The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  Time hangs suspended. My brain claws for calm. My mind prepares for collision.

  Not the way I expected to die. I tap the brakes one more time.

  As if released from a magical spell, the doe throws up her head and crashes down the side of the hill. The Benz roars on up the driveway. God, I am good. I exhale through my mouth.

  AnnaSophia’s voice is a sigh in my thudding ears.

  “Yes, Michael?”

  Iciness, disappointment, and hatred crush my survivor’s euphoria. My gut clenches, and I snarl, “Remind the gardener tomorrow to check for a deer’s carcass.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, Darling, I am fine. Thank you for asking.” The cold sweat dries on my forehead.

  “The children and I are ready for dinner. They’ve made you a surprise.”

  “Did you help them?” Add a teaspoon of arsenic? I stop at the front steps.

  “I acted as sous chef—cleaning up their mess.”

  “Funny. I don’t think you’re very good at cleaning up messes.”

  Chapter 18

  SHE

  A car door slams in the driveway, and my breath catches.

  Don’t look him in the eye.

  My reassuring smile at the children slips, but they arrange themselves in the foyer. Sweat slithers down the back of my neck. I pat my upper lip with a napkin I grabbed in the kitchen. The chandelier must emit a thousand watts. Hand-made in Austria, the light fixture matches the overall pretension of Michael’s Folly.

  No matter what he says. No matter what he does. Don’t look him in the eye. I press my lips together and swallow the dryness—a side effect of the Xanax I popped in the kitchen.

  He may control the way I fix my hair or the clothes I wear or the time I eat. But I win if I stay calm. Fake a smile. Avoid eye contact.

  He’s not that powerful—to force me to peer into that terrifying blankness in his eyes.

  Dressed in a lavender turtleneck and matching cashmere trousers, knees wobbly, I stand between Alexandra and Anastaysa. They hold their heads high, slender torsos rigid, like PG-rated Barbies in their father’s favorite shade of dusky lavender dresses. Magnus leans against me. Prune-colored smudges darken his gray eyes to purple. My numb hands lie loosely on his shoulders. Light from the chandelier throws splintered rainbows from my engagement ring onto the ceiling, walls, and floor.

  Footsteps on the veranda smack the marble with masculine confidence. Sometimes I wish we had an attached garage, but I cannot imagine him entering the house from the garage.

  Alexandra springs for the door, opens it, and greets her father with a kiss on each cheek.

  “Welcome home, Papá.”

  He returns her kisses, booming, “Thank you, golubushka.”

  My little dove. I bite my bottom lip. After darling, it is the word I hate the most.

  Anastaysa steps forward and repeats the cheek-kissing performance.

  “Thank you, Anastaysa.”

  To her credit, she nods. Bastard, he knows omission of a pet name leaves her devastated.

  Every nerve ending in my body screams, but I give Magnus a little push. He raises his arms. His father scoops him up in a bear hug.

  “How is my little man?”

  Dread fills my throat. My turn is next.

  He shifts Magnus to one arm, encircles my waist with the other, and plunges his tongue into my ear. “Hello, Darling.”

  The eye-watering scent of jasmine assaults my brain. I move my head a millimeter from his mouth. “Are you wearing a new cologne?”

  His nostrils flare. His whole body stiffens. He releases my waist as if I’m contaminated and sets Magnus on the floor. This is the signal for his little family to proceed to the dining room. The children follow the prescribed protocol—Alexandra leading the small pageant, Anastaysa next, Magnus at the end.

  As I step into the ready position, my husband grabs my wrist and hisses, “I’m surprised you smell anything besides the wine fumes.”

  Pain sears the wrist I burned this morning, but I stare at space over his shoulder. He makes a sound of disgust then shoves my arm out of his grip.

  Arching a brow, I say, “I highly recommend Monsieur Lefebvre’s Chardonnay choice for the evening.”

  Chapter 19

  HE

  “How was your day, Darling?” Ignoring her question about my cologne, I yank out her dining room chair. Dammit, why didn’t I change suits after Tracy left the office?

