The Man Who Loved His Wife. Vera Caspary
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“I WANT YOU TO DIE? WHERE DID YOU EVER GET AN idea like that? It’s weird. Sinful.” But Elaine had to turn away to hide the burning shame of her face. Over her shoulder she continued to scold, “As for my dreaming of freedom”—she turned toward him again, her face faintly pink—“why should I? Freedom from what? As if this place weren’t so devastatingly beautiful and I”—she paused to stretch her long body on the long chair and give attention to a family of quail going through their ritual movements on the grass—“weren’t in love with you.”
The garden was alive with the scents and sounds of early spring. Freesia and narcissus sent out strong perfumes, the grass glittered with dampness left by morning fog, bees and hummingbirds pondered the rich choice of blossoms. Elaine closed her eyes to recall the past and Fletcher when she had first known him, a man totally committed to life.
“I don’t deny that I said that freedom’s the most wonderful thing for a girl, by why did I say it? You’ve got to consider the circumstances. When your best friend weeps over long distance after getting her divorce, you’ve got to think of some way to console her. Freedom’s great for Joyce, but Fletch, really!” Since he had lost his vocal authority Elaine had tried to control her own speech so that he would not know the passion of her pity. “Darling, please don’t take everything so personally.”
Fletcher turned to study the rosy countenance. They were in the small trellised pavilion that had been added as a conceit by a previous owner of the property. Their garden was out of all proportion to its neighbors’, just as the Mexican ranch house was too mellow and simple for the district. All around them, the trees had been cut down, gardens cut up into building lots upon which stood pretentious, sterile houses surrounded by cactus and broad-leafed tropical plants set into patches of colored stone.
“I’m so happy here, honestly, I dote on the place. And the garden’s getting better every day, don’t you think? Next winter I’m going to plant more azaleas, huge, expensive plants, Fletch, under the pines. Pinks and deep rose color, don’t you think it’ll be beautiful? And so amusing to work out.”
The quail continued their odd dance, Elaine dreamed of costly shrubs, a plane buzzed overhead, and Fletcher smiled at her enthusiasm. The movement of indulgence was not to last. A truck had entered the driveway and stopped at the kitchen door. “Oh, heavens, I’ve forgotten!” and Elaine ran, long legged and supple, toward the house where the milkman waited.
Fletcher, following less frantically, came upon them as Elaine with a devastating smile told the fellow, apologetically, “Of course it’s not your fault, but I do think at the prices they charge, your company could deliver fresher eggs.”
“I’ll take it up with the board of directors.”
Elaine laughed immoderately, her husband thought. The milkman was young and blithe. With all of these sturdy tradesmen she made a ceremony of selection, asked questions about each item, discussed family habits. “I ought to take that disgusting non-fat, but we hate it. My husband, especially, and he’s the one who can’t afford to put on another ounce.”
His weight, thought Fletcher, was not the business of the youth who stared flagrantly at Elaine’s long legs in cream-tan trousers, at hips and breasts whose curves were not entirely concealed by the loose overblouse. As always when she passed the time with a man, Fletcher was plagued by unendurable visions.
Later that day he went shopping with her. At the supermarket he suffered fiercely, pushing the cart in her wake as she exchanged greetings with clerks, selected washing powder and stood reflective before counters of fruit. “Do you think this melon is ripe, Fletch? I have no talent at all for melon-pinching.” She darted after the fruit clerk, addressed him a look so engaging that the fellow must consider himself infallible in judging melons. At the check-out counter a boy greeted her like a long-lost love. Fletcher stood behind the odious cart while the cocky kid held her in discussion of the weather. At once Fletcher saw her, lively and unclothed, in the boy’s arms. The vision, more real than the labels of Marvel-Bleach or Vigor for Stubborn Stains, remained while her packages were checked; changed its male protagonist when a muscular package boy ran to offer service. Sweating, but with self-control, Fletcher allowed the boy to push the cart to the parking lot and load their bags into the car. Elaine offered thanks as though the kid had won an Olympic medal, turned back to wave as Fletcher drove out of the lot.
In the convertible silvercloud Lincoln Continental, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher Strode made a picture as handsome as a color advertisement, the man big and rugged, deeply tanned, the young woman sleek and lovely, her dark hair careless in the wind. She chatted about the dinner menu, about the absurdity of her pleasure in a ripe honeydew, her indignation at the tastelessness of California tomatoes. Earlier these ardors would have been roused by the works of Chagall, Bernstein, and Balenciaga.
Fletcher sighed.
“You’re bored,” Elaine sighed, immediately regretted the word, asked hastily, “Why don’t we play golf this afternoon?” As though she liked the game! If she had been as companionable as she pretended, she would have learned to play; but no, she refused to yield body or mind to the tyranny of athletic form. “I’d rather watch you.” She rode around with him in the caddy cart, called out greetings and answered questions shouted by other players. Her show of interest was mere lip service. Privately, Fletcher thought, his wife believed it absurd for a man to care about knocking a ball around the links. Before he retired he had played weekday golf with the zest of a schoolboy enjoying hookey. Now that the game had become a time-killer, he found golf another form of impotence.
As they drove along Elaine studied young men in passing cars. “Darling! Did you notice just now? It was Manuel.” She waved wildly at the gardener. Manual was slender, dark, romantic in a sweaty Mexican way. Another disturbing vision clouded Fletcher’s mind. “Manuel’s a gentle person but he will keep that nasty stuff in the shed. He says it’s necessary for bugs and slugs and stuff, but I wish he wouldn’t. He says there are no children in the house and the boxes are plainly marked, but I told him,” she laughed slyly, “I’d hold him personally responsible for accidents. Fletch dear, why are you looking so somber?”
A grunt was his answer. He turned a corner swiftly. She slid along the leather seat. “Oh, Fletch, please! Don’t drive so suicidally.”
When they were back at the house and Elaine busy with her groceries, Fletcher investigated the garden shed. Later that day he wrote in his diary:
Today she talked about the poisons in the garden shed. Has she honestly warned Manuel and has he told her that a package labeled POISON is not dangerous to adults who can read? Maybe it is just suspicion or one of those persecution complexes, but there are so many signs of danger in this house that I do not think I am just giving in to imagination. The thought of death is in her mind all the time. I wonder if she keeps talking about suicide to prepare the ground. I am sensitive to signs of danger. They say that the loss of one sense sharpens the others, that deaf men see more, the blind hear whispers in the distance. I used to shout, and now I listen. And learn.
Early in the marriage, when they were so crazily in love, Elaine would wait on edge for the sound of Fletcher’s key in the lock, his “Hi, lovable!” in a shout that shook the walls. Now that he had retired from work and life, she had too much of his passionate possessing. Every hour of every day his vast, useless curiosity was spent upon her. No movement was too trivial for his attention, each chore was supervised. When she bathed he came into the room and perched his big body on her spindly dressing table stool. She had to curb temper and humor, give every moment to the protection of the man’s poor pride. Restraint charged her nerves. Electric tensions quivered like wires in a high wind. She became overcheerful, considered every word, smiled too often. The mask stifled her. Once in a while in sheer rebellion she would prolong her conversation with a headwaiter or bestow charm outrageously upon a boy in a parking lot.
Once a week she had an afternoon to herself. Fletcher’s Thursday appointment with the barber and manicurist, sacred to a man who had nothing else on his calendar, took him into Los Angeles. He