My Wife and My Dead Wife

by Michael Kun

  She smiles and says, “I would love to.”

  And I say, “How about tomorrow, after I find Carl?”

  And she says, “Tomorrow would be perfect.”

  Then I lean across the table to kiss her on the cheek, a quick little kiss that catches a little of her lips. I’d almost forgotten how soft her skin was.

  x

  I don’t know Cecily’s last name, I just know her as Cecily, so I can’t look up her number in the phone book. I’m sure Judy would know her name, but I don’t want to call her. Why make her feel worse?

  I could try calling one of his friends, only I don’t know any of his friends. I don’t even know if he has any friends.

  Even though it’s Saturday morning, maybe he’s at his office. I call there, but there’s no answer.

  I drive around town aimlessly for a while, thinking I might see him or his car, but I don’t. I drive by his house three or four times, but only Judy’s car is in the driveway. Once, I see Judy working in the garden, and I drive by fast so she won’t see me.

  After a while, I drive downtown to see if Carl’s gone to the office after all. The building is open, but the front door to the law firm is closed and locked. I knock, but no one answers.

  “Carl,” I yell. “Carl Ashe. Come out if you’re in there.”

  Still, there’s no answer.

  Just as I’m getting ready to leave, a man comes down the hallway carrying a briefcase. It’s a man I met once at dinner at Carl’s house, only I can’t remember his name. Weymer or Wyler or something like that. He’s an older man, our father’s age, with silver hair and a deep suntan.

  He gives me a puzzled look when he sees me. He doesn’t remember my name either, which makes me feel better.

  “Can I help you?” he says.

  And I say, “Yes, I’m Carl Ashe’s brother, Ham. I think we met before.”

  And he says, “Yes, yes. I’m Dave Wyman, Carl’s partner.” He sticks his hand out, and I shake it. He has a stronger grip than you’d expect.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Wyman says.

  I say, “I thought Carl might be here.” I don’t want to say anything about Cecily. There’s no sense causing any trouble if he hasn’t already heard..

  And he says, “Well, come on in and we’ll give it a look.”

  He unlocks the door, and the two of us walk down the hallway toward Carl’s office. There’s a smell in the hallway like the interior of an antique desk drawer. When we get to Carl’s office, the lights are off.

  “Darn it,” I say.

  And Wyman says, “Sorry.”

  Only when I turn around, I see a gold nameplate on top of Cecily’s computer. It says: CECILY OLSEN.

  “It’s okay,” I say to Wyman. “Thanks for your help. Would you mind if I made a quick phone call?”

  “No, by all means go ahead. Why don’t you use Carl’s office.”

  Wyman leaves, and I thank him again. I turn on the lights, and I walk into Carl’s office. I walk over to his desk and sit in his red leather chair. I sit across from where I usually sit when I’m asking Carl to lend me money. His desk is a mess. There are papers scattered all over the place like there had been a storm.

  I dial information, and while I wait for the operator to give me Cecily’s number I try to find a clean sheet of paper to write the number on. I can’t find any. I open up Carl’s top desk drawer and find a small notepad there. I write Cecily’s number on the top sheet and tear it off. When I put the notepad back, I see my name written on another sheet of paper. It says:

  MONEY LENT TO HAM

  $500- rent

  $175- miscellaneous

  $100- clothing

  $100- rent

  $100- rent

  $75- miscellaneous

  $250- rent

  $125- car expenses

  $1000- insurance

  $250- rent

  $100- miscellaneous

  $100- gifts

  $50- unknown

  $100- miscellaneous

  $500- rent

  $500- car expenses

  $500- miscellaneous

  The list goes on and on in Carl’s perfect handwriting.

  There’s only one problem: the numbers are all WRONG.

  I only borrowed $1100 from Carl. I know it. I kept track in my head. The total is $1100. I don’t know where the other numbers came from.

  Where?

  And it’s not as if he knows someone else named Ham.

  I dial Cecily’s number. I expect her to answer, but she doesn’t. Carl answers on the third ring.

  “Hello,” he says.

  And I say, “Carl?”

  And he says, “Yes.”

  And I say, “Carl, it’s me.”

  He breathes heavily into the phone. “How did you know to call me here?” he says.

  And I say, “I found out last night.”

  And he says, “What do you know?”

  And I say, “I know I don’t owe you a million dollars.”

  And he says, “What?”

  “I know I don’t owe you a million dollars.”

  “What the heck are you talking about?”

  “I’m sitting in your office. I came here to see if I could find you, and when I went to get a piece of paper I found a list that says I owe you a million dollars.”

  And Carl says, “Oh, that. The list in my desk drawer? That list isn’t right. You know that.”

  And I say, “What is it then?”

  And he says, “A couple months ago Judy wanted to know where all the money in our checking account went. I couldn’t tell her where it really went, so I told her I was lending it to you.”

  And I say, “Darn it, Carl, she must hate me.”

  And he says, “Not at all. When I told her I’d lent it to you, she was a little upset, but she got over it. When she found out where it really went, that’s when she went through the roof.”

