My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  And she said, “I know you do.” She sniffed, and when she did, the tears started. “I know you do, darling, I’m not saying you don’t work hard, but this is all we have to show for it. This. We have a tiny little apartment with old furniture. I’m embarrassed to have my family over. I’m embarrassed to invite friends. And I hate myself for being embarrassed. Does that make sense? I’m becoming a terrible, bitter, spiteful woman, and I have to stop that.”

  And I said, “We’ll move into a better apartment. My luck will change, and we’ll move into a better apartment, a bigger one.”

  And she said, “You’ve been saying that for months. Years.”

  And I said, “It’s the economy, sweetheart. It’s the economy. I don’t control the economy. I wish I did, but I don’t. You should read about the economy. It’s terrible. It looks like it’s getting better, all these bigwigs say it’s getting better, only it’s not because the economy has a mind of its own. The economy doesn’t understand anything about logic or scientific facts or emotions. It’s the economy that’s doing this. But once the economy improves, things will get better and we’ll be able to afford a better apartment. Maybe even a house. And not one of those tiny houses that looks like it was built for chickens or dogs or dolls, but a real house. I promise.”

  And Shellie said, “And clothes, too. It’s not just the apartment, Ham, but it’s clothes, too. I haven’t bought a new blouse in a year. I feel like I haven’t bought a new dress since the Civil War, since the Spanish Inquisition.”

  And I said, “You’re exaggerating. You bought a new dress during World War I. Remember? It was red. Remember?”

  Shellie wiped her nose with the heel of her hand, then sniffed. She licked her lips. She had beautiful lips. “Don’t make me laugh, Ham. I haven’t bought clothes in years. Look what I’m wearing. Look. Look. I’m not saying I should be dressed like the Queen or some movie star, but look. Look.”

  She was wearing a flowered blouse I’d seen her wear for many years and a black skirt that came to her knee, with white stockings covering her legs. She had a brilliant red-orange handkerchief tied around her neck. The handkerchief was almost the same color as her hair. Her hair hung over her forehead like a canopy.

  “You look lovely,” I said, and I meant it. “You look as lovely now as you did that first summer.” I could picture her sitting on top of one of the washing machines at the appliance store. I could picture her demonstrating the new mixers or the new vacuum cleaners, smiling, smiling, smiling like a parade was going by.

  And she said, “But the clothes, Ham. I need new clothes. I can’t go out anywhere like this.”

  And I said, “I don’t know what I can do. I can only work so much. You know that I work day and night. You know that, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  And she said, “Yes. Of course. Of course.”

  And I said, “I don’t have a solution, Sweet Potato. I don’t have an answer. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I was ashamed, and I rested my head in my hands, which only made me feel more embarrassed because I knew what I looked like sitting there like that. The hunched shoulders, the hung head. I’d promised to make her happy, to give her everything she wanted, and I was breaking the promise every day.

  That’s when Shellie said, “You could sell that.” Something about her voice made her words sound rehearsed, as if she’d been practicing those words over and over. “You could sell that,” I could hear her say. “You could sell that.” “You could sell that.” When I lifted my head, I saw that she was smiling a little. A blue fingernail was pointing to the baseball in the plastic case. She wanted me to sell my grandfather’s baseball.

  “What?” I said.

  And she said, “You could sell your baseball.”

  I shook my head and said, “It’s autographed by Ty Cobb, Sweet Potato. My grandfather gave that to me. You know that. It’s autographed by Ty Cobb.”

  And she said, “I know, I know. But I talked to a man in a store, and he said he’d give us a thousand dollars for it. Can you imagine that? A thousand dollars!”

  And I said, “A man in a store?”

  And she said, “Yes.”

  And I said, “What, did you take it to a store to see how much they’d give you for it?”

