by G. H. Holmes
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? You want me to calm down? After what Tom did to me? You weren’t out there in the forest in the rain. It was horrible; it was the worst nightmare anybody ever put me through. And Tom probably sits at home right now and laughs at both our stupidity, and—”
“It’s okay; you won’t have meet him; nobody’s forcing you.”
Her green eyes were round and innocent. “No?”
“Not because of me.”
She leaned back and blinked away her tears. “I love you, Ralph.”
He sat, his face unmoving.
She’d showered after returning home and right now she wore just her underwear. She stretched out her legs. “Ralph?”
“You sure you don’t want to call him?” Romy said. She and Tom were strolling down a country lane behind Elmendorf.
“I shouldn’t be the one initiating contact; not in this case,” Tom said.
She glanced at him. “Concerned?”
“What do you think? Sure, I’m concerned. But my role’s that of a counselor in the background. I’m the guy who lays out the master plan; I’m not the man’s coach prescribing every inch of the way.”
“Okay, okay,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
They wandered on in silence.
Tom’s gaze went out over the landscape of Franconia with its patchwork of empty fields and high grass on the rolling hills. They’d left home at 8:00 PM, shortly after the sun set, and now scarlet veils and puffs of pink chiffon drifted eastward in the sky. The chirp of crickets pulsed in the air. It was still hot.
“Tom…” Romy’s eyes were on the walkway.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m different; I’m just trying to do it right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I see now that I’ve had the wrong information to go by. I just want you to know I’m ready to change whenever I find a biblical precedent. We’re all growing, and—”
“Wait.” He stopped and turned toward her, shaking his head. “Earth to Romy: what in orbit are you talking about?”
She stared at the ground. “…I read the Song of Solomon the other day.”
Tom swallowed. “Is it a good book?”
Her head swayed and she looked into his eyes, which were cool as ever. Her heart began to pound. You probably get that way if your life depends on unsentimental analysis, she thought. And discipline; above all, discipline. But some warmth would have helped right now.
Her throat felt tight. “Yes.”
The hint of a smile flew across his face. “Really? I mean, really?”
“It changed my outlook on… things.”
They stood by a fenced-in enclosure. Behind the fence grew a dense hedge all around the parcel, only the gate was left free. In the middle of the little estate stood a sky-high mast overgrown with telecom-antennas.
Tom looked first at the gate and then at his wife. “Did you read the whole book?”
“Has only eight chapters,” she said softly.
“Uh-huh. Did you read the last one? ‘Bout the walls and the tower?”
Her eyes grew wide.
“The doe feeding among the lilies?”
She blushed and cast her eyes down. But then she nodded.
He swept her up in his arms, marched toward the gate, and let her down on the other side. Then he swung himself over to join her. He took her hand and they disappeared.
And the breeze made the high grass to sway.
40
Sunday, 31 August 2003, Early Morning, 14°C
Gina lay in her bed, eyes closed and breathing evenly. Ralph next to her slept on his stomach. His right arm hung down, almost touching the floor. A faint breeze blew in through the tilted window, rustling the Venetian blinds.
Suddenly the world outside lit up in a pale-green color, strange, but not unpleasant. Gina noticed the glow and sat up. Then the atmosphere changed; black birds exploded out of bushes and she was sure that she was witnessing a special phenomenon, an eclipse of the sun perhaps, or one of the moon; but it was too bright for the moon.
Was today a full-moon day?
The world seemed to vibrate—then she saw the face of Bert Müller in her second-floor window, looking in, his eyes on her.
She gasped; then she screamed with horror and bit her fist.
“Raaalph!”
Delors bolted up and blinked with heavy lids.
“Raaalph!”
He reached over; she felt his hand on her arm, then he held her—and then the room turned black and she saw nothing. She whimpered, screamed again, and flailed with her feet.
“Easy, Gina, easy; I’m here,” he cooed.
She calmed down, quivering in his arms.
“Everything’s all right.” He stroked her face. “You’ve been dreaming.”
“No, Ralph. No.” She stirred again. “Bert was here. We need to talk to Tom, we need to call him! Ralph! We need to—!” She began to hyperventilate.
“We’ll do it.”
“He’ll help; he’ll know what to do. Bert! Oh my God, we need to talk to Tom.”
“We’ll get him first thing in the morning.”
Shaking with terror, she clutched her husband, who held her tight.
Ralph gazed up at the ceiling and caressed her neck.
Epilogue
September came.
The temperature dropped to normal—quickly. The centigrades drowned in fall showers like lemmings that had raced over their cliff, and everything changed. With the heat, the spirit of madness lifted. It evaporated like water out of a puddle, leaving a residue like the unsettling scum from a nightmare in the waking souls of all involved. Soberness returned. Perhaps not to the world at large, but to Elmendorf.
Ralph and Gina did indeed talk to Tom, and the carpenter’s wife came to grips with her destructive tendencies of manipulation and seduction.
She now wanted to change. The day of games was over.
In sessions with a neutral pastor, a counselor specially trained in dealing with hearts like hers, she experienced forgiveness and began her way on the path of grace.
And she came along.
She and Tom quit writing e-mails as he assumed the proper distance to her. That was no longer difficult, as all overheated emotion had left the relationship.
And she saw a brother in him and no more.
Ralph learned to become a more active head of the house. A hands-on guy, he volunteered in church and quickly developed into a dependable usher, no longer caring what the village grapevine muttered.
The kids went back to kindergarten and school.
Bert Müller went through a remarkable development. He survived and in his time of convalescence, he had no choice but to overcome his methamphetamine habit. He recuperated. However, in the end he was left badly scarred. As a man who’d held his face to the fire to find answers to questions he didn’t even know he had, he felt called to join the Benedictine monks in nearby Münsterschwarzach, a monastery that was chartered in 780 AD and originally run by the daughters of Charlemagne. His experience with Dives in the pit went over particularly well with the brethren there, trained to shun riches and to live by modest means. In time, the hardly presentable but very eager novice ventured to Tanzania in Africa, where the Benedictines of Münsterschwarzach were busy in missionary work. A brilliant organizer, he turned out to be a great blessing there.
Tom and Romy were happier with one another than even at the beginning of their married life. She was the woman of his destiny. And that was the way Romy saw it too, understanding that as both a calling and a ministry. Her respect for him grew as he took care of things around the house without making her wait. So she didn’t make him wait either. She basked in his love, happy as never before.
Over time, the memories of the Summer of Madness faded, until they seemed no longer like real life, but like scenes from a disturbing movie: somehow present, but harmless in their unreality.
The Summer of Madness hadn’t been all bad.
But once was enough.
***
Thank you for reading "The Carpenter's Wife" by G.H. Holmes. If you wish, you may reach the author at [email protected]. We'd love to hear from you.