His Wife Leaves Him

by Stephen Dixon

  Free range chicken jokes. They usually made them up on long car trips between Baltimore and New York and New York and Maine. He thinks the first time was when she said, just after they crossed the bridge from Portsmouth into Maine, that what she wants to do soon as they get settled in the house is go to Sunset Acres Farm in North Brooksville for goat cheese and a free range chicken. “I’ve been longing to roast one for a while and theirs are the plumpest and freshest.” One of the kids said “What’s a free range chicken?” and she told her. That’s when he, out of nowhere, it seemed, came up with the first of about a hundred free range chicken jokes they made between them, or, as he once put it, “laid.” He said to Maureen, he thinks it was, “That’s not all you should know about free range chickens. Did you know that free range chickens love opera? And do you know what their favorite opera is?” and she said “I don’t know opera,” and he said to Gwen “You?” and she said “No.” He said “La Bohen.” “Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, and he said “So do one better, though I didn’t think it so bad. The free range chicken joke world is rich with bohential.” “Now I get it,” Maureen said, and Gwen said “That one’s better. All right. What’s a free range chicken’s favorite musical?” and he said “I don’t know,” and she said “Maureen? Rosalind?” and Maureen said “We don’t know either,” and she said “Bye Bye Birdie.” He said “That’s a joke? It has to relate more to free range chickens, or just chickens, like my ‘La Bohen.’ Because what do you mean, a free range chicken flying away? Chickens might flap up and down a few feet, but they don’t fly.” “I could have just meant saying goodbye to one, it’s off to the oven. You can be so hard to please sometimes. But I have another one. What’s a free range chicken’s favorite opera in German?” and he ran through his mind operas by Wagner, Richard and Johann Strauss, Berg, Gluck, Fidelio, the German ones by Mozart, couldn’t come up with one, tried thinking of other German composers, finally said “It’s taking my attention away from my driving. What is a free range chicken’s favorite German opera?” and she said “The Three Henny Opera.” “Now you got it,” he said. “I was going to say The Chickolate Soldier, by Oscar Straus, which my father took me to when I was around eight, but that was an operetta and nowhere near as good a choice as yours.” It went like that. They might have made a few more that first time. Favorite actor: Gregory Peck. Favorite actress: he forgets what that one was, but one of them came up with someone. He thinks he said, after her opera jokes—he knows he said it sometime, and if he said it then, then probably prefaced it with “As long as we’re on music”—“What’s a free range chicken’s favorite orchestral composition?” and she said “I don’t know,” and he said “The Eggmont Overture.” “That’s good,” she said: “Clever; erudite,” and Maureen or Rosalind said “I never heard of it.” He said “Beethoven, but not as famous as the Leonore Overtures.” One time he said, again in the van and probably while he was driving—he used them to pass the time if they hadn’t spoken for a while and there was nothing worth listening to on the radio—“You know what? We’ve never done a literary free range chicken joke,” and she said “That should be easy for us, but I can’t immediately think of one.” “So we’ll assume I’ve asked one about its favorite novel,” he said, “And you’ve given up and my answer is The Egg and I.” “Who’s it by?” and she said “Betsy or Betty MacDonald. In the forties. American. It was a popular work. And along those same lines, what’s a free range chicken’s favorite movie?” and she said “Bye Bye Birdie,” and he said “I thought we disqualified that one. The Egg and I. Also in the Forties. I think with Fred McMurray and Irene Dunne. God, how come I’ve stored these things? I never saw the picture.” Another time—one of them was driving—she said “I have a good one,” and he said “Free range chicken joke?” and she said “Uh-huh,” and he said “So let’s