My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  “Do you not want to go there?” she says.

  And I say, “No, by all means, let’s go.”

  The motel is set among a series of hills as round as plump knees. It’s painted the dirty cream color you think of when you think of schools and prisons and government buildings. I park the car beneath the motel sign, which says “Arcola Motor Lodge” in red cursive letters.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I say.

  And she says, “It’s either this or go to a movie.”

  And I say, “There’s nothing out that I want to see.”

  And she says, “Me neither.”

  We get out of the car and walk toward the office. A light rain falls upon us as we walk. There’s no one there, so I call out, “Hello? Hello?”

  I can hear the sound of a television in the back room.

  “Hello?” I call out loudly. “Is there anyone working here?”

  A boy emerges from the room, walking backward, his eyes still on the television. He drags his feet as if it would require too much exertion to lift them. He only turns when he bumps into the counter. He’s a round-faced boy, no more than twenty, with long, curly hair, almost as long and almost as curly as Bobbie Jean’s.

  “Hi,” he says. He places a soda can on the counter and digs his hands into his pockets. “Can I help you?”

  And I say, “We want a room.”

  And he says, “For how long?”

  And Bobbie Jean says, “Three hours ought to be enough, don’t you think, honey?”

  And I can feel myself blushing a little.

  And the boy says, “That’s fine. You’ve got to pay up first.” He pulls a clipboard from beneath the counter.

  “Okay,” he says, “can I get your name?”

  Before I can say anything, Bobbie Jean says, “His name is Eisenhower. Mr. Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

  Bobbie Jean watches the boy as he completes the form. “It begins with and E,” she says, “E-I-S-E-N-H-O-W-E-R.”

  And the boy says, “Like the junior high school?”

  And she says, “Exactly.”

  This time, she does wink when she looks at me.

  The boy says, “That’ll be twenty dollars.”

  I pay him, and he places a key on the counter and returns to the television.

  As we walk to the room, I say, “Dwight D. Eisenhower?”

  “It was the first thing to come to mind.”

  “Why didn’t you give him our real names?”

  “So we could be the first persons in history to give their real names to a motel clerk? I don’t think so. Besides, it’s more exciting this way.”

  “So I’m Dwight D. Eisenhower?”

  Bobbie Jean arches her eyebrows and says, “Unless you’d rather I be him.”

  And I say, “No, that’s fine. But if I’m Eisenhower, who does that make you?”

  And she says, “Who would you like me to be?”

  And I say, “I think his wife’s name was Mamie.” I remember Palmeyer asking Debbie, “Do you remember Mamie Eisenhower?” And I remember her answer: “Yes, yes. Do you remember Creamsicles?”

  Bobbie Jean says, “I don’t want to be a Mamie. What a horrible name. What if instead of being your wife, I’m your secretary.”

  And I say, “Fine.”

  And she says, “What’s my name?”

  I say, “How about Jane,” because it’s the first name that comes into my head.

  She frowns a bit. “I don’t like Jane. It’s too plain.”

  I say, “You can make up whatever you like.”

  “How about Blanche? I always wanted to be called Blanche.”

  “Fine, Blanche,” I say, “we’re here,” and I unlock the door to the room, then stick my head in first as if testing the water. We step inside, me first, and we inspect the room. It’s a drab room. There’s a double bed, covered with a thin, shiny bedspread. There’s a small, chipped bureau, and an old television set with rabbit ear antennas. The smell of stale beer fills the air, mingling with the odor of a thousand cigarettes, and I feel the beginning of an upset stomach.

  “It’s not exactly the Hilton, is it?” Bobbie Jean says with a shrug.

  And I say, “You can say that again.”

  And she says,”It’s not exactly the Hilton,” and she bumps me with her hip, then drops her purse to the floor. “It’s okay, though. On the positive side, at least we don’t have to worry about getting dirt on the squalor.”

  I say, “That’s true.”

  And she says, “Anyway, affairs are supposed to be seamy. If they were neat and clean and orderly, only debutantes would have them.”

  I force a smile and I say, “Affair?”

  And she says, “Well, President Eisenhower, I can only assume that your wife doesn’t know that you’ve brought me here. And seeing as there’s no typewriter in this room, I don’t imagine you’ve brought me here to take dictation.”

