His Wife Leaves Him

absurde for me to read it to an English-speaking audience composed mostly of college kids. You trying to get back at me for something?” and she says “I’m not.” “Then ‘even with me for something,’ but if I don’t turn up my book, I’m stuck.” Next moment he’s leading an entourage to a reading he’s giving at Radio City Music Hall. The guard at the door to the auditorium says to them “Sorry, no room inside. House is packed and there isn’t even space for standing.” “But I’m one of the readers,” he says, “the last.” “You got your ticket?” He gives the man two tickets, says “Sorry” to the people who came with him, none of whom he recognizes, and takes Gwen’s hand and opens the door. The man jumps in front of them and says “I can only let one of you in.” “We go in together,” he says, “or not at all. Think what kind of reading it’d be without the last reader. It could go on forever or till the lights went.” “You got a point,” the man says, and steps out of their way and they go in. The theater’s dark. A movie’s playing. Every seat seems taken and people are standing and sitting in the aisles all the way to the back. A few people look at them when they come in but everyone else is staring at the screen. The movie sound is bad and the print is grainy and out of focus. He looks at Gwen. She shrugs and says “It’s ominous, I know.” Next moment he’s in a taxi with Gwen, heading to a reading he’s giving. “You have the stuff I’m going to read tonight?” he says to her. “No, don’t you?” “But I gave it to you at home; several manuscripts in an interoffice envelope,” and she says “The heck you did. You’re just trying to blame me again for something you forgot to do. Grow up, already, will you?” “Okay,” he says, “I’ll try. Watch.” He raps on the glass partition separating them from the driver and says through the grille “Sir, even if I know we’re short of time, would you please drive back to the house you picked us up at? The clothes I put on for the event we’re going to are all wrong and I have to change.” “Can do,” the driver says, but he doesn’t turn around at the next intersection. “Sir,” he says, “you missed the turn. Will you please make it at the next cross street?” “Will do,” the driver says, but passes the next cross street and continues straight ahead. “I’m sorry, I can’t be mature about this,” he says to Gwen, and slams the partition with his hand and shouts at the driver “Damn you, when I say turn, I mean turn, turn, turn.” …Gwen says in bed “Martin, help me; I can’t see. My eyes. There’s nothing there. Everything’s black.” “That’s because it’s night,” he says, “there are no stars or moon out, the curtains are closed and your eyes are probably shut. Are they?” “Yes.” “Then open them.” “You’re right,” she says; “now I can see. Thank you. Although the room’s still very dark.” “I told you; it’s late, or early. Want me to switch on your light?” “Just tell me the time so I can be sure what you say is so.” “You have to begin to trust me,” he says, “but okay.” He fingers around for his watch on his night table, presses the button on it to light the watch face, sees it’s quarter past four; four-seventeen, to be exact. “It’s three-thirty,” he says. “That’s in the evening, or morning. You’ll be all right. Go back to sleep.” She doesn’t say anything. “You already asleep?” Nothing. “You must be.” He moves closer to her, one each of their knees and shoulders touch. “Want me to get your breast out? Nothing sexual in that suggestion, I want you to know. Just, usually when you’re lying on your side in bed, you lie partly on your breast and ask me to pull it out. It’s not something I mind doing. In fact, of all the things you ask me to do for you at night, this is the one I like doing most. Does that sound infantile? I hope not.” She doesn’t say anything. “Last time. Gwen?” Nothing. “Good, I’m glad, you’re sleeping peacefully. But I want to help you with your breast so you’re not bothered by it later on. I’m sure it can be uncomfortable.” He reaches over her, grabs her right breast, pulls it out from underneath her and continues to hold it. Then he rubs the nipple. “Don’t,” she says. “I want to sleep.” …He wakes up. He tries to remember a dream he just had, which seemed important. Gwen was driving a car, a convertible, but with the top up. It was snowing and a thin layer of it covered the ground. It almost looked like it was painted on, he thinks. He doesn’t ever remember snow in one of his dreams. He doesn’t recall it ever raining in a dream either, but he’s sure it has. It was a light snow, the flakes quite large and falling slowly. What else? She was steering the wheel with her left hand, waving to him with her right. Then, as she drove past, she blew a kiss to him. He was standing at the corner of a city sidewalk, waiting for the light to change. There were no other cars or pedestrians. When she got to the next street, she made a U-turn and pulled up beside him, the engine still running. Her window slid down and she started speaking to him. He thinks she first said “Hi, how are you?” and then something like “I’m about to say the most important thing I’ve ever said to you and I don’t want you to forget it.” Then she said it, but he can’t remember what it was. Maybe if he shut his eyes and thought even harder, he’ll remember. He does