Perfect

by Harry Kraus

  I’d returned to church to pick up the music I’d left on my stand during a practice. The building was rich with the smell of cedar garland and quiet except for my own footsteps. I sat on the front pew and tried to take it all in. Poinsettias, several large Christmas trees, and of course, a humble stable and the centerpiece manger prompted a longing within me. Was it all just a made-up story?

  “Need company?” The voice was Bob’s.

  I lifted my hand to my cheek and hoped he didn’t notice the dampness in the dim light. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Just locking up,” he said, sitting beside me.

  We sat that way for a minute. He must have known my need for silence. He leaned forward, and I sensed he was going to stand to leave.

  That’s when I touched his hand. “Do you believe it?”

  His eyes searched my face.

  “You know, the whole story is so wonderful. Jesus coming to earth.” I hung my head. “I struggle to believe.”

  “You’re not alone, Wendi. Everyone fights doubts at some time or another.”

  I didn’t want to confess that my whole life was a big question.

  He talked about how much he loved my solo, how the whole message of Christmas in my voice gave him chills. I found myself wishing I’d get chills over the message.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Pray with me,” he said, reaching out and taking my hand in his.

  The prayer I don’t remember. All I remember is the powerful sense that this man cared about me. I was aware only of the gentleness of his touch as he cradled my hand in his. When he finished praying I found myself facing him, our heads bowed together, our foreheads just touching and our breath mixing as I echoed his “amen” in a gasp of my own.

  How exactly we began to kiss, I can’t say. But I only remember feeling like no one would ever make me feel that good again and pushing away a little prompting that told me I was desecrating something holy there on the front pew of the Baptist church.

  Rene pulled into my driveway, and looked at me, our first eye contact since my confession.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll go see an obstetrician.”

  I let my mouth fall open, then smiled. She was counting on me trying to stop her all along. Perhaps the Aldridge conscience in her was stronger than I thought.

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll go with you.”

  Saturday evenings meant Henry’s favorite Caesar salad, grilled lamb chops, and rice pilaf. To say that we were in a nutritional rut would be to misunderstand my husband’s compulsive quest for the perfect life. On Monday and Wednesday we ate fish. The fish, of course, was broiled. Henry’s total cholesterol was a paltry 157. Tuesday was salad day, Thursday, pork or chicken. Fridays we dined at the Boarshead Inn and Henry had beef. Sunday after the service at First Baptist we took in the brunch buffet at the Omni.

  But that night, Henry didn’t show for dinner, leaving me to entertain the masses by myself.

  Chatty Yolanda bemoaned the loss of her darling Jack. His overall condition had improved with the exception that his head injury left him without a memory or an apparent care for her. “What with the wedding coming up in a few months, he doesn’t have time to fall in love with me before the ceremony!”

  “Now, now,” said Steve. “It’s only been a few days. He’s likely to remember something soon.”

  “Maybe you should take him some pictures,” Miriam said. “Something to jog his memory.”

  The idea fascinated her. Immediately she left the table and brought back a small photo album she kept in her purse. It was the size of a four-by-six print, and it bulged with memories.

  Rene caught my eye from across the table. “Maybe you should bring him a tape of you playing the piano.”

  I forced a laugh. “And torture the poor man?”

  “I was thinking more of motivating him,” Rene replied. “He’d realize how much you need a piano teacher.” She lifted her eyelids. Touche. One point for my sister.

  “Certainly Jack would remember this,” Yolanda said, shoving a picture under my nose. It was a photograph of Jack and Yolanda in ski outfits in front of a black-diamond sign. “Of course I never went down that slope,” she added.

  “At least I play the piano. I seem to remember you hiding in the park when Mom thought you were taking piano lessons at Mrs. Thalheimer’s.” I smiled sweetly at Rene. One point for me.

  “I know,” Yolanda beamed. “I’ll bet Jack has a picture of me on his nightstand.”

  Steve chuckled. “I’ll go over to his place tomorrow and see.”

  Yolanda sniffed. “I have Jack’s picture next to my bed. His face is the last thing I see each night before I close my eyes.”

  I wanted to gag. Better yet, someone gag Yolanda. Instead, I stood and started collecting dinner plates. Working would keep me from doing something drastic and reminding her that Jack thought I was his fiancée now. “Dessert anyone? I have vanilla ice cream and raspberry topping.”

  Yolanda patted her slender abdomen. “I’d better not. If I spend a week here, I’ll never fit into my wedding dress.”

  I looked at her and tried not to wish her fat-fears upon her. I thought about my marriage vows and how Jack’s amnesia, the very illness that upset Yolanda so, was the very thing that gave me another chance at doing the right thing. I offered a weak smile and sat in conflicted silence. It was right for me to hope good things for Jack, a recovery of his memory of his engagement to his precious Yolanda. But at the same time, if Jack recovered his memory, then my sin would no longer be my secret.

  We sat around the table making the polite talk of strangers until way past dark. Yolanda suggested showing Jack another dozen or so pictures, and Miriam and Steve reminisced about Jack’s childhood. I mostly sipped coffee and wondered what it would have been like if Jack and I had met before I’d fallen for my surgeon. By nine-thirty, when the phone rang, I welcomed a chance to escape.

