The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

  —I do, you said.—And look what a mere week in your care has done for them.

  Your knee improved; Point Lobos Avenue didn’t. Lucy lives so far out, in such isolation, that city workers never bothered to seal one of the cesspools on the route to Sutro’s estate. They forgot civilization extended that far. As a result, whenever it pours, sewage overflows a portion of the avenue, compounding the difficulty of traveling.

  So Lucy went to you instead. If you couldn’t come to her, she would head in your direction. You’d written her a letter, a hurried update, informing her of your accident, your knee, the sewers. She knew more about those sewers than you did. She’d warned you about them.

  —Watch out, Henry, she had said.—They didn’t lay the pipes with care.

  I’m worn thin, you wrote her. The circumstances here are delicate. I need a couple of weeks.

  She mistook this letter for an invitation. Either that or she became tired of waiting. She does this sometimes; she ties your thoughts in sailor’s knots and leaves you to unravel the cording.

  When you saw her entering the cool of the hardware store, heard her shoes tapping the wood floors, her skirt brushing the stock barrels, your heart sped up; your heart banged out a march. It was only your second day back after your fever had broken. Marilyn was in the bookkeeping office upstairs. Stevens was late arriving. Lucy lifted her head high, almost too high, as she made her way inside. She was trying too hard to be brave. She wore the determined expression of someone who has vowed never to be caught. And by caught, Lucy meant trapped. Whereas you meant found out.

  —Is anyone here? she called. She spotted you and her expression softened.—Thank God. You’re all right.

  Not now, not here. Fast as you could hobble, you left the horseshoe of counters to meet her, to cut her off at the pass. You did not want her to run into Marilyn; you did not want the two of them to discover each other. What if Marilyn should come downstairs?

  When she heard you say not now under your breath, Lucy’s eyes narrowed. You absorbed the sight of her, the dishevelment from her pedestrian trek, mud clinging to the hem of her skirt, and you decided there had to be a better way; the two of you had to find some time together alone, and soon, or you’d both go to pieces. If you weren’t in pieces already.

  You steered her away from the staircase, as far away from those stairs as you could take her without leaving the store, without leaving the neighborhood, the Richmond, entirely.

  —Two weeks, you whispered.—We’ll find two weeks together. Or one week, at least. Just the two of us. But you shouldn’t be here right now. It’s not safe.

  —Not safe for whom? Lucy replied.

  You paused, then said: We’ll travel somewhere, go away together. We’ll sort out what comes next. I’ll find a way. I promise you. I just need more time.

  —Time! She laughed, but her laugh snagged on something.—I walk over an hour to see if you’re living or dying, haven’t heard a word in days, and all you can say is you need time? You’ve had time. You’ve had years, Henry.

  —Shh. I did write you.

  —Don’t shush me. I’m not your wife. Or did you forget that?

  You took a deep breath, filled with desperate resolution. Or was it resolute desperation? Whatever it was, the feeling has stayed.

  —Hear me out, you said.—Please. I know we’ve both been hanging by a thread.

  —There’s no way you could travel with me. Someone would find out. Something would go wrong.

  —Lucy—

  She twisted away to regard one of the glass display cases. It held brooches and necklaces, skin creams and brushes, items a man might buy to placate a living woman. A livid woman.

  —Don’t do this, you went on.—Lucy. I’m begging you. I’m trying to help.

  She shook her head.—You’re trying to help yourself.

  You grasped her wrists.—Don’t do this. Don’t spin around.

  —Let go of me, Henry, or I swear I’ll make a scene.

  —You already are.

  —No, she said, and her eyes held yours.—If I wanted to make a scene, trust me, you wouldn’t be the only one to witness it.

  But she had chosen this arrangement. Hadn’t she? She chased you out of the Women’s Memorial Church in the rain. She wanted to live her life on her terms and not anyone else’s.

  —I thought surely you had died, Lucy went on, lowering her voice as Stevens entered through the front door.—Because if you hadn’t died, you would have found a way to let me know you were all right. You would have at least done that.