  “Where did it really go?”

  And that’s when he says, “Different things. Gifts, restaurants, hotels. You know. The usual.”

  And I say, “So it’s true?”

  And he says, “Yes.”

  And I say, “Are you in love with her?”

  And he says, “Who? Judy or Cecily?”

  And I say, “Cecily?”

  And he says, “I don’t know.”

  And I say, “Are you still in love with Judy?”

  And he says, “I don’t know.”

  Neither one of us says anything for a while. I pull open Carl’s bottom desk drawer and prop my feet up on it as I lean back in his desk chair.

  Finally I say, “You told Judy that I was the one having the affair with Cecily?”

  And he says, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me about this?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Have you told Mom and Dad?”

  “It’s on my list of things to do.” He huffs into the phone.

  I say, “This is a pretty rotten thing you’re doing to Judy and the kids.”

  And he says, “Of course it is.”

  And I say, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  And he says, “Ham, please do me a favor. Please don’t lecture me. I’ve gotten lectures from everyone. My partners, Judy, Judy’s friends. I don’t think I could bear a lecture from my brother at this particular moment.”

  “Can I lecture you later?”

  “Sure. We’ll have dinner sometime next week, and we can talk all about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, how are you doing?”

  “Me? I’m great.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You’ll never guess who I’m having lunch with today.”

  “Shellie?

  “No. Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Renée?”


  “Yes.”

  “That’s great, Ham. Really great. She’s a good girl.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “If things work out, would you be interested in being my best man?”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  Then we both hang up. I lean forward in Carl’s chair and push his bottom drawer closed with my foot, and as I do something catches my eye for an instant, like the glimpse of a car in your side-view mirror as it’s passing you. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath a stack of documents, I see a little sliver of plastic. I almost didn’t see it at all. I push the papers aside, and I see a small, clear plastic cube. Inside, the Ty Cobb baseball.

  I’m confused.

  Is it a different baseball?

  No, it’s the same one. I recognize it. I haven’t seen it in years, but it’s the same one, the one my grandfather gave me.

  But how could Carl have the Ty Cobb baseball?

  How?

  Shellie sold it to a man for a lot of money. For too much money. It was enough money for us to pay for the rent for a couple months. There was enough money left over for Shellie to buy a new dress.

  I pick up the phone to call Carl back, to ask him how he got the ball, but I figure everything out while the phone is ringing.

  When Carl answers, I say, “By the way, I meant to thank you for all the times you lent me money.”

  And he says, “No problem.”

  And I say, “No, I don’t just mean recently. I mean the times you lent me and Shellie money, too.”

  And he says, “Think nothing of it.”

  We say goodbye again. I push the papers back so they cover the plastic cube, then close the bottom desk drawer.

  CHAPTER 24: OUR LITTLE ANGEL

  Renée likes the movies. I don’t like them as much as she does, but I used to go with her anyway. The problem with the movies is that they’re all the same. I don’t mean they’re identical, but they’re close enough that they may as well be. Nine times out of ten, you can guess the ending before the movie even starts. For instance, if it’s a movie with Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant in it, you know they’re going to end up together in the end. You KNOW it. They may argue a little, or they may pretend they don’t like each other, but you know that they’ll be kissing at the end of the movie, kissing with their eyes closed while music plays.

  Or, if it’s a detective movie, or a police movie, you know they’ll catch the criminal in the end. You KNOW it. You may not know exactly how they’ll do it, but you can probably figure it out pretty quickly if you pay attention. If the criminal plays the piano in the beginning of the movie, then it will be the piano that leads to the detectives to him. If he eats Fig Newton cookies, it’ll be the cookies. It always is. And if it’s one of those movies where you have to figure out WHICH person did it, it is never the obvious one. It’s always the one you’re not supposed to suspect, the one who appears to be helpful. The one who appears to be nobody.

  I can guess every time. Every time I would lean over to Renée and say, “It’s the guy with the curly black hair. Right there! THAT one! The one pretending to be helpful!”

  The dramas are more difficult. You can’t always predict exactly what’s going to happen in them, but you can predict one thing: someone has a deep, dark secret. Maybe he doesn’t want to go to the beach with his wife, and finally he’ll start crying and tell her that his father drowned in a terrible boating accident. Maybe he doesn’t like to fly on planes, and he’ll finally say that his father was in the Air Force and got shot down in Vietnam. Maybe he doesn’t like to eat hamburgers. Maybe it’s because he once had a pet cow. Maybe he doesn’t like candy because he got caught shoplifting a chocolate bar.

  It’s always something like that, which is fine with me. Everyone has a secret like that. Everyone has a secret. But that’s why I don’t like the movies so much. There’s always a scene where someone starts crying and tells someone else about his deep, dark secret. It always happens. But in the real world, you keep the secret to yourself. The darker it is, the more you’ll try to keep it to yourself, the more you’ll try to keep it from the people you love the most, because they might stop loving you if they knew. You might think about it, but you never tell anyone. Isn’t that why they call it a secret in the first place? Isn’t it?

