The Carpenter's Wife

by G. H. Holmes

“It’s just one stop,” argued the older, bonier one.

  “You don’t wear shirts! You don’t wear shoes! And you are soaking wet. So, get out of my car. You don’t belong here.”

  The girls got up, clearly intimidated.

  God bless you, man, Tom thought, leaning back.

  “Out with you!” The burly driver swung his arms at the door.

  The girls hustled and jumped off. Once outside, they scampered down the line, peering back apprehensively, until they entered the last wagon of the three-car Tram train. They were safe down there; there were no connecting doors.

  The train rumbled into motion and Stark stared out the window.

  And now he lay in a room as in a cage, an animal, ferocious in its instincts, with no place to go. The seconds ticked away, turned into minutes; and with each one the walls seemed to inch closer, increasing the pressure around him, filling the air with an insufferable density, until he became convinced the only way out was to explode out of his room and to knock down Tina’s door, to say sorry for leaving so abruptly earlier, to—

  His jaw muscles tightened. Not in a million years. He clenched his teeth. Not in this life; not in—

  He needed air!

  The window…

  He got up and stumbled like a drunk toward the drawn curtain and wiped it away. He pulled on the window’s silver handle, catching his image in the black pane as he jerked again and again—to no avail.

  It was locked.

  It was still locked.

  3

  Friday, 4 July 2003, Night, 82° F/27°C

  Embedded in the handle was this ridiculous device you couldn’t trick that required a tiny piece of metal he didn’t have. He scoffed.

  He’d complained earlier, but the window remained locked. “Sorry,” Herr Everts, the Belgian manager, said, “but too many people already jumped this year. We cannot accept the risk to your safety, sir. The windows are locked for your own good.”

  Right. “Are you afraid they’ll fall on my head when I look out?”

  The manager giggled, taking off his glasses and dabbing at his temple. “The heat drives us crazy too, sir. Makes some suicidal. I apologize. Nothing I can do. It’s a chain-wide thing.”

  Tom growled but didn’t pursued the matter. A fashion fair, the Modewoche, was truly happening on the nearby fairgrounds, and rooms were scarce in Munich. People even slept on rollaways in the Westpark’s spartan offices for 150 euros a pop. Tom had reserved long enough in advance to receive the regular rate of 76 euros a night for his single; he’d been lucky to get it. The money for his room came out of a generous expense account Tom’s church had set up for him. Being a foreigner he couldn’t draw a salary, but the money was there, and his church took pride in taking care of him.

  He slowly breathed in again, tired and emotionally exhausted. He sat back down on the bed. Earlier, he’d stepped out of the shower without drying off. There was no fan, but he’d taken the room service menu and had fanned himself. The evaporation of the water provided a little coolness as it was. He laid back down, reached for the menu, and began to fan again.

  The room sat quiet, the TV dark. Stark wasn’t big on watching TV; in their ramshackle abode in Elmendorf they didn’t even have cable, just three channels of public television which came commercial-free. The Germans paid a hefty TV tax to keep them that way.

  Voices drifted in from the hallway. His head snapped around. A man spoke; a woman answered and laughed gently.

  Tina.

  The man’s bass sounded again. The woman giggled, then laughed.

  It was her.

  Somehow she sounded vulgar now.

  She’s a chameleon, Stark. He sighed and put the menu down. She’s a pro. A geisha able to assume any identity you might order up. An articulate, immaculate, versatile big-city lady-for-sale. A woman who did for money what wives never did for love.

  And he’d been to her room.

  The thought spilled a slow chill down his spine. He’d been toying with fire.

  Romy.

  How was it that some women knew intuitively how to treat a man, and some never caught on? Of course, he should have known from the beginning. Her mother’s rigidity, her behavior toward Mr. Wilson should have tipped him off right then. But he’d been blind back then. Blind. But now he saw.

  His mind fluttered back to one night early in their marriage, when he’d driven to Price Mart on 71st Street before coming home after an eight-hour shift of cleaning toilets at Hope in Tulsa.

