The Doctor's Wife

by Elizabeth Brundage

  Ah, here they were now. Lovely girls with swinging long hair and fresh faces, unlike his tormented Lydia. Sylvia Wheeler, one of his art students, took a seat at the table. “Hello, Professor Haas. Where’s Ms. Knowles?”

  “She couldn’t make it today. I’m filling in for her.”

  “Groovy.”

  “Ah, here’s the little woman now.”

  His wife appeared in the doorway, her face flushed persimmon. She looked positively mortified. Her lips began to tremble, and he thought she might burst into tears, but she didn’t. “Don’t worry, love, I’ve got it right here.” He waved her assignment in the air like a handkerchief. “You won’t be marked off, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

  He could feel her desire to run out, but something kept her there. She hesitated in the doorway while the other girls leered with fascination.

  “Moving right along. This may be fun, actually. I’ve never taught around a table before. Something like duck duck goose, I imagine.”

  Some of the girls snickered. Lydia took her seat, her yellow fingertips scrambling to button up her cardigan. He observed her complexion, sallow and agitated.

  “As some of you may know, I’m Simon Haas, and this”—he pointed to Lydia—“this is my wife.”

  The girls shifted in their chairs, stifling giggles.

  “We’ve been together for a long time, haven’t we, Mrs. Haas?” He tossed her a smile. “Now, as some of you know, for many years your class-mate here was the subject of many of my paintings, which turned out, in some instances, to be difficult for both of us. People look at the work and think what they want and feel what they want.”

  The students shifted in their seats, eyeing him uncertainly.

  “Now, then, when you write these autobiographical pieces about your lives, writing from the heart, as Ms. Knowles calls it, it’s important to understand that people will interpret your work any way they want to. Strangers. It’s every artist’s dilemma and we have little control over it. And it can be very painful for you, as well as for the people you write about, so I warn you to choose your subject matter with care.” He shot Lydia a cold look. “You see, it’s easy to call a man like me an asshole without really filling in all the gray areas. Like the lines in a drawing, black and white makes a picture; no matter how crude, it’s still recognizable in some way. It’s the framework, the architecture, so to speak. But then there’s gray, and that’s the heart of your work. Gray is where you want to get to, but it’s difficult. Anyone can take a piece of charcoal and sketch a figure; even a stick figure will suffice. Anyone can write a sentence that describes a person doing something. But it’s the gray area that beckons the true artist. It’s the place that lures us, frightens us, and even deceives us. It’s the place that drives us to do things. Awful things.”

  He took Lydia’s assignment and flattened it on the table before him. Folding it, he fashioned it into a paper airplane. He knew he was being cruel, but he couldn’t help himself. “You will discover that, in order to learn, failure is often necessary. But even the worst material can often be put to use.”

  He sailed the plane through the air toward the wastepaper basket. With perfect aim, it nose-dived directly into it. He met Lydia’s eyes. Hers burned with anger.

  “That’s all for today,” he said with a smile, then walked out.

  45

  ENTERING THE SOUTH COTTAGE the next morning, Annie noticed that her mailbox was crammed with papers. The papers had been carelessly torn from a notebook and were filled with sloppy cursive handwriting that resembled Henry’s. In lieu of a paper clip, the student had used a safety pin. The name in the upper-right-hand corner was Lydia Haas.

  My husband has eyes like soda tin and a heart like a black stone. He likes to have sex with me whenever he can. He is a magnificent lover. I give myself up to him. He brings me little presents. Sometimes he likes to use sex toys that drive me crazy. Once, he took me to a shop on Lark Street and made the shopkeeper explain how to use the bondage toys. Right there in the store, with people coming and going and me down on my knees, the manager showed my husband how to turn me into his love slave. I am completely at his disposal. I satisfy all his whims. I tremble in his hands. He likes me to put on outfits. Sometimes I put on my Catholic school uniform and show him my dirty white underpants. Sometimes he will tie me to the chair and feed me yellow custard . . .

  Annie could read no further. She crumpled the paper up in her hands. She wanted to burn it, but she knew she could not. Furious, she went into her office and shut the door and burst into tears. Never again! she thought. Never would she let him near her.

  Disgusted, she opened her window and gulped the cold air. How could she have been so stupid? Now she was feeling nauseous. What could she have been thinking? She had gone blind, she decided. She had forgotten who she was.

