The Silent Wife: A Novel

by A. S. A. Harrison

  She grips his hand and the tears start to flow, his and hers, watering their shrunken hearts and wilted love. They look into each other now, past the strangeness and the distance, and when at last they dry their eyes and she gets up and serves the chocolate mousse, they spoon it up like greedy children, lick out their bowls, and laugh at themselves.

  After the table has been cleared and she’s at the sink rinsing dishes, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair coming loose in tendrils, he approaches her from behind, slides his arms around her waist, and rests his chin on the top of her head.

  “I love you,” he says.

  She turns to face him, swiveling in the circle of his arms, hands clasped to her chest as if in prayer.

  “I’m still getting used to the change in you,” she says. “It’s not just the hair and clothes. You look younger. Have you lost weight?”

  His hands explore the delicate bones of her back and shoulders, relearn her subtle curves and childlike proportions. He’s already grown accustomed to Natasha, her sturdy frame and padded hips, the exaggerated recess of her waist.

  “It’s an illusion,” he says.

  She murmurs into his chest, her breath warming his skin through the cotton of his shirt. “If I’d passed you in the street I wouldn’t have known you. I would have walked right by without giving you a second glance.”

  “I would have stopped you and introduced myself.”

  As she smiles up at him and says, “I don’t speak to strange men,” he feels her letting go, collapsing against him as if she’s turned to jelly.

  “You need to get over that,” he tells her.

  With very little effort he scoops her up and holds her bodily in his arms as if she were unconscious or a corpse. Even her dead weight is doll-like and negligible. As he carries her across the threshold to the bedroom he remembers this about Jodi, the peculiar slackness that overtakes her when she’s aroused.

  15

  HER

  She’s lingering over breakfast when a call comes in from the office of Harry LeGroot. The caller is Harry’s assistant, an earnest girl named Daphne, whom Jodi has met once or twice in the past.

  “Mr. LeGroot has asked me to contact you,” says Daphne. “He would like to be in touch with your lawyer. If you would be so kind as to provide us with a name and phone number. Mr. LeGroot would like to get the process started.”

  Jodi hears the words but they whistle around her like random gusts of wind. If Todd has some legal business that he wants to run by her, he should speak to her about it himself.

  “Mrs. Gilbert? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she says. “Tell me again. What is it you want me to do?”

  “You really don’t need to do anything, Mrs. Gilbert.” Daphne’s tone is friendly yet businesslike. “The main thing is that Mr. LeGroot would like to get the process started as soon as possible, so we will need your lawyer’s name and telephone number.”

  Todd and his motives, intentions, and whereabouts have been on her mind since the night he came to dinner, the night they made a new beginning. The way it worked out she couldn’t have wished for a more idyllic coming together, a more gratifying renewal of their bond. She was right to invite him, right to make the first move. She didn’t like it when, afterward, he got up and left, but she could take it in stride knowing that nothing worthwhile happens overnight, that things coalesce in their own way and in their own time. It could be that they’ll date for a while before he moves back home, that’s what she’s been thinking, and she can resign herself to that. But she doesn’t understand why he hasn’t called.

  Still holding the phone she moves into the living room where the sun gleams off the furniture and picks out the colors in the carpet.

  “Sorry, Daphne, I don’t quite follow you,” she says. “Why not tell Harry to call my husband and go over the matter with him. I’m sure that would be the best solution.”

  At this, Daphne exclaims as though she’s been struck. “Oh, Mrs. Gilbert! I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

  She’s evidently made some sort of blunder, but instead of signing off to regroup and perhaps consult her employer, Daphne holds her ground, stumbling through an explanation that Jodi refuses to hear and offering advice that isn’t welcome.

  “If I were you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she concludes, “I would hire myself a really good divorce lawyer.”

  Which prompts Jodi to hit the off button.

  —

  Having tidied away her breakfast things she pulls out the files on her two Friday clients and reads through her notes. First is Cinderella, a plain girl lacking in self-esteem. A night proofreader for one of the local dailies, her constant complaint is that life is passing her by. Jodi has been proactive in pointing out options, encouraging her to take small steps that could have exponential effects. She might, for example, take a course, join a gym, or do any number of things to improve her appearance, such as getting contact lenses or a good haircut. If you need to get out of a mental rut it’s often easiest to change something on the outside and let the inner changes follow. When you make an effort on your own behalf, circumstance will quite often veer helpfully in your direction. Jodi believes this. She’s seen it happen. It’s ultimately what prompted her to take the initiative in inviting Todd to dinner.

  Her second client, the prodigal son, is a young man with a trust fund whose parents routinely pay his debts. Because he’s young and still finding his feet, because he hasn’t yet discovered his potential or his limits, and because his parents chip away at his confidence, Jodi offers him unconditional support. He needs to find things out for himself. And if she took his parents’ side he would simply shut down.

  Not until late in the afternoon does she get the call from Todd that she’s been more or less expecting since her conversation with Daphne. She feels uncertain about him now and doesn’t know quite what to think. But insofar as she is still holding out hope—for some sort of promise for the future—she is quickly brought to her senses.

