My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  “For me?” she says, and she smiles a little less than I’d hoped she would.

  And I say, “Who else would they be for?”

  And she says, “I thought we were fighting.”

  And I say, “We are.”

  And she says, “Okay, but this isn’t fighting fair.”

  She opens the card and reads what I wrote about the umbrella song, then stands up and kisses me on the neck. She looks into my eyes for a long time. Her eyes are the color of good clear coffee.

  “Thank you,” she says, “I needed this.” Then she says, “I did something to make up, too. I baked you a cake. It has two layers. One’s white cake, the other’s chocolate.”

  And I say, “Sounds good.”

  She walks to one of the cabinets and takes out a vase. It’s a vase that Shellie and I were given as a wedding gift, but I’ve never told Renée that. She thinks it was mine. Renée fills the vase with water at the sink. While she’s doing that, I sit down at the kitchen table. There’s a stack of cassette tapes with white labels that read, “RENEE ASHE, RECORDING ARTIST,” and there’s another stack of cover letters. I pick up one of the cover letters to read it. Renée doesn’t try to stop me.

  The letter says:

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  Please let me introduce myself. My name is Renée Ashe, and I am a country-and-western recording artist based in Altanta, Georgia. I sound a lot like Tammy Wynette, with a little Patsy Cline mixed in, and maybe a pinch of Trisha Yearwood, too. (It sounds like a recipe, doesn’t it!)

  At the present time, I do not have a recoding contract. Accordingly, I am enclosing for your enjoyment a cassette tape that will give you a sample of my musical skills. I hope that you will find it pleasing to your ears.

  I must tell you that I am sending copies of the tape to other radio stations and record companies. While I cannot say that money isn’t important, I will give my strongest consideration to whichever company offers me a contract first.

  I look forward to hearing form you soon.

  Musically,

  Renée Ashe

  Renée puts the vase in the center of the table, then sits across from me and starts stuffing envelopes again. I don’t tell her that she misspelled “Atlanta” and “recording” and “from.” She’s already got half of the envelopes stuffed and sealed. She’d have to reopen all of them.

  Without looking at me, Renée says, “A good hubby would lick the envelopes for me.”

  I stick my tongue out, and she says, “That looks like it could do a good job of licking, Ham.” She says “Hay-yum” instead of “Ham,” and this time it sounds provocative. We both smile. Then she starts laughing and says, “I’m a bad, bad girl, aren’t I?”

  I smile at her, then try to wink like Carl always does.

  “Can I hear the tape?” I say.

  And she says, “Maybe later, if you’re good.”

  And I say, “Is it just you singing and playing?”

  And she says, “No. Walter’s on it, too. He’s playing the guitar and singing the backup vocals.”

  And I say, “How many songs did you record?”

  And she says, “One.”

  And I don’t even ask her which one.

  I know. I KNOW.

  And it’s not the umbrella song, that’s for sure.

  x

  We finish stuffing the envelopes with the cassette tapes and the cover letters, then Renée makes some meatballs, mixing the ground beef with eggs and bread crumbs and spices from the spice rack. I change my clothes while she’s cooking and setting the table. When we finish eating dinner, Renée brings out the cake she baked. On the top it says, “HAM STINKS” in white icing.

  “Oops,” Renée says, “that’s a typo.”

  It’s a good cake, though, and we each have two pieces. When we’re done, we put the dishes in the sink, and our shoulders bump, and soon we’re kissing right in the middle of the kitchen. Then, in the hall. Then, in the bedroom. I help her pull her sweater over her head. She’s wearing a white, lacy bra. I kiss her shoulders and her arms. I help her out of her jeans, then we lie down on the bed.

  She says, “I’m not going to be a famous singer, am I?”

  And I say, “Of course you are.” I almost say, “You just have to stop singing that dog song,” but I don’t.

  And she says, “Do you really think so?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  Even though it’s dark, I can tell she’s smiling.

