My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  When I finish with Prozzi’s pants—they need a new metal zipper—I move on to a shirt for a man named Bauer. That’s what I’m working on when Debbie arrives. We say hello, then she pours herself a cup of coffee and takes one of the Krispy Kreme donuts I brought in. I put the shirt aside, and I tell Debbie all about what happened with Renée. I tell her about how I was living in my own apartment before I met Renée, and how I moved in with her, and about how I paid all the rent after she lost her job at the hospital, and how she wants me to move out.

  “Debbie,” I say, “why am I the one who has to leave?”

  She has two pins tucked between her lips. “What difference does it make?” she says.

  And I say, “It’s a matter of pride.”

  And she says, “Well, you need to swallow your pride.”

  And I say, “If I swallowed my pride, there’d be nothing left of me.”

  And she says, “That’s sad. That’s so very, very sad.”

  And I say, “Thanks.”

  And she says, “No, that’s not the word I was looking for. The word I was looking for was `pathetic.’”

  And I say, “Oh, that makes me feel better,” which it doesn’t.

  And she says, “I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but have a little dignity. Act like a man. Move on and be a gentleman about it.”

  Then Palmeyer says, “Salami, I have an idea that will take your mind off all of this.”

  And I say, “What’s that?”

  And he says, “How about doing some WORK,” which I do. I fix the tail of a dress shirt for a man named Van Dyke. It’s a fairly simple job. You just turn the edge under about one-fourth of an inch, then stitch near the edge of the fold. Then you hem using a slipstitch or a blindstitch. It takes my mind off of things, but only for a couple of minutes. When I’m done with that, I repair the pleats on a pair of dress pants for a man by the name of McGee. That takes my mind off of things for a few minutes, too.

  After work, I stop by a few apartment complexes to see if I can find one I like. They’re all too expensive or, if they’re not too expensive, they’re in bad neighborhoods.

  It takes almost two weeks to find a new place. Two weeks of sleeping on the couch and pretending I don’t see Renée when I bump into her in the bathroom or the kitchen or the stairwell, as the case may be.

  My new apartment is furnished, which is good because that means I won’t have to buy new furniture right away. But I have to give them a security deposit, which I explain to Carl when I drop by his office. This time he doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t call me “buddy.”

  He says, “How much do you need?”

  I say, “A hundred dollars.”

  Carl writes the check and hands it to me, and I put it in my pocket without looking at it.

  “Listen,” he says, “I really need to get back to work.”

  And I say, “Okay. I understand.” Then I say, “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  And he says, “Ham, I’ve got a lot of work to do, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”

  And I say, “But just tell me, are you angry with me for asking to borrow money again?”

  And he says, “Ham, just go home.”

  Then he picks up some papers on his desk and starts reading them.

  Now I’ve lost my girlfriend, I’ve been thrown out of my apartment and my brother’s upset with me about something.

  All in all, it’s a bad couple of weeks.

  I have a few beers.

  I smoke a few cigarettes.

  I go home and go to sleep on the couch.

  CHAPTER 17: DO YOU LOVE ME YET?

  The apartment building where I’m moving is an old one. There’s an elevator cage made of iron, flecked with rust. There’s a dumbwaiter boarded up. There’s an old swimming pool out back with leaves floating on top of the water like milk clouds in a cup of coffee. The apartment itself isn’t large, but it’s roomy enough, crowded with someone’s old attic furniture. The paint is chipping in spots, and below there are two other coats of paint that you can find with your thumbnail. It’s clearly been through a lot of tenants, and I have the strange sense that each one left something in it. I can smell a woman cooking dinner. I can hear a child learning the piano. I can see lovers arguing, someone filling the tub, a party, the television, a baby crying, a dog yelping at the door, someone slipping on wet tile.

  Two women are sitting on the stoop in front of the building as I carry the first carload of boxes into the apartment. They’re heavy women with their hair up in nets, and they speak as if they have stuffy noses. The women lean to the side to let me pass as I carry the boxes from the car, and I rest the boxes on my hip as I press the elevator button.

