My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  “Right.”

  “And how Renée has been acting strange?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, get this. Last night, Renée came home from her classes, and I was lying there in bed sleeping and dreaming and thinking that everything’s okay again. Only when I called her Sweet Potato, she said, `Don’t you dare call me that.’ Well, I didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about, and she said she didn’t want me to call her Sweet Potato anymore. She said that if I call her Sweet Potato, how can she know that I’m not thinking of my ex-wife because I used to call her that, too. So I said that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and how she’s out of her mind if she doesn’t think I love her. I told her that, in my mind, Shellie doesn’t even exist anymore. Then she starts screaming about how I’m forbidden from calling her Sweet Potato ever again. Forbidden. Who forbids people from doing things? Who has that kind of power? But that’s what she says, that I’m forbidden from calling her Sweet Potato ever again.”

  I look over at Susan.

  “So tell me,” I say, “am I the crazy one?”

  And she says, “Yup,” and I’m so surprised that for a moment I can’t think of anything to say.

  Finally, I say, “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  And she says, “No, I think you’re crazy. If your wife doesn’t want you to call her the same thing you used to call your dead wife, then you shouldn’t. Case closed.” She holds both hands in front of her like she’s carrying a bag of groceries.

  And I say, “What? My wife and my dead wife?” I try to explain, “Renée’s not my wife, she’s my girlfriend. And Shellie’s not dead, she’s my ex-wife. She’s alive and well, as far as I know.”

  And Susan says, “Well, that’s just splitting hairs, isn’t it?”

  And I say, “What,” because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  And she says, “If your wife—or your girlfriend, or whatever she is—if she doesn’t want you to call her Sweet Potato, then you don’t call her Sweet Potato. It’s as simple as that.”

  Again, I can’t think of anything to say right away. “But I always call her Sweet Potato,” I say.

  Susan gets up off the bed and starts rummaging through her purse.

  “It wouldn’t be that big of a deal,” she says as she looks through the purse, pulling tissues and makeup out. “It wouldn’t be any great sacrifice if that’s what’s going to make her happy.”

  And then I say, “But.”

  And she says, “Listen, let me tell you something about your wife,” only she keeps talking before I can tell her that Renée is NOT my wife. “You should just do what she asks. I know sometimes Greg thinks that the things that would make me happy are stupid. Greg, he’s my boyfriend, if you can call him that. He doesn’t understand women at all, just like you. He doesn’t think it’s a big deal to walk around with his hand on my rear end, but I don’t think that’s very ladylike. It makes a girl look cheap, and I told him that, and he just laughed. So he kept on doing it, and I kept on telling him to cut it out. Finally, I just said, `Listen here, buster, if you ever do that again, I’m never going to talk to you again.’ So, what does he do? He puts his hand on my rear end like he’s going to show me who’s the boss. So I said, ‘You think you’re the boss? I’ll tell you who’s the boss. Tony Danza’s the boss, that’s who,” and I just slapped him across the face”—she swipes at the air—“and then I walked home, more then two miles. The next day he came over to my house with a big thing of flowers for me.”

  I put a piece of my turkey sandwich in my mouth. The toast has grown cold. Susan catches her breath.

  “Tony Danza?” I say.

  And she says, “He was on a TV show called Who’s the Boss?”

  And I say, “Oh.”

  And she says, “That’s the problem with men.” She points at my chest. She doesn’t poke me, but she comes close enough. “All of you think you’re such big shots. `Do this for me. Do that for me.’ `Me, me, me, me, me.’ You think it makes you a big shot if you can get away with being rotten to your girlfriends or your wives or whoever. You think that if you do what they don’t want you to do, it proves that you’re more important. Well, it wouldn’t be all that difficult to do a simple little thing just to make your wife happy. In fact, it’d probably be pretty easy. I’ll bet she does a million little things like that to make you happy. A million. And you can’t even do one because you’re such a big shot.”

  Susan’s face becomes red, and she starts talking faster and faster. It’s hard to understand what she’s saying. They’re just ugly sounds coming out of her mouth.