  He picked up a ridiculously expensive bouquet of flowers—he forgot what kind—red nail polish, and decided on a whim to let her taste champagne, not the sparkly stuff they had on their wedding night, but the real McCoy.

  He didn’t intend to train her to drink. He didn’t drink himself. This was to be a private, romantic, one-time thing that was nobody’s business. Just her and him, relaxing together in an extravagant way for once.

  Finding a bottle from France, Brut-something, he turned it in his hand, found the tag, and whistled at the price. But he figured that the expense of 4 dollars 95 were justified for an investment. Champagne tickled your mouth and made you smile, and Romy didn’t smile enough. Nor were her nails red enough. But that would change tonight for a little bit. She could take the color back off in the morning, if she wanted to. No problem. Wandering through the store in his janitor clothes, flowers and bottle in hand, he imagined how she’d smile. She’d smell the roses, they’d drink a swig—just a swig. She’d giggle...

  But after unlocking their apartment door and entering at 10:20 PM, he found her on pink knees, arms bared, hands in yellow gloves, scrubbing—of all things—the toilet. She was so busy, she hardly looked up when he came in. And when she finally did perceive the items of seduction in his hands, especially the wine, she made an exasperated face, pointed to the clock, and closed the bathroom door, making him wonder. Coming out, she was ready for bed. Wrapped into a flannel gown, her feet shod with socks, she waved good night from afar, told him she had a full day tomorrow, and left him and his bouquet to themselves in front of the tube.

  His cheek muscles pulsed.

  The next morning she did say thank you for the flowers, and he coaxed her into trying out the polish, which, she said, made her feel… different.

  “So what?” he said. “Don’t deposit your happiness in other people’s heads.”

  So she wore it. That night he also put half a glass of champagne in front of her, prompting her to ask, “What’s that?”

  You’ve read the label, silly. “Sparkly wine.”

  “With alcohol?” Her eyes were wide.

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded. “Real champagne.”

  “I see.”

  “From France, brut-something.”

  She wrinkled her lips. “Is that because brutes drink it?”

  “No.” He gazed at the ceiling. “It’s a cuvee; it’s—”

  “I don’t like it.”

  It took him the better part of a half hour to get her to drink a thimbleful—and then a heat wave surged through her face. She felt her nose, which was warm and began to glow like Rudolph’s around Christmastime, and decided she was drunk and had to go sleep it off.

  He remained behind. And felt stupid.

  He emptied the rest of the champagne into the drain, fighting the impulse to go out and smash the bottle on the railing of their sagging balcony. It’s neck made a fine handle, and the bulb itself simply begged to get turned to shards; the Frenchman who’d designed these vessels was clearly familiar with the sundry urges of his constituency. But smashing would have shown that Romy controlled his moods, that she had too much power over him. So he didn’t do it. In the end he didn’t even toss the flowers.

  Unbeckoned, another woman rose from the vapory pool of his mind, not dark and doe-eyed like Romy his love, but a blonde Venus de Milo. Another woman entirely.

  Gina.

  The geisha plying her trade in the hall reminded him of Gina Delors, wife of the village carpenter,
his neighbor in Elmendorf on the corner of Burmester and Kirchberg Straße. From looks—just looks—Gina was the country version of the woman outside, just less powdered. He’d thought of her in the past. Many times. Recently he found himself obsessed with her.

  Tall and long-limbed like the lady outside, and unlike Romy, whose mid-section had remained a good size too big for her otherwise elfin frame after Sarah’s birth, Gina was… sensual. Romy was by no means ugly; she had the face of a cherub. But Gina was different. So very different. A swig of champagne wouldn’t have bothered her. She was the type who, given the proper incitement by her husband, would play Aphrodite and bathe in the stuff. She’d put on a show, just for him. He knew she would.

  What a silly thought.

  In his mind’s eye he saw her come out of her house to walk up to the bus stop across the intersection, where he stood waiting for the Kindergarten bus delivering Ben and Sarah—and Raphael, her son. Tom studied her with half-closed eyes. She hugged her slender form as the spring wind tousled her curls. She floated up quickly, taking small steps that conveyed both sex appeal and solidity. She was ballerina and orderly housewife in one, at just the right mix.

