My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  I say, “Yes” again.

  “Well, that’s just my opinion.”

  And I say, “But I’m NOT leaving,” only I say it much louder than I’d intended.

  Cecily brushes her fingertips over my lips and says, “Shh, Sweetie. This is a law office.”

  I say, “Sorry.”

  And she says, “It’s okay,” then turns around to return to her work.

  On the drive home, I imagine kissing her fingertips.

  x

  Renée keeps the suitcase in the closet. It’s hard to forget it’s there. Sometimes she even leaves the closet door open when we go to sleep so I’ll remember that she’s THISCLOSE to moving to Nashville to become a singer. THISCLOSE, the distance between your thumb and your index finger when you’re holding a pin.

  At night, I sit on the steps and smoke and listen to her practice her songs.

  She has a new one called “Biology”that I like:

  Can a love like ours ever truly last,

  When we are just biology,

  Biology and years gone past.

  There’s another song called “Deep, Dark Secret,” about a woman with a secret that she never tells her boyfriend. It’s a good song, only you never find out what her secret is. Was she married before? Does she have a baby? What’s the point of saying you have a dark secret if you’re not going to tell what it is? If she doesn’t want to reveal her secret, then she shouldn’t say that she has a secret at all.

  On Wednesdays, we drive to Eddie’s Attic for Amateur Night. Sometimes Guitar Walter comes with us, sometimes he doesn’t. When he comes, he always tries to clap louder than me, as if that’s how you prove your love to someone, by clapping louder than everyone else. I want to say to him, “Walter, the way you prove your love is by taking a shower every once in a while,” but I don’t.

  Every Saturday afternoon, I watch Renée as she waits for the mailman, then runs to the door to see if she got a letter from a radio station or a record company. I watch her as she flips through the mail, and then she’ll say, “Oh, well, nothing today. They must still have my tape under consideration.”

  I know she does the same thing during the week when I’m at work, waiting for the mailman, flipping through the mail. I can picture her face as she sits at the window. I can picture her face as the mail slips through the mail slot and onto the floor, and when she sees there’s nothing there from the radio stations or record companies. I can picture it, and it makes me feel sorry for her. Until I picture the suitcase.

  After a while, some of the envelopes with Renée’s tapes come back in the mail. The envelopes are unopened. They have “RETURN TO SENDER” stamped on them in fat red letters. Renée leaves them on the kitchen counter.

  “It happens sometimes,” she says. “The record company will move or something. If it comes back unopened, it doesn’t mean they didn’t like your music. It means they didn’t even have a chance to listen to it,” which makes sense. “It doesn’t mean your dream’s not going to come true,” she says.

  x

  But I don’t know if she really believes that or not. One day, I find a pad of lined notebook paper on the coffee table under Renée’s magazines. On the front sheet, she’d written:

  —PRESS RELEASE—

  NEW COUNTRY MUSIC SUPERSTAR!

  The world of country music has a new superstar, and her name is Renée Ashe!

  Renée’s debut album, “Winona Forever”, has skyrocketed to the top of the Billboard country music charts and has already sold 10 million copies in the United States alone!

  Her rise to fame is truly an American success story. She grew up in a small town, where she was only the grocer’s daughter. Now, she’s an international superstar, but one who hasn’t forgotten her roots.

  “I write songs for people like me,” Renée says, “people who may not have been born with a silver spoon in their mouth and who yearn for more.”

  Only Renée had drawn a large “X” over the entire page and written, “Stupid! Stupid! STUPID!” in the margin in letters you could tell she’d traced over a hundred times until the pen practically poked through the weakened paper.

  x

  My pants are getting too tight in the seat. At first, it’s one or two pairs, and I think maybe they’re shrinking in the laundry, which happens sometimes. That’s why we always leave a little room when we’re fixing someone’s pants. A little room in the waist, a little room in the seat. Only now it’s not just one or two pairs of my pants that are too tight. It’s six or seven or eight.

  They’re not shrinking.

  I’m growing.

  Specifically, I’m growing in the seat region.