  She licks my ear. She kisses my forehead.

  “Are you still mad about the tape recorder?” she says.

  And I say, “No.”

  And she says, “Good.”

  And I say, “But I’m furious about the microphone.”

  And she says, “I’ll bet you won’t be furious in an hour.”

  She kisses my lips.

  She says, “Say something sweet to me.”

  And I say, “Cookies, cake, chocolate candy.”

  She laughs and says, “Really, say something sweet to me.”

  And I say, “I couldn’t love you any more than I do at this moment,” which is the first thing that pops in my head. I heard it in a movie once.

  That night, we have a good night in bed.

  A VERY good night.

  x

  We’re so busy at the shop that we have to start turning down some work. And Palmeyer still won’t hire a new seamstress. Either they don’t have enough experience, or they haven’t heard of “Minnie the Moocher.”

  “It’s a Duke Ellington song,” I’ve heard him say to some of the women he’s interviewed. “Jesus, it’s DUKE FREAKIN’ ELLINGTON.”

  I’m eating lunch and Palmeyer’s off somewhere. Maybe mailing a letter. I have a chicken sandwich on toast, cut into halves, a can of soda, and a sugar-glazed donut. I have them spread out across the newspaper, blocking out advertisements here and there, the sandwich wrapper covering an entire story.

  I’m eating the sandwich and reading an article about a burglary at Thompson’s Jewelers downtown when a woman enters the shop. She has a man’s pinstriped suit slung over her shoulder like those sashes that the Miss America contestants wear.

  “Excuse me,” she says, “but I’d like to get my husband’s suit altered. We marked it up at home this morning.”

  “Can’t do it,” I say, reading around my donut, then taking another bite of my sandwich. “He’ll have to come in for a fitting.”

  The woman tips her head to the side and says, “I don’t see why. The suit’s already marked up.” She held out the slacks, chalk marks at the ankles for me to look at. People do that sometimes, they bring in clothes they’ve already marked up with chalk or pins, and they ask us to alter them. Every time—EVERY time—they end up complaining about the job we did. They never will admit that they’re the ones who marked the clothes wrong in the first place.

  I say, “Nothing personal, ma’am, but how can we be sure that it’s marked properly? We’re very precise about our work, and we prefer to do the marking ourselves. We can’t be responsible for any errors someone else might make.”

  And she says, “But I did a good job of it. If there’s any problem, I’ll take responsibility for it.”

  And I say, “That’s what you say now, but before you know it, we’ve got lawyers involved and the Supreme Court’s deciding this, that and the other thing.”

  The woman shakes her head side-to-side.

  “Besides,” I add, “it really would be easier to just bring your husband in next time you’re in the area.”

  The woman says, “Fine,” then she leaves.

  I can’t tell if she meant fine, she’ll be back later, or fine, she’ll take the suit elsewhere. I hope it’s the latter. Things are already too busy.

  Things were never like this before Bobbie Jean left.

  But they are now.

  Not only are we turning down work, but we have to work late most nights just to keep up with the work we already have.

  x
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  Early one morning, not even six o’clock, I hear noises in the kitchen. Renée’s not in bed. I climb out of bed and walk to the kitchen, and I see Renée folding laundry. Except she isn’t folding it and putting it in the laundry basket like she normally does. Instead, she’s folding it and putting it into her suitcase, the old brown one she used when we drove to Cadbury for a weekend to see my parents, and when we drove to Florida to see Disney World and Sea World. The suitcase has stickers on it from cities she’s never been to. New York, Paris, London, etcetera, etcetera. The New York sticker has a drawing on it of the Statue of Liberty. Paris has the Eiffel Tower.

  “You’ve never been to Paris,” I say when I see the suitcase in the kitchen. I try to kiss her, but she pulls away. I don’t know why she pulls away because we’re not fighting about anything. At least, not as far as I know.

  She says, “I know I haven’t been to Paris.”