  “You know my situation,” he says. “I’m struggling to stay on top of things right now.”

  “I’m confused. You need to explain to me why I need a lawyer.”

  “Why does anyone need a lawyer? You need a lawyer to look after your interests. Listen to me, Jodi. This doesn’t need to be personal. It doesn’t have to come between us. Let the lawyers sort it out so we can still be friends.”

  Her mental reckoning jams like a faulty calculator. She has failed to compute things correctly, and now she’s at a loss. “Friends. Is that what we are? You’d better explain that because I don’t get it.”

  “Jodi, Jodi, you need to relax. We love each other. We share a history. Things change, that’s all. It’s healthy for people to evolve and move on. That’s something you’re always telling me.”

  “Fine. People evolve. So if that’s the case then what were you doing here the other night? What was that about?”

  “Would you rather we didn’t see each other? How does that make sense? I miss you. I’d like to see you once in a while.”

  “You’d like to see me once in a while.”

  “Of course I would. Don’t you feel the same?”

  16

  HIM

  Natasha is busy with plans for the wedding, which is coming up fast. Every night at dinner she monologues about flowers, menus, table settings, music, vows, favors, and cake until he wants to gag her. She’s already taken him shopping for a suit, and that at least was rewarding. When he tried it on in the store he was dazzled by the elegant cut and the youthful silhouette it gave him. He didn’t look at the price tag and waited outside while she paid for it with the credit card he’d given her. The wedding is costing him a fortune, and on top of everything else she’s pushing for a honeymoon in Rio. This is not a good time for him to be throwing money around.

  One thing that meets with his approval is the decision in favor of a church ceremony. She was back and forth on that for a while, and he made a point of nudging
her in the right direction. Not that he’s a religious man, but neither is he a nonbeliever. Ritual and tradition have their place, and marriage is one of those places, because marriage is above all an act of faith.

  The guest list includes a great many aunts, uncles, and cousins on Natasha’s side, whereas Todd’s lineup amounts to a handful of buddies—Harry, Cliff, and some of the guys, and of course their wives. The cloud hanging over the proceedings is Dean, who remains steadfast in refusing to attend. He is still not speaking to Todd and has barely exchanged a word with Natasha. The last thing he said to her was that he’d rather die than see her married to the likes of Todd Gilbert. This had Natasha in tears. Dean needs to smarten up. If he had any sense he’d be happy for his daughter. She’s going to be well-off, an affluent woman living a life of ease. Would he really prefer that she marry some young punk who can’t provide for her? There’s a lot he’d like to say to Dean, if only Dean would give him the chance.

  He’s beginning to wonder when life with Natasha is going to settle down, become more stable and orderly, more like what he had with Jodi. Natasha behaves in such unexpected ways. She certainly isn’t glowing and contented, as pregnant women are supposed to be. On the contrary, she’s turned into something of a viper, and he can’t predict what will set her off or when she’s going to strike. Still, he’s doing his best to be understanding and accommodating. She’s under a lot of stress with the fall term ending and the wedding coming up and the trouble with her father. Maybe the stress is what’s causing her to gain weight, even though the baby is not yet showing. It could also be the cause of the rash she’s developed on her forehead. At least she hasn’t lost interest in sex, which is what he thought would happen based on what his buddies have told him. Some of them—guys who had never cheated—were forced to take refuge in massage parlors and the adults-only section of the classifieds. He counts himself lucky that Natasha wants him as much as ever, but it’s funny how the tables have turned. Natasha is now standard fare, whereas sex with Jodi the night he went to dinner had the agreeable tang of adultery. He’d almost forgotten about Jodi’s weird stillness, the way her eyes lose focus and drift sideways while he’s driving into her. He used to find it irritating, but that night, for some reason, it was kind of a turn-on. Life can throw you some real curveballs.

  He could miss Jodi if he let himself. It’s the daily patterns that make a marriage, the habits you fall into as a couple. These become a kind of background rhythm for your life. With Natasha, things have yet to settle into a beat that he can march to. But he can’t afford to be sentimental. The law says that he owes Jodi nothing, that she is nothing more than an ex-girlfriend whose free ride is now over. She ought to thank him for his generosity during the years they were together. That’s what Harry says. Harry wants to serve her with an eviction order, which will give them legal recourse if they need it. What he and Harry are hoping for is that Jodi will see reason and move out without a fuss, but if she decides to get stubborn about it, they’ll have the eviction order to fall back on, meaning they can get the sheriff to forcibly remove her. He hopes it doesn’t come to that, but it’s entirely up to her.

  With so much on his mind the last thing he needs is this health scare. Go to the dentist for a routine cleaning and come away thinking you’re at death’s door. Wherever dental hygienists go to school, they clearly don’t learn any tact or diplomacy.

  “It’s a lesion,” she said. “Looks like thrush.” She prodded the spot with her gloved finger. “Have you been tested for HIV recently?”

  It came out of nowhere, so much so that he laughed out loud, but with her finger in his mouth it came out more like a protest.