  I walk to the window and force it open to let some fresh air in. A breeze blows at the curtains. The rain begins to fall in long, silver streaks. Across the street, I can see a giant billboard advertising cigarettes, a man on horseback wearing a bright yellow slicker. Next to that, one for malt liquor.

  I leave the window open, then tug at the curtains. They won’t close completely—a piece of fabric is caught on the rod above—and I can’t jerk it free. A small crack remains. I return to Bobbie Jean, who’s balanced on the edge of the bureau. We’re several feet apart, listening to the whip and snap of the curtains.

  Bobbie Jean bites her lower lip.

  How do we start this, I wonder, but no sooner have I completed the thought than Bobbie Jean has her arms around my waist and gives me a shy and passionate kiss.

  She pulls away for a second, then says, “I’m going to make you feel so good, Mr. President. So good.” And then she kisses me again, her mouth unexpectedly large, her tongue slipping into my mouth, over my tongue, then running over my teeth. Her mouth tastes of coffee.

  She unbuttons my shirt, slides it off my shoulders, tosses it on the bed, loosens my belt, unfastens the button of my pants, slides my zipper down, slides her hand into my boxer shorts, runs her hand up and down, smiles at me, says, “It’s good to see the men are at attention,” drops to her knees, licks me, says “You taste great,” smiles at me again, takes me in her mouth, puts her hands on my rear end, pulls me toward her again and again, runs her teeth over me, pulls me toward her again and again until I start to feel a little light-headed, then stands up, squeezes me in her fingers, lowers my pants and shorts to my ankles, pulls them off, pushes me onto the bed, forcing me onto my back, onto the greasy bedspread that smells of drugstore perfume, releases me, pulls her sundress over her head, unfastens her bra, caresses one small breast, then the other, says, “Don’t they look nice,” pulls off her underpants, runs her fingers between her legs, closes her eyes, joins me on the bed, runs her fingertips over my thighs, my stomach, my chest, moves on top of me, then says, “I want to cook you hard”—though she doesn’t say “cook”—lowers herself onto me, rolls her hips, bounces on my lap, moving loosely as if she were missing some essential bones, says, “Oh, yes, that feels good, Mr. President,” bounces again and again, reaches down to move my hands to her breasts, says, “Oh, that feels good,” bounces more quickly, says, “Oh, Mr. President. Oh, Ike,” bounces, bounces, bounces, moans, bounces, bounces, bounces again and again until drops of sweat ski down her neck and over her breasts and drop onto my stomach, says, “Do it, do it, don’t stop, keep cooking,” bounces, moves my hands to her buttocks, says, “That feels so good, Mr. President,” bounces, bounces, bounces as the curtains rustle, sheesh-sheesh-sheesh, bounces, says, “Oh, Mr. President, you feel so good inside me,” bounces more and more violently, bounces, says, “Marinate me,” bounces, bounces, says, “Season me,” bounces, twists, says, “Bake me. Sautee me with onions. Barbeque me, fry me like an egg, boil me, broil me, grill me,” laughs, said, “Mon President, mon amour, Don’t stop, don’t s
top,” begins to shake, then exhales loudly, her breathing deep, exhales again, says, “That was great,” begins bouncing again, more slowly now, says, “Now it’s your turn, Mr. President,” rolls her hips, bounces slowly, squeezes me, making it clear that she has the power to control my excitement, and, when I’m through, she closes her eyes and continues to sit across my hips. Finally, she falls to the bed beside me and throws her arms over her head, exposing the sugar-white flesh of her armpits. She exhales sharply.

  “I think I just saw the face of God,” she says.

  I smile and say, “You sure it wasn’t Santa Claus? They look a lot alike, you know.”

  She reaches over and scratches my chest with her fingernails.

  Though I’d barely moved, I’m exhausted. I’m surprised, confused, exhilarated. My perspiration is so heavy that it stings my eyes. I listen to the rain on the cheap, shingled roof.

  “You were so quiet,” Bobbie Jean says. Her breathing is still heavy, and she folds her arms beneath her breasts. “I swear you didn’t make a noise the whole time.”