  I return to get another box from the car, and it’s then that I spot Guitar Walter lurking on the other side of the street. His shoulders are drawn together to form a U. He looks away, then looks back at me. There’s an awkward moment where we both decide whether we should acknowledge each other. Finally, Guitar Walter puts his head down and walks toward the car, and he pulls a box from the trunk and follows me into the building. It’s a kind gesture, I realize, only it makes me feel mean and small. He doesn’t mention Renée at all.

  “I’m thinking of getting a place of my own, too,” he says.

  I say, “Good. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  “Yes, that’s what my mother says, too.”

  “She’s probably right about that.”

  “Yes, she’s a smart woman. She was on Wheel of Fortune once.”

  We make two more trips from the car to the apartment and back again, and when the last of this load of boxes is in the apartment, I shake Guitar Walter’s hand and thank him, then walk to the car.

  “You know,” he says, “there’s nothing going on with me and Renée.”

  And I say, “I know.”

  And he says, “I thought it was important to tell you.”

  And I say, “Thanks.”

  And he says, “I just figured that since you were moving out —”

  And I interrupt him and say, “Thanks.”

  Renée isn’t helping me move at all. When I return to finish packing the last of the boxes, Renée’s just sitting in the living room watching television like it’s any other Saturday morning. Only it’s not any other Saturday morning. The man she was living is moving out. The man she said was her HUSBAND is moving out. And she’s sitting on the sofa, eating a banana and watching cartoons.

  I keep carrying the boxes through the living room and out to the car, and if Renée even looks up once I don’t see it. Eventually, she shuts off the television. I’m packing up one of the last boxes in the bedroom, and now she’s in the living room listening to the radio. I’m packing up my socks and underwear, and she’s listening to some girl singing about love.

  This is my song,

  — the girl sings —

  It’s still very new.

  This is my song,

  I wrote it for you.

  The first verse I wrote

  When I was feeling all wrong,

  It’s a little too silly,

  It’s a little too long.

  The second verse I wrote

  At a French restaurant,

  I was thinking of you

  While I ate a croissant.

  And this is the chorus,

  The part where you hum,

  La di di di di da,

  La di di di di dum.

  This is the chorus,

  The part you can’t forget,

  So sing it with me,

  Do you love me yet?

  It’s a pretty song. I don’t listen to the radio much anymore other than the big band music at work, so I haven’t heard the song. I keep packing.

  This is the next verse,

  Which I wrote in the car

  I wonder who you’re with now

  I wonder where you are.

  Does she have pretty hair?

  Is it blonde, is it long?

  D
oes she say that she loves you?

  Did she write you a song?

  There’s a pause for a second, then the girl repeats the last two lines of the song. Only when the song’s finished, the radio station doesn’t play another song. I keep packing, and a minute or so passes. Still the radio station isn’t playing another song. Then the radio station starts playing the SAME song again.

  This is my song

  — the girl sings again —

  And it goes like this:

  Verse, verse, chorus,

  Verse, chorus.

  It’s only then that I realize that it’s NOT the radio.

  It’s RENEE.

  My Renée.

  I come to the doorway and watch her, her head leaning forward while she strums her guitar, her eyes closed, the ends of her hair touching the top of the guitar. I watch her, and I feel terrible. I feel like I’m drowning. My chest hurts. I feel like I’m sinking in the middle of the ocean, a thousand miles from the shore. I feel myself go down three times, but I only come up twice.

  Finally, I walk out to the living room with a box. I say, “That was a nice song.”

  Without even looking up from her guitar she says, “Thanks.”

  And I say, “Really, I mean it.”

  And she says, “Thanks,” again.

  And I say, “I didn’t know you were still writing songs.”

  And she says, “I never stopped.”

  And I say, “Oh.”