that but nothing comes. Damn, he thinks; probably the best thing in all his dreams so far and he loses it. Holds out his arm and presses the button on his watch. Little past two, he sees. But why’s he even wearing the watch? He’s not leaving his room tonight except, maybe, to get a glass of water in the kitchen from the filtered-water tap. Takes his watch off and places it face-up on his night table. And his clothes. He’ll sleep better without them, and even better if he gets under the covers. Sits up, undresses, throws the clothes onto a nearby chair, gets under the covers on his side of the bed, shuts his eyes and tries to remember what she said. …He’s getting out of a cab in front of his mother’s building. He’s with his sister and sees Gwen standing in the street, her hands holding a book a few inches from her face and reading. “Look, there’s Gwen,” he says to his sister. “I don’t see her,” his sister says. “You never met her, so you wouldn’t recognize her, but the person there reading in the street.” “Where? I still don’t see her.” “There, there,” he says, pointing. “She’s so close we almost could touch her.” Gwen doesn’t look up; just keeps reading. “Oh, Gwen, what am I going to do without you?” he says. A car comes down the street, almost hits her, but she doesn’t move or look away from her book. “What’re you reading that’s so engrossing?” he says. “Because that’s just what you need, a book so good that it takes your life from you. But really, is this any time and place to be a bookworm? Put it down, look around, next car might clip ya.” She continues to read. “Gwendolyn, my precious doll, listen to me for once. You’re not a pigeon, though even they occasionally get run over. So you gotta move. For the last time, you have to. Come just a few feet closer to me and I promise you’ll be safe.” She stays where she is, reading. “You were never pigheaded,” he says, “so I don’t understand what you’re doing. Anyway, all I can say is that’s one thing you never were.” …He’s waiting for a bus at a bus shelter. One comes and he steps into the street but doesn’t signal it and it goes past. Three more come, one after the other, all of them his bus, but he lets these pass too. A fifth bus comes and he sees Gwen seated at a window on his side of the street and looking straight ahead. He yells “Jesus, Gwen, wait, stop!” and runs after it.” …He pushes Gwen outside in her wheelchair. It’s cold, he thinks Below freezing, and looks like it might snow. He’s in a winter jacket, muffler and watchcap, but she’s only wearing indoor clothes and slippers without socks. Her eyes are closed and she’s slumped to one side. “Gwen, you awake?” he says. “No? Okay.” She’ll freeze to death out here the way she’s dressed, he thinks, and locks the wheels of her chair and goes inside. He lights the burner under the tea kettle and looks outside. She still seems to be sleeping. She’ll come in when she wants to, he thinks, and gets the can of coffee out of the freezer. …Gwen’s lying in an aluminum rowboat that he’s pulling with one hand through a party. She’s on her back, her head on a seat cushion. “I hate dragging you around like this,” he says, “but I have to find that woman,” and she says “That’s all right; I’ve time.” He’s looking for a tall thin beautiful blond woman. He met her once, he forgets where, and they seemed to have hit it off and she said to look for her at this party. He pulls the boat through another room, this one even more crowded than the last. People are gabbing, drinking, several of them smoking cigarettes. “Don’t they know those things are bad for you,” he says, “and the sidestream smoke bad for anybody you’re near?” “Live and let live,” Gwen says, smiling at him and adjusting the cushion so her head’s right in the middle of it. “I’m glad you’re finally happy again,” he says. “I am. This is fun. Though it must be difficult for you, dragging me from room to room in this, without any water under it.” “No, you’re light.” He drags the boat into another room, the most crowded yet. Must be the formal room, he thinks: men dressed in suits and ties and most of them smoking cigars and the few women in it dressed in long black dresses and lots of jewelry. The men seem to be mostly Indians and Pakistanis — anyway, from that part of the world: Southeast Asia, if that’s where those countries are. “She’s not here either,” he says to Gwen. “You can’t see from down there, but take my word.” “So let’s give up on her and get something to eat,” she says. Then he sees a woman across the room waving an empty champagne flute at him. It’s the beautiful tall blond, and she starts over to them. “You see, I’m right, she is here,” he says to Gwen, but she’s no longer in the boat. In her place, where she was lying, is a celery about five feet long, the top leaves resting on the pillow where her head was. “How can that be?” he says to the woman. “Not only is my wife gone, when it would’ve been impossible for her to get out of the boat herself and if anyone helped her I would’ve seen them, but she’s been replaced by a monstrosity. She must’ve thought you and I wanted to be alone together,” and the woman says “Why on earth would she ever think that? And celery’s supposed to be good for the blood. I think we should stick around till she comes back.” “All night? Even if