knew he was referring to the late-term-abortion article. She met Simon’s eyes across the table.

  “What was it about?” Felice Wendell asked.

  “The legislation regarding late-term abortion.” Annie supplied the answer matter-of-factly. “It was just an informative piece. It wasn’t biased in any way.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion,” Joe said.

  “Oh, that’s a tough subject for Joe,” Simon said. “Just look at poor Edna. Barefoot and pregnant is an understatement in his case. He doesn’t even bother taking off her shoes.”

  Annie could see Edna through the window, sitting on the couch next to Lydia. Edna took Lydia’s hand suddenly and placed it on her belly to feel the baby kick. Lydia’s face brightened for a moment but then returned to its sullen stare.

  “I don’t have to listen to this.” Joe stood up.

  “I’m just joking around, Rank,” Simon said. “You’re taking it too seriously.”

  Dana Roach patted Joe’s hand in an obvious attempt to appease him. “You can rest assured, Joe, that unlike the rest of us sots you’ll never lose your job, and when you die you’ll have your glorious spot in heaven.”

  Simon and Felice snickered.

  “Laugh all you want, but there are people in this town who don’t support her line of thinking. Prominent people. Our trustees, for one.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” Annie said. “That was certainly not my motivation.”

  “Let me put it this way, Ms. Knowles. At St. Catherine’s, we try to encourage basic family values.”

  Like what, she wondered. How to do hospital corners? How to assume the missionary position? “Basic family values?” she repeated.

  “Uh, forgive me, Joe,” Simon said, “but what are those?”

  Joe ignored him. “You can do what you want, Ms. Knowles.” He gave her a savage look. “But I’d be careful if I were you.”

  “Careful of what?” Now she was getting mad.

  He stood, holding up his hands as if he were under arrest. “I wanted to say it, and I said it.”

  “I have no intention of stirring things up, Mr. Rank. I’m not interested in making anyone uncomfortable, I have more important things to do with my time. But I won’t compromise what I believe in. And I certainly won’t keep information from my students.”

  Simon Haas raised his glass. “Hear, hear!”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Rank said, “I think this conversation has gone far enough.” He left the table gruffly and went inside. Annie could see his wife standing up, Joe pulling on his coat; they were going home.

  “He’s an old-timer here at St. Catherine’s,” Felice tried to explain. “It’s an ownership thing. We all just ignore him.”

  “Yes,” Simon reassured her, squeezing her hand. “Ignoring Joe Rank is a very good idea.”

  19

  EDNA RANK HAD LEFT HER stranded on the couch. Lydia cringed at the thought of going outside on her own. She’d been sitting there entertaining the garish fantasy of her father jumping down off the canvas and strangling her. Lydia had never liked the painting, and she didn’t like being in the same room with it now. Yet she was too afraid to talk to anyone, and perhaps Olivia, who was coming toward her, could see this on her face. “You’re much prettier in person,” she said, nodding at the painting. Lydia smiled gratefully as Olivia poured her a fresh drink. “Come,” Olivia said, the magnanimous hostess taking her hand, “let’s go outside.”

  They went through the French doors out onto the terrace. Simon was busy talking to the new professor, Annie Knowles. With her dark eyes and gushing brown hair, Knowles exuded a confidence that Lydia had only witnessed in the pages of the fashion magazines. The way she moved, looking off in distraction at the yellow Labs romping in the grass, then returning to Simon’s eyes with a casual shrug of her shoulders, as if she wasn’t impressed with whatever he was saying to her, which he, of course, assumed was brilliant, but to her, well, she couldn’t care less. Lydia sat down with her drink, sipping it quickly, relishing the warm release it gave her, and watched her husband and Annie Knowles laughing and talking, completely absorbed in each other. Watching them made her feel sad and she drank the whiskey quickly, like her father always had because he was always sad, and suddenly she was back in her tight little room hearing the knob slowly turning, rolling over to see her father sitting at the foot of her bed, stinking of bourbon and sobbing like a child.

  A hand on her shoulder, Simon’s mouth at her ear. “I told you you’d be bored.”

  “I’m not bored. I’m watching you. You’re very entertaining.”

  “There’s a TV in there, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m fine, Simon. Go back to your friends.”

  He looked uncomfortable, as if he’d just swallowed a pit. “Why don’t you come over and I’ll introduce you to everyone.” He pulled her up, squeezing her wrist, a threat. Don’t speak, just stand there and be quiet. He brought her over to the group. They studied her; they feasted their eyes. “This is my wife,” he told the group. “The famous Lydia Haas.”

  Later, after she’d had three or four drinks, she felt much better, and took it upon herself to wander about the house. She found various interesting things. Upstairs, in the Spaulls’ master bathroom, the medicine chest was abundant with lovely pills, some of which she decided to swallow with the rest of her drink, Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, and others that she slipped into her pockets for later use. The Spaulls had an inviting home, with books all over the place, and lovely little paintings by undiscovered artists, and clay pots—ceramics, Simon would correct her— that they’d purchased in other countries and carefully toted back to place on their shelves and windowsills and nightstands. There were photographs, too, all over the place, black-and-white pictures of their children, two boys, the twins, who were at college (They’re at Brown, she’d heard Jack say), and a daughter, who was a speech pathologist in Boston. Feeling the pills now, she watched her husband through the window on the second-floor landing, out in the grass with Annie Knowles. They were laughing raucously, enjoying themselves enormously. They brought their glasses together in a toast, laughing and laughing with their eyes stuck on each other, and it came to her rather sharply that the woman outside would bring about a force of change in her life, and the change would be ugly, and it would be soon.

  20

  OLIVIA SPAULL SERVED dinner outside: curried potato soup and Moroccan chicken over couscous with grilled vegetables. The food was delicious and they ate by candlelight in the growing dark. Simon and Lydia Haas sat together and ate without speaking. Lydia picked at the food warily, as though the piece of chicken on her plate were a live bird. Simon ate hungrily, like a peasant, licking his fingers, helping himself to seconds. Watching him eat made Annie feel anxious, as though the food tasted even better in his mouth. He looked her in the eye as he ate, as if he were reading her thoughts, and smiled as if to say, I want you, too. There was something between them; she sensed it the way an animal senses a brewing storm. What either of them would do about it remained to be seen.