hear it.” “What’s a free range chicken’s least favorite song?” and he said “Ah, we’re changing the format around a little; good. I don’t know. What?” and she said “‘Home in the Range.’” “Now you’re cooking,” he said, “and I didn’t mean that to be a pun. It just came out.” “I’ve another,” and he said “You’re really rolling. What?” and she said “What’s a free range chicken’s favorite play by Shakespeare?” “Henry the Fourth?” and she said “That’s too easy and not very funny.” “Henry the Fourth, Part Two?” and she said no. “Henry the Fifth?” and she said “From now on, no more ‘Henry’ answers in free range chicken jokes.” “Then what is its favorite Shakespeare play?” and she said “Omelet,” and he said “Your best yet. Maybe the best from either of us. Can’t be beat. Oh, I did it again. And I have one related to that. What’s a free range chicken’s favorite Shakespearean food when it’s not an omelet?” and she said “I won’t even try,” and he said “Try, because mine’s not too good,” and she said “I can’t; my last two wore me out,” and he said “Eggs Benedict,” and she said “It wasn’t that bad.” Another time she said “What’s an unkosher free range chicken?” and he thought Eggs? Hens? Pullets? Capons? Poultry? Chickens? Chickies? Chicks? and said “Chickse,” and she said “Right.” “I have one close to that. What’s an inebriated free range chicken called?” and she said “Tell me,” and he said “A chicker.” “I don’t get it,” and he said “Shikker. Drunkard,” and she said “I never heard the word,” and he said “You must have.” Another time, he was driving, and she said “Martin?” and he looked at her and she was smiling and he said “Free range chicken?” and she said “What do you call one who’s crossed the road?” and he said “A busy road?” and she said yes, and he said “A dead free range chicken?” “Quick. Another. When is a free range chicken not free?” and he said “When it doesn’t cross the road? When it’s living in North Korea? I don’t know. Probably has nothing to do with incarceration. When?” and she said “I don’t know either. I thought you might. We’ll think of something.” “How about when it’s in the range? On it, trussed, ready to be put in?” and she said “I think we should give up. Did I already ask what’s a free range chicken’s favorite nightshade vegetable?” and he said “You did.” “Skin inflammation? Not favorite but just is?” and he said “After the eggplant one, and because the possibilities are pretty thin, I’d have to say eggzema.” “Then a free range chicken who’s also a petty thief? As you can see, I’ve been thinking about these when we weren’t doing them,” and he said “Peckpocket?” “Favorite brandy? No, skip that. Favorite gum?” This went on for years. Less often on her part after her first stroke because she had trouble getting out what she wanted to say. He doesn’t think they did them anyplace but in the minivan. Just once, when he was in bed recovering from an appendectomy and the painkiller wasn’t working and she tried to take his mind off the pain and he said “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but you might be making it worse. To change around an old nonfree-range-chicken joke a little, it’s not only when I laugh that it hurts.” But what’s he getting at with this? She once said, after they exchanged a few free range chicken jokes or one of them was on a roll: “I hope you never tire of doing this, because I love our recurring routine. It’s something just between us, not that we couldn’t bring other people in, but I wouldn’t want to. It’s also as if we’re two other people when we do them,” and he said “I think I know what you mean. But there have been so many and some really good ones, usually yours, like ‘omelet’ and ‘notherclucker’ and ‘chickanery,’ that we ought to write the best ones down.” “No, that’d ruin it. We’d start making them up for posterity rather than just for a good time,” and he said “I don’t think so. We’d be saving them for our old age—at least mine, since it’ll come long before yours—when we might not be as quick and funny and could use a little humor, but I’ll go along with anything you say.”

