My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  Renée and Walter have their guitars on their laps. They’re fiddling with the dials on the tape recorder like they’re trying to tune in a faraway radio station. When I close the front door, I say hello, and they both look up from the tape recorder.

  “How are things going?” I say.

  And Renée says, “They’re going good. Walter’s teaching me some new chords.”

  She plays a chord, only instead of looking at me to say it was good, she looks at Walter.

  I say, “That sounds good,” anyway, but Renée doesn’t say anything back like she’s supposed to. She’s still mad at me about what I said about her spending the money for the tape recorder, which I said THREE days ago. We’ve hardly talked since. You’d think I was the one who’d spent HER money on a tape recorder.

  And I haven’t even said anything about the microphone.

  Yet.

  I just stand there for a while, and finally Guitar Walter says to me, “That’s a pretty funny shirt you have.” He’s not talking about the shirt I’m wearing, which is just a plain, blue button-down shirt. He’s talking about the chicken shirt.

  So I say, “It’s not supposed to be funny. It’s supposed to be comfortable.”

  And Renée says, “It’s the funniest looking shirt I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of shirts in my day.”

  I almost say, “If it’s so goshdarn funny, than why are you wearing it,” but I don’t because I don’t want to start a fight. If I start a fight, we’ll end up fighting about the tape recorder, then we’ll fight about the microphone, then we’ll fight about whether we’re married again, and I’ll have to tell her that Carl says we’re NOT married. Legally speaking or otherwise.

  Then Guitar Walter says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  And I say, “It’s okay, I know you didn’t,” which is a lie. I can tell he likes Renée. I can tell by the way he’s always leaning toward her when he talks to her, like a man leaning out his window to check on the traffic outside. I can tell by the way he breathes, like he’s always smelling her perfume. Even though she hardly ever wears perfume.

  Which leads to another question: Why does Renée wear perfume when Guitar Walter comes over?

  Why?

  You don’t need perfume to play the guitar.

  Renée says, “You don’t have to apologize, Walter. It is a funny shirt. I mean, a) who would even think of buying a shirt with chickens on it? And b) who would ever think of spending their family’s money on something like that?”

  That’s when I say, “If it’s so goshdarn funny, then why are you wearing it?” Only I don’t say “goshdarn,” and then I walk to the bedroom to get changed. I keep waiting for the door to open for Renée to come in to apologize, but she doesn’t. They just keep playing their guitars in the living room like nothing happened, nothing at all. Playing this song, then that song like all is right in the world. Like they weren’t just making fun of MY shirt in MY home. I change into some jeans and a T-shirt, then I walk out to the porch. When I pass through the living room, Renée and Walter don’t even look at me. They just keep playing their guitars like I’m some kind of ghost. The kind of ghost who pays the rent and pays the bills and buys all of the food.

  And a tape recorder.

  And a MICROPHONE.

  I sit on the porch and light a cigarette, and I watch the cars driving by. I can hear Renée and Guitar Walter playing their guitars, and Renée starts singing. It’s the new song she was working on in the kitchen. I think it’s called “Umbrella Steps,” which is from a game called “Mother, May I?” In the game, you have to ask whether you can move, and someone will tell you what kind of steps you can take. “Take five banana steps,” they’ll say, which means you have to take steps that curl like a banana. Or if it’s baby steps, you have to take tiny, little steps like a baby would. Or if they tell you to take umbrella steps, you have to take umbrella steps, only I don’t remember what those steps are supposed to look like.

  If you want to kiss me

  — Renée is singing —

  Take four umbrella steps,

  If you want to hold me tight,

  Take two umbrella steps,

  If you say you love me,

  Turn off the lights

  It’s one of her better songs. Near the end, she rhymes “umbrella” with “young fella,” which isn’t bad. It really is hard to find something to rhyme with “umbrella.”