  And she said, “No, Ham, no, it’s not like that at all. The ball’s never left the apartment. No. You see, I was in a store, and there was a man talking to his son about baseball, this cute little boy, and he was telling him how good a ballplayer Babe Ruth was. I was in a talkative mood, so I said, `Did you ever hear about a ballplayer by the name of Ty Cobb?’ And before I knew it, I’d told him about your baseball, and the man said he’d give me a thousand dollars for it if it’s authentic.”

  And I said, “Of course it’s authentic.”

  And she said, “A thousand dollars, Ham. Do you know how many dresses I could buy? Do you know how much food we could buy?”

  I thought for a moment, then shook my head again. “I can’t do that. It’s Ty Cobb.”

  Shellie tightened her jaw and raised her voice, not much, but enough. “Who do you love more, Ham, Ty Cobb or me? Who did you marry, Ty Cobb or me? Who takes care of you? Who? Who, Ham, who?”

  She liked to repeat questions several times. It’s a habit I picked up from her I’m afraid, although it makes me smile a bit every time I catch myself doing it.

  And I said, “Shellie, it’s not that bad. Things will get better. Things will improve, and we’ll get out of here. It’s just a matter of time, of patience.”

  And she said, “Patience is for people who can afford to be patient. Patience is a luxury, Ham, like caviar and champagne and fur coats and a million other things we don’t have. Me, I can’t be patient much longer. I’m not a young girl anymore. I’m not. We should have things. I go places and I see things and I think, `Shouldn’t we have this? Shouldn’t we have that?’ And the answer’s yes. Yes, we should have things. We deserve things. I should be able to go out with my head held high. You could sell the stupid baseball and it would fix everything, at least for a while.”

  And I said, “Shellie, please.”

  Then she said, “Don’t `Shellie, please’ me. If you don’t do this, I’ll leave and I won’t come back.”

  I could tell she meant it.

  And I said, “I can’t sell it. It has meaning to me. My grandfather gave it to me. My grandfather. I don’t have much to remember him by.”

  Shellie wrinkled her nose, sneering a little. “That’s sad if that’s all you have to remember him by. That’s very, very sad. A stupid baseball. A stupid, rotten baseball. It even looks rotten. It looks like an apple when you bite into it then leave it out in the air. It gets all brown and rotten. Look at it, Ham. It’s just a brown ugly thing. Go ahead, look at it. I dare you to look at it.”

  She was right: it was a brown, ugly thing.

  “Now,” she said, “if you’re telling me this is the only thing you have to remind you of your grandfather, then I feel sorry for you. That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard. A grown man whose only memory of his grandfather is a stinking rotten old baseball.”

  And I said, “I have other things. I have other memories,” which was true. I remember him taking me fishing. I remember him telling me about the shark he caught. I remember him saying, “Blessed are the little fishies.”

  And Shellie said, “Then you don’t need the stupid baseball, do you? We can sell it and get the things we really need.”

  I looked at Shellie, with her hair falling across her forehead and her round sad eyes. I slumped in my chair.

  “Is that what you want?” I said to her.

  And she said, “Yes, Ham, that’s what I want. That’s precisely what I want at this instant in time.”

  And I said, “Fine. Fine. Sell the baseball. Take it. Take it and sell it. I don’t want to hear another word about it. I don’t want to see the money. Just take it.”

  Shellie tipped her head to one side. “Are you sure? I don’t want to do it if
you’re not sure.”

  And I said, “I’m sure.”

  And she said, “Really?”

  And I said, “Yes.”

  Shellie looped her arms around my neck and pressed her lips against my jaw.

  “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry about the things I said before, the things I said about you. You know I didn’t mean them, that I just said them out of frustration. You know I love you, don’t you?”

  And I said, “I know.”

  She lifted the baseball from the card table, and she said, “This is the right thing to do. A thousand dollars, Ham. A thousand dollars. And it’s not just for me. It’s for you, too. You need things. You know what you could use? You could use some gabardine slacks. You always looked good in gabardine slacks, and we could buy you some new ones, with a new leather belt and maybe some shoes. Huh, Ham? Huh?”

