My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  “Well, thank you for thinking of me, but we’re trying to work things out,” which is a lie. I haven’t talked to Renée at all. “I’m flattered, though.”

  And she says, “Well, if things don’t work out between you and—“ She pauses.

  And I say, “Renée.”

  And she says, “That’s right. If things don’t work out between you and Renée, I’ve got the girl for you.”

  And I say, “Well, we’ll see.”

  She touches my arm lightly, then squeezes my fingers. “She’s a terrific girl. You two would be perfect together. You’re both so nice. That’s what everyone always says about Angela, that she’s so nice. We raised her right. And you, well, you seem like such a nice young man, even if you do tease me. So, that’s why it all makes sense. That’s why it’s so logical. Nice people should see each other, don’t you think? I never liked that Jack much. He was such a know-it-all. I mean, he was very intelligent, but he always had to show you he was intelligent. Not like you. You come across like a nice person.”

  She releases my fingers.

  I say, “Thank you. That’s sweet of you to say that.”

  Debbie isn’t listening to me. “Maybe I’ll just have Angela stop by some time to say hello. What I’ll do is I’ll tell her that I need her to pick me up at work. Then you two can meet naturally that way, and if anything comes of it, well, so be it.”

  “So be it,” I say, “but I’ve really got to get back to work. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and miles to go before I sleep. Or something like that.” Then we both go back to work. The radio’s playing an Artie Shaw song.

  It’s very nice of Debbie to try to fix me up with her daughter. It just would be too strange to be dating a girl while you’re working with her mother.

  But I have to admit that I think about it a few times over the next couple weeks. Angela with the pretty smile. Usually, it’s late at night when I’m sitting in my new apartment by myself watching television or reading the newspaper or doing something of that nature. Sometimes it’s when the couple downstairs is making a racket, making noises that seep into my bedroom like water leaking.

  “Oh, cook me, you madman.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Cook me, cook me.”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “Cook me like you’re cooking for royalty.”

  There it is again: “Cook me like you’re cooking for royalty.” What could that possibly mean?

  It’s all I can do not to go down a flight of stairs and pound on the door and say, “What does that mean? What could that possibly MEAN?”

  But I don’t.

  Then I’ll think of Angela or the girl at the grocery store or the woman who brought her dress in to have us fix the buttons or the girl I saw jogging on the sidewalk on my way to work.

  x

  It’s only a few weeks later that I receive a telephone call at work, and I have no trouble recognizing the voice. It makes me smile, which I haven’t done much of in a while.

  “We haven’t talked in a long time,” she says.

  And I say, “That’s true. How have you been?”

  And she says, “I’ve missed you.”

  And I say, “Me, too,” which is true.

  And she says, “Will you meet me for lunch?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “When are you free?”

  And I say, “Any day but December twenty-fifth. I have plans that day.”

  And she says, “Really?” and laughs a little.

  And I say, “Yes. It’s someone’s birthday,” and she laughs a little more.

  And she says, “Well, I’d really rather see you sooner than that anyway. How about tomorrow?”

  And I say, “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  Then we make plans. I can hardly concentrate on my work the rest of the day, and I can hardly sleep at night. When I wake up, I put on my favorite shirt and favorite pants. The pants feel funny.

  They’ve split open in the seat.

  x

  I still can’t concentrate at work. I sew a hem all wrong and have to take it apart and restitch it. I almost catch my index finger in the bobbin.

  I watch the clock.

  I watch the clock.

  I watch the clock, then leave for lunch far too early. I arrive ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet. I’m more than a bit nervous. I take a seat at a table across from the front door, and I order a soda while I wait. The waitress is a young woman, light-haired and thin-hipped with red eyes like a sheep, and I flirt with her for a moment when she returns with my soda.

  “The food here must be horrible,” I say.

  And she says, “Why?”

  And I say, “Well, look how thin you are. You’re as thin as a rail.”

  She blushes.

  I drink some soda and check my wristwatch. The front door opens, and a pair of businessmen enter. Several minutes later, two women in navy blue business suits enter and walk through the restaurant, finally sitting at a table in the back, near the restrooms. Then, the front door opens again, and, gradually, part by part, a woman appears. Hands, arms, breasts, face, hair.

  I rise from my seat. I watch Bobbie Jean as she approaches. She’s even prettier than I remembered. Bobbie Jean is wearing high heels, which I’ve never seen her do before. Her heels click on the tiles like ice cubes rattling in a glass. Suddenly, she stumbles. She puts a hand on a table to balance herself, then pulls off her shoes, letting them dangle from her fingertips.

  “Damn heels,” she says when she arrives at the table, and she drops the shoes to the floor. “Am I late? I’m always late.”

  And I say, “No. It’s no problem.”

  Bobbie Jean drapes her coat over an empty chair and takes the seat across from me. She’s wearing a red scarf around her neck and large, silver earrings that look like half moons.

  “So,” I say, “It’s good to see you.”

  And she says, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  And I say, “Yes. Aren’t you working today?”

