“Do you see yourself as a voice for women who have been lied to?” the perky blond interviewer had asked Ellen. Watching his wife on television, Charlie felt a stirring of erotic interest. With her stage makeup, and wearing a new fitted blue suit the henna-haired editor had advised her to buy for TV appearances, Ellen looked prettier than usual, less like the woman he was used to waking up to. She was, he had to admit, remarkably comfortable in front of the camera.
Some fans wondered if she wrote from personal experience, though Ellen made a point of thanking Charlie for his support in the acknowledgements of every one of her books and frequently mentioned her long marriage, when asked to speak publicly. In the beginning, when her appearances were still a novelty, he would go with her. Sometimes she pointed him out in the audience and he would lend a comical note to the proceedings by offering up an obliging wave, as if to prove he was still alive. Still, he supposed, it was satisfying for the Sandee12s of the world to think of Ellen as an ally in the plight of the betrayed and a fellow sufferer of male infidelity. Of course, he was not without fault. What man, married or not, hadn’t committed at least a few minor transgressions? Had his eyes lingered too long on a young neighbor’s backside? Had he flirted once or twice with Ellen’s sister? Hugged her a little too long one drunken Christmas Eve? Yes. But unlike the victims in Ellen’s novels, his lapses had been contained and surely if he were to be punished, his karma would be something far short of murder. There was nothing he could do about any suspicious thoughts Ellen’s fans might harbor about him. Or even any misplaced concern on his behalf.
Just last night, Jenny Trumble, who “still had a thing” for Charlie, as Ellen put it, had leaned into him a bit drunkenly toward the end of the evening as they sat together in the newly decorated living room. “All those men Ellen kills off. Doesn’t that make you worry, Charlie?” she had asked, then unsteadily reached past him to dip a carrot into the sour-cream mix. When she sat back again, he was a little repulsed to see that a blob of the whitish stuff had landed on her sweater where the fabric had been stretched by her pendulous bosom. She put a plump, moist hand on his leg. Charlie had laughed, and to get away from the unpleasant weight on his thigh, stood up with an offer to get her another drink.
Charlie didn’t worry. When he thought of his history with Ellen it was with satisfaction. He had met her in college, where he rowed crew and majored in business. He knew he was not conceited to think that he was the more desirable one back then. Even her family saw it. Charlie was tall and, in those days, good at every sport he tried. His strong clean features and calm decisive personality drew people to him and the prizes he won for his engineering designs won him the admiration of the department. Ellen was different from the pretty sorority girls he had been dating, more athletic and practical. She took a heavy course load to finish her degree in three years, studying library science and minoring in psychology — and she played doubles tennis with her best friend every Saturday through the spring and summer. It was the friend who had first caught his eye, but Sharon had a boyfriend she was faithful to, and later on, Charlie found himself unexpectedly drawn to Ellen’s straightforward manner and undemanding nature. They had several months of friendly, athletic lovemaking before he proposed marriage and they settled down to a more moderate routine. For a long time there was, primarily, companionship, which he expected would carry them through to the end.
Briefly, when she started writing, Ellen had surprised him by showing more interest. She had initiated love-making half a dozen times and startled him one morning by turning from the stove where she had been about to scramble some eggs, abruptly turning off the flame, and dropping her robe to the floor. “Let’s skip breakfast,” she had said, taking his hand and pressing it to her bare hip. But though he had been willing, for some reason she abruptly changed her mind when he picked up her robe and, after handing it to her, told her to go upstairs to wait while he tidied up. And then things had gone back to normal.
Maybe it was the very stability of their marriage, their many largely uneventful years together, that encouraged Ellen’s imagination. She had mentioned a French writer one day during a talk, someone whose stable, middle-class life had left him free to create an adulterous heroine who was willing to risk everything to be with her lover.
“Writing opens worlds up, Charlie,” she had told him one night in an outburst that seemed almost girlish. It was shortly after the first review had appeared. “I love that people like the books. But it’s more than that. I feel as if I see things more clearly now that I’m doing this.”
It certainly seemed to energize her, which he liked. And it was pleasant to think that she had something constructive to do with her time. He should be happy, he thought. Still, like every couple, there were those little irritating habits. If you wanted to stay married, you had to overlook them, that was all. Like Ellen’s tuneless little hum. He heard it on almost a daily basis as she walked through the house, or sorted through the mail, or served dinner. He had mentioned it once, not long ago, and she had just laughed.
“What’s that song, anyway?” he had asked her.
“Song?” she responded absently.
“The one you’re humming?”
“Am I humming?” She gave him that fond, indulgent look she had when she thought he was being endearingly obtuse.
It was maddening. “Yes, yes, the song. I hear you humming most days, but I can never make out the melody.”
“Honestly, Charlie. I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even know I’m doing it. But I guess it means I’m happy,” and she had kissed him on the cheek.
Charlie tried to feel gratified by her answer and then to ignore it. Had she always done this? Or did it start after he retired? Either way, it seemed to become more frequent. And there was no way to bring it up again without appearing petty. In self-defense, as a way to vent his irritation, he started drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch or on the dinner table. But she never seemed to notice.
The paranoia, that’s what it must be, Charlie told himself, set in a couple of weeks after the party. Ellen made his favorite meal, a chicken casserole with potatoes and asparagus in cream sauce.
“Voilà!” she said as she placed it proudly on the table where she had lit two long tapers. She was flushed from the heat of the kitchen.
He knew she was making an effort. She had been away from home for a few days, teaching a workshop, and wanted to do something for him. The meal looked delicious, but Charlie thought it tasted a little off, and after taking a few bites, he mentioned it to Ellen.
“I don’t think so, Charlie,” she said, the lines between her eyebrows furrowing a bit. “I bought everything fresh this morning, but if you don’t like it, there’s some tuna fish in the fridge.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, forcing a smile, and after pouring himself some more wine, changed the subject and continued eating.
But later he had been horribly sick, and was awake for most of the night. Ellen eventually went to sleep in the guest room, “I’ll be right here if you need me, sweetheart,” she said. “I just have to get a few hours of sleep. Here, you poor thing,” she added as she moved a bucket to the bedside. “Just in case you don’t make it to the bathroom.” He had been too miserable to respond with anything more than a raised hand.
When she checked on him in the morning, she was glowing with good health. So much for the dinner being bad. But he had the strangest feeling, for just a minute, that she looked pleased.
“You must have come down with some horrible bug,” she told him. She efficiently straightened the covers over him and removed a stained washcloth he had used during the night from the bedside table. He could tell she was trying. “What you need is to get some more rest.” He did sleep fitfully for another few hours, the kind of sweaty, interrupted sleep with bad dreams he couldn’t fully remember when he opened his eyes. He put on his robe and went downstairs to find Ellen in the kitchen, taking a large bite of the chicken in cream sauce, and he had to run back upstairs.