Pickin Clover

by Bobby Hutchinson

  Controlled anger and sharp bitterness laced his voice; Polly had rarely heard such a voice from her husband. She recognized that he was under enormous pressure, and with a sinking sensation in her stomach, she knew this was not the time to bring up the intimate problems in their marriage that were causing her such heartache. No matter how serious they were, Michael was already on overload. Confronting him with emotional issues right now could be disastrous.

  Impossible as it seemed to her, they’d simply have to bungle along the way they had been, until the money issue was less urgent, until Michael could listen to what she had to say without the issue of finances tightening like a noose around his neck.

  “Of course I’ll do everything I can to help.” Guilt over how much she’d already charged on their accounts this month rose up in her. There’d been clothing, and the set of dishes, and Norah’s watch, and...the truth was she couldn’t even remember precisely how much she’d charged, but it was a lot. She’d grown accustomed to buying anything and everything that took her fancy. Michael had never once restrained her in any way.

  Shame overwhelmed her. What was wrong with her? Where money was concerned, she’d acted totally irresponsibly, like a spoiled child instead of a reliable adult and partner. And Michael had treated her that way, as well, she realized with a start.

  That made her angry. “Why didn’t you tell me right away how serious this Raymond thing was, Michael? I’m your wife, I had a right to know. We’re supposed to be partners. We’re supposed to share the bad stuff as well as the good, aren’t we?”

  “There hasn’t been a whole lot of good for a while now, Polly. I guess I thought you didn’t need this on top of everything else. You’ve seemed...better...lately. I didn’t want to upset you all over again.”

  “Better? Damn it all, Michael, I’m not an invalid. Losing Susannah wasn’t some disease I’ll recover from. How dare you treat me like a patient, or like...like a child you have to humor?” Her voice had risen, and other diners were staring at them. Polly didn’t care. His words, what she perceived as his condescension, infuriated her.

  Suddenly she wanted to pour out all the other grievances, all the ways he was hurting her and their marriage.

  Michael must have sensed it, because he said in a quiet, controlled tone, “This isn’t the place to discuss it, Polly. If you’re finished with your food, we’ll leave.”

  “I’m done.” She’d barely touched her food, but she couldn’t eat another bite.

  He got up, signaled the waiter and went to the cashier to pay the bill, and by the time they were out on the sidewalk, she’d calmed down enough to reaffirm that this wasn’t the time to bring up all the other issues. But she couldn’t separate them; if she brought up one thing, she’d have to bring up the rest, and for the first time in their marriage, she was afraid of confronting him.

  She walked stiffly beside Michael to where they’d parked the car. He didn’t say anything about what had occurred in the restaurant, and neither did she. They rode home in strained silence, and when they reached the house he disappeared into his study, muttering about bringing his files up-to-date.

  Polly swallowed the medications she’d been trying to give up, and in a short time fell into a deep, drugged sleep. She didn’t hear Michael come to bed, and when she awoke the next morning, groggy and sluggish, he’d already left for the hospital.

  She quickly showered and hurried over to her mother’s house, grateful beyond belief to have a job to go to, a place where she was needed, people to talk with who’d make it easier to forget for a few hours that her marriage was collapsing around her.

  Norah was already there, and so was Jerome. The three of them joked and laughed and worked. If Polly’s laughter was a little too loud, her jokes a little forced, the other two didn’t seem to notice.

  The following day Norah had to return to work, and Polly was alone with Jerome. For the next week, from early morning until late at night, she worked as hard as she’d ever done physically. She concentrated on the job, not allowing herself to think of the problems between her and Michael. She was too exhausted each evening to do more than prepare a quick meal for herself and then fall into bed.

  She found she didn’t need the medications these nights. Sleep was instantaneous, long and deep. She saw very little of Michael. He was working even longer hours than before, and he didn’t even object when she and Jerome decided to paint on Sunday afternoon.

