His Wife Leaves Him

Marie Antoinette.” The old one or the new one?” and she says “neither of those but one of the two or three in-between. 1938.” “That would make me two. Did I order it or did you?” and she says “You never order anything online because you don’t know how to.” “Also,” he says, “because I can hardly stand seeing anything on the TV screen for even a single minute and most movies are pure dreck. Violent, vulgar, stupid, sophomoric—” “All right,” she says, “all right.” “So I figure, why bother renting a movie at a video store or even asking you to order one online that probably neither of us will like. In addition—” and she says “Shh, let me watch. It’s not as if I have to find worthless everything you do or that you can convince me to.” “Me? Your hubby? You got the wrong body, lady. Because why would I—” and she puts her finger over her lips and looks sternly at him and then turns back to the movie. Marie’s berating some foppish-looking man over a necklace he wants to be paid for and she claims she never bought, when the picture disappears and the screen starts flashing horizontal lines and then goes dark and next the room’s lights go on and off a few times and then stay off. He jumps off the bed and looks out the window. The whole neighborhood’s dark. “Oh, my goodness,” she says, “I’m frightened. Hold me,” and he says “Glad to, but stay there — it might take me some time,” and feels his way over to her by touching the dresser and bed and then her chair, and runs his hands up her legs and arms and hugs her around the head. “My sweetheart,” he says, “this is so awful. I’m very frightened too. I don’t want — this outage has convinced me of it — to live anymore.” “Don’t say that,” she says, “because where will that leave me?” Just then the generator starts up and the lights in the room go on and the movie resumes. “Thank God,” she says. “But shut the movie off and send it back. I don’t want to watch any more of it. It’s a familiar story with gorgeous sets but acted quite poorly and it’s all going to end badly for Louie and Marie.” …She’s in bed under the covers, he’s sitting in a chair beside her holding her hand; they’re watching Marie Antoinette on their DVD player. “Do you know if this is the new one or the old?” he says, and she says “I’m too sleepy to care.” “Did I order it or did you?” and she says “All I know is it wouldn’t have been my first choice,” and clasps her hands together on her chest and shuts her eyes. “Don’t fall asleep,” he says. “I don’t want to watch the movie alone. And you speak French, so I need you to translate it for me.” “The movie’s in English, made in America,” and he says “I haven’t understood a word anyone’s said.” “Then turn it off, because I’m not interested,” and he says “Glad to,” and presses the power button on the TV. All the lights in the room go off but the movie stays on. He gets up and looks out the window. “We seem to be the only ones who’ve lost power,” he says. “Martin, Martin, help me. I’m scared, I feel this is the beginning of everything going.” “Glad to,” he says, and lies down beside her and kisses her forehead and eyes and puts his hand under the covers and feels between her legs. “Now everything seems a little better,” she says, “but I won’t be able to sleep with the movie on. It’s going to end brutally, with their heads sliced off or the sounds of them rolling on the ground, which is just as bad. Take me to another room for the night.” He stands up, puts his arms under her back and legs and lifts her and carries her into their older daughter’s room. …“I’m going out for a walk,” he yells from the kitchen, and Gwen says from somewhere in the house “I didn’t hear you; what’s that you said?” “I’ll see you later,” he says, and leaves the house. He walks for a few seconds on the road by his house and then feels a sharp pain in his right temple, thinks Oh, no, it’s happening, what I for a long time dreaded, and collapses to the ground. I’m dead, he thinks. Probably a stroke, or shot an embolism, as my mother used to say. I got off easy, though. Pain for just a second and no lingering death. He’s now sitting on a tree limb about ten feet up, looking at his body on the ground. So this must be what I looked like when I was asleep, he thinks. I always wanted to know. Of course I could’ve had Gwen or one of my old girlfriends take a photo of me while I was asleep, but I never till now thought of doing that. Gwen. What it’s going to do to her. No preparation for my death, which she’ll find out about pretty quickly. Our house is right over there. I can see the roof through the trees. I want to cry about the spot I’ve put her in, but can’t. He feels his eyes. Nothing, he thinks, and I also don’t feel any tears welling up. I guess when you go you stay dry. No pissing, spitting, sweating, tears. A jogger stops about twenty feet away, approaches his body cautiously. “God almighty,” she says. She gets on her knees and puts her ear to his chest and mouth. “Poor guy,” she says. “Not a sound.” She tries dragging him off the road by his arms, probably so no cars will run him over, but it’s obvious he’s too heavy for her. And dead weight, of course, he thinks. A car stops; then severaclass="underline" a line of cars and a school bus. One of his kids on it? What’s he thinking? They’re grown up and out of the house. “Turn that thing around,” someone shouts at the bus driver. “There’s a dead body here.” Their cat crosses the footbridge from their house and licks his hand and then settles down beside him, its head resting on his chest. People get out of