  And she says, “I took the day off. I figure they can do without me for a day. I’m working over at Phipps Plaza.”

  And I say, “I know. You told me.”

  And she says, “That’s right, that’s right. Anyway, I did some shopping this morning, stuff like that. I picked up my vacuum cleaner from the repair shop, then I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  And I say, “Bobbie Jean, I don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all, but I don’t think you have to register your vacuum cleaner with the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  She puts her hand on mine. “They’re unrelated events, Ham.”

  The waitress returns to the table with our menus. As we read through them, Bobbie Jean looks over hers and says, “You know, we really shouldn’t be here.”

  I lower my menu to look at her, and I say, “Why, is the food bad? Have you heard bad things about the food?”

  And she says, “You know what I mean—we shouldn’t be here together.” She whispers “together” as if it were a dirty word. “I was thinking that on the drive over. People might get the wrong idea.”

  And I say, “Are we doing something wrong?”

  And she says, “No. At least I don’t think so. But I know I feel guilty, and normally I only feel guilty if I’m doing something wrong.”

  And I say, “What are we doing wrong?”

  And she says, “Does your girlfriend know we’re here?”

  And I say, “She’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

  Bobbie Jean smiles a little at the corners of her mouth. “Is that right?”

  And I say, “Yes, we broke up a few months ago.”

  And she says, “Well, you know what they say at weddings—what God has torn apart, let no man put together. Or something like that.”

  And I say, “I guess so.”

  And Bobbie Jean smiles and says, “So that’s why we’re at a romantic restaurant?”

>   I look around the restaurant and I say, “Bobbie Jean, this place has a salad bar, for godssakes. A place can’t have a salad bar and be romantic at the same time. Everyone knows that. In fact, I think it’s even written in the Bible.”

  And she says, “In the Bible?”

  And I say, “Well, I know it’s written somewhere. Maybe I saw it on the wall in the men’s room. In any case, it’s true. They’re mutually exclusive. If you looked at all the romantic places in the world, you’d find that none have salad bars. Paris—no salad bars. They’re outlawed. Anyone caught with a salad bar is tarred and feathered. The same thing in Rome.”

  And she says, “Are you sure?”

  And I say, “Well, they’re not tarred and feathered in Rome. There, I think they’re flogged with bamboo rods.”

  “I don’t know,” Bobbie Jean says, and she returns her eyes to the menu.

  And I say, “Let me ask you this—have you ever seen Fred Astaire waltz Ginger Rogers over by the salad bar? No. Have you ever seen young lovers look at each other longingly as they picked up little tomatoes with those metal tongs? No.”

  “You know,” she says, leaning in toward me, “I hate those sneeze-guards that they have at salad bars. You know, those plastic sheets they put above them. It just makes people more comfortable about sneezing around other people’s food.” She waits a second then leans forward and says, “You’re sure you don’t find this romantic, me and you having lunch together?”

  And I say, “There’s a salad bar, for godssakes.”

  And she says, “Well, let me ask you this, then.”

  And I say, “Shoot.”

  And she says, “Did you tell Palmeyer you were meeting me for lunch? I think he’s still mad at me for quitting.”

  And I say, “No, but I never tell him who I’m having lunch with. Never. Whether it’s man or woman, fish or fowl, I never tell him. I could have lunch with the Queen of England and I wouldn’t tell him.”

  And she says, “That wasn’t my question. My question was, did you tell Palmeyer you were having lunch with me?”

  And I say, “No.”

  And she says, “He’s still mad at me, isn’t he?”

  And I say, “Technically, he’s a little mad.” Technically, he’s VERY mad, although he’s gotten better since Debbie started.

  And she says, “Well, maybe if he’d paid me a little more.”

  And I say, “Maybe.”

  And she says, “Won’t Palmeyer be mad if he finds out you had lunch with me? Isn’t it a little dangerous?”

  And I say, “It can’t be dangerous if it has a salad bar.”

  And Bobbie Jean says, “I thought it couldn’t be romantic if it has a salad bar.”

  And I say, “It can’t be dangerous, either.”

  And she says, “And I suppose that’s in the Bible, too.”

  And I say, “Well, maybe if you read it, you’d know,” which makes her laugh a little.

  Bobbie Jean takes a bite of her roll. The flakes stick to her lip. I take the napkin from my lap and reach across the table to sweep them away.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I excuse myself and go to the rest room. When I return, I stand behind Bobbie Jean. She twists her head to look up at me.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “would you like to dance?”

  Bobbie Jean looks puzzled. “There’s no music.”

  And I say, “We don’t need music.” I extend a hand to her. Bobbie Jean lifts the napkin from her lap and sets it down on the table, then slips her long fingers into my palm. I squeeze them a little, then help her to her feet. I place my other hand on her waist, keeping our bodies separated like couples at a church dance, then I push her backward in small circles through the tables to the song that’s playing in my head. Bobbie Jean seems to hear the same song. She smells of soap and water and of some simple perfume.

  “You know,” she says, “I’ll bet the two of us are going to be good friends. I can just sense it.”