  I know what it is.

  IT’S THE CAKES AND PIES AND COOKIES. IT’S THE BROWNIES AND THE MUFFINS.

  Renée is making me fatter, as if I were a balloon she was inflating.

  Luckily, I happen to work at a tailor shop, so I bring my pants with me in the morning and let the seats out an inch or so.

  It’s the cookies and cakes and pies.

  I’d stop eating them if Renée would stop baking them. But it’s rude not to eat something that someone baked for you. It’s rude not to have a taste. It’d make her feel like she wasted her time.

  One day when I get to work early to fix my pants, I see Palmeyer there with a woman. He introduces me to her. Her name is Debbie Something-or-other.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.

  She says, “You, too. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Finally.

  Finally, Palmeyer has hired a new seamstress, which makes me happy for a few days. But only a few days. After a while, I start to feel worse. There’s not much I can say about the woman he hired except that she’s a WITCH with a capital B.

  Debbie is a large, sleepy-eyed woman who looks as if she used to work building houses. She’s about Palmeyer’s age, which means she’s old, except she’s not old and sweet like most old people. She’s old and mean. She says nasty things for no reason whatsoever, and she curses under her breath, which I can hear but Palmeyer can’t since I have better hearing. “Goshdarn this” and “goshdarn that,” she’ll say in a voice that’s gritty like coffee grounds, only she doesn’t say “goshdarn.” She jerks her head while she talks, like a hen pecking. She moves around the shop slowly like she never gets enough sleep. She’s always taking my thread or my pins without asking, and she never returns them when she’s done. Instead, she makes ME ask for them back, so I end up having to be the one to say, “Thank you.” What’s worse, she’s not even good at her job. Half the time the buttons are too loose or there are threads hanging off like cat whiskers going in every direction. I end up having to redo them.

  “Palmeyer,” I finally say, “you’ve got to get rid of Broom Hilda,” which is what I call her. “Broom Hilda” was the name of a comic strip about a witch. A witch with a “W,” not with a “B.”

  And he says, “Why?”

  And I say, “Well, for starters, she can’t SEW.”

  And he says, “Yes, she can.”

  And I say, “Look, look,” and hold up something she sewed wrong, like a button on a pair of pants, for instance.

  And he says, “Looks fine to me,” which I know he doesn’t mean. Palmeyer likes everything to be perfect.

  Then I say, “Heck, Palmeyer, she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  And he says, “She’s better than nothing, which is what we had.”

  And I say, “Not much better.”

  Then Broom Hilda returns from lunch or the bathroom or wherever she was, and Palmeyer says, “Debbie, our friend Ham here doesn’t think you know how to sew. Do you or do you not know how to sew?”

  And she says something like, “I’ve been sewing since before he was even in diapers,” which I don’t doubt for a minute. She was probably sewing when the baby Jesus was in diapers, which doesn’t necessarily mean she’s any good at it. Then she curses at me under her breath, and Palmeyer doesn’t he
ar it. Then she turns on some big band music on the radio, which is the only reason she got the job in the FIRST place.

  Whether or not you like big band music has nothing to do with whether you can sew.

  They’re completely unrelated.

  x

  The worst part about all of this is that for two years Palmeyer hardly spoke at all. He hardly said anything to me, and he never said ANYTHING to Bobbie Jean when she worked here. Now, he’s a talking machine. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. All day, non-stop, like that pink rabbit on the television commercials, the one with the batteries in his back. All day, he and Broom Hilda talk and talk and talk. Usually, it starts with one of them saying, “Do you remember,” and then they’re off to the races, talking about old times as if they once knew each other and have recently been reunited.

  “Do you remember when Truman beat Dewey?” Broom Hilda will say.

  And Palmeyer will close his eyes and grin like someone’s rubbing his neck and say, “Ah, yes, yes, I remember.”

  And Broom Hilda will say, “I volunteered for Truman. I went door to door passing out buttons.”

  And he’ll say, “I voted for him.”