  I picked up the phone in the kitchen. “Hello.”

  It was Henry, his voice weary. “Sorry I didn’t make it for dinner.”

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Are you coming home?”

  “I’m on my way to the theatre,” he said. “Someone with a crushed liver and a belly full of blood.”

  I wrinkled my nose and couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice, “Sounds pleasant.” I hesitated before continuing. “What’s the likelihood of Jack recovering his memory?” I cleared my voice and hoped I sounded naturally curious. “Poor Yolanda is quite upset about him not remembering their relationship.”

  “But he remembers you.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Yes.”

  “Seems a bit strange. His memory is spotty.” Henry sighed. “But I guess the brain is weird like that. Who knows? Most acute brain injury patients get slowly better. Let’s just hope Jack is one of the lucky ones.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t wait up. I’ll be late.”

  I heard a click and looked at the phone. Henry was gone, off to save another life.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sunday morning was to be day four of my Caribbean vacation with Jack Renner. White sands, mango daiquiris, and clear water. Instead, I’d gotten the week from hell. A pregnant sister with HIV, my almost-lover with amnesia in the ICU, and now his adoring family and his brooding fiancée living in my house.

  I got up early, leaving Henry making sonorous noises. I needed an escape, so I locked myself into estrogen central, slipped into a revealing two-piece bathing suit I’d selected for Jack, and lay down in my private tanning bed. I set the timer for ten minutes and tried to forget my misery.

  I closed my eyes and fantasized about Jack and moonlit walks with surf tickling our feet. But Henry kept intruding. My thoughts drifted to Jack in the ICU and then on to Henry and the gentle way he showed his care and confidence. In another moment, I thought of walking hand in hand with Henry on the same beach.

&n
bsp; My thoughts turned from Henry in the ICU to a continuous replaying of Henry’s good-night phrase. “But he remembers you. ” Was Henry jealous? Was I more transparent than I thought?

  The tanning bed didn’t whisk me away to Jamaican sand. After ten minutes I was still hiding in the back of my walk-in closet with an economy load of stress. By today, I was to have been free of my hypocritical life for a full three days. Instead, I was still waking up the perfect wife next to the perfect surgeon in the perfect house in the perfect neighborhood. I sighed and pushed open the lid to my tanning bed. I’d just have to make due with small changes. I slipped off the little black bikini and looked at my selection of Sunday morning dresses. Then, instead of my normal designer fare, I put on a pair of nice jeans and a white cotton blouse. I’d always felt like such a poser in church, dressing to impress. Well today, I was going to dress for God alone. I figured there might be a lot of people in my father’s church who cared what I wore when I worshiped, but God wasn’t one of them. I buttoned the waist of my jeans and nodded my head. Henry and the rest of the uppity-up dressers could choke on their own piousness for all I cared.

  I tiptoed through the bedroom, made Ethiopian coffee, and poured a big bowl of Cocoa Krispies and covered them with a light dusting of sugar.

  After a few delightful minutes of silence, Rene plodded in and stole the first cup of coffee, then poured a second one for me. I added French vanilla creamer.

  She sat across from me and sipped her coffee quietly.

  “There’s church today.”

  She looked up. “You know I can’t go. The whole congregation must think I’m kin to the devil by now.” She held her coffee mug with two hands like an offering. “Looks like I’ve proved them all right.”

  “And I guess I’ve proved them all wrong.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m not the woman they think I am either.”

  She nodded and stayed quiet. A few minutes later, I spoke again, this time in a whisper. “Henry was out until three. I hate it that he spends more time with his gorgeous blonde resident than with me.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?” I leaned toward my sister. “Sometimes I get so annoyed at his arrogance and his quest for polish. But I don’t want anyone else taking him from me,” I said, closing my fist.

  Rene shook her head. “Henry’s too smart to throw away his reputation on a fling with a gorgeous blonde.”

  I sighed. “You’re right about that.” For Henry, reputation and appearance was everything.

  Henry came out a few minutes later in a gray suit, a white button-down shirt, and a designer silk tie. He looked at me. “Wendi, it’s Sunday.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I said, feigning nonchalance. “Ready to go?”

  “But you’re — ”

  “I’m wearing this,” I interrupted. “Do you think God will let me in if I’m not in a dress?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but must have thought twice after looking at Rene and me. He slowly shook his head, his expression the embarrassed look you’d give a man who walked into a crowded room with his zipper down. He held up his hands. His silence was judgment enough.

  I set out breakfast cereals for my houseguests and walked across the street to church with Henry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone at all, given my new quest for an honest life, but giving up church with Jack lying in the ICU didn’t seem an acceptable way to win any points with God, so just in case he was watching, I decided to go.

  I shouldn’t have. Twenty people asked me the same questions about Jack. “What happened? How is he?”

  I smiled and held it all in. He was distracted by my suggestion that we run away together, so he pulled into the path of a speeding semitruck.

  Henry, the consummate poser, just kept smiling, complimenting old ladies’ hats and politely refusing to give out professional information about Jack’s progress. Of course, he seemed above taking any glory for saving Jack’s life, but I could tell he was pleased that the gossip chain was alive and crediting him for a miracle.