their cars, some on cell phones. Then sirens: an emergency medical truck. Four women run out of it with equipment, some they carry, some they roll, and hook up lines and tubes to him. “I know the man,” the jogger says; “I just realized it. He’s sort of an institution around here. Writer of some note and a very popular college teacher too. I read a front page article on him just last week. Because of it, I wanted to stop by his house and meet him and shake his hand for continuing to do what he does, although I never read a word of him, and now it’s too late. This always happens to me. I get a great idea to do something, and by the time I’m prepared to act on it, the possibility of it fizzles. His name’s Kyle Faulkner. He said in the article it’s a difficult name for a writer to have. Readers will always think of the shorter Faulkner, make unfortunate comparisons, though it didn’t seem to hurt him that much. As far as this neighborhood’s concerned, he’s famous.” “His name’s Martin Samuels,” a man says. “Where’d you ever get ‘Faulkner’? And ‘writer of some note’? Maybe ‘one note,’ because his work’s surely not to everyone’s liking. Too granquilogent and pompastic, or whatever the damn words are. I happened to have read a little of his work, or, rather, listened to him read a sample of his newest novel on a podcast connected to that article, so I’m in a position to say.” “I plan to listen to it,” she says, “and I will, but up till now I haven’t found the time.” Then he sees two policemen at his kitchen door, one of them knocking on it. He’s sitting on the patio table there. Normally, it’d topple over if he sat on it, he thinks. The policeman knocks again, but harder. “Ring the bell,” he says to him; “the knocking will only alarm her.” Gwen wheels her wheelchair around from her computer. “Open the door,” she says; “it’s unlocked.” He sees her saying this from the opened kitchen window. The policemen go in and one of them says “I’m afraid we’ve come with extraordinarily bad news for you, Mrs. Samuels. If you are Mrs. Samuels.” “I know what it is,” she says. “I sensed it but didn’t want to believe it, even before I heard the sirens. My husband died of a stroke while jogging, didn’t he?” “Walking,” the policeman says, “though you got half of it right. I don’t know how I know about the walking part, since no one saw him fall, but I do. A jogger did find him.” “Walking,” she says. “So that’s what he was shouting out to me before he left the house. I thought he said ‘I’m going out for a talk,’” and she lowers her head till her chin touches her chest, shuts her eyes and starts crying. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” she says. “You mean after we leave?” a policeman says. “We’d want you to come outside and identify the body first.” “I mean I don’t see how it’ll be possible to live without him. He was my main help. I used to say to him ‘Nobody but us could ever realize what we endure.’” “Now I understand,” the policeman says. “May I?” and he gets behind the wheelchair — the other policeman’s holding open the door — and pushes her outside. He gets off the table and follows them. …He’s walking along a busy city street and talking to himself. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m engaged to a woman who looks somewhat like a man and whom I don’t especially like. She’s really quite unpleasant, not just to me but to everyone, and overly assertive and too domineering, and not at all my physical type. She’s unattractive. Well, people can be unattractive — I’m unattractive, though I didn’t always used to be — so that alone wouldn’t stop me from falling in love with someone. But she does nothing to make herself even a bit more attractive. She wears blood-red nail polish and her hair’s always a mess and her clothes are all wrong for her. And she has too much hair on her face. She should get most of it removed. Gwen used to have a little blonde mustache and a few hairs sprouting out of her chin, and she went to an electrologist to get rid of them about once every six weeks. We used to drive there together and after the treatment, have lunch at the same place every time. Great sandwiches and salads and soups and moderately priced. We never tired of the place. Great coffee and the service was efficient and quick. Even the water: fresh and cold and with no ice in it, which is how we first asked for it and we didn’t have to tell them that a second time, and with a lemon wedge fixed to the rim of the glass. The owners soon knew us by name and greeted us warmly every time we came in and asked about our daughters. Why did we have to break up and divorce? I should’ve fought to keep the marriage going. Not doing that was the worst mistake of my life. I could kill myself for not acting better to her the last two years of our marriage. Idiot! Idiot!” People on the street look at him as he talks to himself. He yells to a bunch of them “Go on, look, what do I care? Things couldn’t be worse for me, so what does it matter what you think? I screwed up my life and am continuing to do so, royally, royally. Ah, the hell with you all.” He continues walking and talking to himself. “I should’ve promised her that I’ll be a much better husband and friend to her. ‘I’ve always been a good father, haven’t I,’ I should’ve said, ‘so what makes you think I can’t be a good husband again to you too? Just give me time, but you have to trust me. It’ll be worth it to you if you do, I swear. I won’t blow up at you again.’ I should’ve said, ‘I promise. I won’t be mean, short and impatient to you, get angry at you over