  And I say, “So why do you have a sticker on your suitcase that says Paris?”

  And she says, “A) Because you don’t have to go somewhere to buy the sticker, and B) because I plan to go to Paris someday.”

  I say, “When?”

  And she says, “I don’t have airline reservations yet, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  I still don’t understand it. Why would you put stickers on your suitcase if you hadn’t been someplace yet? It would be like putting up a doctor’s license in your office because you were planning on being a doctor someday. It’d be like having your Redbook magazine sent to “Mrs. Renée Ashe” when you aren’t even married, which Renée DOES. Redbook and Cosmopolitan.

  Renée keeps putting her clothes in the suitcase, so I say, “So, where are you going this week? Rome?”

  Only she doesn’t laugh. I try to kiss her, but she turns her head away from me. She’s acting like she’s mad about something, only I don’t know what. I haven’t done anything wrong lately.

  “No,” she says, “I’m not going to Rome.”

  “New York then?”

  And she says, “No” again.

  So I say, “Los Angeles?” The sticker for Los Angeles doesn’t have a drawing on it because there’s nothing famous there.

  And she says, “No.”

  And I say, “Then where?”

  And that’s when she says, “I’m thinking of going to Nashville.”

  And I say, “Nashville?”

  And she says, “It’s in Tennessee.”

  And I say, “I KNOW where Nashville is. Why are you going on a trip there?”

  And that’s when she says, “I’m not thinking of going on a trip there. I’m thinking of MOVING there. That’s where all the singers go.”

  So I say, “You’re thinking of moving to Nashville? When did you get this idea?” Just as I say that, I think of the answer: GUITAR WALTER. A picture of him pops in my head. He’s sitting on the couch with Renée. His hair is oily. He’s strumming his guitar. He’s smelling her perfume.

  “Did Guitar Walter tell you you should move to Nashville?” I say.

  And she says, “Do you have to call him Guitar Walter?”

  And I say, “Well, my only other choices are Oily-Haired Walter and Funny-Smelly Walter.”

  And she says, “He doesn’t smell funny.”

  And I say, “My nose disagrees.” He DOES smell funny. He smells like he’s been working on the engine of a tractor-trailer all day. Gas and smoke and things of that nature.

  She says, “Can’t you call him just Walter?”

  “Fine. Did Just Walter tell you that you should move to Nashville?”

  Renée’s mouth turns sour. Instead of answering my question, she says, “It pains me to say this, Ham, but do you think we should get a divorce?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Ham. Do you think we should get a divorce? I mean, it doesn’t make much sense to stay married if you’re here in Atlanta and I’m living in Nashville. So I was thinking that maybe we should get a divorce. What do you think?”

  I don’t know what to say because we are NOT married. It’s like your boss asking you if you’ll stop stealing money from the cash register. If you say “Yes,” you’re ADMITTING that you’ve been stealing from the cash register. If you say “No,” it means you’re going to KEEP stealing from the cash register. Either way you lose. So when Renée asks if I want a divorce, there’s nothing I can say. You can’t get a divorce from someone who’s NOT your wife.

  You CAN’T.

  Right?

  Right?

  “Well?” she says.

  And I say, “Well, what?”

  And she says, “I asked you a question. I want to know if you want to get a divorce?”

  And I say, “I already got a divorce,” which is true. I got a divorce from Shellie, my first wife. My ONLY wife.

  And she says, “I mean, do you want to get a divorce from me?”

  “From you?”

  “Yes.”

  And I say, “Renée, Sweet Potato, how can we get a divorce if we aren’t even married?”

  Renée looks at the ceiling and shakes her head side-to-side and says, “I am NOT having this conversation with you again.” She folds some of her underwear and places it in the suitcase. The underwear is the color of a matador’s cape.

  I come up from behind Renée and put my hands on her hips. Although she tries to pull away, I kiss her neck, and I say, “Now, what conversation was that, Sweet Potato?”