  In the parking lot after church, I watched as Deb Seaton ushered two fatherless teenage sons into a minivan. She caught my gaze, and I looked away. To her, I would forever be the other woman. I’d seen her at church sporadically over the last six months. Her boldness in coming back to the fellowship here since her husband’s death was a credit to her resilience. She knew I’d never share the affair with the church. And since my mother was out of the picture, Deb didn’t need to worry that my mom would pressure her not to speak. Her eyes were sad, not vengeful, and set within a face that looked weary of the hand she’d been dealt.

  Every time I saw her, I felt guilty, and remembered our last encounter. It was two weeks after my release from the hospital. I wanted her to know how sorry I was. I needed to apologize for me, and for the way my mother had pressured her husband out of the church.

  I stood on her front porch and rang the doorbell. I was never very good at being indirect.

  She opened the door, and the words I’ d practiced stuck in my throat, suddenly a desert. “What do you want?”

  I felt tears sting my eyes. I sniffed. “Look, I’m so sorry.”

  She shook her head at me. I was an untrained puppy just caught next to my mistake on the carpet. “Stay away from my husband.” The door slammed in my face, leaving me humiliated, still bearing the guilt I wanted to unload.

  Deb closed the door to the van and stepped my way. I felt my heart quicken. I suddenly wanted Henry right beside me, but he’d been detained by another fan of his surgical skill. I glanced over to see him at the edge of the parking lot with a silver-haired woman bending his ear.

  I looked at Deb, not knowing what to say. So, long time, no see? I folded my arms across my chest and prepared to defend myself.

  “Wendi, can we speak?”

  I couldn’t imagine what I’d want to say to her. I tilted my head to the side and shot a second glance towards my husband. “Sure.”

  Deb kept her voice low. “Bob didn’t commit suicide.”

  I took a step towards her and unfolded my arms. Her husband had died in a car accident six months before. Single car versus bridge abutment. The car lost.

  “I’ve heard what you can do,” she said. “I read in the paper about how you figured out that pizza delivery crash.”

  “Yes,” I responded. It was my local claim to fame.

  “I’m tired of everyone assuming Bob committed suicide,” she whispered. “Is there any way to prove it was an accident?”

  I puzzled over her statement. This was the last thing I expected out of her. I shook my head slowly. “Is this an insurance issue? Is his life insurance company not paying off because of this?”

  It was an odd question, but I’d been consulted to figure out these sorts of issues before.

  “It has nothing to do with that,” she said. “I just want to know for me.”

  I paused, studying her worried expression. “You obviously don’t believe your husband committed suicide.”

  “He wouldn’t.” She hesitated. “He couldn’t.”

  “It’s been a long, long time. Any physical evidence will have been erased.” I paused. “Would we be able to make a conclusion from studying the old insurance and police photographs and reports? Not likely,” I said, answering my own question. “You will just have to take your belief to heart. You knew him best. If you know he didn’t kill himself, you’ll just have to comfort yourself with that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” I reached out and squeezed her forearm. “I’m sorry.”

  I watched her eyes moisten. She nodded. “Thanks.”

  She scuffed a white sandal against the pavement and cleared her throat. “Bob was a good man, really,” she said, looking away. “He never had another woman after you.”

  My heart pounded. You mean he didn’t seduce any more teenagers into his office for private Bible study?

  I put a clamp on my thoughts. She was
trying to preserve her husband’s memory with some decency. I didn’t know what to say. “No one here knows about him,” I said. “My mother saw to that.”

  She wrinkled her forehead and winced as her son blew the horn. With that, she scurried off to her vehicle.

  Henry arrived at my elbow. “What was that all about?”

  I looked in Deb’s direction. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Just a grieving widow wanting evidence that will help her sleep.”

  He let my statement stand. We walked silently across the street to the house.

  Henry took me to the Omni for brunch. I wanted to take Rene, but she begged off, saying she had morning sickness. I’m not sure that was true, but I didn’t press her.

  We separated after a quiet meal, Henry retreating to his office and me to visit Jack in the ICU.

  I passed the hospital cafeteria and was relieved to see Yolanda and the Renners having lunch. Great, I thought, I need a few minutes alone with my piano teacher.

  A few minutes later, I pulled back the curtain to find Jack sitting up to a tray of liquids. Red Jell-O, cranberry juice, clear beef bouillon, and a cup of black coffee sat in various stages of consumption. “Mmm,” I said. “Looks tasty.”

  He looked up. “Hi, Wendi.”

  “You remembered my name.”

  He sipped at his coffee. “Surprised?”

  I shrugged. “Have you remembered anything from before the accident?”

  He searched my face for a moment before answering. “Things are a bit fuzzy.”

  “Do you remember the day of the accident?”

  “Some.”

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  “Did something happen that I need to know?”

  I gave him my best stern look. “Don’t play games with me, Jack Renner. Tell me what you remember.”

  I watched as a smile seemed to toy with the edge of his wonderful mouth. He needed a shave. He ran his fingers over his prickly scalp, gently feeling the staples. “I was going to your house to give a piano lesson.”