  The silent house settled in around Michael, weighing down on him like a heavy dark cloak. Half an hour earlier, Polly had stuck her head into the study to tell him she was going to her mother’s to paint. He’d been working for hours on the endless stack of forms the government required, but when the sound of Polly’s car accelerating down the drive faded, he shoved the untidy mass of paper aside and got to his feet to wander restlessly from one room to the next. Every now and then he’d pause in front of the wide front window in the living room.

  Sunday. It had always been the best day of the week for him. He used to get up early and make his one culinary specialty—buckwheat pancakes. He and Susannah would take a cup of coffee up to Polly to entice her out of bed, and they’d all have breakfast together before church.

  The old order changeth, yielding place to new...

  But, contrary to the Tennyson poem, there was no new order, he reminded himself with bitter irony, just this constant sense of desperation in his gut, and the growing certainty that he was losing the only woman he’d ever loved and he seemed unable to do a damned thing to prevent it.

  It was suddenly all he could do to stop himself from driving his fist through the plate-glass window. He hurried to the hall, grabbed a jacket and his car keys. St. Joe’s Emergency would be teeming with people needing assistance, and the staff there were growing accustomed to having him volunteer his services.

  Polly's friendship with Jerome deepened as the days progressed. They laughed over silly things— the way Polly’s hair became speckled with white paint, the time Jerome accidentally dropped his brush directly onto the neighbor’s black cat. The comfortable intimacy between them was undeniable.

  To Polly’s surprise, Isabelle had grown fond of Clover. She told the girl to call her “Auntie,” and she began taking Clover to the park every day, either in the morning or late in the afternoon, freeing Jerome to concentrate on the painting.

  Isabelle’s generosity puzzled Polly. Selfless service had never been a part of her mother’s nature, and Clover was anything but an appealing child.

  It was Norah who discovered the truth. She’d fallen into the habit of dropping by on her way to or from work, and one afternoon she and Polly were in Isabelle’s kitchen, mixing up a pitcher of frozen juice. The unusually warm weather had lasted through the end of April, and Isabelle, as usual, had taken Clover to the park.

  “A group of older men play horseshoes over there, and there’s one of those big checkerboards painted on the concrete. I guess these guys meet every day, and Clover gives Mom an excuse for hanging out where the action is.” Norah shook her head and laughed. “Trust Mom to figure out where the boys are, huh?”

  Polly wasn’t amused. “Honestly, she’s the limit.” She gave the juice a vigorous stir. “The way she fought with Dad you’d have thought she hated men. But the minute he was dead, she started acting like a teenager again, and she’s still at it. I wish she’d just grow up.”

  Norah picked up the plastic glasses and headed for the door. “Mom is what she is, Pol. She’s never gonna change, so we might as well get used to it. Besides, she’s helping Jerome out, so at least he benefits.”

  It was easy for Norah to excuse Isabelle, Polly fumed as she followed her sister out the door. Norah had never had a kid; she didn’t know how it had felt to have Isabelle parade one man after the other in front of Susannah.

  “Are they really all my uncles?” Susannah had asked once, and Polly had dreaded the time when Susannah would realize her grandmother was promiscuous.

  In so ma
ny ways, Isabelle had deliberately undermined how Polly was raising her daughter.

  Outside, the late afternoon was hot. Jerome was sweating, and he’d stripped off his shirt. He was wearing only a pair of tattered blue jean cutoffs. His hair had bleached to a silvery blond, and his brown, muscular body gleamed in the sunlight. He drank the entire glass of juice in one long, thirsty draft, then tilted back his head to gaze up at the wall they were working on.

  “We’re gonna be finished here in the morning, Polly. All we’ve got left is that one back wall to second-coat. Then I’m going up to retouch the trim. For some reason the paint on the eaves went on really uneven on this side, but that won’t take long. How about we go out for lunch tomorrow and I buy us all a burger and a beer as a celebration.”

  Norah shook her head. “I’d love to, but I can’t, I’m on days tomorrow.”