  “No need for alarm,” she hastened to say. “Could be that it’s absolutely nothing to worry about. This kind of thing can develop for any number of reasons. Quite often, though—and I’m obliged to tell you this—it’s associated with a suppressed immune system. Best get it checked out and be on the safe side.”

  Thrush. The name of a bird. A harmless word that doesn’t trouble him. It’s lesion that’s the kicker. The resonance of the word lesion with HIV and AIDS is clear in his mind because sometime during the past year he and Jodi watched a rerun of Philadelphia, in which the appearance of a single lesion on the forehead of Andrew Beckett, played by Tom Hanks, leads swiftly to his demise.

  The virus has never before presented itself as something to personally concern him. When it first hit the news back in the early 1980s he was a sexually voracious adolescent having volumes of unprotected sex because copulating repeatedly in the back of a vehicle does not lend itself to precautionary measures, which in any case don’t make for a fabulous experience. But his only concern at the time was the risk of pregnancy. HIV was not something you had to think about unless you were gay, or so the story went. And somehow he never moved past that kind of thinking.

  A dental hygienist is not a doctor, but a dental hygienist does look inside a lot of mouths, and maybe learning to identify certain abnormal conditions, even those that have nothing to do with teeth, is part of the general training. When he got back to the office he locked himself in the washroom and turned his cheek inside out to see for himself the small patch of white fungus cleaving to the mucous membrane like a dab of spackling paste. And now he can’t keep his tongue away from it. Still, in all likelihood this will turn out to be a false alarm. The women he sees who pose the most risk are professionals, who won’t come near him unless he’s wearing a condom. Condoms sometimes tear, it’s true, but that’s no reason to obsess. It’s just a little fungus, after all, and he finds that he can put it out of his mind for hours at a stretch, especially during the day when he’s busy, though sometimes when he wakes in the night all he can think about is death. His own death, of course, but also the death of those around him, the fact that one day in the not-too-distant future every person he knows, every single one, will be dead and gone, along with all the people he doesn’t know, to be replaced by a crop of strangers who will take over the structures left behind: the buildings, the professions. His building and his profession. When he gets on this jag the only thing that comforts him is the thought of his unborn child.

  17

  HER

  Dear Ms. Brett,

  I am legal counsel to Todd Jeremy Gilbert, who—as you are no doubt aware—is the sole and rightful owner of the premises at 201 North Westshore Drive (“the Premises”), where you are presently residing.

  My client directs me to inform you that your residency of the Premises is hereby terminated. He orders you to quit the Premises no later than 30 days from the date of this letter. By that date, you must vacate and surrender possession of the Premises free of all occupants and personal belongings.

  Your compliance in this matter will prevent any further eviction action against you. Should you fail to comply, my client will not hesitate to exercise all available remedies under the law.

  Very truly yours,

  Harold C. LeGroot

  LeGroot and Gibbons

  Barristers and Solicitors

  In years to come she will think of this letter as marking a radical shift in her disposition, as quietly killing off the girl she was and ushering in an updated, disenchanted version of herself. Looking back she will see the transformation as being practically instantaneous, akin to falling into a dream or waking up from one, but she’ll be wrong about this. The truth is that the change happens gradually, over the days and weeks that follow. There are stages to it, the first being denial. This is involuntary, not hers to manipulate or control but merely reflexive, a spontaneous form of defense that cushions her from catastrophic loss. It happens in the way that birds, like encroaching thoughts, can circle but not alight, or as a message picked up by your microreceiver might be compromised by static, or the way you can be shot and continue to walk in the direction you were going.

  It was the man with the ponytail who handed it to her. He approached her in the lobby when she came in with the dog. The doorman must h
ave tipped him off. It was a rainy Saturday morning. She closed her umbrella and gave it a shake, waited for him to speak.

  “Ms. Jodi Brett?”

  “Yes.”

  She took the envelope he foisted on her, heard him say the words.

  “Consider yourself served.”

  Riding up in the elevator she read it twice. Once inside she left it with the mail in the foyer and carried on to the kitchen, where she got the coffeemaker going. Now, waiting for the coffee to drip, she eats a shortbread cookie out of a package and gives one to the dog. Moving into her office she puts some files away and checks her voice mail. A woman has called about her overweight daughter. She returns the call, explains that she doesn’t treat eating disorders, and rhymes off some referral numbers from a list that she keeps in her desk drawer. Forgetting her coffee she moves from room to room straightening furniture and picking lint off the carpets. She finds a cloth and some Lemon Pledge and sets about dusting and polishing. The moment arrives when her thoughts return to the letter, and she registers a response of sorts, a level of annoyance that prompts her to drop the cloth she is holding and pick up the phone.

  “So,” she says. “What’s with the letter from Harry?”

  “Jodi,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “You should have called me. How could you let this happen?”

  “Harry sent you a letter?”

  “Some guy handed it to me in the lobby.”

  “What does it say?”

  “For crying out loud, Todd. It says I have to move.”

  “Jesus,” he says. “That’s a mistake. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Of course it’s a mistake. A very upsetting mistake.”

  “Jodi, listen. As far as I knew, Harry was going to wait till I talked to you.”