  And there’s nothing I can say, so I just keep working. I remember how Truman beat Dewey, and how some of the newspapers got it backwards. Only I remember because they taught it to us at Cadbury High School. I don’t remember because I was THERE, like Palmeyer and Broom Hilda.

  Sometimes I try to join in, but it never works.

  “Do you remember the Hindenburg?” Palmeyer says.

  And Broom Hilda says, “Yes, I do. My cousin knew someone who was on it.”

  And he says, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and frowns.

  And then she says, “Do you remember penny candy,” as if penny candy had anything to do with the Hindenburg. As if they sold penny candy on the Hindenburg. As if anyone of sound mind who was talking about the Hindenburg would start thinking about penny candy.

  And he says, “Yes, I do. Do you know how much penny candy is today?”

  And she says, “No.”

  And he says, “Ten cents, that’s how much.”

  And she puts her hand on her chest and says, “No!”

  And he says, “Yes! Ten cents! A dime!”

  And she says, “No!”

  That’s when I say, “But if it’s ten cents, it’s not really penny candy. It seems to me that you can’t call it penny candy if it doesn’t cost a penny,” which makes sense if you think about it.

  Both Palmeyer and Broom Hilda look at me like I’m crazed, like I’ve dared to sing to the birds.

  “Do you remember when gasoline cost ten cents a gallon?” Broom Hilda says, and I go back to work.

  Sometimes, when she’s gone to lunch or the bathroom or wherever, I think about pulling Palmeyer aside and saying, “Do you remember how nice it was before she got here? Do you remember THAT?” Only I don’t.

  x

  Renée doesn’t tell me about the letters. She never says a word about them.

  “Anything today?” I’ll ask her.

  And she’ll say, “Nope. But in this business, no news is good news. Everyone knows that.”

  Then we’ll have dinner and I’ll tell her about work. I’ll tell her about Truman and Dewey, and about the Hindenburg and penny candy, then we’ll go to bed.

  Only one night after we finish dinner, I clear the table while Renée is in the bathroom. As I’m scraping off the plates, pushing food off the plates and into the garbage can with a knife, I see a manila envelope sticking out from beneath some balls of paper towels. I pull it out and wipe off a piece of lettuce that’s clinging to it. There’s a stain where the lettuce was. The envelope’s from one of the record companies, addressed to “Ms. Renée Ashe.”

  I open it and read the letter:

  Dear Ms. Ashe:

  Thank you for submitting your music and/or suggestions for our consideration. At this time, we are not accepting unsolicited submissions. For legal reasons, we have not listened to your music and/or read your suggestions. We thank you for your interest in our company and wish you the best of luck with your musical endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Alan Solitar, President

  New Sounds Music, Inc.

  No, Renée’s not going to Nashville. She’s not going anywhere.

  When I hear her coming back into the kitchen, I crumple up the letter and put it back in the trash. I kiss her on the cheek.

  “What’s that for?” she says.

  “Just for being you,” I say. “You cooked a great dinner. That was a great pot roast.”

  She knows I’m joking, but still says, “It was chicken.”

  She smiles, but it’s the sad kind of smile you smile when everything’s going wrong. It’s the way you smile when someone comes to visit you when you’re sick with the flu.

  Then she says, “Come on, I’ll get us some coconut cream pie,” and she walks to the refrigerator with her shoulders drooping.

  CHAPTER 8: MISS REDBOOK

  Things with Renée go from bad to worse, and quick. So quick you couldn’t see it coming.

  One day I’m at work, and “One O’Clock Jump” is playing on the radio. It’s a Benny Goodman song. I’m repairing the waistband on a pair of slacks for a man named Grimaldi. It’s not as easy as it might seem. First, you have to pin the waistband, then turn it up and press it. Then you have to grade the seam to eliminate the bulk. After you’ve done that, you have to fold the waistband inside out and trim the corners. Then you turn it right side out again, clip it and tuck the seam allowance, then fold the clipped corner under at an angle. When you’re done with that, you have to pin the edge in place and stitch in the ditch of the waistline seam. It’s not easy work, and it’s harder when Palmeyer and Broom Hilda are sitting three feet away having another one of their “Do you remember” conversations.