  And I said, “We can talk about it later. Try to negotiate a better deal if you can. Try to get an extra hundred dollars. Can you do that?”

  And she said, “I think so.”

  And I said, “Well, try. Try.”

  And she said, “I will.”

  And I said, “Here’s what you do: tell the guy all about Cobb, then tell him you want twelve hundred dollars. Maybe you should tell him you want more than that, but settle for eleven hundred dollars. Negotiate. That’s the key. Negotiate. Make him think you’ll walk away from the deal if he doesn’t give you eleven hundred. I know about these things.”

  And she said, “I know you do, Ham.”

  And I said, “You have to make him think that you don’t really care about whether you sell it, that you’ll just go home if he doesn’t give you eleven hundred.”

  And she said, “I will, Ham.”

  And I said, “Don’t let him swindle you.”

  And she said, “I won’t.”

  I watched her stuff the ball into her shoulder bag. I hadn’t even noticed that she had the shoulder bag with her. She smiled and scratched at her nose with her blue fingernails.

  “Can you start dinner while I’m gone?” she said.

  I nodded, and she walked over to me and kissed me on the top of my head.

  “Ham’s a pig,” she whispered, then she turned and left.

  “Tell him he was better than Ruth,” I called out as I heard the front door open. “Tell him he was better than Mays. Willie Mays,” I shouted. I listened for her to say something, and when she didn’t I got up and went to the open window and waited for my wife to walk past the trees. There were boys and girls playing in the street, and cars speeding past too quickly, making noises that sounded like they needed more oil. Then I saw my wife, only for a moment through the branches, but long enough to recognize her as a beautiful woman, what with her tiny waist and those legs, with that long red hair flapping. A beautiful woman who deserved things. I knew she would leave me soon, that she’d file for divorce and meet someone who could take better care of her. When she had passed from sight, I sat down at the card table. I returned to building my knowledge.

  But building knowledge is for people like my brother Carl, not me. Knowledge is for people like Shellie and Renée and Guitar Walter and Claire and all the others.

  For people like me, it’s a luxury. Like caviar and champagne. It’s a luxury you don’t fully understand. It’s a luxury that’s wasted on you.

  CHAPTER 12: MY BLACK THREAD

  Broom Hilda stole my spool of black thread.

  When I left work to go home, I had a large spool of black thread sitting next to my machine. Right NEXT to it. It’s a spool of cotton-wrapped polyester thread that you can use on all natural fibers and synthetics. When I show up for work in the morning, though, it’s gone. And it’s not as if someone broke into the shop in the middle of the night and stole it. It’s not as if someone would break in, leave the cash register alone, leave the sewing machines alone, leave the clothes alone, and only take one spool of black, cotton-wrapped polyester thread.

  Who would do something like that?’

  Who?

  No one.

  So who stole the thread?

  Who?

  Broom Hilda.

  Who else could it be?

  Who else on earth could it be?

  No one.

  This time I don’t say anything to Palmeyer. The last time I did, the last time Broom Hilda stole my thread, she made me look like a fool.

  “Are you accusing me of being a thief?” she said.

  And I said, “I’m accusing you of stealing my thread.”

  And she said, “That’s accusing me of being a thief.”

  So I said, “If the shoe fits.”

  And she said, “If the shoe fits, what?”

  And I said, “That’s the whole expression: If the shoe fits.”

  And she said, “The expression is, ‘If the shoe fits, wear it.’ Is that what you’re saying? Are you saying if the shoe fits, I should wear it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re accusing me of being a thief. You’re lucky I don’t sue you for defamation. You’d better have a good lawyer.”

  “For your information, I have an excellent lawyer. My brother Carl is a lawyer.”

  “Well, you ought to talk with him about what happens to people who accuse other people of being thieves.”

  “And you ought to talk to the police to see what happens to people who steal.”

  “You’re going to look funny when I sue you for every penny you have.”

