The Carpenter's Wife

by G. H. Holmes

  “Here,” Tom said, fetching the punch bowl off the table. “Have a drink.” He sat the bowl onto the water’s surface and pushed it toward them like a model boat. “It might disinfect the water too, if you pour it in.”

  Romy coughed and wheezed. She wiped her face. She sobbed. Somebody bent over her.

  “Here, babe.”

  A hand with a wet towel came down over her face and rubbed it, and she felt like a little child. The nausea returned and she jerked around and retched again. Groaning, she rolled around and looked skyward when it was over—and the towel came back.

  “Feel better?” Tom again.

  She nodded. She wanted to die.

  “Fine mess you got yourself into here…”

  “I’m fine.”

  His eyes glinted. “You sure?”

  “Positive.” But she felt tremendous exhaustion.

  Tom wiped her face again. Then the towel disappeared and something dark descended over her head. Her arms were lifted up, and she found herself in her T-shirt. She sighed—and fell asleep.

  Standing in the pool, both Delors’ watched how Tom picked up his wife and gently rested her head on his shoulder. Then he put his free arm under her knees and turned toward the pool. His jaw muscles flexed.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to get our stuff—and to bring your triangles. Sorry ‘bout the inconvenience.”

  He walked off.

  The streetlight shone in through the open window and she awoke when he lowered her onto her bed.

  “Tom…?” she whimpered. “Where am I? What happened…?”

  “You’re home, babe.”

  “It’s hot…” She clumsily tried to pull her shirt off.

  He assisted her when it got stuck on her chin.

  “Tom…” she said and sank toward her pillow, breathing heavily. “You think I’m desirable?”

  “You know that.”

  She groaned. “Tom… Would you want Gina for a mistress?”

  His gaze snapped toward her face. “What makes you think that…?”

  “You don’t need her. I’ll do any—anything, really...” She suddenly seemed poised to burst out crying. “Oh, Tom. I had so much fun. But now I feel as if it was all wrong.”

  “Easy now; don’t get all worked up. It’s not your fault.”

  “What…?”

  “Nothing’s your fault. Somebody was playing games with you tonight. Maybe with me too. I’ve got to give it some thought so I won’t be unfair to anybody. But I have a hunch that…” He leaned forward: she’d fallen asleep again.

  He scanned her form, desperately trying not to compare, not to think of the other woman who’d presented herself to his eyes tonight. This one was his, the other one wasn’t.

  And Ralph…

  Poor dumb Ralph…

  Carnality, he thought. The Flesh didn’t care whether the object of its lust was married or not, or what God thought, or who it hurt in its pursuit. The Flesh fought dirty, with no holds barred, aiming for one thing and one alone, and that was its satisfaction. “A male organ has no conscience,” Dad had told him on his sixteenth birthday. Dad really knew the Flesh.

  Stark’s eyes settled on the bikini Romy wore and noticed that its straps cut deeply into her. He loosened them and saw the red marks the strings left, wondering why she’d worn the piece in the first place if it was too tight.

  Women…

  His eyes were on her again. Stretched out before him in the light of the streetlamp, he pitied her, and suddenly he felt there was something new about her. The way she lay, her posture, the position of her arms and legs… She had changed; she’d lost her rigidity. The alcohol. Too bad.

  Would she consent if he bent over her and made love to her now?

  What a selfish thought…

  He covered her with her sheet and cautiously laid down beside her.

  32

  Saturday, 9 August 2003, Morning, 24°C

  It was 9:00 AM and cooler than on most mornings this summer, but Romy didn’t know whether her shivers stemmed from the weather or the flu, or from the ice bag on her forehead.

  Tom came in. “How’s the patient?”

  “Cruddy.” She smiled vaguely.

  He held out three aspirins and a cup of black Jacobs. “Take this.”

  She sat up and put the ice on the nightstand. “You’re feeding me coffee?”