  “Mumbo jumbo mumbo jumbo jerks mumbo jumbo,” she’s saying. “Mumbo jumbo unnecessary mumbo jumbo mumbo foolish jumbo.”

  She keeps talking, pacing, flapping her arms, her mouth getting bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger, her teeth getting larger and larger, her mouth getting bigger and bigger, moving closer and closer until her white face is directly before me and I feel as if she’s going to swallow me.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I grab the girl by her bony elbows and pull her to me, kissing her. She has moist lips. She pulls free, her eyes large now.

  “What are you doing?”

  I step back, and I put a hand over my mouth and whisper, “Oh, my God.”

  And she says, “What was that for?”

  And I say, “I’m sorry,” and I take a step toward her. “I’m so sorry. It’s just everything that’s happened. I just needed to kiss someone. I just needed to hold someone for a second. I didn’t mean it really.”

  My eyes are wet, and I wipe away the wetness with the back of my hand. The girl puts the pillow aside and walks to me. She stands in front of me. She’s quiet. Her eyes are dry, and her mouth is closed, a thin line of purple on her lips.

  “Okay,” she says, “just don’t touch anything,” and she lets me hug her to me, my hands on her back. I rub her back and stroke her hair. I say I’m sorry, over and over, and I call her Sweet Potato when I do, though I don’t know whether I mean Shellie or Renée.

  CHAPTER 16: SHE HASN’T PAID A DIME

  So I stop calling Renée “Sweet Potato.”

  Susan was right: it isn’t that hard after all.

  Sometimes I catch myself just before I say it. I’ll say, “Sweet,” then catch myself and say “heart.” Once, I say, “Sweet Pea.” I only say “Sweet Potato” once, and Renée just gives me a cross look, but doesn’t make a big issue of it. After a while, I don’t even think of saying it anymore. It just gets lost somewhere in my mind, with old phone numbers I don’t call anymore and the names of people I haven’t seen in years and years and may never see again.

  Weeks pass without so much as an argument.

  Maybe that’s why I don’t see it coming.

  Maybe that’s why it’s such a surprise.

  If we’d been arguing, I might have anticipated it. I might have said, “Oh, boy, here it comes.”

  But we haven’t been arguing. We’ve hardly seen each other enough to argue.

  The lease on our apartment ends in a few weeks, and we have to decide whether to renew it or move to another apartment. On the one hand, I’d like to stay because I think it’s a nice apartment. The living room’s large enough, the bedroom has a nice view of the Atlanta skyline. On the other hand, I can’t keep borrowing money from Carl. Eventually, I’ll owe him so much money that I’ll never pay him back unless I win the lottery. Which won’t happen because I never buy lottery tickets. I can’t ask Palmeyer for a raise. He can barely afford to pay for both me and Debbie as it is. I don’t know how to tell Renée we have to move, so I keep putting it off.

  Finally, one night after she returns from her classes, I say to her, “Renée, I think we need to talk.”

  And she says, “About what?”

  And I say, “About the future.”

  And she says, “Spaceships and robots?” She laughs as she gets undressed. She’s wearing navy blue underwear that she bought a
t the mall. It’s the kind that looks like a “T” from behind.

  And I say, “No, I mean the immediate future. The lease on the apartment is coming up.”

  And she says, “I know. I saw the envelope they slipped into the apartment.” The envelope contained the new lease. They want an extra twenty-five dollars a month on top of what they’re already charging us. That’s an extra twenty-five dollars we don’t have.

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t think we can afford to stay here anymore.”

  And Renée says, “I agree.”

  And I say, “I think we should start looking for another place. Maybe off Collier Road,” which is a nice area with older apartment buildings. They’re not as expensive, and there are some nice parks nearby.

  And then Renée says, “There’s something I think we should talk about, too.”

  She seems to be breathing too slowly, as if she has a secret she’s guarding. She sits on the bed.