  When AnnaSophia bends at the knees, I push the chair under her in one smooth move. A bit more exertion and I could send her face-down into the bowl of steaming soup—where she could smell her own vomit.

  “I have a headache.” My oh-so-scent-sensitive wife reaches immediately for her wineglass—a definite breach of etiquette since I have yet to seat my daughters and myself.

  “Too much caffeine?” I move to Alexandra’s chair, seated to my left. “Or something more exciting? Something in the mail?”

  Or a surprise delivery? I wink, savoring her comeuppance when she opened that box and caught her first whiff of dog shit. Maybe, being so aware of smells, she fainted. Hit her head. Developed, I hope, a raging headache. I smile at her across the table.

  “Let me think.” She takes another gulp of the Chardonnay, and I flash on Tracy guzzling her fine wine as if it were water.

  Jaw cracking, I say, “Wine inhibits thought processes, you know.”

  “I believe I do remember learning that fact in medical school.” An unbecoming flush stains her ears and floods her cheeks. For less than a second, her eyes flash. She trains her contempt on me. Then she picks up her wine glass again and puts it to her lips.

  Alexandra turns her head from her mother to me like a spectator at a tennis match. AnnaSophia switches her gaze from me to Anastaysa, waiting patiently for me to pull out her chair. Watching me over the rim of her wineglass, AnnaSophia drains its contents.

  Christ, at this rate, she’ll pass out before we ever get to the bedroom.

  My cold calm suddenly gives way to icy fury. So that’s her game.

  Get drunk so she can avoid her conjugal duties.

  My knuckles turn white on my daughter’s chair. I teeter on the edge of tossing my soup in the face of my conniving, cheating wife.

  “Papá, will you still read my story before bedtime?” Anastaysa requires an extra boost to reach the table because she is so short and stocky.

  And needy. Like my mother.

  I stare at my younger daughter. With the planning and preparations for Tracy, along with figuring out AnnaSophia’s pathetic game, I completely forgot that damn story. Outrage thickens my vocal cords. Why is Anastaysa nagging me?

  Nagging is another character trait she shares with my mother—a person I’d never think about if I didn’t see those strange, almond-shaped green eyes staring at me and those lush lips quivering in that perfect oval face. Every evening I come home from long, challenging days to sit at the dinner table with my mother’s ghost.

  The smile on AnnaSophia’s face must’ve been the mold for the Cheshire cat. She knows nothing about my mother or my dislike of Anastaysa, but she will pay dearly for her insult.

  Later. In our bedroom. Behind closed doors.

  Dead drunk or wide awake. She will pay.

  The visage of my mother stares up at me from Anastaysa’s upturned face. My wife and the other two children are watching me. Waiting for my answer.

  Awareness of AnnaSophia’s treachery with the friend brings control. I give a curt nod. “I will read your story, Anastaysa.”

  “Thank you, Papá.” Her high pitch rakes down my spinal column—almost as much as Tracy’s smoky contralto assaulted my self-control.

  Letting go of the reminder, I go behind AnnaSophia’s chair to the other side of the table. I stop halfway to Magnus and lean toward my wife.

  “I see you enjoy this wine, Darling. Shall I refill your glass?”

  “It is excellent. Contrary to med school, I think my headache feels better.�
�� She extends her glass but refuses to meet my eyes.

  “Then you must drink as much wine as you like.” My tone is as saccharine as aged port.

  “I could wait until you’ve helped Magnus.” She speaks in that plummy maternal tone she uses whenever I’m nearby.

  “Magnus is a big boy. He won’t mind his mamá being taken care of, will you, son?” I fill the glass to the platinum rim, turn my head slightly to glance at Magnus. In that instant, I have a sudden, neon-green flash of refilling Tracy’s glass the second time.

  God, that woman could drink an alcoholic under the table.

  As I face my wife again, an idea flickers in the back of my mind. I narrow my eyes. But the flicker fades, then disappears. “Anything else, Darling?”

  Besides drop dead?

  She shakes her head once—as if dismissing a servant. I make another mental tick mark and move on to Magnus. As a male, he should seat himself. But he is still too short to manage the heavy antique chair. I give him a small push, then proceed to the head of the table, sit and remove my linen napkin from its silver engraved ring.