  “That’s what they always hand the drunks in Westerns.”

  “Ugh, you’re mean.”

  He giggled and watched her sip. Then he put on a serious face. “Now tell me again.”

  She laid back down. “All right…” Her voice was shaky. “It’s all a blur, like I was there but… wasn’t. It’s a dream, at least after we came back out and I sat down—or after the second glass of punch.” She looked up. “Do I make sense?”

  He nodded. “Perfect sense. You feel ashamed?”

  “Yes. But yesterday…?” She reflected for a moment. “I never felt so good in my life. Until I fell in the pool. Then it became awful, and Ralph staring at me...”

  Tom swallowed.

  Her eyes became teary. “I know what I’ve done was wrong. I—I just wasn’t myself. I have no idea how I could let myself go like that…” She sniffled. “You know me better than to think I’m some cheap person…”

  “Mmh. Which one of you had this glorious idea to stick you into a bikini?” He bent down and fetched a set of red triangles from the floor, and held it up. “See what I mean?”

  “Did I wear that?”

  He nodded. “Squeezed the daylights out of you, so I took it off.”

  She blushed and adjusted under her sheet.

  “You planned to surprise us. Who came up with the idea?”

  She shrugged. “It was in the air.”

  His face was unmoving.

  “I can’t believe it now,” she said, “but it sounded like good idea up in her closet. We were trying stuff on, looking in the mirror—“ Suddenly she began to bawl. “I feel so dirty…!”

  “Wait.” He sat down on the edge of her bed. “Don’t put on a show now.”

  “I’m not acting. I mean it. And you’re mean.”

  “Now, now. Did you drink something in the house? You understand you were drunk.”

  She blew her nose. “I guess.”

  “This is no summer flu; you’ve got a hangover.” Tom folded his hands.

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s no fever. Let’s assume what I said is true. Humor me, what’d you drink?”

  Romy shrugged. “Punch.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Means there was alcohol in it,” he said.

  “I didn’t taste anything.”

  “Neither did I…”

  She shrugged. “I mean, I’m no expert, but—”

  “Boy, am I glad.”

  Romy hesitated. “On the counter she had a bottle of rum.”

  “There was none in that punch. I’d tasted that by a mile.”

  “I didn’t touch it. I mean, I did touch it—”

  “What now?”

  “Just the bottle; I didn’t drink it.” She closed her eyes to meditate. “There was another one…”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Nothing. It was empty.”

  He sighed. “What kind was it, you remember?”

  “It had a picture of Queen Elizabeth on it.”

  Stark’s eyebrows narrowed.

  “No—wait. It was Queen Victoria, because it made me think of—”

  “Did it have a blue sticker?”

  Her eyes popped open. “Why, yes.”

  “Did it say ‘Bombay Sapphire’?”

  “You know that stuff?”

  “Gin,” he said. “It’s blue gin. Drank it in England.”

  “You think there was some in that punch bowl?”

  He studied his toes. “Forget about it.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t Gina’s fault…”

  “What?�
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  “That I got sick.”

  “Mmh.” He seemed absent-minded.

  They fell silent.

  “Tom,” she said, her gaze on him. “I felt so good about myself up there. Suddenly there was nothing to it; going bikini, I mean. And I liked the mirror and she and I standing there.” Her voice became teary again. “But now it makes me gag. Want to puke.” She clutched her sheet and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve done so good,” she said, “keeping commandments. And now?”

  “Now you’re soiled.”

  “You don’t have to rub it in.” She began to sniffle again. “I’m already hurting…”

  He sighed. “Feel like you let God down?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” he said. “Finally.”

  She stared at him.

  “I mean it.”

  “I’m on the floor and you say it’s good?”

  “Yes. Even though it wasn’t entirely your fault, of course”

  She huffed.

  He brought both index fingers up before his mouth, thinking. “Tried for eight years to talk to you about something; never could get through to you. Maybe now you’ll listen.”