  He wrote only one letter to her, about a month after she broke up with him the first time they came back from Maine, but never sent it or told her about it. It read something like this: “Dear Gwendolyn,” it began. Not sure why he didn’t say “Gwen,”
which is what he always called her. Maybe to sound somewhat formal and indifferent. If so, his tone was a guise. He cared a lot about how she’d receive the letter and would have been upset if she didn’t answer it the way he hoped, or just not answered it. Next: something like “I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and health.” Again: formal, distant, reserved; all fake. “I’m fine, working hard at my writing, and my two classes at NYU’s continuing ed program seem to be going well. I got off to a shaky and incoherent start—chalk that up to nervousness and inexperience, or nervousness because of my inexperience. But my confidence picked up once I began reading their fictions four times instead of first two and then three, so that now I almost give the impression I know what I’m doing. It became embarrassing missing not only the finer points of their stories and novel excerpts but the most obvious ones too. The classes and preparations for them take a lot of my time and the job doesn’t pay well—comes out to a hundred dollars a week for two classes of two-hour sessions with a ten-minute break for each. Not quite enough to get by on, though I’m not complaining; I’m glad to have found work. The students, of all adult ages—a few of them write almost exclusively about their grandchildren and married kids—seem to appreciate my input and like me personally. There are even laughs. To help out on the grammatical and punctuational end (never my strong suit) of my detailed typewritten critiques—some of them longer than their fictions—I rely on The Gregg Reference Manual. Are you familiar with it? Much simpler and easier to find things in it than The Chicago Manual of Style, which I also bought, and more helpful than Strunk and White’s thin outdated book. Anyway, sorry to get into all of that. I don’t know why I did. I don’t typically run on. The main reason I’m writing you is to say I’ve been thinking that if you ever want to meet for coffee, though the unlikelihood of that happening should by all intents and purposes dissuade me from even suggesting it, let me know. I can’t speak for you, but I’d welcome a nice chat, not to try to smooth things out between us but to see that things have turned out all right. I know I’ve adjusted completely to our splitting up, think you were right to want to do so, so no need to worry about that. I’d also, of course, love to hear what you’ve been up to. If you’d prefer to drop me a line rather than make a call, that’d be fine too. Whatever you wish. And if I don’t hear from you, I’d understand that too. So, all the best to you, and my apologies for this overlong letter.” He signed it “Martin,” put the letter in an envelope, addressed, stamped and sealed it, kept it on his dresser a few days and then thought Does he really want to send it? Not only is it a dumb and phony letter, but what’s the use? If she wanted to see him, she’d have written or called. That’s how she is. She’s certainly not waiting for him to initiate it. He put the letter in his top dresser drawer—wasn’t sure why he didn’t just throw it out. Came upon it a week later—it had somehow worked its way under a stack of handkerchiefs—when he was looking for a pair of socks; he was down to two—and said out loud as he shook it in the air “You never answered; I thought at least a brief polite note,” and tore it up. For a couple of weeks after she broke up with him he wrote poems about her almost every day. He wrote ten, got them copied and thought of sending them to her, then thought she’d only get angry at him and think he’d become a bit twisted—some of them were sexually graphic and a few were hard on her—so he stored them away in his file cabinet of abandoned and unfinished manuscripts. About a year after they got married—he was teaching and she was mainly taking care of Rosalind and translating at home—she asked if he’d mind looking over a long modern French love poem she translated. He read it several times, said “It’s great; doesn’t need anything, far as I can tell. It’s clear, sexy, full of feeling, and I loved it. You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but shortly after you broke up with me that time I wrote a series of poems about you that I called my ‘G-Poems.’ ‘G-1,’ ‘G-2,’ and so on, till ‘G-10.’ At first I thought of sending them to you, or even dropping them off with your doorman. But parts can be quite harsh, which is maybe understandable, maybe not, though they do show how much I was in love with you. I’d let you see them now, if I could find them and you had the time. I think our marriage is on safe-enough grounds to withstand an unfavorable reading of them. Remember, I’m not a poet, which I believe is a line right out of one of the poems, ‘G-4.’ That one’s my favorite because it’s the funniest and least self-pitying of a pretty terrible bunch.” “Then just give me that one to read,” and he said “Nah, let’s get everything out. You have anything you’ve written about me that’s scornful or supercritical and worse? and she said “I’ve never written about you. Maybe in a couple of years. That’s how I write.” He got the poems, said “I don’t want to be in hearing distance of you, knowing how much you’re going to hate the poems,” and took Rosalind for a stroll in her baby carriage. Came back an hour later and said “So?” and she said “They weren’t as bad as you pretended they’d be, but they’re not very good either. To be honest—can I say this?” and he said “Sure,” and she said “They’re heartfelt and clever every so often, but too hastily written and as a group kind of slight. I thought ‘He’s a better writer than this.’” “Well, I asked, so I got. But what do you think your reaction would have been if I had sent them when I wrote them?” and she said “I would have thought ‘I can’t read these now and I don’t want to put them away for later,’ so I would have thrown them out. I was already feeling sad about what I knew I must be causing you, so reading them—after all, it’s poetry—would have made me feel sadder. Are you thinking of working on them to try and make them publishable? Of course, these were written more than three years ago, so maybe you’re a better poet today.” “I had no intention to. I know they’re lousy and unsalvageable, so that wasn’t why I gave them to you—for close criticism and to see if you’d mind them being published. In fact, I’m going to reduce by ten pages the amount of literary junk I carry around with me,” and he shoved the poems into the wastebasket under her desk. “Do you have copies?” and he said “Just one set, but I have no idea where it is and I don’t care if it’s lost.” “Maybe you should empty the basket. It’s already overfull and one of your poems just fell out,” and he said “Let me change Rosalind first.” “I’ll do it,” and he said “No, I should have done it right after I got back. She’s wet.” “Then I’ll empty the basket. Last chance to rescue your poems, Martin,” and he said “Go.” Doesn’t remember much of what he wrote in those poems except for “G-4.” That one he thought at the time he wrote it was the best poem he’d ever done. He made several copies of it and did try to get it published for a year or two before he showed it to her—The New Yorker, Salmagundi, Paris Review—but had no luck. Doesn’t even think he got a response. He probably still has it around somewhere, maybe in a couple of places, but it starts off with something like “I can’t write poetry but if I could I’d write a poem to you.” A bit flat, but clear. And a few lines later—the poem’s about twenty-five lines long—something close to “Poems have been known to express the ineffaceable, I mean the untraceable, I’m saying the inexpressible and ineffable, and that’s what I’d like to try to express to you.” And near the end, something very much like “It would be nice to be a poet and write words down like ‘I love you like a red red nose,’ and know the person you’re writing to, which would be you, would know that in those seemingly insipid words would be the heart’s deepest feelings and sentiments.” And ends “But I’m no poet and could never be, so I have to settle for prose that matter-of-factly says inexactly how I musically feel about you: My love is in boom again, tra-la, tra-la.” The last, except for a missing or added word or two, is a direct quote from the poem and the part—maybe of the entire “G-Poems,” though too late to find out if that’s still so—he liked best of all. In this same period after they broke up he thought of calling her. When she answered, he’d say “Oh, my God; Gwen; what a surprise. I’m sorry, I wasn’t calling you. You’re not going to believe this but I was calling
a fellow teacher-writer at NYU, Harold Axelrod. You both have the same three numbers for a prefix, 6-6-3, and I must have—this had to be it; some automatic reflex—dialed your number instead. But as long as I got you, how are you?” and after she said how she was, or whatever she said, and probably she’d ask about him—how teaching’s going; his mother, perhaps—he’d say “Well, even if this call was by accident, would you like to meet for coffee one of these days?” Some months before they got married, or maybe it was on their two-day honeymoon at an inn with the word “Rock” or “Rocks” in its name. No, it was during their first trip to France together—on the train from Paris to Nice, he remembers, when he said “I have a confession to make, but with an ulterior motive in mind,” and told her about the “accidental” phone call he never made to her and was curious if she would have fallen for it. “There actually was a guy named Harold Axelrod teaching poetry at NYU at the same time and on the same floor as me and he lived in your Columbia neighborhood and had a 6-6-3 prefix and I felt we were becoming friends. But after a couple of months he got a much better-paying teaching job at Middlebury and I think moved there, but I never saw him again. Called him, but his line had been disconnected.” She said she wouldn’t have believed his call was an accident, as good an actor as he could be, and it also would have been too early in their breakup to meet. “You were smart not to make that call. I knew you were a fabricator sometimes, but now I would have thought you were a schemer, which I think would have been too much of a realization for me to ever hook up with you again.” He remembers they were eating their packed lunch on two of those pulled-out trays they had in the train compartment, and drinking bottled water.