  The children mimic my table manners, but their mother reaches yet one more time for the wine bottle. I make a mental note to instruct the Executive Housekeeper to have all wine served from now on in crystal decanters. They’re so heavy AnnaSophia will have to develop more arm muscles to pick them up repeatedly.

  “Cream of asparagus soup,” I announce and lift my spoon. “My favorite.”

  “We made you a special dessert, Papá.” Soup dribbles down Magnus’s chin.

  “Do you need help, son?” I point at the napkin lying on his lap. My father would have sent me to bed without supper for such a transgression.

  “No thank you.” He picks up the napkin and blots his mouth.

  “Did you hear what Magnus said?” AnnaSophia throws me a glare that should’ve put me on a mortician’s slab.

  “A special dessert. For me. What’s the occasion?” Vowing not to lose my temper with my son’s messy table manners, I speak to Alexandra.

  “To celebrate you coming home early.”

  “Your coming home early, Alexandra. Your is correct English. Do you hope to master Russian or Danish or Mandarin if you don’t know the grammar of your first language?”

  “No, Papá.” At least she has the good sense to lower her eyes. Her mother, staring at me as if I’m covered in dog shit, begs for my wrath.

  “Your coming home early is always such a wonderful treat,” she drawls—a coiled tension riding each word and bringing back a kaleidoscope of images from my childhood dining table. “Is it any surprise your children wanted to give you a special gift?”

  “Nothing gives me more happiness than dining with my children.” I chuck Alexandra under the chin, tousle Magnus’s hair, smile at Anastaysa and ignore AnnaSophia’s emphasis on gift. “Now tell me about your day.”

  The children immediately respond—but with courtesy and civility. No talking over each other. No yelling. No whining. They take turns and lean toward me like planets sucked into the sun’s radiance. They take no notice of their mother’s silence, and I make no effort to pull her into our orbit. She provides the perfect model for raising children—act out and ye shall be ostracized.

  After the girl removes the salad plates, the children ask to go to the kitchen. The equilibrium at the table shifts. They explain they want to oversee serving the dessert. The tightness around their mouths is endearing. Their dessert must be spectacular.

  The children hold their breath waiting for my permission.

  My inner ear shifts to their mother’s breath—also indrawn, but clanging like a siren.

  Anxiety peers out from her unfocused eyes and prompts my response. I nod. A tingle races down my spine. Let the fun begin.

  The children’s happiness tilts almost to giddiness. They rush to the kitchen like a flock of excited ducks.

  AnnaSophia’s defeat descends to despair. She sits in her chair as if impaled by an invisible stake.

  I smile. Only eight in the evening, but already promising to end with more satisfaction than I felt after neutralizing Tracy.

  Chapter 20

  SHE

  With the children in the kitchen preparing the dessert, he and I stare at each other from our opposite ends of the table. The smirk that spreads over his face sends a vivid image of me—excuse me—of my puking on his crotch. God knows, I have enough bile to inundate him.

  He thinks he knows me so well. He believes he reads me like a first-grade primer. He is so sure I’m about to break—to shatter in so many pieces no one will ever put me together again.

  Just for the hell of it, I empty the wine bottle. The smell of cheap perfume he has soaked in tempts me to comment. Or to puke. Puking feels so right.

  Say nothing. Not even a peep. Not even an indrawn breath. Nothing.

  Drink the wine and watch him fight for his goddamn self-control. I drain my glass, lick my lips, prop my elbows on the table, and lay my hands on either side of my face.

  Say nothing.

  Not even when he recognizes how much the cookies resemble dog shit.

  Chapter 21

  HE

  The three cookies Alexandra sets in front of me could pass for dog crap. I glance at AnnaSophia and laugh.

  Her jaw drops.

  Gotcha. I arch my eyebrows, then switch my gaze to the cookies. “I can tell these were made with love.”

  “They were Mamá’s idea,” Magnus offers, extending a crystal bowl with ice cream.

  Blood drains from Mamá’s face.

  “But Alexandra and Anastaysa, and me made them—except for the darker ones, right Mamá?”