  And I say, “What’s that?” and I get ready for the same old talk about how we’re married or how we should get married. Or how we should get divorced. We haven’t had one of THOSE talks in months.

  Only Renée doesn’t say that at all. Instead, she says, “Maybe we should talk about getting separate places.”

  And I say, “Really?” It sounds like it’s going to be a trick, only I don’t know what the trick is. If I know what the trick is, maybe I can figure out how to avoid it, working backwards from the end of the trick until I get to this moment so I’ll know exactly what to say. Then I look at her and I can tell it is NOT a trick. She’s serious.

  Renée says, “Really. What do you think?”

  And I say, “Why do you think we should do that?”

  And she says, “Because I don’t think we’re really dating anymore.”

  And I say, “What does that mean?”

  And she says, “Things have changed,” which I can’t really dispute.

  Still, I say, “It’s only been a couple months that you’ve been taking your classes. How much can things change in a couple months?”

  And she says, “A lot.”

  Before I can stop myself I hear myself say, “Is this about Guitar Walter?” I know it has NOTHING to do with Guitar Walter.

  Guitar Walter with his Johnny Apple Tree song.

  And the one about the girl with the pimples.

  This has nothing to do with Guitar Walter.

  Renée says, “This has nothing whatsoever to do with Walter.”

  And I say, “Then what does it have to do with?”

  And she says, “Everything.”

  And I say, “Everything’s a lot. That means that there’s nothing that this ISN’T about.”

  Renée squints and says, “I don’t get it.”

  And I say, “Does this have anything to do with the oven?”

  And she says, “No.”

  So I say, “See, then it isn’t everything. There are some things this has nothing to do with.”

  She sighs a little and says, “You’re right, Ham. This has nothing to do with the oven. You’ve just made a very valid point. It has nothing to do with the goshdarn oven.”

  And I say, “Does it have anything to do with the doorknobs? Or the ceiling? Or the mailbox?”

  And she says, “We don’t have a mailbox,” which is true. We just have a mail slot in the front door. That’s how they gave us our new lease.

  I say, “My point is the same. There are a lot of things this has nothing to do with.” I have NO idea what my point is. I’m not even sure I HAVE a point. The more I talk, the more I’m embarrassing myself. I need to shut up. But I can’t. I keep talking. I don’t know what I’m saying. The words are just spilling out of me like a punctured oil can. At one point I say something about the Hindenburg and Mario Lanza and Harry S. Truman and penny candy and the Lindbergh baby. I say, “Remember the time we got a flat tire? Remember the time we went dancing and your shoe broke?”

  Finally, Renée puts a hand up in front of her face like a crossing guard stopping traffic. Then she says, “Just the same, I think we should get separate places.”

  And I breathe deeply and say, “Okay.”

  And she says, “Okay.”

  I say, “Okay” again.

  And she says, “Actually, Claire and I have been talking about maybe sharing an apartment.”

  Claire.

  CLAIRE.

  I knew it.

  Sort of.

  She’s the one who puts Renée up to everything.

  I say, “Oh, really? You and Claire?”

  And she says, “Yes.”

  And I say, “Have you started looking yet?”

  Then, out of nowhere she says, “Actually, we’re thinking of just keeping this place.”

  They’re thinking of keeping OUR apartment?

  And I say, “OUR apartment?”

  And she says, “Yes.”

  And I say, “So I have to move out?”

  And she says, “Yes. Remember, it was my apartment before you moved in,” which is true. I used to live in an apartment by myself in Midtown before I met Renée.

  And I say, “I know it was your apartment first, but I’m the one who’s been paying rent,” which is also true. Renée hasn’t paid a DIME in rent since she lost her job at the hospital. Not a DIME. Now she wants me to move out.

  And she says, “It’s the way it’s supposed to work, Ham. The guy is the one who leaves.”

  And I say, “Who told you that? One of the Films? One of the Archaelogies?”

  Renée smiles and says, “It’s just the way it’s done in civilized society, Ham. It’s the way people act when they choose to live in a civilization. The man is the one who moves out.”