  And she says, “Don’t try to change the subject. You know perfectly well what conversation I’m talking about. I’m talking about the conversation where you deny we’re husband and wife. You keep denying it. You’re like a killer who keeps denying he killed anyone even though there’s a dead body, and there’s blood on his hands, and there’s the murder weapon with his, his—”

  “—Fingerprints?”

  And she says, “Exactly. There’s the murder weapon with his fingerprints on it, but he still says, “Oh, no, I didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Police Officer. There must be some mistake.’”

  “Well,” I say, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  And she says, “Look, I don’t want to go over this for the billionth time.”

  And I say, “Neither do I. So, there, we’re in perfect agreement.”

  And she says, “I guess so. I guess we’re in perfect agreement that we should get a divorce.”

  I make a growling noise because she’s driving me CRAZY. First she wants to get married, then she wants to get divorced. It doesn’t make any sense. None at all.

  Then Renée makes a noise in her throat and goes back to packing. I want to stop her, and I can tell she wants me to, the way her eyes keep darting toward me, but I can’t think of what to do. She keeps packing the suitcase, her eyes darting over at me, and when she’s through she closes it and snaps the latches shut. She picks up the suitcase. It’s heavy, and you can see the muscles in her shoulders tightening. She carries the suitcase out of the kitchen, and I follow her, trying to think of what to say. Only she doesn’t go to the front door. She takes the suitcase into the bedroom and puts in on the floor of the closet.

  “You’re not moving?” I say.

  And she says, “I never said I was moving right away. I only said I was thinking about moving.”

  Renée closes the closet door and walks into the living room. I hear her turn on the television set.

  I start dressing for work while she’s watching television. Renée doesn’t say anything else about her suitcase, not while I’m shaving, not while I’m having my coffee. The suitcase just stays packed the whole time, sitting there on the floor of the closet where I’ll see it whenever I go to get a clean shirt and pants. I don’t have to open the closet to get clean underwear or socks, but I still know it’s in there.

  When I’m ready to leave for work, Renée’s still on the couch. We don’t look at each other, and we don’t say anything. Just as I’m about to close the door, I hear her say, “For the billionth time, it’s called a common-l
aw marriage. C-O-M-M-O-N- L-A-W. Do you hear me, Ham? Ham?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I was just trying to figure out what you were spelling. I thought you were spelling `communist’ at first.”

  And she says, “I was spelling `common law.’”

  And I say, “I figured that out.”

  Then I leave.

  CHAPTER 7: SHE WAS ONLY THE GROCER’S DAUGHTER

  We’re out of money.

  Again.

  At lunch, I drive to Carl’s office to borrow another hundred dollars, only he’s not there. He’s at a meeting somewhere.

  “When will he be back?” I ask Cecily.

  She says, “Probably not until five.” She’s wearing a short black skirt with a blue sweater.

  I say, “I can’t wait that long.”

  “Is it something I can help you with?”

  I say, “No, thanks.” But before I know it, I’m telling her all about what’s happened with Renée. Everything from how we met to her losing her job to Guitar Walter and the suitcase with the stickers on it.

  “A song about a dog with one ear?” she says when I’m done.

  And I say, “Yes.”

  “It sounds kind of sweet.”

  “Well, it’s not. And that’s the song she sent to all the record companies.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I don’t understand, what doesn’t make any sense at all, is why would she be talking about picking up and moving to Nashville? Why?”

  Cecily says, “You don’t have a lot of female friends, do you?”

  And I almost say, “I don’t even have a lot of MALE friends,” but I don’t. Instead, I say, “Since Bobbie Jean quit, I don’t have any female friends at all.”

  “Bobbie Jean?”

  “She used to work at the tailor shop.”

  “Oh. Anyway, if you did have some female friends, they’d tell you that this is an easy one to figure out.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “So why is she talking about moving to Nashville?”

  “Ham, she’s leaving you before you leave her.”

  “But I’m not leaving her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” again.