  “I accept,” Polly said. “I think that’s a great idea. We need a celebration after all this hard work.”

  “I’ll ask Isabelle if she wants to come along,” Jerome added.

  A little of Polly’s anticipation faded.

  “The house looks absolutely beautiful. You’ve both done such a great job,” Norah said. “What are you going to do after this, Jerome? Do you have another job lined up?” Norah continued quickly, “The only reason I’m asking is that there’s a job posting at the hospital for a maintenance person and the pay is quite good.”

  “I really appreciate you telling me.” Jerome’s white teeth flashed in a wide smile. “I’ve been trying to scout out a job on construction, but things are slow right now. Think I’d have any chance of getting on at St. Joe’s, Norah?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m sure Michael would give you a good reference.” Norah hesitated, then acknowledged shyly, “I would, too, if you wanted to apply. In fact, I could give you a ride over there right now and show you around. You could pick up the job posting and talk to the maintenance supervisor.”

  Polly felt a stab of resentment mixed with...it couldn’t be jealousy, could it? She immediately shoved the idea out of her mind.

  “Why don’t you do that, Jerome. I can finish this last bit of siding. And Clover’s fine with Mom. They likely won’t be back for another hour or so.”

  Isabelle would stay until dark as long as there were men at the park fawning over her, Polly thought scathingly.

  “Okay, I’d really like to get my name in right away if there’s a chance of a steady job.” Jerome hurried inside to wash up, and in another few moments, he and Norah drove off.

  Polly watched them go, feeling unreasonably lonely and bereft. With much less than her usual enthusiasm, she painted for a while, then set down her brush. She tugged off her gloves and dug her cell phone out of her bag, then sat down cross-legged on the grass and dialed Michael’s office, thinking how often she used to call him like this and how he’d always take a few moments to talk to her and Susannah, no matter how busy he was.

  When had she stopped doing that? She’d hardly called him at all since she’d begun painting here, and even before that, the calls had been few and far between.

  “Valerie, hi. It’s me. Is he busy?” The greeting was a rite.

  “I’ll get him.”

  “Polly? Is anything wrong?” Michael sounded harassed.

  “Nothing my favorite doctor couldn’t fix,” Polly replied, deliberately injecting a sexy, teasing note into her voice. “This job is nearly done. I wanted to see if you could come by and take a look at our handiwork.”

  “I’m sorry, Pol. I just can’t. I’m really backed up here. Bob Larue is on holiday and I’m seeing his patients as well as my own. Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll grab something later.” There was a short pause, and when she didn’t say anything, he added, “I’d better go. I was with a patient when you called.”

  “Okay.” Her stomach ached all of a sudden. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you, then.”

  “Don’t wait up, love. I’ve got house calls to make when I’m done here.”

  Polly pressed the button that disconnected the call and slowly tucked the phone back in her bag. She stared at her mother’s house, resplendent in its new paint. As of tomorrow she’d be out of a job. Because of their finances, there was no way she could return to the pattern of spending her days driving around the city, visiting boutiques and shopping malls. Neither could she stay at home. The very thought of being there alone, hour after hour, day after day, with nothing to attend to, made her tremble. What on earth was she going to do with the rest of her life?

  In spite of being physically exhausted, Polly slept badly that night. At three in the morning she awoke from a panicked dream in which she was locked in a windowless room, terrified because some nameless, dreaded danger was almost upon her. Realizing that Michael wasn’t in bed beside her, and feeling lost and desolate, she got up and pulled on a cotton robe and then made her way downstairs.

  A light was on in the den. Polly pushed the half opened door wide. Michael was slumped on the leather sofa, wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the television, where an old black and white movie flickered soundlessly across the screen. He wasn’t paying any attention to it. He seemed lost in thought, his expression unbearably sad.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Michael?” Polly stepped into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Startled out of his reverie, he mustered a smile and reached out a hand to his wife, then pulled her down beside him on the sofa and looped an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, I was just thinking about a patient. Can’t sleep, love?”