  Shaking, she ran into the bathroom, bracing herself over the toilet, but nothing would come up. She had been foolish, she had been manipulated. How pathetic, she thought, full of self-loathing. Bristling with shame. She had spilled her blood into his waiting hands.

  Afraid of running into him, she hid in her office all morning, and when the phone rang she did not answer it. She considered telling Charlotte she was sick and had to go home, but it wouldn’t look good to cancel classes two days in a row. At ten minutes to noon, she crossed the muddy quad to Hillard. Wet piles of leaves gave off a moldy, putrid odor. Her head was beginning to pound. She didn’t know how she could possibly go through with teaching the class.

  The girls were waiting for her. Lydia Haas sat tall in her seat. Unlike the other days Annie had seen her, today she was wearing makeup and her hair had been neatly tied up in a bun. Annie sat down and tried to begin, but her head was spinning.

  Lydia Haas smiled at her, an eager pupil, and her assurance thoroughly disarmed Annie. Annie struggled to collect her thoughts, to broach a topic, but all she could manage were stutters. The girls shifted in their seats. The silence blared. Her head throbbed. Abruptly, she stood up. Offering no explanation, she left the room.

  46

  ALONE IN THE KITCHEN, Simon poured a generous glass of whiskey. He felt himself sinking into a dark place where drinking was a necessary distraction. Dishes were piled in the sink. Large bowls encrusted with a brown batter, wooden spoons thick with chocolate frosting. His wife could barely get dressed in the morning, yet she still came through for her church bake sale. This outward gesture of goodwill baffled him. Did they know how she fell apart when she came home? How she plunged into sleep like a child, sleep being her only accessible refuge? The faucet dripped into the bowl of muddy water and he thought perhaps he should wash it. Load the dishes into the dishwasher at least. His wife had stopped cleaning the kitchen. The entire house seemed topsy-turvy.

  After his second drink, he rinsed the dishes in the sink and stacked them in the dishwasher, gazing out the window with numb preoccupation. When he finished loading the dishwasher, he took out some scouring powder and cleaned the countertops. It felt good, cleaning. It made him feel more in control. He felt as if everything around him had gone slightly out of focus, and putting things away, creating order, gave him hope.

  Lydia’s Mercedes churned up the driveway. Through the window over the sink, he watched her pull up and park. For a moment she studied her face in the rearview mirror. Then, appearing satisfied, she pushed the mirror back in place and got out of the car.

  She looked rather pretty, he thought.

  He continued wiping down the countertops as she unlocked the front door.

  “My, my, aren’t we spiffy,” she said dryly. “Do you do windows, too?”

  He turned and looked at her. She was wearing makeup, her lips painted a deep crimson—the sort of lipstick Annie wore. “Hello, Lydia.”

  “Hello, Grumpy.” She dumped her pocketbook on the floor and retrieved a glass from the cupboard. She poured herself a drink.

  “How was school today?” he asked in the tone one might use with a smal
l child.

  “Boring.”

  “Then why keep at it?”

  “I want to get my degree,” she said seriously.

  “Oh. Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.” She swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. “That friend of yours should find a different line of work. I’ve never been so bored in my life.”

  “Drop the class then.”

  “I just might do that.” She poured herself another glass. “Oh, yes, I might do just that.”

  “I wonder if you should be drinking.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Are you taking your medication, Lydia?”

  “What in hell for?”

  “Well,” he explained gently, “when you don’t take it, you get all confused. You get very sad, remember?”

  Her foot began to wiggle. “I don’t care. I’m already sad. I’m sad all the time.” She looked at him. “You have no idea who I am.”

  The proclamation frightened him because he sensed she was right.

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Don’t I?” He nudged the bottle closer. “Go ahead, have another.”

  She grinned, madly. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve done.”

  “Tell Papa all about it.”

  “I’ve got something really special planned for you, lover boy.”

  Simon watched her closely, the way she moved, like a cat. It came to him that she was completely delusional. He considered luring her into the car and taking her to the hospital, but he did not move.

  “Why don’t you tell me all about it, Lydia.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” She finished off her drink and threw the glass into the sink. It shattered, surprising both of them. “One less to wash,” she said, and went upstairs.