  And I say, “Maybe.”

  And she says, “Even though we have nothing in common.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, “we have plenty in common.”

  And she says, “Like what?”

  And I say, “We both sew all day.”

  And she says, “I know, but what else do we have in common?”

  And I say, “Yugoslavia.”

  And she says, “I’ve never been to Yugoslavia.”

  And I say, “Me neither. See, that’s something we have in common.” I pause before saying, “Have you ever been to Italy?”

  And she says, “No.”

  And I say, “See what I mean? Just look how much we have in common. How about Spain?”

  And she says, “No.”

  And I say, “France?”

  And she says, “Actually, yes.”

  And I say, “You’ve been to France?”

  And she says, “Mm hmm. Right after I graduated from high school.”

  And I say, “You won’t believe this, but I also graduated from high school!”

  And she says, “See, there’s something else we have in common.”

  Then I say, “Where else have you been?”

  And she whispers, “Why don’t you just shut up and dance.”

  I continue to spin Bobbie Jean around the restaurant. She twirls the way you twirl a flower stem between your fingers. The voices of the other customers surround us, but what they were saying I can’t say. They make the noises you imagine are made by people in a blurred photograph. We dance past the cashier’s stand, past the restroom and the metal kitchen doors. When we reach the salad bar, I pluck out two small tomatoes, placing one in her mouth, then one in my own. We rock back and forth as we chew, and when Bobbie Jean swallows, I dip her.

  “No, the salad bar isn’t romantic,” Bobbie Jean says, and I say, “See, I told you so.”

  I lead Bobbie Jean back to our table. The other customers applaud. Bobbie Jean curtsies and says, “Thank you. Thank you all very much. I adore you all,” then blows kisses.

  “Do you want some dessert?” I ask her at the end of the meal.

  And she says, “Of course I want dessert. Wasn’t that the reason we went through the formality of eating that other food, to get to the dessert?”

  That evening, I watch a little television and read the newspaper. I have a hard time falling asleep listening to the couple downstairs cooking and grilling and marinating.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  I finally fall asleep thinking about work, about how I have three suits I have to finish by lunchtime. But when I awake the next morning, I’m not thinking about work at all. I’m thinking, Bobbie Jean, Bobbie Jean, Bobbie Jean.

  CHAPTER 19: MON PRESIDENT, MON AMOUR

  Bobbie Jean calls me at work the next day while I’m marking the fabric for a suit for a man by the name of Duguay. I’m marking the cuffs with chalk when the phone rings. I have to leave Duguay standing in front of the mirrors while I go to answer the phone.

  “I called to thank you for lunch,” Bobbie Jean says.

  And I say, “You already thanked me.”

  And she says, “Actually, I called for another reason.”

  And I say, “What was that?”

  “You know,” she says softly, “I had a dream about you last night.”

  And I say, “Is that so? What was I doing?”

  And she says, “Eating chicken.”

  And I say, “Eating chicken?”

  And she says, “Mm-hmm. You were sitting at a table eating chicken.”

  And I say, “Is that all?”

  “No. I think there were mashed potatoes, too.”

  I smile.

  Then she says, “Do you have any plans tonight?”

  “Nothing important,” which means that I don’t have any plans at all. I was just going to go home and watch television, maybe have a beer.

  Then she says,”What do you say we go for a drive tonight?”

  �
��Okay.”

  I can see Palmeyer watching me.

  STOP EAVESDROPPING, I write on a ticket.

  And he writes, THEN STOP TALKING SO LOUD.

  I look at Duguay standing in front of the mirrors. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He pushes his jacket sleeve up so I can see him look at his watch.

  “Where should we go?” I say.

  And she says, “Anywhere we want.”

  And I say, “Anywhere?”

  And she says, “Anywhere,” and laughs.

  She says goodbye, and I return to marking up Duguay’s suit. I think about her the rest of the day.

  e

  I drive to Bobbie Jean’s apartment after work. She’s wearing a red sundress. She bounces on her toes when she runs to the car.

  “How was your day?” I say.

  She says, “Fine. I sewed things. How was yours?”

  And I say, “Fine. I sewed things.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  “I thought you wanted to go anywhere.”

  “Anywhere sounds good. I think it’s that way.” She points to the right, and I drive that way.

  We drive off in this direction, then that. As we do, she tells me a story about a boy she once knew who plays professional football now. We drive past apartment buildings and office buildings. We drive past the building where Carl works. We drive past a high school, past the airport, past an industrial area. Warehouses. Factories. Small metal huts. Not far beyond, the landscape changes, and we reach the plush countryside. The roads narrow. The sky grows black, and the sign for a motel appears over a hill, rising in the air like a balloon.

  “There,” Bobbie Jean says, interrupting her story.

  I say, “What?”

  She points outs the window and says, “That motel. I think we should stop there.”

  When I look at her, she doesn’t wink exactly, but she does something with her eyes that has the same effect. This is not the way I’d planned things, but then I really hadn’t planned them at all. I imagine her in her underwear. I imagine her naked.