  But you always know how the movie’s going to end. You always know who’s going to fall in love. You always know who’s going to get caught. You always know who has a secret.

  “There’s never any surprise,” I used to say to Renée.

  And she’d say, “So what?”

  And I’d say, “There needs to be a surprise.”

  And sometimes that would be the end of the conversation.

  And sometimes she would put her and on my lap and start to unzip my pants and whisper, “Surprise!”

  We’re going to a little Mexican restaurant called Jalisco’s for lunch. Renée picked it out, which is fine with me. I like Mexican food. I like refried beans. I like fajitas, although someone told me they’re not really Mexican food.

  I take a shower, and then I shave. While I’m putting the shaving cream on my face, I picture the future. I see it clearly, like it’s a memory of something that’s already happened.

  I picture myself sitting in the audience at Eddie’s Attic. Renée is on the stage, singing.

  At the table next to me, two men are talking.

  “Can you please be quiet,” I say, “so I can hear the young lady sing?”

  And one of the men says to me, “Who is she to you?”

  And I say, “She’s my wife.”

  But she isn’t my wife.

  Yet.

  And I picture our rehearsal dinner the night before our wedding. I picture us at a little restaurant on the river called Canoe. It’s Renée’s favorite because the waiter there once told her she looked young enough to be my daughter. He gave her a free drink.

  I picture Renée wearing a loose sundress and a cowboy hat. My parents are there, sitting at the same table as Renée’s parents. Carl is there, and so is Judy. They’re back together and happy. Their boys are there, too, dressed in little tuxedos. Renée’s sisters are there with their boyfriends. Palmeyer and his wife. Debbie and her husband. Guitar Walter. Claire. The Films. The Archaeologies. They’re all there.

  We’re all drinking wine and eating fish. Someone’s brought a box of cigars, and the air is blue with smoke. After dinner, people begin to stand up one by one to say nice things about me and Renée. Some of them are funny, some of them are sad, some of them make no sense at all.

  Palmeyer says he’s going to give me a raise now that I have a family to feed, which is nice of him to say, only I don’t know if he means it or if it’s a joke. I think he means it because he calls me “Ham,” which I’ve never heard him say before.

  Carl says something about when we used to share a bedroom when we were children.

  Shellie is there. She says she’s sorry she left me.

  My mother cries like she’s never seen one of her sons get married before, which doesn’t make any sense because she’s already been to one wedding each for me and Carl.

  Renée’s father says it’s the happiest day in his life, except for the day the Braves won the World Series.

  Then Guitar Walter stands up. He’s holding a guitar. I think he’s going to start playing one of his songs, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to make a special request. Renée?” He holds the guitar high in the air.

  Renée blushes and shakes her head, no.

  “Come on, Renée,” Guitar Walter says.

  Everyone starts clapping.

  “Should I?” Renée says to me.

  And I say, “Of course. Get up there.” I almost say “Sweet Potato,” but I don’t. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  Renée stands up and walks over to Guitar Walter. Everyo
ne claps even louder. Some people whistle.

  Renée takes the guitar from Guitar Walter and sits down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Guitar Walter says, “for the last time anywhere, we’re proud to present Ms. Renée Yates.”

  Everyone applauds again, and Renée starts plucking the strings. She stops playing and closes her eyes and sniffs.

  “Ham got me this guitar,” she says, and everyone looks at me at claps like I’ve done something special, which I didn’t. You buy a guitar for your girlfriend if she wants a guitar. You buy her whatever will make her happy.

  “So,” Renée says, “this song is for Ham.”

  She purses her lips and blows me a kiss, then starts strumming the guitar again.

  After the first few notes, I know what song she’s playing.

  I know.

  I KNOW.

  But I don’t care, that’s how happy I am.

  And then I see our wedding day. I picture Renée walking down the aisle, dressed in white, looking like an angel. My angel. I imagine that she’s floating down the isle, floating toward me.

  The priest asks me if I take her to be my bride, and I smile and say, “Yes.”

  Then he asks her if she takes me to be her husband, and she smiles and says, “Hay-yum is not a pig.”

  And I see a honeymoon on some island somewhere, and a baby, and diapers, and a swing set, and school recitals, and a daughter who is smarter than her father but loves him just the same. I see all this and more.

  I look in the mirror as I get ready to shave, and through the shaving cream I realize that I’m smiling. I’m smiling like a parade is going past.

  I drive to the old apartment to pick Renée up for lunch. I beep the horn, and she descends the stairs, her blonde hair flapping. She’s smiling, smiling, smiling.

  She waves at me, and I think, My wife is waving at me.

  She reaches the bottom of the stairwell.

  I notice a man descending the stairs behind her. He’s tall, taller than me, and very handsome. He must be a new neighbor. He calls out to Renée.

  He calls out to my wife.

  And my wife stops and turns.

  And he says something.

  And she says something back.

  And he says something else.

  And she laughs.

  And he takes her hand. He takes my angel’s hand.