  When she’s done, I walk to the car and drive to a convenience store to buy some more cigarettes, even though my pack is still half-full. I buy a hot dog and soda pop, too, because I haven’t had any dinner yet. On the drive home, I try to think of something else other than the fact that I’m angry at Renée, but my mind keeps going back to the same thing: If you think a shirt with chickens on it is funny, why would you wear it?

  Then I start thinking of her on the couch with Guitar Walter, making fun of my shirt and looking at each other and singing love songs. I think of them going out on shopping sprees to buy tape recorders and microphones and God knows what else with MY money. I think of her in her underwear, putting on perfume before Guitar Walter comes over. I think of him leaning over to smell her, his eyelids closing slightly as he does.

  If she WAS my wife, I’d be pretty angry. I’d probably even pick Guitar Walter up by his shirt collar and toss him out of the apartment, which wouldn’t be too hard to do since he’s all skin and bones with hair on top. But she is NOT my wife, so I don’t throw Guitar Walter out when I get home. Instead, I just sit outside and listen to them sing like two lovebirds.

  x

  You know something’s wrong at home when you’d rather be at work, but that’s the way I feel, what with everything that’s going on with Renée. And I don’t even LIKE work. I’ll sit on the porch, and I’ll listen to Renée and Guitar Walter playing their guitars and singing and laughing—ha, ha, ha—and I’ll think to myself, I’d rather be at WORK right now. Eight o’clock at night, and I’d rather be at work. Nine o’clock, and I’d rather be at WORK. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. Weekends. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, but that’s the way it is now.

  Almost two years ago, I saw an ad in the newspaper. The ad read: “SAILOR NEEDS HELP.” Who knows what a sailor would need help with here: Atlanta’s three hours from the ocean, even if you’re driving fast. Working with a sailor sounded like it could be very interesting, so I applied. I called the number in the ad, and an old man answered. You could hear big band music playing in the background.

  “I’m calling about the ad,” I said.

  And the man said, “You have any experience?”

  And I said, “A little. I grew up in Cadbury. My grandfather was a fisherman.”

  And the man said, “Jesus Christ. I meant experience in this field.”

  And I said, “That’s what I was saying. My grandfather was a fisherman, so I’ve been on boats. Only a few sailboats, though, but I’m a quick learner.”

  And he said, “What kind of sewing do you do on boats?”

  And I said, “Sewing? What are you talking about?”

  And he said, “What are you talking about?”

  It was a couple minutes before we realized there was a typographical error in the ad: it should have said “TAILOR,” not “SAILOR.”

  But I took the job anyway because I needed the money, and money’s the same color if you’re working for a sailor or a tailor or the man on the moon.

  Even though I’ve been working with Palmeyer for nearly two years now, I still tell people it’s a temporary job. I don’t like people to think I spend all my time sewing buttons and putting hems on pants. There’s more than that. It’s hard work, especially working on jackets, but people don’t think it’s a man’s job. People think pouring tar is a man’s job, but who wants to do that? Not me. I did that once before, pouring tar on roofs; you thought your back would break in half like a pretzel rod. I worked in a car wash once, too; it felt like it was raining all day. No, there
are worse jobs in the world than working in a tailor shop.

  There are only two of us at work these days: me and Palmeyer. He’s old, and mostly bald, and he has a puffy face. When I first started, I had to listen to his rantings and malarkey for hours on end:

  “The best looking women are redheads,” he’d say, which I had to agree with. Shellie was a redhead. Palmeyer didn’t know anything about Shellie, and he still doesn’t. I haven’t mentioned her name even once.

  Or he’d say, “Here’s my favorite sandwich: turkey, a little provolone, some lettuce, tomato, and a healthy dab of Russian dressing.”

  Or, “The Braves will win the pennant if they trade for a power hitter.”

  Or, “There are three things every man thinks he can do better than anyone else: build a fire, run a restaurant, and manage a baseball team.”

  Or, “The best Sinatra songs are `Summer Wind,’ `All or Nothing at All,’ `Luck Be A Lady,’ and `Nancy.’ `My Way’? `My Way’ is nonsense.”

