My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  “But what if you’re talking to someone in the locker room?”

  “Then you look him straight in the eyes.” I make a chopping motion with one hand, slicing the air. “You make eye contact the entire time. You can’t let your eyes drop even an inch. The last thing you want is for someone to think you were looking at him. A man’s goal is to get through life seeing only one man naked—himself.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “It might be crazy, but it’s a rule.”

  “You’re exaggerating, Ham.” She takes a bite of her brownie.

  “Not at all. Not even the littlest bit. You can’t look. You could be in a locker room, and—poof!—a guy’s crotch could catch on fire. There could be flames everywhere, and no one would say a word. No one.”

  “No one?”

  “What, and admit you were looking? No, we’d let our best friend’s crotch turn into a bonfire before we’d admit we were looking.”

  “You’re exaggerating, Ham.”

  “Stop saying I’m exaggerating.”

  “Fine, then just give me your opinion. Do you think colored underwear is normal?”

  “It could be normal. Then again, maybe not.”

  “Let me try this another way. Would you wear colored underwear?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, let’s just say Renée and I have a son someday, and that our son sees me parading around in purple bikini underwear. He’ll assume that’s normal and—bing, bang, boom—before you know it, he’s dressing like Marilyn Monroe. It could happen. It happened to my cousin Robbie.”

  I didn’t realize how much noise Claire and I were making, talking and laughing, until Renée walks in and says, “Will you ladies puh-leeze be quiet so I can sleep.”

  x

  Renée clomps around the apartment in her cast. It’s funny watching her trying to learn how to use her crutches. She makes faces and strange noises. But, before you know it, she’s off to her night classes and I’m home alone again. Home or at Fat Matt’s Rib Shack, listening to music and eating ribs or chicken. At least I can put the television back in the living room where it belongs.

  One night, I fall asleep on the sofa with the news on, and when I wake up Renée’s still not home, so I go to bed. I wake up a few hours later to hear her cast clomping in the hall. I sit up in the bed.

  “How was class tonight, Sweet Potato?” I say.

  I expect her to say, “Fine,” like she always does, instead she says, “Don’t you dare call me that.”

  And I say, “What?”

  And she says, “Don’t you dare call me that.” Her voice is dark and grinding.

  I have no idea what she’s mad about, so I say, “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Things have been going so well lately. I felt like things were getting back to normal, even if it was a different kind of normal.

  Renée starts to take her sweater off. She hops on one foot. “I’m not in the mood to talk about it now,” she says. I’ve never seen her this angry before. Never.

  And I say, “If you’re mad at me about something, I’d like to know what it is.”

  And she says, “Fine. What do you call me?”

  And I say, “What?”

  And she says, “What do you call me?”

  And I say, “I call you Renée.”

  And she says, “That’s not what I mean. I mean, what nickname do you call me? You just called me it five seconds ago. What do you call me?”

  And I say, “Sweet Potato.”

  And she says, “See!” like she’s caught me robbing a bank.

  “See, what?”

  “You call me Sweet Potato, you admit it.”

  “Of course I admit it. I always call you that.”

  “Then let me ask you a little question then.”

  I say, “Go right ahead.”

  She hops closer to me, so we’re face to face, and she says, “Remember your wife Shellie?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “So you do remember her?”

  And I say, “I don’t have amnesia. Of course I remember her. And she’s my ex-wife, not my wife.”

  Renée says, “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  And I say, “ I don’t even know what the subject is.”

  And she says, “I’ll bet you had a nickname for her, too, didn’t you?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “What was it?” But before I can answer, she says, “It was Sweet Potato, wasn’t it?”

  I think about lying, because lying would be easy, but I don’t.

  I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “You’re a jerk,” only she doesn’t say “jerk.” She calls me a name that rhymes with “glasshole.”

  “Why is that?”

  And she says, “Because it’s the same name.”

  And I say, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a nickname.”

  “What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal? It’s a huge deal, an enormous deal. How do I know that when you say Sweet Potato you’re even thinking of me? For all I know, every time you’ve ever called me Sweet Potato, you were thinking of her.”

  And I say, “I wasn’t,” which is true. I hardly ever think of Shellie unless someone mentions her name. Or unless someone with my exact same name just happens to call from Baltimore to say he bumped into her.

  And she says, “How do I know that?”

  And I say, “Because I’m telling you that. In my mind, it’s like she’s dead. It’s like she’s not even on this planet anymore.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking of you whenever I call you Sweet Potato.”

  “That’s not good enough. For all I know, the whole time you’ve been with me you’ve been thinking of her. Every single time you were thinking of her.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Regardless, from now on, you’re forbidden from calling me Sweet Potato. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  She says, “Do you UNDERSTAND?” like she’s talking to a child who’s misbehaved.

  Then I figure it out. I sit up in bed. I point a finger at her.

  “Who put you up to this?” I say.

  And she says, “What do you mean?”

  And I say, “Who put you up to this? Claire? Guitar Walter? One of them had to put this idea in your head. Which one was it?”