  The next morning he went to the college especially early and found Annie in her office, working with deep concentration at her computer. His presence seemed to startle her, and her face went white. Immediately, she closed the window on her monitor and the screensaver came on.

  “I can’t see you now.” Her eyes flashed. “You’ll have to leave.” She seemed nervous, uneasy.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Simon, I’m exceptionally busy.”

  “I have something important to discuss with you.” He stepped inside the room and closed the door. She stood up and came toward him, her hand extending toward the knob. He grabbed her wrist, harder than he intended to, and she retracted, wincing. “You’ve been avoiding me. I want to know why.”

  “Please let go of me, Simon. My life is extremely complicated right now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Let me help to simplify things.”

  Her face opened up for a moment like a window full of spring air. “Simon, listen, we had something great. But it’s over.”

  “Why the big change of heart?”

  Now she tugged free of him and went to her desk and sat down behind it. “I think you’ve got some things to work out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know how you live with yourself. Whatever goes on with you and your wife . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Annie, please. I don’t understand.”

  She shuffled a stack of papers. “Look, I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got a stack of midterms to correct. I’m trying to finish the article.”

  “How’s it coming anyway? Chock-full of grotesque insinuations, I hope?” It was meant to be a joke, but she only glared at him.

  “No,” she said finally. “No insinuations.”

  “Tina Chase likes the dirt, you know.”

  “There’s plenty of that. I’m sure she’ll be very pleased.”

  “What about me? It’s my life, isn’t it? I have a right to see it before you send it in.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. It’s the truth.”

  “According to who?”

  She didn’t say anything, busying herself with her red marking pen. It occurred to him that Lydia might have said something to her.

  “I’d make sure to check your sources,” he said. “Slander can be very costly. You wouldn’t want to get into a legal thing at this stage in your career.”

  “There’s nothing slanderous about it.”

  “She’s really gotten to you, hasn’t she?”

  “What?”

  “My wife.”

  “You obviously have some serious issues, Simon. You really ought to see a therapist.”

  “Annie, look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Yes it does. It matters to me.”

  She unlocked her desk drawer and took out some crumpled-up notebook paper. “Maybe you can explain this.”

  He read the page of his wife’s handwriting with his insides twisting. For a moment he could do little more than stand there with his mouth open. The lengths she would go to, he realized, were boundless. “Oh, my love, you’ve been had.”

  “You obviously have a very interesting sex life at home. I can’t imagine what perverse notion you’ve been entertaining with me.”

  “This is totally absurd. Annie. Please. My wife is a very sick woman.”

  Annie stood up, her body poised defensively. He could see the swimmer in her, the lithe athlete. “I don’t know, Simon. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “It amazed me, actually, that she had the audacity to take your class, that she was that determined. I can’t imagine why she would do such a thing.”

  “Because she loves you, that’s why.” Annie looked at him somberly. He desperately wanted to kiss her.

  “Annie, these are all lies.” He tore the paper to shreds. “The only time my wife’s been tied to a chair and fed custard was as a patient in a straitjacket at Blackwell.” But still she did not seem convinced, a glimmer of suspicion in her eyes.

  “You need to go now, Simon.” Annie opened the door.

  He grabbed her arm, violently. “For Christ’s sake, Annie, I’m in love with you.”

  “You don’t know what love is.” Annie pulled away just as Charlotte Manning was walking by the office. Charlotte pretended not to notice, but Simon imagined that her interpretation of the scene would be making the rounds by late afternoon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Wearing an expression of disgust, Annie ushered him out and firmly closed the door.

  47

  LEANING AGAINST the door, Annie held her breath. She felt queasy, beleaguered. She’d finally done it, she realized. She’d ended it. But instead of feeling relief, she felt complete remorse.

  She went to her computer and opened the article for Vanity Fair. The article had been his bait, she realized, and she’d willingly taken it. And in her gratitude, she’d given him her body, her love, in return. He’d made out just fine. What he didn’t know was that the story she’d written about him, with great tenderness she might add, had little to do with his wife. It was a gloomy tale about a sad little boy with an incredible talent who had grown into an emotionally disabled adult. Alone from the start, he was alone now. She printed out the article, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. Tina Chase, she ventured, would hate it.