  Gina…

  He’d never seen much of her, happening upon her perhaps five times in a year and a half, mostly during cold weather, which was usually ample in his chosen country. And her face was pretty but not breathtaking; she’d never make it onto the covers of the slick mags. But from the start he’d perceived what kind of woman this Mrs. Proper was. She reminded him of the girls at the Cave Tavern in Fayetteville, North Carolina, ten years ago. For a drink and a compliment they returned the favor by making you feel like a star. Adoring you, they paid you back with respect. Or something akin to that.

  Respect. What a wonderful word…

  Gina.

  He remembered how she’d hugged him sister-like at midnight on New Years Eve, which he’d spent sitting on the Delors’ couch, watching dopey TV, together with the rest of his family. It had been the first time an interesting woman had hugged him since Romy had married him, oh, eight years ago, and he hadn’t forgotten.

  Raphael Delors and Ben, his son, were friends, and over Kindergarten and school, Romy and Gina had become friends of sorts, too, meeting sometimes for coffee and cake, mostly when Romy was alone because Tom was traveling in the ministry. The Delors’ weren’t born again, but they were nice enough. They knew that Stark was a pastor, and asked polite questions, but they’d never come to his church. Elmendorf was Catholic territory. What the grapevine broadcast mattered greatly, and since the Delors’ owned a business, they weren’t taking chances.

  But all that didn’t matter tonight.

  Gina.

  He marveled. How could she be both vamp and wife at the same time? She was beautiful and solid. Gina was simply perfect.

  In his heart of hearts he knew better, of course.

  The real Gina was 29—which in her world meant aging—and very conscious of her effect on men, which she anxiously gauged by the amount of compliments coming forth. She was vain; in an emergency, she’d sooner drop dead than open her front door without makeup on. Being a designer girl, she didn’t carry her garbage out but in designer clothes. And if such a thing as designer dishrags existed, her designer cupboards in her designer house were surely found to be designer-stocked with them.

  And she craved praises.

  Sometimes she bought them.

  Take sweeping the sidewalk. She’d be working, swinging the broom with the stark energy of an Irish banshee, striking terror into the hearts of passers-by, until you’d say, “Gina, wow! One could eat off your sidewalk, it’s so clean already.”

  Then she’d say, “Oh, it’s filthy dirty,” and while standing delicately on high heels, shadowing her eyes, she would smile humbly until it took your breath away.

  She was the natural object of every conversation around her, at least when males were involved. A dangerous trait. The souls of men are not designed to be only on the receiving end of praises. Such treatment had the potential to leave you deformed. Spoiled.

  But what could you say? Gina just had it. Tonight her magnetism called on the animal in Tom.

  She had never come on to him during the times they’d been waiting alone at the bus stop, but he was convinced she’d flirt with him if he’d encourage it, if he’d start it, something he’d always been very careful to avoid.

  Abstain from all appearance of evil.

  But the sheen in Gina’s eyes said forever, “Lead me on…” She differed so much from his wife, whom he loved, but also doubted. Romy was a thoroughly good person; she did good things. But she didn’t serve. Most of her actions carried an impersonal quality hard to pin down. Sometimes she seemed like a machine, discharging her duties, her actions preventing her from becoming guilty, but leaving those served emotionally dry, hungry.

  Maybe she had potential. But he wouldn’t marry her again, given the choice. Not a chance. Not with her inflexible attitude. Too obstinate. Too passive.

  Tom sighed and wiped his face with a hotel towel. There was pressure in the air; he thought he saw sparks, but then they were gone.

  What was Tina up to…?

  He grunted. Tonight was a bad time to judge whether he’d done the right thing at that crucial junction years ago. Right now was not a good time to think about the heavy stuff.

  Romy.

  Surely there had to be a passionate woman in her somewhere. A free person. But he had no clue as how to unlock her soul.

  He’d married a stranger.

  He envied easygoing Ralph Delors. And pitied Gina. She was no woman for a mealy-mouthed homebody with a stupid grin. Romy on the other hand was true homebody material. She was… She was—

  Get a grip, man!