  She shot him a questioning glance. “What’s that?”

  He sighed. “I don’t say that what you and Gina did yesterday was good, but I also don’t want to condemn you for it. Maybe God’s hand’s in this after all.”

  She gave him another puzzled look.

  “See, so far you tried to please God by being rigid, by keeping the rules, and frankly, babe, I hated that. But now you failed. You didn’t keep the rules, you got drunk accidentally and ran around naked—“

  “Not true—!”

  “—half-naked.”

  “No!”

  He giggled. “Of course not. But your whole great edifice of self-righteousness finally came crashing down, and I say, glory to God.”

  “But—”

  “No but.” He held his hand out. “Now you’re thrown back on God’s mercy; now you have to live by grace, because you messed up. Once you break the rules, there’s never a second chance. That’s the nature of the law; once you break it, you broke it. You’re done.”

  She held on to her sheet. “What are you saying?”

  “That you need to live by grace and not by rules.”

  “You want me to go sin again?”

  “Don’t be silly. What I’m saying is, God still loves you. He made you of flesh and blood and put desires into you. Sure you need to dominate them, but there’s a place for living them, say, for running around sparsely dressed.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t need to stifle that impulse; just don’t do it in public. It’s okay here in the bedroom.”

  “You mean—”

  His index finger shot out at her. “You said you liked it.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t myself…”

  “Look,” he said emphatically. “God’s word says that all things are allowed to you and nothing’s bad, just don’t overdo it—moderation is the key—because by overdoing, you form a habit, and habits bind you pretty quick. But by all means, if you feel sexy, show it—to me. And if you want a glass of wine, we can arrange for that too. Not often, but we’ll find a way and a time. After all, Jesus turned water into wine and not wine into water, you know.”

  She sniffled. “Aren’t you a little self-serving?”

  “I’m talking about living by grace.”

  “But isn’t that licentious?”

  He smirked. “You afraid?”

  “Queasy.”

  He inhaled deeply, his eyes went unfocussed. “Licentiousness is a counterfeit of freedom. But so is legalism. They’re the left and the right side of the road. The trick is to stay in the middle. You don’t want to do everything your flesh suggests—because that’s not freedom but being driven—but you also don’t want to become so rulebound that you turn into a robot—and you were a robot, you know. But you finally messed up.”

  Tears streamed from her eyes.

  He patted her thigh. “And now there’s only grace. Let’s pray for you.”

  “That was real smart,” he e-mailed Gina later, “to put gin into the punch. Knocked Romy silly. I take, the Sapphire’s your drug of choice.”

  She replied—to his astonishment. “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, for one, you don’t smell it on the breath.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The British colonials disinfected their stomachs with gin. They drank a swig in the morning, on a sober stomach, and another before saying good-night. Kills the bugs. Since they didn’t want to reek of the bottle, they took gin, the only booze that doesn’t carry. Any comments?”

  “You’re observant.”

  “Isn’t that true? In my day, I preferred Coke. Does the job, plus, no alcohol. Gin! Gina—pardon the pun—did you have to let her get soused like that? Were you trying to make fun of her?”

  “I didn’t force her into anything. I thought she had a good time. We laughed and she was happy. I didn’t notice she was lit.”

  “What are you saying? You were soused too?”

  “I was happy too.”

  “Ufff. Woman.”

  “Ralph’s still struggling. He has a hard time coping with your temper tantrum. Frankly, I don’t understand it either. Romy got sick and we feel sorry for her, but you didn’t have to become violent because of it. That wasn’t the love of Jesus, Tom.”

  “Let’s not talk about the love of Jesus now. I’m sure Ralph will get over it; my apologies to him. But you need to ask forgiveness, sister.”

  “…I can understand it if you want to break off contact with me…”

  “I don’t. We still like you. And I forgive you, for reasons all my own. But you need to overcome that habit, Gina. Talk to God about it. Don’t waste yourself. You’re too precious to lose.”