  And I say, “I usually don’t.”

  And she says, “Seems like that would take the fun out of things. I like the noise. I like to talk, you know, provide color commentary when I’m cooking.”

  And I say, “Well, your language certainly is colorful.”

  She sits up suddenly and says, “Do you have a problem with that?”

  And I say, “No, no. I’m just not used to it.”

  Bobbie Jean lowers her head to my chest.

  “Yeah, well,” she says, “Tom was always complaining about my language, saying that I have a foul mouth, that it’s not ladylike. If I want someone to grill me, I’ll tell them so. If I want to be marinated, I’ll say that, too. I’m a take-charge type of person. Does it bother you?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s exciting.”

  And she says, “Well, I don’t like to be quiet. I love sex, don’t you? I figure everyone has an obsession, so what better obsession than sex? It feels great.”

  And I say, “And it whitens your teeth and freshens your breath.”

  “That, too,” she laughs. “What’s that expression—man can’t live on sex alone? Well, I’m not so sure about that.”

  Bobbie Jean spreads her fingers on my hip. Her fingers creep toward my groin as slowly as a spider. I close my eyes.

  “Now it’s your turn to do some work,” she says.

  And I say, “Okay.”

  And she says, “Don’t forget to call me Blanche.”

  And I say, “Okay.”

  And she says, “Okay, who?”

  And I say, “Okay, Blanche.”

  I kiss her and run my hand over her breasts, then along the flat of her stomach, down her hip, and along her solid thighs. She curves like a trout, and I run my hand along the inside of her thigh, then between her legs. I begin to climb between her legs, but she stops me by placing a hand forcefully against my chest.

  “Not that way,” she says, and she turns over onto her elbows and knees, her hair falling over one shoulder. She looks over the other shoulder. “This way.”

  I kneel behind her and run my hand over her rear end. I call her Blanche over and over again, which doesn’t make me feel as silly as I’d thought it would. On the floor beside the bed, my socks lie like dead black snakes. And beside them are Bobbie Jean’s underpants, with a hole on the hip the size of a nickel.

  Then something strange happens.

  Or something stranger.

  When we’re done in bed, I start to get dressed. I put on my underwear and my socks. Bobbie Jean sits on the edge of the bed watching me get dressed. Not five minutes after she was using language that would embarrass a dock worker—not five minutes—she suddenly gets up from the bed and says, “I need to go potty,” then heads to the bathroom.

  She says it in a voice meant to sound like a little girl: “I need to go potty.”

  CHAPTER 20: THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROBERT DENIRO FAN CLUB

  It happens every time we see each other after that. At some point, she’ll say, “I need to go potty.”

  That, or “I need to tinkle.”

  Or, “I have to go tee-tee.”

  She’ll say it at the movies or in a bar or in one of our apartments. She’ll even say it in a restaurant. We’ll be eating dinner, and she’ll slide out of her chair and say, “I’ll be right back. I need to tinkle.”

  Who talks like that?

  Who says “I need to go potty”?

  Who says “I need to tinkle”?

  Who says, “I have to go tee-tee”?

  Who?

  Who?

  Everything about her is so strange.

  EVERYTHING.

  x

  There are all different types of hand stitching. Running stitches. Backstitches. Prickstitches. Slipstitches. Catchstitches. Blindstitches. I know how to do them all. I didn’t know any of them before I met Palmeyer, but now I do.

  I’m stitching a woman’s skirt. I’m using a catchstitch. The way you do it is you work from left to right with the needle pointing to the left. You take a small horizontal stitch in the hem edge. You take another small horizontal stitch in the fabric about one-fourth of an inch from the first stitch, and you cross stitches. Then you alternate stitches in a zigzag pattern. You work the blind catchstitch the same way you work the blindstitch, folding the hem away from you.

  Bobbie Jean calls me, and I have to put a piece of tape over the last stitch so it won’t come apart while I’m on the phone. Catchstitches don’t come apart very often, but you can’t be too careful..

  “Yes?” I say when I pick up the phone.

  “Is this President Eisenhower?” Bobbie Jean says.

  And I say, “Bobbie Jean?”

  And she says, “Call me Blanche.” Then she says, “Are you going to be able to get away tonight?”