  And she says, “For your information, I do have a mind of my own.”

  I know she’s lying. One of them put her up to this. Just when I was starting to like them, just when I was starting to think they might be decent human beings after all, one of them put this idea into her head. This stupid, stupid, STUPID idea.

  “I want to know which one of them did this,” I say. “I want names.”

  She says, “It was my idea.”

  And I say, “Are you telling me you didn’t even discuss this with any of them?”

  And she says, “You’re changing the subject again. The point is that you’re forbidden from calling me Sweet Potato ever again. Do you understand?”

  And I say, “Sweet Potato, Sweet Potato, Sweet Potato,” for no good reason other than to prove to her that I still have a say about some things.

  Before I know it, we’re having an argument and I’m spending the night in a hotel. A hotel which I can’t afford.

  x

  It’s seven o’clock in the morning when the woman at the front desk rings my room to wake me, though she may have tried earlier. I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, and it’s possible the phone rang and I didn’t hear it. It’s only when I turn off the faucet that I hear the phone ringing, and I spit the toothpaste into the sink and answer the phone.

  “Hello?” I say.

  The woman and the front desk says, “Good morning, it’s seven ay-yem. This is your wake-up call.”

  It’s the same woman I spoke with when I arrived at the hotel last night.
She has yellow hair, the color of shredded wheat, and her eyebrows are shaved and drawn back in with black pencil, making her look surprised, like a photograph of a child opening a Christmas package.

  I thank her politely, then hang up. I finish tying my shoes, then sit on the bed and pick up the phone. First I call Palmeyer.

  “Hello,” he says.

  I say, “Hello, Palmeyer, it’s Ham.”

  And he says, “Who?”

  And I say, “Ham.”

  And he says, “Who?”

  And I say, “Hamilton Ashe.”

  And he says, “WHO?”

  Finally, I say, “It’s Salami.”

  And he says, “What do you want, Salami?”

  And I say, “I’m not feeling well.”

  And he says, “Who is?”

  And I say, “Really, Palmeyer, I’m sick. I’m going to have to stay home today.”

  And he says, “I’m not going to pay you for today.”

  And I say, “I didn’t think you would.”

  And he says, “You better come in tomorrow. Me and Debbie can’t do all the work.”

  I almost say, “I’m the one who does all the work,” but I don’t. Instead, I just hang up, then I dial home, and I wait for Renée to answer. Two rings, three rings, four, five, six. There’s no answer. I don’t know what I would have said if she had answered anyway. I get the answering machine. She’s changed the message. “Hi, this is Renée Yates. My roommate and I aren’t home now. Please leave a message.”

  My roommate?

  My ROOMMATE?

  I take the elevator down to the lobby. I’m hungry. I head to the coffee shop, stopping on the way to buy a newspaper from the rack. The coffee shop is practically empty, and I take a seat in one of the booths at the back of the shop and open the paper to the sports page.

  “Coffee?”

  It’s one of the waitresses. There are only two: mine, and an older woman eating chocolate chip cookies and listening to the radio. My waitress is young, probably just out of high school, with black hair, shoulder length, thin lips, and gray eyes the color of mice.

  “Please,” I say, and she turns my cup over and fills it while I read. I pour in two packets of sugar.

  The girl hands me a plastic menu and says, “In town for business?”

  I nod and say, “Sort of. Really, I guess you could say I’m always in town for business. My apartment is only a couple miles away from here.”

  She says, “Stop by for a quick bite on the way to work, then?”

  I look up from my paper and she’s smiling. I can tell that she isn’t trying to pry, that she just wants to talk. The other waitress is still off in the corner eating. Because of the difference in the waitresses’ ages, they probably have little to talk about. Just like me and Palmeyer.

  The tag on my waitress’ blouse reads SUSAN, so I say, “Yes, Susan. Just a quick bite.”

  I order two poached eggs and buttered toast, and, when she’s written that down and starts back toward the kitchen, I call to her to bring some juice, too. Several minutes later, when she brings me my eggs, they’re fried instead of poached, but I don’t send them back. Actually, I prefer fried eggs better, it’s just that I always forget to order them in restaurants and, at home, Renée always burns the bottoms. Shellie did, too.

  The toast is still warm, and I butter a slice.

  “More?” Susan asks. She’s holding the coffee pot, poised to pour another cup.

  I swallow and say, “Yes, thanks.”

  When I finish my meal, I turn to the front page, looking over the headlines. There’s a story about a murder in a parking garage. There’s a picture of the mayor looking unhappy. I look up from the paper to see Susan leaning against the counter, reading a paperback book with her mouth slightly open. When I catch her attention, I gesture for more coffee, holding my fist out and rolling it.

  Susan returns with another pot and fills my cup.

  She says, “You know, that’s the universal signal for `pour me another cup of coffee.’”

  I say, “What is?”

  And she says, “What you just did,” and she copies the gesture I had made, making a fist and rolling it. “I’ll bet if you did that in a restaurant in Indonesia, they’d know to bring you more coffee.”

  I smile. “You might be right. I’ve never been to Indonesia.”