  Then I guess he ran out of things to tell me about. Now, we hardly ever talk except about work and sometimes about baseball or music. He likes big band music, and he keeps the radio tuned to the big band station. Harry James. Cab Calloway. Benny Goodman. Duke Ellington. Count Basie.

  Sometimes he’ll shout, “Get me some black thread, Salami,” over the music. He likes to call me Salami, which he thinks is funny because my name is Ham, but it is NOT funny.

  And I’ll say, “You’re a riot, Palmeyer.”

  And he’ll say, “What do you mean?”

  And I’ll say, “You know exactly what I mean.”

  And he’ll keep it up and keep it up until finally I’ll say, “My name’s not Salami. It’s Ham.”

  And he’ll say, “Salami, Ham, what’s the difference? It’s still something my doctor says I can’t eat. Too salty.”

  There used to be three of us: me and Palmeyer and Bobbie Jean, who was the seamstress, only she quit. She had curly brown hair, and she used to wear tight clothing that looked like it had shrunk a size or two in the laundry. I don’t think she wore nice underwear. Once, I saw part of her bra when she was bending over, and it was as old and worn out as my own underwear, which is really saying something. But she was still cute as could be. She had big brown eyes. Sometimes, she would sit on my knee and say, “Bet we could get things done twice as fast if we worked on them together.” And I’d tell her I thought she was wrong about that. VERY wrong.

  One day when we were at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, just before she quit, I told Bobbie Jean about that “Winona Forever” song. I told her about the dog running away, and about the girl getting the tattoo that says “Winona Forever,” and about the dog coming back with part of its ear missing.

  “That’s not so bad,” Bobbie Jean said. “I once dated a guy in a band, and he wrote a song about his arms.”

  I said, “His arms?”

  And she said, “Mm hmm,” and took a bite of her hamburger. “It was about how his left arm tasted saltier than his right.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. One day he came to bed, and he looked all upset. I thought maybe his mom died because she had cancer or leukemia or something like that. So I asked him if he was okay, and he said, `Bobbie, I think something’s wrong.’ And he said, `My left arm doesn’t taste the same as my right.’”

  “What was he doing tasting his arms?”

  “You’ve got me on that one. Anyway, the funny thing was that it was true: his left arm did taste saltier than his right. He went to a doctor. There was no medical explanation for it, one just tasted saltier than the other. Not that that means you have to write a song about it. He wanted me to do the same test on his feet, but I said, `Forget it, pal.’ I don’t care how much he washed them, a girl does have to draw the line somewhere.”

  I said, “That’s true.”

  She said, “So, in comparison, a song about a dog’s not too bad.”

  I said, “Only in comparison.”

  Bobbie Jean quit working at the tailor shop because she got a better job as a seamstress at Saks Fifth Avenue, which is at Phipps Plaza. The expensive mall where they sell tape recorders and microphones to people who don’t need them.

  Things haven’t been the same since Bobbie Jean left the tailor shop. Palmeyer and I still work on the big jobs, like always. The alterations, the fittings. Things like that. Since Bobbie Jean left, though, there’s been no one to work on the smaller jobs. The zippers, the buttons, the buttonholes. And no one to work on women’s clothing, either. So Palmeyer and I work on them, too. Until Palmeyer hires someone new, that is.

  But that isn’t all that’s different, though it’s hard to put a finger on exactly what it is. Maybe it’s just that, since Bobbie Jean left, the shop has seemed lifeless, although that might not be the right word.

  Things were never like this before. But they are now.

  x

  After Bobbie Jean left, Palmeyer took out an ad in the newspaper. It said:

  TAILORS NEED SEAMSTRESS. Must have 2 yrs.

  experience. Good listener. Must enjoy big

  band music. Call 293-9627.

  It could have been worse. It could have said “SAILORS.”