  “Nope. Bad dreams. You, too?”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  She frowned at him. “It’s three in the morning and you get up at six. That’s crazy, Michael. You can’t work as hard as you’re doing and not sleep.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Are you worrying about money?”

  “No, Pol, I’m not.” He’d been thinking about Duncan Hendricks. The boy had been in his office that afternoon. Something about Duncan made it impossible for Michael to maintain any objectivity.

  The boy was totally open, trusting, absolutely confident he’d soon get better, and that perfect faith was Michael’s undoing, just as it was Sophie’s. The course of radiation was done, and although at the moment Duncan was still experiencing mild seizures and acute nausea, he should soon improve.

  Temporarily. Duncan would die. It was only a matter of time. And each minute of his dying would bring memories of Susannah, making Michael feel as though he were trapped in some bizarre time warp, fated to live the worst moments of his life over and over.

  “What are you watching?” Polly’s question brought him out of his reverie.

  He peered at the screen. “I don’t know. Isn’t that Bette Davis?” He hadn’t consciously realized the television was on.

  Polly reached for the remote and clicked it off, then turned so she was looking straight at him. “I want to talk about us, Michael. I’ve been putting if off, waiting for the right moment, but it never comes. Something’s wrong between us and it’s getting worse all the time.”

  He began to protest, but she put a finger on his lips, silencing him. “We don’t communicate anymore. I hardly ever see you. You come to bed after I’m asleep and you’re gone when I get up. We don’t make love. I...I actually feel at times as if you’re avoiding me. Are you avoiding me, Michael?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Polly.” He could feel tension flood through his body. He was irritated with her, and his voice reflected it. He didn’t need tins right now. “I told you I’d have to work longer and harder to get us out of this financial mess. And you’ve been busy, as well, painting over at Isabelle’s. We’re both dead tired by nighttime.”

  “You’ve always been busy, yet we would talk three or four times during the day, no matter how rushed you were. You always had a second for me. You don’t anymore. And every time I want to talk about Susannah, you change the subject. If we can’t even talk
about our daughter, what can we talk about, Michael?”

  She paused, and he thought of Duncan. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t explain that it was his own inadequacy he couldn’t speak of.

  When he didn’t say anything, she gave a weary sigh. “I know you’ve always refused, but now I’m asking you again. Won’t you come with me and talk to Frannie? I really feel we need some counseling, and I trust her.”

  Exasperation and exhaustion made him short-tempered. “I’m not going to Frannie Sullivan. I know she’s been wonderful for you, and I’m grateful, but just because something’s right for you doesn’t make it right for me. People deal with grief in different ways. I’m sure she’s told you that.”

  He was really angry now, and he moved his arm from around her shoulders and shifted his body back from hers so they weren’t touching. An almost overwhelming urge to get away came over him, but at three in the morning, there was nowhere to go, no way to avoid these things he didn’t want to hear or think about. And she was persisting, even when he’d made it plain he wanted the conversation to end.

  “I know from Frannie that sometimes people don’t deal with grief at all, Michael,” she went on. “They lock it away somewhere inside and it ruins their lives. I feel as if that’s what you’re doing, and in the process you’re separating yourself from me and refusing to see what’s happening to our marriage.”

  He swore under his breath. “Stop psychoanalyzing me. You keep on and on about our marriage, Polly. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing okay.” He knew it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to Polly. “You’re being more than a little dramatic here, aren’t you?” He was aware the sarcastic accusation would inflame her, and it did.

  She bolted to her feet and turned on him, hands on her hips, eyes flashing fire. “Don’t you dare speak to me in that condescending tone. I’m not being dramatic. I’m being honest, which seems to be something you’re incapable of these days.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I can’t reason with you anymore. You won’t agree to counseling. You...you make me so mad I don’t even want to talk to you.” She scrambled to her feet and ran out the door, and he knew she was crying.