  “Do you remember The Maltese Falcon?” Broom Hilda says.

  And Palmeyer says, “Yes, yes. I saw it when the carnival was in town. Do you remember the first time you went on a ferris wheel?”

  And she says, “Oh, yes. What fun. Do you remember the first time you ate a hamburger?”

  DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU ATE A HAMBURGER? Who remembers THAT? It’s like asking, “Do you remember the first time you heard a whistle?” “Do you remember the first time you saw a circle?”

  Who remembers things like that?

  Who CARES about things like that?

  The phone rings, and Palmeyer answers it.

  “It’s for you,” he says.

  And I say, “Who is it?”

  And he says, “It’s your wife.”

  Only before I can say, “She’s NOT my wife,” Palmeyer hands me the phone and goes back to talking with Broom Hilda about the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  “Do you remember when there was that Cuban Missile Crisis with Cuba?” Palmeyer says, as if that’s related in any way to hamburgers, which is what they were discussing before the phone rang. Maybe the Cubans were grilling hamburgers at that time. Maybe they were grilling hamburgers and the Hindenburg flew past and dropped some penny candy on them.

  Broom Hilda says, “Yes, yes, I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis. With President Kennedy. He was very handsome for a president. Do you remember poodle skirts?”

  I pick up the phone and say, “Hello, Sweet Potato. Want to hear what kind of skirt President Kennedy wore?”

  I just hear sniffing on the other end.

  “Renée, are you okay?” I say. “What’s the matter?”

  And she says, “Oh, Ham, it was terrible.”

  And I say, “What was terrible? What? Are you okay?” I’m thinking that maybe she was in an accident. Maybe someone died. Who knows?

  “I’m fine. I just need to catch my breath.”

  “Tell me what happened, Sweet Potato. Tell me.”

  “Okay.”

  Then she tells me what happened. There she was, she says, standing in the bedroom, looking at the clothe
s she’d spread out on the bed, when she saw the gas man reading the meter outside the window. When she screamed he glanced up from the meter and saw her through the window, and, for a second, the time it takes to cough, their eyes met. The gas man put his clipboard in front of his face, but there was no mistake about it: he’d seen her all right, as naked as the day she was born, as they say. Only, to Renée, she was more naked than the day she was born because she was larger and there was more of her to see. It was logical, I suppose: she’s been eating the cakes and the pies and the cookies, too.

  “You’re either naked or you’re not, Sweet Potato,” I tell her. “There aren’t any degrees of being naked. It’s an all or nothing sort of thing.”

  She doesn’t say anything, so I say, “Everything will be okay. Everything will be fine.”

  And she says, “Regardless, I’m going to cry.”

  She sniffs.

  I say, “Sweet Potato, don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about.”

  And she says, “You’re a fine one to talk, Ham. You weren’t the one he saw. I was. Me.”

  She sniffs again, and I picture her wearing her white, terry-cloth bathrobe, sitting on the floor beside the bed, her back to the bedroom window. It’s terrible to hear her like this, just terrible.

  “Renée, it’s really nothing to get upset about. It was an accident,” I say.

  And she says, “It doesn’t matter that it was an accident. What’s important is that that man knows what I look like now. He knows. You know what I look like. I’m fat, fat, fat. Now that man knows what I look like, too. He can tell people. He can go back to work and tell people, `You should see the fat lady I saw today. A regular piggo.’”

  All I can say is, “Sweet Potato.”

  Again, she sniffs into the receiver.

  I whisper, “Renée, you’re not fat.”

  She says, “Liar.”

  And I say, “Renée.”

  “If I’m not fat, then why did he cover his eyes? You tell me why he covered his eyes.”

  “What?” even though I’d heard her.

  “The gas man. The second he saw me, he put something in front of his eyes. He looked right at me, then he put some paper in front of his face so he wouldn’t have to look at me because I’m fat. He went like this.”