  As I’m carrying one of the last boxes out to the car, I pass Renée in the hallway. Her upper lip disappears when she sees me. She clutches her arms in front of her chest as if she were cold. She’s not cold. It’s July, and the air conditioner isn’t even on.

  “Is that everything?” she says, and she nods toward the box I’m holding.

  And I say, “Just about. I still have to get my stuff out of the bathroom.”

  And she says, “Well, okay then. I’m just going to go out and run some errands with Claire.” She jingles her car keys.

  And I say, “Okay then.”

  Then we both say, “Bye.”

  She stops clutching her arms, and I think she’s going to hug me goodbye, only she doesn’t. Instead, she just walks toward the front door. She’s almost there when she turns around and says, “By the way, Ham, I know we weren’t married.”

  And I say, “Really?”

  And she says, “Mm-hmm. I was just wishing out loud.”

  x

  I unpack a few of the boxes, then I take the elevator downstairs and go out to the street. I’ll finish unpacking later. I’m hungry, but there’s no food in the apartment yet, so I walk around looking for a restaurant. I stop at the first one I see, a Japanese restaurant with a neon sign above the door. Even though I don’t like Japanese food, I go in. A pretty, black-haired woman greets me at the door. She isn’t Japanese, but you have to look closely to tell that. She’s wearing a short, red kimono and too much makeup, which makes her look like a doll.

  “You alone?” she asks.

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “Well, that can be rough, being single in Atlanta. Actually,” she smiles, “that sounds like the name of a horror movie, doesn’t it? Single In Atlanta. Rated R. Parental discretion advised.” She smiles again. “I can joke about it because I’m single, too.”

  And I say, “Oh.”

  She leads me to a small table in the back of the restaurant. Moments later, she returns and hands me a menu and fills my water glass. When I glance around the room, I see a couple at a table near the bar that looks familiar. Who are they? Who? They look like they could be the Archaeologies. I’m not sure if it’s them or not. I try to picture them sitting in our kitchen; but I’m not sure. I don’t remember if they’re married or not. The man seems to be enjoying himself, laughing, scooping a piece of sushi into his mouth, chewing, laughing, chewing, laughing, laughing, laughing. The woman seems a little bored.

  They probably aren’t Archaeologies at all, but why take a chance? I don’t need to deal with Guitar Walter AND the Archaeologies in the same day.

  Before they can spot me, I slide out of my chair and leave the restaurant, then walk the sidewalks aimlessly. It gets dark, then darker, and I get tired. I feel a blister growing on my heel. My hunger pains come and go, but I don’t enter any other restaurants.

  Walking on, I hear the faint sound of music. As I move along, the singing grows louder, and I can recognize it as a woman’s voice. In the background, I heard the sound of a roller-rink organ. I keep walking, and when I hear the singing at its strongest, pouring out of one of the houses on the other side of the street, I look up to see a tall, skinny black woman in one of the windows. She’s dancing to a song on the radio. The woman smiles in embarrassment when she sees me, but she keeps dancing anyway.

  The song ends, and a commercial comes on the radio. I wave to her, and she smiles. Then I walk home. When I reach the building, I’m happy to see that the lights of some of the other apartments are on. I watch television, I read, I rearrange the furniture to cover the stains and holes in the carpeting, then I unpack some more of the boxes. I hang my shirts in the closet. I put some books on the bookshelves. In one of the boxes, I find an envelope addressed to Renée Ashe. It’s already been opened. I take the letter out and read it:

  Dear Mrs. Ashe:

  Thank you for sending us your cassette tape. We had an opportunity to listen to it. Unfortunately, we did not believe it was of the quality we demand of our artists at Cowpoke Records. Because you did not enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope, we will not be able to return the tape to you.

  We wish you luck.

  Sincerely,

  Colin Campbell

  Vice President, Artist Development

  I throw the letter in the trash, then get changed. I put on my chicken shirt and some shorts and go to bed, sleeping on stiff, new sheets, fresh out of the package.