  She wasn’t a bad person. You’d have to travel far to find somebody as trustworthy as her. Confronted with a choice between the real Gina and Romy, his wife would win every time. Hands down.

  Maybe.

  Life together consisted of more than just physical things.

  His mouth began to move in silent anger and he rebuked himself. He bunched up a pillow behind his head and grabbed his Bible and read—Psalms—until he became drowsy.

  He began to doze.

  Consciousness slowly slipped away…

  Suddenly he stood in a dark hall, surrounded by men in uniform; smoke lingered in space, and music… Big beats pounded the air; his stomach vibrated with the bass. Up ahead was a table—no, a catwalk—with poles at equal distances. He saw legs of women dancing.

  Dhahran, 1991. The Aramco party…

  Opposite him stood bald soldiers in desert fatigues wearing patches with parachute emblems and two letters A side by side in a circle. The men howled and hollered…

  Outside, the cool desert, a vast amount of nothing; emptiness…

  Emptiness…

  Vibrations underground—an explosion!

  He careened through the air and slammed onto his back, sharp pain shooting through his heart. He gnashed his teeth; blood gushed from his chest. He writhed, bit the sand…

  The dancers still danced…

  Bald! The women had no hair…

  Secretaries—they were secretaries!

  Pounding beats.

  The girls sprouted curls growing longer and longer. Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

  He looked down on himself; he wore a uniform too. But he was no soldier; he was something different. He was… He worked for…

  A stern woman in black with ghostly-white skin danced up to him, spurred on by a riot of African drums. Her red eyes pierced him, hypnotized him. She opened blue lips, bared fangs.

  He gasped.

  Her mouth expanded, became a gaping abyss—

  The drums stopped and the fangs turned into prison bars.

  Tom groaned and sat up, his eyes wide.

  4

  Saturday, 5 July 2003, After Midnight, 79°F/26°C

  It was too hot to sleep.

  He tossed and tu
rned for a while, unsettled by recurring images of women not his own, until he caught sight of the red dot on the base of the TV. He exhaled with a groan and leaned back, his thumb playing with the remote. The screen sprang to life and he turned the volume down.

  CNN had a report about the occupation of Iraq. It was turning into a quagmire, the reporter said. Tom scoffed and flipped the channel.

  BR, Bavaria’s public station, featured a documentary about the local cheese-making industry in 1875. The speaker employed an inimitable monotone.

  Monotone Spiegel-TV was bashing Bush over Iraq.

  RTL aired a sitcom, “Here comes Bush,” with Barbra Streisand’s husband playing a moronic George W.

  On WDR John Belushi lowered his gun and bent over a topless woman.

  VOX aired an old flick starring a very young man who looked uncannily like Rocky or Rambo. Tom left the channel when he realized that the girls kept wearing less and less.

  On MTV three blondes kicked up water in a lake. They ripped dresses of aluminum foil from one another and sang, “Hooray, hooray, it’s a holi-holi-day…!”

  There was no Christian programming.

  RTL II had an interview with a Polish actress. The show was called Liebe Sünde, Love Sin, the very title a provocation of the Most High and Tom wondered where this was going. But since she was conservatively dressed, he listened anyway. She sounded very much in charge and seemed to know exactly how to make a buck in her industry. Her interviewer on the other hand was a befuddled guy wearing a wig and women’s clothing.

  Disgusted, Tom jerked—and the remote tumbled to the floor. His hand rushed for it, his fingers groped around—and quickly snatched it up. His thumb raced for the off-button.

  The Polish actress shrieked, and the screen went blank.

  God… He gasped.

  But now the little box on top of the TV began making noises. A second later the screen lit up again, music came on—and a landscape of gold-brown skin. The title flared up in bold red letters: “Death camp of the Amazons.”

  Stark dashed from the bed. His right foot got tangled in his jeans on the floor. He staggered, lost equilibrium and fell. He sat up and rubbed his knee. Scooting closer, he lunged out and slammed the TV’s off-button into the set.