the party ends?” and she says “Longer, if it has to come to that. Don’t be a bad example of your own behavior.” “What do you mean? Seriously, and I’m not trying to sound naïve, what do you?” …Gwen’s on a bed in a hospital room, feeding and excreting and breathing tubes in her. She’s on her back, looks uncomfortable, and he thinks getting food from outside for her will boost her spirits. “I’ll be back soon,” he says. “I’m going to get you a big surprise.” She stares at him and moves her mouth. “Don’t try to speak. It’s no good for you. Don’t even move your eyes. And whatever you do, keep your mitts off the tubes, especially the ventilator one in your mouth.” She nods. “Not even your head,” he says. “Nothing. No movement. Stay absolutely still, you hear? Although don’t indicate you do or don’t. Goodbye, sweetheart,” and he kisses her forehead. She smiles. “What did I just tell you? No expressions, either.” He leaves the room. He’s on the street and heads for the Triple-X Theatre a few doors down from the hospital. Three tough-looking policemen are standing in front of the theater, one of them, it seems, telling a joke and the other two laughing. He has to pass them to get to the lobby and thinks they’re going to ask where he’s going, but they ignore him. He goes through the lobby, pushes a curtain aside and enters the theater. It’s faintly lit and there are no people in the audience or exotic dancers on the stage, just a man with a broom sweeping it up. Pity, he thinks. He wouldn’t have minded a little dancing and simulated sex thrown in with the food. Any kind of sex, really, but only women. He goes up to what seems like a refreshment stand at the back of the theater and asks the man behind it “Do you sell Indian food?” “On both counts, you’re right,” the man says. “We sell and it’s Indian.” “My wife likes it and is in the hospital, some say on her death bed, others — well, I won’t say what they say, and I want to give her a lift. What do you have today that’s special?” The man says “I’m not a full-blooded Indian myself but I am for the first time making chicken breasts,” and he says “That sounds good; I’ll have one to go.” “You have to have two if I’m to go through all the trouble of killing a chicken and making it.” “Two, then, which doesn’t seem unreasonable.” “Come with me.” They go to the front of the theater — the sweeper’s gone but there’s an old man in dark sunglasses sitting in the middle of the first row and staring at the empty stage, or maybe his eyes are closed — and climb the steps to the right. The man points to a door partially hidden by a stage curtain and says “You can pick up the food in there.” “Nice to meet you,” and he opens the door and goes inside. It’s the interior of an Indian palace overlooking a great expanse of water. In fact, he thinks, it must be an enormous sea or one of the oceans. There are no boats or anything else on it and no people on the sandy beach. The palace has very gaudy furniture and a marble staircase and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling about thirty feet up with lots of bright candles in them, some of them flickering and about to go out. If one of the chandeliers falls and nobody catches it, he thinks, or even a single candle, this place could be a firetrap. He smells food with Indian spices in it but there’s no booth or window around to get it from. “Is anybody here?” he yells. “Such a vast space and nobody to populate it? How do you do your cleaning, then, because this room is spotless. Anyway, I got to get back to my wife in the hospital up the street, so if you have my take-out ready, let me know. Hello? Hello?” …It’s night and he’s walking on a dark cobblestone street with his sister. Looks like old Europe, he thinks, but how’d they get here? His sister seems to be around thirteen, when he thought she died several days shy of her tenth birthday. Well, it’s obvious she didn’t die, or people can come back. She’s holding his hand and says “Martin, I have to make. Do you know where I can, because I have to go badly.” “There’s a toilet,” he says, pointing to a door in a brick wall with a handicapped sign on it. “I’ll use it after you, even if I’m not handicapped.” She goes in and he waits outside. A man tries the doorknob, it’s locked, and he says to him “My younger sister’s in there. She shouldn’t be long, but there’s a line. She’s number one. I’m number two. And you’re three.” “Fine,” the man says, “anything you say, sir.” Nice guy and polite and very reasonable, he thinks, the way people should always be. His sister comes out, the toilet’s still flushing, and the man darts to the door. “Hey, wait, you agreed to the line. And I have to go as much as anybody.” The man rolls up his sleeves and says “Ya wanna make something out of it? Because you’re lying, buddy; big, big lying. You were three and I was two, so you’re after me.” “What a bunch of junk that is,” he says, “but okay. You’re a lot bigger and younger than I and I’m not anyone to physically fight over anything. Those days, and I don’t only credit the change to my increasing frailty, are long past.” “Fine,” the man says, “anything you say,” and goes into the toilet, which is still flushing. “That, my dear,” he says to his sister, “is a classic example of flagrant untruthfulness and bullying,” and she