  He didn’t get an answer to that.

  33

  Wednesday, 13 August 2003, Evening, 30°C

  A few minutes after the Beamer had rolled around the corner by the church, a white company van came from the opposite direction and stopped by the hedge of the Starks’ lot. The driver took an oversized grocery bag from the passenger seat and got out. Sneaking a look up and down the empty street, he let himself through the gate. Once in, he took the stairs two at a time, and rang the doorbell.

  The kitchen window opened and Romy looked down on a back black with sweat.

  “Why, hello there…” She blushed.

  The carpenter turned and lowered his head as if embarrassed, but then his eyes sought hers. “I brought you something.” He showed her the bag.

  “What is it?”

  He balked. “Need to show you.”

  She hesitated. Then she said, “I’ll let you in.” She pulled back and closed the window.

  When the buzzer rang, he stepped through the door and waited, studying the lines in the plaster on the wall. The air in here smelled of lemongrass. He looked around but saw no pots with reeds.

  Romy came out of the hall into the den. A shyness settled over them when they stood vis-à-vis once more. Both cast their eyes around like schoolchildren.

  “I don’t understand all that happened…” he began.

  “What—?”

  “Friday night…” His voice was raspy.

  “I apologize,” she said.

  He looked up. “What for?”

  She shrugged. “I got sick.”

  “Yeah, yeah…” He nodded thoughtfully. “Happens…” Then he straightened. “Well, I felt bad about it.”

  “You felt bad?”

  “Well, for you, and wanted to make amends—”

  “But you didn’t do anything.”

  He thought again. “I shouldn’t have, maybe…” The bag in his hand rustled. “Anyway.” He opened it. “I thought you might like this.” He pulled out a lush bouquet of roses.

  Romy’s eyes widened. “Oh, Ralph. Why’d you give me that?”
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  His throat tightened when he handed them over. “Maybe you can put them up somewhere, and every time you see ‘em, you remember that I’m sorry.”

  “They’re red.”

  His ears began to glow. He coughed into his fist. “Looked best at the store. The others were…” He wiggled his hand. “So so. Nothing for you.”

  “Oh, Ralph.” She spun the bouquet in her hand and fluffed it. “This is nice.”

  “Thanks. We didn’t meet on Sunday, and our day together at Legoland last Friday—“

  “Think of it a lot?” She turned beet-red at her own question.

  His chin dipped, then his head swung in silent affirmation.

  “I can’t put this up. What’s Tom going to say?”

  He scratched his head. “Think he’d object?”

  “Do you want to find out?”

  Ralph clicked his tongue. “Not really.”

  “Me either.”

  “Is he… hard?”

  She giggled. “No; don’t worry.”

  “What if you don’t tell him they’re from me.”

  “But Ralph, I can’t not tell him.” She caught the red marks on his right hand. Lowering the flowers, she took it and had a look. “You’re injured. What’d you do?”

  “Caught myself in the shop.”

  “But—” She looked closer.

  “Happens all the time—”

  “But the splinter’s still in there. This is bad. Come in and we’ll take it out.” She gently pulled him into the hall.

  He gestured with his good hand. “What if Tom…”

  “Tom doesn’t mind helping people, and church is not out until eight thirty. He won’t be here before nine.”

  “And the children?”

  “They know you. You’re a friend of ours.”

  “But my car’s outside…”

  She sighed. “I understand. You have to go.”

  “No, no. It’s not that.” Ralph’s eardrums began to throb with his heartbeat.

  The crowd usually dispersed quickly after the midweek teaching service and it was no different today. Stark was alone when he closed the office door and sat down in front of his church computer.

  He opened Outlook Express, clicked on “new message,” and began to type.

  “We missed you folks on Sunday. I have to say, I was eager to look into your ‘mountain lakes’ to see what all is swimming around in there these days. How’s Ralph? Mind letting me know later today?”