  “And you’re going to look funny in handcuffs. Or should I say funnier?”

  Just then, Palmeyer walked in, and Broom Hilda told him I’d accused her of being a thief.

  Without even letting me say anything, Palmeyer said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Salami. Debbie is old enough to be your mother. You ought to show her respect.” Then he gave HER the rest of the day off.

  So this time when Broom Hilda steals my black thread, I keep my mouth shut. I keep my mouth shut and use the blue.

  Every once in a while, I see her look over at me, the corners of her mouth turned up. I can tell what she’d thinking: I’ve got your black thread. I’ve got it.

  Big deal. You can keep the black thread. I won’t be here much longer. I’ll find a new job, then I’ll leave here.

  x

  At lunchtime, I drive downtown to Carl’s office. I call him first so he knows what I’m coming for. Only when I get there, Cecily looks surprised to see me.

  “Ham,” she says, “I didn’t know you’d be stopping by today, or else I’d have worn something pretty.”

  She looks pretty as it is, and I tell her that. She’s wearing a raisin-colored blouse with a short black skirt that shows off her legs. She’s wearing pearl earrings and a matching necklace.

  Cecily leads me into Carl’s office.

  “Look what I found in the hall,” she says.

  And Carl says, “Why’d you drag it in here?”

  He’s wearing gray pants with a white shirt. He has suspenders, which make him look tall and fit. He’s standing in front of the newspaper articles. For the first time, I notice the horse is almost the exact same color as Carl’s hair. He’s going bald on top. That’s one thing I have over Carl: I still have all my hair.

  When Cecily leaves, I say, “Carl, listen, I really hate to do this again.”

  And he says, “It’s okay. How much do you need?”

  “How about a hundred?”

  He writes a check and hands it to me. It’s written in his perfect handwriting.

  I say, “You know I’ll pay you back.”

  And he says, “It’s not a problem if you don’t. Why don’t you sit down,” which I do.

  We talk for a little while about Judy and the boys. The boys are playing pee-wee football. We talk a little about our parents, who are thinking of moving to Florida. Then I tell Carl about Renée. I tell him about how she hasn’t been the same after the gas man saw her naked, and how she doesn’t play the guitar anymore, and how she started
taking night classes, and how she has new friends who come over all the time, and how they act like monks whenever I come into the kitchen, and about Keats, Yeats, Browning, Frost. Then, I tell him about work. I tell him about Broom Hilda and Palmeyer, and how they always say, “Do you remember,” and how they play big band music all day, and how there isn’t as much overtime as there used to be.

  That’s when I say, “Listen, can I ask you a legal question?”

  “Is it about common-law marriage?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you familiar with an area of law called defamation?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Can someone sue you if you say they stole something?”

  “Can you prove they stole it?”

  “Can I prove it? No, I can’t prove it.”

  “Then, yes, they can sue you for defamation. If you accuse someone of being a criminal, but you can’t prove they committed a crime, you could be sued for defamation.”

  I say, “Darn it,” only I don’t say “darn.”

  “Is someone suing you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is it that Walter boy with the guitar?”

  “Guitar Walter?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Is it that Broom Hilda lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you just leave her alone? You act like you’re jealous of her.”

  I’m about to say, “No, I’m not,” only I think about it for a second. Instead, I say, “I hope I’m not.”

  Then Carl says, “You know, I’ll bet if you made an effort to be nice to her, she’d be nice back.”

  And I say, “Maybe.”

  It’s the kind of advice he probably gives to his boys, and it makes sense if you think about it. So, on the way back to the shop, I stop at the Krispy Kreme donut store. There’s a flashing red sign on the front window that says, HOT DONUTS. I get a box to take back for Broom Hilda and Palmeyer. And wouldn’t you know it, but Broom Hilda LOVES Krispy Kreme donuts. They’re her favorites. She eats three of them with a cup of black coffee. When she doesn’t think I’m watching, she eats a fourth. I see her licking her fingertips.