  “And this”—she scribbles on her left palm with an imaginary pen—“is the universal signal for `bring me my check.’”

  I say, “You’re probably right about that, too.”

  “Trust me, I am,” she says. “You know, you don’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get to work today. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were playing hooky.”

  There’s something strange about her eyes, other than their color, and I try to figure out what it is. Maybe they aren’t straight. Maybe the left one is a little off. Not a lot. Maybe just a hair.

  “Actually,” I say, “I won’t be going in at all today. I’m taking the day off.”

  And she says, “Not feeling well?”

  And I say, “No, not really. Things haven’t been going very well lately. You know, sometimes it’s good to just take a day off now and again to sort things out.”

  And she says, “You’re right about that. A mental health day, that’s what I call it. Sometimes I’ll call in sick, and when I come in the next day I feel like a whole new woman. Maybe the same thing will happen for you. Not that you’ll feel like a new woman, but, well, you know what I mean.”

  She doesn’t leave, though, she doesn’t even move an inch from her spot in front of me, so I decide to tell her everything, or nearly so. I begin with, “Renée is NOT my wife.”

  It takes almost two hours, with Susan rushing off now and then to wait on other customers who arrive, and I work my way through four more cups of coffee and an apple danish that Susan had recommended. “It’s simply other-worldly,” she said, “like it was sent from another galaxy,” and, in fact, it is very good.

  Before I know it, it’s lunchtime, and I still haven’t reached the part where Renée told me I’m not allowed to call her Sweet Potato anymore. The coffee shop has grown busy. There are only Susan and the older woman to cover the whole shop, so Susan can only stay at my table for a minute or so at a time. My story isn’t going anywhere, and Susan keeps giving me apologetic glances or mouthing, “I’m sorry,” looking up from her pad while she takes orders.

  I’m stuck at the part where Renée broke her foot on the toaster, and every time Susan comes back, I have to start that all over again. After the fifth try, I swallow the last of my coffee and tuck my newspaper under my arm.

  “Oh, don’t go,” she says. “I want to hear more.”

  I take my wallet out and pull a ten-dollar bill out to pay my bill. “Look,” I say, “I’m staying up in room 404. Why don’t you give me a ring when the place quiets down a bit and I’ll come down and tell you the rest.”

  She says, “Great, room 404,” and she writes the numbers on the back of her hand, then walks toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, hey,” she says, “what’s your name?”

  And I say, “Ham.”

  And she says, “Ham?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “Ham, like the food?”

  I nod.

  And she says, “Ham, like `green eggs and ham’?”

  I nod again. “It’s short for Hamilton. I was named after my mother’s first boyfriend.”

  x

  I sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at the giant red-and-blue K-mart sign down the block, wondering whether I should call Renée to let her know that I’m all right. She may be very worried. But I decide to let her worry, and I just end up watching television. There’s a pretty blonde woman named Martha Something-or-other talking about stocks and bonds. Her hair’s the color of butter.

  After a while, someone knocks on my door. I open it, and it’s Susan, carrying a tray with two turkey sandwiches, cut
into halves, and two large glasses of grape drink. The turkey is on TOAST.

  How did she know?

  Then I remember I’d told her about the time Renée and Claire had teased me in the kitchen about how I liked toast.

  “I’m on my break now,” she says. “I only have half an hour. Think that’s enough time to finish up your story?”

  I nod and step back from the door so Susan can get past me.

  “Thanks for the food,” I say.

  And she says, “Don’t thank me, I charged it to your room. I gave myself a big tip, too. A huge tip. You’d be surprised at how generous you are.”

  I laugh. I can’t afford any of this. Already I’m trying to think of how I’ll ask Carl to lend me money to pay for everything.

  Susan sets the tray down on the bed and sits down beside it. I pick up one of the plates and a glass and carry them to the desk, then sit in the desk chair. I take a bite of the sandwich. The toast is still warm. I close my eyes while I chew.

  After I swallow the first bite, I say, “Now, let’s see. I was telling you about when Renée broke her foot, wasn’t I?”

  “Yup.”

  “About how I took her to the hospital?”

  “Yup.”

  “And how her friends stayed over all day?”

  “Yup.”

  I pick up where I’d left off, telling her about everything that happened. Susan takes little bites of her sandwich and little sips from her glass while I talk. As I do, I look at her gray eyes, trying to figure out what’s wrong with them.

  Then I reach the part about Renée wanting me to stop calling her Sweet Potato.

  “Now, here’s why I’m here at the hotel,” I say. “So, you have the whole scenario now, right?”

  And she says, “Right.”

  And I say, “About how there’s something always happening, and it’s not even related to anything else?”

  And she says, “Right?”

  And I say, “Like how she wanted to be a singer, right?”

  “Right.”

  And I say, “And how I got her the guitar?”

  “Right.”

  “And how the gas man saw her naked?”

  “Right.”

  “And how she started taking classes?”

  “Right.”

  “And how since she started taking her classes Renée’s been doing things that she would never have dreamed up herself?”