His Wife Leaves Him

s 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 nothing, talk under my breath against you, ever. I’ll be sweet and kind and good-natured and sympathetic and everything like that to you,’ I should’ve said, ‘if only you’ll not divorce me. I’ll be a much more agreeable person all around, you’ll see, and it’ll be real, not put on. I know how despicably I’ve behaved to you in the past,’ I should’ve said, ‘and I plan to change all that and be nothing but good and helpful to you from now on.’ Those are some of the things I should’ve said. What in God’s name stopped me? How did our marriage get so bad that we separated and then divorced and I ended up with this woman I don’t want to marry but have promised to? Where did I even meet her? She just appeared, and next thing I knew I was living with her, and then engaged, with the wedding set for next month.” Just then he sees Gwen driving down the street in a cream-colored sports car. Her wheelchair’s folded up in the back seat, its wheels sticking up and spinning. He goes into the street and waves his arms at her and yells “Gwen, Gwen, stop.” She pulls over to about a foot from the curb — he has to jump back onto the sidewalk or be hit by the car — and says “You. I thought I’d seen the last of you. Why did you flag me down? What are you doing in this city? Are you stalking me? Why did I ever stop for you, the last person on earth I’d want to meet?” “Gwen, you got to listen to me. I’m doing something really stupid. I’m marrying someone who’ll assure my constant unhappiness for the rest of my life. She’s all wrong for me, intellectually, morally, socially, physically. Even her clothes are ugly, her hair’s always unkempt, and she’s a tyrant and she doesn’t like kids. She had to have forced me into getting engaged to her, though I don’t remember that, because I never would have agreed to it voluntarily. Maybe she has something on me that if she reveals it would ruin my life, but I have to get out of it. Only you can help. Please take me back. I want us to remarry. May I get in the car?” “Let me think about it,” she says, smiling. “Does that smile mean yes? About letting me in the car? Remarrying me? Both?” “I’m not sure,” she says. “You’re not sure if that’s what your smile meant?” “I don’t like you jilting another woman for me,” she says. “It’ll be the last time for that, I swear. You’re the only one I want to be with, and I’ll stick by you forever. No matter how sick you might become, I’ll be there for you, regardless of how hard it gets. Please give me one more chance.” “Then, yes,” she says, “get in. She unlocks the door with a button on her side and he reaches for the door handle. Before he can open the door, she guns the motor and drives off. “Wait,” he says, “wait.” He resumes walking and talking to himself. The street, which was almost deserted a few seconds ago, is crowded again. “It was so close. If only I’d got in the car before she drove off. I would’ve sat beside her and said what a great driver she is and how beautiful she looks and what a lovely dress she has on and how happy I am to be sitting next to her and that I’ll never, ever be anything but good, sweet, kind and patient to her again. ‘You’ve seen the last of your Mr. Bad Guy, I swear on a stack of Bibles to you,’ I would’ve said. Then I would’ve asked her to park in an out-of-the-way spot and when she did I would’ve kissed her eyelids and fingertips and felt her thighs and breasts and then kissed her lips and said I loved her—‘I love you’—and have never stopped loving her since I first met her, not even once. ‘I am so happy now,’ I would’ve said, ‘I could cry.’” …She’s lying in bed on her back, doesn’t seem to be breathing. “Gwen? Gwen?” he says. He listens through her dress for a heartbeat, feels her temples and wrists for a pulse. Nothing. But she’s smiling, or looks like she is, but didn’t he read somewhere that it might, soon after someone dies, have something to do with the accumulated gas inside? He pushes up her dress, shirt and bra and puts his ear to her chest. Nothing. He thought maybe all those clothes were concealing her heartbeat. He feels her chest for a heartbeat, then strokes her breasts, then kisses her nipples and thinks Why not; it’s not impossible. Nobody’s around and nobody will be coming around. Just once. If it turns out to be too difficult or disgusting, he’ll stop. He pulls off her panties, raises her legs up into a crab position, gets the lubricant tube out of her night table, squeezes lubricant on his fingers and smears it on her vagina. He unzips his fly. No, he thinks, do it the way you always do it, and keeping your pants and undershorts on will make it more difficult to get inside her. He takes off his shirt and pants and shorts, her knees have folded in so he spreads them apart again, gets on top of her and sticks his penis in. He comes very quickly. About as fast as he ever did, he thinks, or since he was in his twenties. He can’t even remember feeling anything now. Anyway, he wouldn’t have wanted it to go on much longer. He gets off the bed, wipes her vagina with his undershorts, puts her panties back on, pulls down her bra, shirt and dress. She still seems to be smiling. He puts his ear to her nose and mouth. Nothing. Maybe it is gas, he thinks, and puts his ear to her stomach but doesn’t hear anything in there. He puts his clothes back on and dials 911. “Reason for calling?” a woman says. “I’ve just done something terrible,” he says, “maybe worse than that, but definitely something most people would find disgusting. I made love to my wife after she died a natural death, probably from a stroke.” “So you’re reporting a death and the deceased is there with you now?” “Yes.” “Give me her name and address where you are and then I want you to wait there,” and he gives them though doesn’t think the house number’s right. “But you’re certain she’s dead? You a physician?” “No.” “Then I can get someone on the phone to give you instructions how to help her if she’s showing even the slightest signs of life. Just listening and feeling for her breath and pulse doesn’t tell you everything.” “She’s dead, I’m sure.” “An emergency medical team has already been dispatched and should be there in five minutes.” “There’s no rush,” he says, “although it’s true I’d like to get this over with soon as I can,” and he hangs up. The phone rings right after. It’s the same woman, he’s sure, though he has no idea what for. Let it ring, he thinks; I’ve told her everything. …He wakes up. What was that all about? he thinks. Well, it’s been awhile and he’s a bit horny, or thinks he was when he fell asleep. Could he actually do what he did in the dream? Forget it. No, could he? If she were in bed right now and just died or within the last hour or so, maybe less, and nobody was around and there was no possibility of anyone interrupting him, he might. He could. One last time. He thinks so. Probably, yes. And then do everything he did: wipe, re-dress her, etcetera, call 911. …They’re in a cabin in Alaska or somewhere far north. He looks out the window. Snow all around — fifteen-to-twenty-foot drifts in some places and pine trees, or some kind of evergreen, that might be a hundred feet tall — but no other cabins and no roads. The cabin’s next to a body of water that isn’t frozen. Looks like an ocean or huge lake or could even be a very wide river whose opposite bank is too far away to see. Doesn’t understand sea ice and currents and the warming effects of the Gulf Stream, if it is an ocean, and things like that, so won’t try to explain why there isn’t even a little ice on the water. You’d think, though, he thinks…but forget it. He hears a motorboat come close to the cabin, stop for a few seconds, and then putter off. “I think our lunch has come,” he says to Gwen, who’s at the dining table typing out a new poem on a small manual typewriter. “Good,” she says, without looking up; “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving. Why do they send it over to us so late? Artists have to eat to create.” “Oh, I’m an artist? You could’ve fooled me. But not eating doesn’t