  Sometime in the night, I’m awakened from a dream by the sound of voices. They seem to be in the same room, as if someone snuck in to share a secret with me, and my heart beats rapidly. Burglars? Then I realize that they’re the voices of people in the apartment below, their voices seeping through the floor and curling around my bed.

  “Oh, baby,” I hear a man say.

  And a woman says, “You are so good, baby. Give it to me. Oh, cook me,” only she doesn’t say “cook.”

  And he says, “Oh.”

  And she says, “Cook me. Cook me. Cook me with your porcupine.”

  And he says, “Oh, your fishbowl is so tight.”

  They don’t say “porcupine” or “fishbowl.”

  And she says, “Oh.”

  And he says, “Oh.”

  And she says, “Oh, God, this should be illegal.”

  Then he says, “Oh.”

  Then she says, “Oh.”

  And it goes on and on.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  I try to block out the noise, first with other thoughts, then with my pillow, but I can’t. They’re making too much noise.

  “Oh, cook me,” I hear. “Cook me like you’ve never cooked anyone before. Cook me like you were cooking for royalty.”

  The strange thing is that they actually DO say “royalty.”

  What could that possibly MEAN?

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  Finally, I pull the telephone off the nightstand and call Renée.

  “Sweet Potato,” I say. “Sweet Potato, it’s me.”

  “Ham, leave me alone,” Renée says.

  And I say, “Renée, please.”

  And she says, “Ham, did you forget that we’re not dating anymore?”

  And I say, “If I could just kiss you.”

  And she hangs up.

  The ruckus in the downstairs apartment continues.

  “Cook me, cook m
e, cook me.”

  “I am.”

  “Then cook me harder, for goshsakes.”

  With nothing else to do, I lie on my back and close my eyes and think of Renée and moan at the ceiling.

  Moan, moan, MOAN.

  I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I know I shouldn’t.

  It’s like the boy who kills his parents then, when he goes to trial, pleads for mercy because he’s an orphan: it’s my own fault I’m alone.

  I know that.

  I KNOW.

  CHAPTER 18: WHAT GOD HAS TORN APART

  “Have I got the girl for you,” Debbie says one morning. It’s fall now, and the mornings are dark and brisk and unpleasant. It always looks like it’s about to rain. It reminds me of the car wash where I used to work.

  I say, “Good morning, Debbie. How are you?”

  “Fine. I’ve got just the girl for you. I wanted to talk to you about my daughter, Angela.”

  “Your daughter? I didn’t know you had a daughter. I thought you just had a son,” which is true. She’s told me about her son Donald a thousand times. About how he graduated from college and is working for a computer company, and about how he got married to his college girlfriend, and about how they can’t have babies because her ovaries are crossed. But she’s never mentioned her daughter. Ever.

  She says, “No, I have a daughter, Angela. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before. She’s a beautiful girl. You know, when I was a girl—of course, this was a long, long time ago—when I was a girl, I was beautiful. I had a beautiful smile. It was the kind of smile that would knock you out of your tree. That’s what the boys used to say about it, that I’d smile and they’d just stop dead in their tracks. You know, you might find this hard to believe, but I even dated the president of our class in high school. Twice we went out. Once to the movies, and once to a dance. He was the most handsome boy I’d ever seen, but God knows what he looks like today. Few things in life stay the same, don’t you agree?”

  I say, “I don’t know about that. Some things get better, some things get worse. I’m sure some things stay the same.”

  “Well, anyhow, I was never as pretty as Angela. She’s a million times prettier than I ever was, and I was pretty. To make a long story short, Angela was dating this boy named Jack Caliban for the past two years, and they just broke up, and she’s not seeing anyone at all. A sweet girl like that. So, I was thinking to myself, `Wouldn’t it be nice if she started seeing a nice young man around here.’ Then, all of a sudden, it hit me that I should fix you up with her. I mean, I know you and your wife are separated. And I was just thinking that you’re such a nice, young man.”