  And I say,”Maybe later,” even though I have enough work to keep me busy until midnight.

  Palmeyer taped a list on the wall of people who are waiting for their clothes:

  Garrison

  Lillie

  Barch

  Novak

  Carkhuff

  Mayne

  Van Dyke

  Gordon

  Lloyd

  Rhodes

  Vaeth

  Paltell

  Johnson

  Sliwinski

  The list goes on and on. The ones who have called to complain are circled in red.

  “Well, I hope you can get away,” Bobbie Jean says, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Have you been thinking about me?”

  “Mm hmm.” It was true, I had been: Bobbie Jean, Bobbie Jean, Bobbie Jean.

  And she says, “Yes?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “A lot or a little?”

  And I say, “A lot.”

  And she says, “What have you been thinking?”

  “Bobbie Jean,” I say, feeling the color rise in my face, “I’m not going to tell you over the telephone.”

  And she says, “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking then. I’m imagining that you’re here…and we’re kissing…and you’re running your tongue over my lips…and you’re sticking your tongue in my mouth…and you’re kissing my lips and my cheek and my neck…and I’m kissing you on your cheek…and I’m running my tongue in and out of your ear…in and out, in and out…and I’m talking to you in French…and I’m saying, `Oh, mon president, mon amour’…and I’m running my hands over your back and over your rear end…and you’re caressing my breasts…oui, mon amour, oui…and you take off my dress…and you take off my bra…and you run your hands over my breasts…and I take your shirt off…and you kiss my breasts…you kiss them on the sides…and on the tops…and on the bottoms…oui, oui, oui…and then you take one of my doo-das in your mouth…and you nibble on it…and you bite it…and you lick it…and then you take the other doo-da in your mouth…and you bite on it and…. Ham?”<
br />
  And I say, “Yes?”

  And she says, “I’m imagining you biting my doo-da…oh, mon amour…and then you take my underpants off…and then you kiss my shoulders…and my stomach… and my hips…and my thighs…and your hands are squeezing my breasts…and you run your hands along my legs…and along my rear end…and you squeeze my cheeks…and you stick your finger into my sassafrass and move it in and out, in and out…and then you slide up…and you kiss me on the lips…and I spread my legs wide…and I take you in my hands and I guide you inside me…and you move in and out…in and out…in and out…in and out…in and out…faster and faster…faster and faster…harder and harder…faster and faster…and I keep saying, ‘Cook me, mon amour, cook me’…and you’re going in and out…in and out…in and out…Ham?”

  Is this the way normal people act?

  Is this the way people talk to each other when they’re dating?

  Is it?

  Again, she says, “Ham?”

  I hear myself say, “What?”

  And she says, “Ham, do you think we can get together today?”

  And I say, “Yes.”

  And she says, “When?”

  And I say, “I don’t know.”

  And she says, “Tell Palmeyer you have an errand to run, then meet me at my apartment.”

  And I hear myself say, “Okay. Can you get away from work?”

  And she says, “I’m not at work. I called up and told them that I was sick. I told them it was a `woman thing,’ and they didn’t ask any questions.”

  Within half an hour, I’m following Bobbie Jean into her apartment.

  “Are you sure it’s okay?” I say. “Are you sure your roommate won’t walk in?”

  She has a roommate named Kate.

  Bobbie Jean says, “Positive.

  I approach her from behind, running my hands over her breasts, then her hips, before snaking a hand between her legs.

  “In the bedroom,” she says. “Not here. In the bedroom.”

  She takes my hand, then leads me down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom. The hall smells of air freshener. At the end of the hallway, the bathroom door is ajar, and I twist my hand free from hers, gesture toward the bathroom with a flick of my head, and enter. I close the door behind me and look at the catastrophe that surrounds the basin. An open lipstick tube. Two kinds of deodorant. Perfume. An uncapped bottle of aspirin. Eye shadow. Three light blue plastic razors. Cotton swabs. A mound of cotton balls. Mouthwash. A bottle of baby oil, a small oil slick around its base. Toothpaste. Three toothbrushes. Bottle caps. An ashtray with half a dozen bronze cigarette butts. An empty panty hose package.