  —I did. Lucy, I wrote. I was laid up with fever. Seven days.

  —You have a hand, don’t you? You have a pen? You could have written a second time. Or can you write only when your blood cools?

  The stairs in back groaned. Marilyn was beginning her long descent from the upstairs office.

  —Nine years, Lucy breathed.—Nine years, Henry!

  She tiptoed close, pulled you to her, pressed her body against yours, and exhaled, lips against your ear:

  —I miss you. I just miss you. Fool.

  She passed by Stevens on the way out. She passed within two feet of your wife. Stevens wished her good day; he assumed she was a customer. Marilyn didn’t see her at all, didn’t notice the small tornado in your store. Your wife had her own reasons for being vexed with you that morning.

  —Henry, she said.—What are all these petty-cash withdrawals for? They date back forever.

  Her hand on the doorknob, Lucy heard your wife’s question. She turned and stabbed you with another look. She threw open the door and stalked out.

  You have not worn Marilyn out. You have not worn Lucy out. The two of them have worn you out. The two of them, working separately, working in ignorance of each other’s methods, together have worn you down, cleaned your plow.

  On your headstone, the epitaph ought to read: HENRY PLAGEMAN, HUSBAND OF ONE WOMAN, LOVER TO ANOTHER, SLEEPING WITH NEITHER.

  Maybe last night’s argument with the Richmond associations signals the beginning of the end of this fight.

  Maybe you and Kerr made such a commotion, caused such an embarrassment to the neighborhood groups, that Hubbs and his men will back off their plan. It would be a relief if they’d leave the cemetery alone for another year, so you can leave Jack where he lies, so Marilyn can leave her heart where it lies. So you can sort things out, repair what’s been broken. Maybe everyone’s learned a lesson.

  A man can hope, can’t he? Yes. And a man can be ridiculous.

  Marilyn

  IDA JIGS IN PLACE, jittery from the coffee you just supplied her with. The band plays an ebullient march. Housewarming guests stream through the front doors as Mrs. Wood glides through the crowd in your direction.

  —There you are, she says, slightly short of breath.—I’ve been looking for you all over, Mrs. Plageman. Where’d you go?

  —I haven’t gone anywhere, you tell her.

  That’s not what you want to say. What you want to say is: Today would have been Jack Plageman’s sixteenth birthday.

  —We’re shorthanded in the kitchen, she says.

  What would your son have looked like at sixteen? Would he be growing a mustache? Would he have inherited his father’s looming frame?

  Mrs. Wood is waiting for a reply. You swallow, nauseated, unable to speak.

  —Mrs. Plageman?

  Today is the day to say it. To remember his name aloud. Jack. You have permission; you can be as deranged, as hysterical as you want, this one day of the year.

  That’s not true. You’re not allowed to shipwreck at this stage. The statute of limitations has expired. Visible grief is no longer permitted.

  Ida stays by your side. She’s so close you can smell her freshly laundered dress, her lye-scrubbed skin, the bitter aroma of the coffee she sampled. Mrs. Wood hasn’t said anything about her hair ribbons. She’s too focused on you.

  —You’re quite pale, you know. Are you unwell? I don’t think you should help in th
e kitchen.

  —I’m fine.

  —Are you certain?

  —Yes, you say.—Yes, absolutely.

  A lie as sure as any man ever gave.

  —Give thanks for what’s been given, Henry would say.—Look around. Look at the day, Marilyn.

  —What about the day? you replied. You’re embarrassed to admit how recently this conversation took place; possibly it might have been yesterday morning.

  —Remember what blessings we’ve received. The store. This house. Our years together. Richard. Come here, Richard; that’s a good boy.

  Henry bent to scratch the dog’s stomach. Your husband had spent the hour before dawn holed up in his study, writing. He makes you feel slothful when he rises that early. Papers fanned across his desk.

  —What are you working on? you asked him.