  “That’s right.” Her voice is thick—as if forced through a damaged larynx.

  “I, Magnus. Alexandra and Anastaysa and I made the cookies.” When I correct his grammar, I pat his cheek and smile my benevolent-Papá smile. “Who made the ice cream?”

  “Monsieur Lefebvre.” Immediately, Alexandra replies in a breathy tone that raises the invisible antennae in the back of my head. “I told him your favorite flavor is vanilla.”

  “And I told him your favorite fruit is raspberries.” Anastaysa delivers a large bowl of fresh berries.

  My throat tightens, my memory expands. Clear, sharp images. Wonderful memories. Age ten. Summer in Copenhagen. A magical place. Danish pancakes. Served with fresh hindbaer. Sweet raspberries. Perfect. Perfect like my life until—

  Gut roiling, neck prickling, I stare at AnnaSophia and force myself to pick up the conversation. I hitch my chin toward her. “You all know me so well, but good manners dictate serving Mamá first.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t care for dessert.”

  “More wine?” I pitch the question softly—the better to mask the subtle sarcastic tone.

  “As a matter of fact . . . ” She picks up her glass, peers at it as if it’s some kind of crystal ball, then sets it down and pushes her chair away from the table. “I’ve had enough. My headache’s better, but I’d like to lie down.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Going to bed so soon after a sumptuous meal is bad for one’s digestion.”

  “Another med-school lesson.” She gets to her feet and amazingly stands without swaying. “Enjoy your cookies.”

  “We’ll think of you with every bite, won’t we, children?”

  They nod like puppets.

  Because good parents model good manners, I stand but make no effort to go to the other end of the table and offer my arm. My wife chose to drink enough to fell a sailor. It would serve her right to fall on her face. In front of her children.

  Seeing her go splat could prove as entertaining as what I have planned for our bedroom.

  Chapter 22

  SHE

  The amnesia I’d longed for with the Xanax-wine cocktail comes as soon as I fall in bed. Face-down. Without changing clothes. The past fifteen years fade. The drug-wine combo wipes out my imagination. I am no longer a small animal running for a distant hidey-hole. />
  When I wake from the journey into oblivion and climb out of my hidey-hole, a bowling ball rolls from one side of my head to the other. I groan.

  Thank God, the weight keeps me from lifting my head off the pillow. Or opening my eyes. Or getting out of bed to use the bathroom. Lying flat on my back in the semi-darkness, mouth dry, tongue coated with what tastes like dog shit, I feel something—hope? wishful thinking? certainty?—stir in the pit of my stomach.

  Michael is not next to me. He’s not in the room. Or in the bathroom.

  No need to ease my hand across the bed. I know the other side is empty. The sensation of lying next to a live wire is missing. The flatness of the mattress reinforces my certainty.

  He’s not in the bed. The absence of the cheap perfume or his personal body odor strengthens my conviction he’s nowhere nearby.

  I also know he hasn’t raped me—yet.

  A shudder rips through my entire body. Unable to swing my legs over the side of the bed, I press my lips together in an attempt to maintain self-control. Tears pool in my ears.

  Stop crying. I have to stop. Stop crying.

  Stop crying. Think. Make sure I’m not hallucinating. I take a deep breath. And another.

  Figuring out I’m still dressed in the clothes I wore to dinner requires no head movement.

  Appreciating the absence of pain between my legs requires no head movement.

  Crying tears of relief requires no head movement.

  He must still be downstairs. With the children. Playing lord of the manor. I punch my pillow, turn over, and will each muscle wired with tension to let go. Electricity flutters in my chest.

  In other circumstances, I might identify that flutter as happiness.

  Chapter 23

  HE

  The solid mahogany walls, plush Persian rug, and thick velvet curtains create a world as quiet as a Buddhist monastery inside my den. This is my retreat. No one enters unless specifically invited. Anastaysa, too big for my lap, sits on the floor and gazes up at me like a faithful dog. Spine arrow-straight, hands in her lap, Alexandra sits on the footstool opposite me. Magnus perches on her other side in the over-sized club chair, his feet dangling above the carpet.