  And I say, “Show me where that’s written? Is it in the Constitution of the United States of America? I don’t think it’s in the Constitution of the United States of America. We studied the Constitution of the United States of America, and this issue wasn’t addressed at all in the Constitution of the United States of America.”

  And she says, “A) Please stop saying `the Constitution of the United States of America.’ B) No, it’s not an issue that’s addressed in the Constitution of the United States of America. And C) regardless of whether it’s written down, that’s the way things are done by self-respecting men and women in our country. The man is the one who moves out.”

  And I say, “But you’re the one whose suitcase is already packed.” I point in the general direction of the bedroom closet as if she forgot where it was.

  And she says, “No, it’s not. I unpacked it a couple months ago.”

  And I say, “It’s still there in the closet, on the floor. It’s in there next to the guitar and the tape recorder and the microphone.”

  THE SUITCASE.

  AND THE GUITAR.

  AND THE TAPE RECORDER.

  AND THE MICROPHONE.

  AND THE COWBOY OUTFIT. THE SKIRT. THE BOOTS. THE COWBOY HAT.

  I HATE that closet.

  And Renée says, “But the suitcase is empty.”

  And I say, “What?”

  And she says, “The suitcase. It’s empty. There’s nothing in it.”

  It’s been UNPACKED this whole time. She just wanted me to think it was packed. Now, I get angry. I say, “So you’ve been pretending it was packed for a couple months?”

  And she says, “I never said it was still packed.”

  And I say, “But you wanted me to think it was packed, didn’t you? You wanted me to think you were going to leave at the drop of a hat, didn’t you?”

  And she says, “I won’t dignify that question with a response.”

  Then I say, “How are you going to afford this place?”

  And she says, “I got a job at the card store in the shopping center. You know, the one with the picture of the puppies in the window. I start in a couple days.”

  And I say, “So NOW you decide to get a job?”

  And she says, “Well, I NEED a job if I’m going to l
ive here, don’t I?”

  I just keep shaking my head. This isn’t the conversation I’d been planning on having. After a couple moments, I say, “This was pretty rotten of you, Renée. This whole thing. Now not only do you want to break up, but you’re throwing me out of the apartment. That stinks, Renée. That really stinks.”

  And she says, “I’m not throwing you out. I’m asking.” She says it in a soft voice while she’s sitting there in her blue underwear.

  And I say, “Fine. I don’t really care.” And then I call her “Sweet Potato,” not once, but twice.

  But I DO care. Why should I have to leave when I’m the one who pays the rent? Why? It just doesn’t make any sense.

  I stay mad for a couple hours.

  It’s only when I’m driving to the convenience store for cigarettes that I remember that I wanted to leave the apartment in the first place because we can’t afford it.

  But I’m still angry.

  Why am I the one who has to leave?

  Why?

  x

  I go in to work early to work on a zipper on a pair of suit pants for a man named Prozzi. The teeth are rusted and broken. They look like the mouth of a man who hasn’t brushed in years.

  Before I started working for Palmeyer, I thought a zipper was just a zipper. But it’s not. There are all types of zippers. There are polyester zippers that you can use for skirts and pants and dresses of all different fabrics. There are metal zippers, which are stronger than the polyester ones; you can use them for sportswear. There are brass jean zippers, which you use on jeans. There are metal separating zippers, which you can use on jackets. There are plastic separating zippers, which you can use on outdoor wear.

  Not only are there all different types of zippers, but there are all different ways to sew them. You can lap them so the fabric conceals the zippers, which is what you have to do if the zipper is not the same color as the fabric. You can center the zipper, which is what you do on women’s skirts. You can also do what’s called a fly-front zipper, which is what you do on most pants.

  It’s a lot more complicated than you would think. The same is true of buttonholes. I must know a dozen different ways to make a buttonhole. Overedge buttonholes. One-step buttonholes. Universal attachment buttonholes. Built-in buttonholes. There are more.