  He continued scratching Richard, who twitched an arthritic leg in response.

  —I’m just puttering. Just jotting some notes to myself.

  —That’s probably for the best.

  He looked up at you.—What do you mean?

  —That you’re writing to yourself. Because you’re the only one who understands your thinking.

  He laughed then, his eyes turning up at the corners, those patient eyes that bear the light.

  You began to feel defensive. Henry’s laugh made you want to shove something.

  —It’s true, you said.—Every time I listen to you, I lose track of what you’re trying to say. All I can think about are the things that have been taken away from us.

  —Marilyn, nothing was ours to begin with.

  —That’s not true, you returned hotly.—That’s not the case at all. And when did you become such an optimist?

  He laughed again, but bleakly.—I wouldn’t call it optimism.

  —What, then?

  —I don’t know. Surviving?

  The two of you never discuss your marriage. Why would you? What possible good could it do?

  The band has started playing Brahms’s “Kinderland.” Ida claps her hands. She’s perfect, or almost, leg brace, reedy frame, and all. A good attitude, also; a hard worker. She would never accept grace on its own terms. She would understand a person has to earn it.

  —I’m fine, you say again to Mrs. Wood, louder now, possibly bordering on shrill.

  —I’m glad to hear it, dear, the younger woman replies. But her eyes now hold concern.

  Henry

  LUCY CHANGED HER MIND about that week away. She reintroduced the subject after your knee mended.

  Yes, she said. Yes. She’d like to try a week away. Just the two of you, if you really thought it was possible. Were you still offering? She’d hoped to see Yellowstone. Or the Grand Canyon. Or just Sausalito. She’d never been to any of those places.

  —I’ve wanted to run away for forever, she confessed.

  With you? Or from you? you wondered.

  But you needed to appreciate a few things first, she continued. You needed to understand that while you remained free—relatively speaking, she added when she saw your look of incredulity—to contact her, write her at your leisure, and stop by the cottage when you pleased as long as you practiced discretion, she enjoyed none of these freedoms. She could not mail letters to you at your home, could not stop by your store to see you when she pleased lest she disrupt your regular life, the life people thought of when they thought The Plagemans. She could not call you on the telephone.

  You felt the muscles in your shoulders tightening.

  —I don’t have a telephone.

  —But if you did.

  —I wouldn’t. Monstrous invention. Besides, it’s not true you can’t contact me. You stopped by the store last week. Remember?

  —Yes, and look how well that turned out.

  —I had a fever, Lucy. I had an infected knee.

  —Is that all?

  —And I’m sorry.

  You are not accustomed to apologizing for having a fever, but with Lucy, this is how things work.

  —But a vacation, she said.—I would rather hear you talk about that. Where are you going to take me?

  She was trying to lighten the exchange. But her eyes were asking a question. When you stepped forward to gather her in your arms, she moved aside so that the table came between the two of you. She sat down and went quiet.

  You weren’t sure how to respond to that.

  But a vacation, planning a trip; that much you could manage. And it was past time. Two people with a secret will need a vacation from the secret.

  Thinking about the trip interrupted your sleep for three nights straight. You were too excited to shut your eyes. Sausalito wasn’t far. It cost less than other locations. And no one you knew bothered to travel there. It would be the first time you and Lucy had gone anywhere together, had spent a full night together.

  You planned the time out in your head. You’d walk beside her at sundown along the boardwalk. Sign the register at the Shoobert House as a couple, using Lucy’s last name, to be safe. Take her to breakfast the next morning, observe her slight dishevelment, her rumpled luxuriance as the two of you dined on toast and eggs with perfectly done yolks.

  You felt adolescent, alert, and randy as hell. You could not wait to fall asleep with her in your arms. You could die in peace if you could do that. Just once. Lie with her head nestled against your chest, fall asleep feeling her warm breath escaping her nostrils. Your little sleeping dragon. Let the world pass; let someone else keep watch for a night. Let someone else be the bearer of the stricken conscience.