  When I called to place the ad, the man at the paper said, “So where do you want it, in the Help Wanteds or the Personals?” I told him to stop being such a wise guy. But it was a legitimate question.

  The ad’s been running in the paper for a few months. There haven’t been many responses to it, though, except for the phone calls we keep getting from some boys from the high school, disguising their voices, claiming to be Tommy Dorsey’s mother. Tommy Dorsey was a big band leader. God knows how high schools boys know who Tommy Dorsey was. Maybe they looked it up in a book.

  Few of the women who have applied for the position have been qualified. Almost everyone can sew, but only a few can be happy doing it all day long. That’s why Palmeyer turned down the housewives who have called, figuring that they’d get bored and leave after a day or two, which I don’t think is true. I’m bored, and look at me: I’ve stayed for two years. Imagine how long I’d stay if I LIKED it.

  Palmeyer only asked one woman come in for an interview, a woman in her forties named Christine Something-or-other. She’d worked for three years for one of the best tailors in Gainesville, and before that she’d worked as a seamstress in a men’s shop in Decatur. She knew her stuff. You could tell from the calluses on her fingers.

  When he was nearly finished questioning her, Palmeyer asked Christine who her favorite bandleader was.

  “Glenn Miller,” she said, and I could tell that Palmeyer had already made up his mind not to hire her. When they finished, he took her hand and told her he was sorry, that we wouldn’t be able to use her services.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked when she was gone.

  And he said, “She didn’t know a thing about big bands. Only someone who doesn’t know anything about big bands would say Glenn Miller. He’s the one everyone knows. If she were really a fan of big bands, she would have said someone else, someone more obscure. Don’t you agree?”

  And I said, “Yes, but what if Glenn Miller really is her favorite bandleader?”

  Palmeyer just looked at my face for awhile. He looked sad.

  But it was true.

  What if Glenn Miller really is her favorite?

  CHAPTER 5: NINES

  I’ve got a long list of things I’m trying NOT to think about at work.

  How Renée and I aren’t married.

  The stupid one-eared dog song.

  The tape recorder.

  The microphone.

  The chicken shirt.

  Bobbie Jean.

  I’m trying not to think about any of them while I’m working on a suit that a man by the name of Robert Minnifield needs for his niece’s wedding on Saturday. I doubt Minnifield even has a niece. And she’s not getting married. No, Minnifield lied about all that. People always lie to tailor
s, just like they always lie on their taxes. I’d bet Minnifield only said that there was a wedding on Saturday so he could get the suit back quickly. Otherwise, he would’ve had to wait a couple weeks because we are so backed up.

  Palmeyer gets up from his table and puts his coat on.

  “I’m going to the post office, Salami,” he says. “Need anything?”

  And I say, “Nothing.”

  Palmeyer shrugs and leaves, and the bell over the shop door tinkles. Not two minutes later, he’s back.

  “I don’t know why I thought I had to go to the post office,” Palmeyer says. “It was yesterday that I had a letter to mail, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Remember, I had that envelope?”

  “Oh, yeah,” which isn’t true, but what’s the point? I don’t feel like arguing over mail.

  Palmeyer hangs his coat on the rack and looks over at me while I’m running the cuffs of Minnifield’s suit pants through the machine.

  “Look at this,” he says. He points to the racks. “Look, Salami, look.”

  The work is piling up.

  At last count, there are twenty-seven suits to be altered. The cuffs on this one, the jacket sleeves on that. Four of them, including Minnifield’s, are being made by hand in the shop. The pants don’t take long to make. Maybe three hours, including interruptions, with another half hour or so added on for the zipper and the button on the back pocket. The vest is another three hours, and the jacket could take up to seven hours. The lining is the hard part. People never think of that.

  There are fifteen sports coats, some brand new from Macy’s or Hechts all of them needing to be taken in or let out, or the sleeves lengthened or shortened. A few are old ones that customers brought in to have the lapels narrowed to stay in style.