  —I can help plan it, Lucy offered. She was suddenly animated, livelier than you’d seen in days.—When should we depart? The end of the month? I’ll have your daughter stay with May and June.

  Her wording, her reference to Blue as your daughter, not our daughter, was confusing. Also, you were still exhausted, on edge; your mind scampered back to Marilyn.

  —I can’t travel this month, you said.—It’s May, remember.

  You’d said nothing she hadn’t known already. But she blanched.

  —We can go in June, you offered.—June or July would be fine. That gives us more time to plan anyway.

  ​—​I can’t compete with your family, Henry.

  —I’m not asking you to compete. I would never ask that.

  —I’m well aware.

  She stood up from the table and crossed over to the front door. She opened it and disappeared into the night.

  You should have thought before you spoke. You should have said: You are my family.

  You searched a quarter of an hour for her in the darkness before giving up. She would reappear when she wanted to reappear and no sooner. You returned to the cottage, kissed sleeping Blue good night, tucked the blankets around her, and departed into the blackness again to catch the streetcar. You could hear but not see the ocean.

  —Why didn’t you come after me? Lucy asked you the following Wednesday.—I waited out in the cold for an hour. And why did you leave Blue by herself?

  You had to work not to raise your voice.—Blue was fine. She was fast asleep. And you wanted to be alone. Clearly, you wanted to be alone.

  —Why in the world would you think that?

  —You have to tell me what you want, then. I’m not a clairvoyant.

  Her hands were on her hips.—Then stop pretending to be.

  When you returned home, Marilyn was on the front porch, waiting. A dime novel lay unopened in her lap. She had commandeered the wicker chair, an unusual move. And she was itching to quarrel. Over what? Didn’t matter. She and Lucy were taking turns.

  Her eyes raked you.—You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

  A ghost, you could manage. The living are what haunt you.

  Behind Odd Fellows’ stands a single line of newly planted trees. Naked land sprawls beyond that line, undeveloped plots divided by almost-streets, depressions in the earth waiting for builders, carpenters, home-dwellers, crowds yearning to escape downtown. Mail-order cowboys with no West left to co
nquer.

  You wrote Lucy two letters and mailed both. She wanted more letters? She’d rue the day she asked. She’d swim in letters.

  You laid out the plan for the getaway. Seven days, mid-July, a ferry ride to your destination, a journey to be taken separately for precautionary reasons. A reunion at the inn overlooking the Sausalito wharf.

  Lucy wrote you back, something she had never dared before and has only done one time since.

  She mailed her reply to you at the store. You had to seize it from Stevens’s curious hands.

  —Henry? asked your clerk, wide-eyed.—Everything all right?

  —Never better.

  You shoved the letter, unopened, in your coat pocket. Later you stole upstairs to read it in the office.

  She didn’t actually write you anything. Her letter contained no sentences. She mailed you two drawings from Blue. Lucy could be wickedly accurate with the blade when she chose.

  Contemplating your daughter’s drawings, bold compositions filled with horses and racing snails, you experienced something in your spine compressing, wearing down, grinding, bone against bone. You still feel it.

  Someday, Blue will realize what her father was. De facto bigamist. Man with two families. She will despise you for it.

  Lucy

  IN SAUSALITO, A WHITE-GABLED INN called the Shoobert House perches vertiginously atop a ridgeline overlooking the railroad and the ferry wharf. In return for the uphill journey, it offers a staggering view of schooners, steamers, catamarans, and salmon barks dotting the harbor.

  Henry suggested the Shoobert House for your escape, your one-week rendezvous, vacation, getaway. Which word is appropriate? None of them.

  —Seven days, he vowed.—Just the two of us. I’ll find a way.

  —Are you sure? you pressed, checking once, twice. You prodded and poked. You wanted to be positive his plans would hold.

  He nodded.—Yes. Yes, I’m sure. It’s past time. Lucy, let’s do it.

  —Do you promise?