My Only Wife Read online

  24.

  MY WIFE CRACKED EGGS.

  She usually slept later than I did. My wife worked afternoons to evenings most of the time, and I worked days.

  She would wake and watch me get ready, still tangled in the sheets, her smooth morning arms stretching to start feeling the day.

  But on mornings after we had gone out together, she woke early, afflicted by some sort of reverse hangover.

  I would hear her in the kitchen and get out of bed. I’d sit at the table and watch her take the carton of eggs from the fridge, maybe make some small talk about the night before. But as she squeezed open the Styrofoam carton and took an egg between two long fingers, she would hold an index finger to her lips to quiet me. It was a delicate and distinct process. Two fingers and a thumb on the egg now, she tapped it twice on the side of the frying pan and brought the other hand down to spread the shell and empty it of its yolk.

  My wife would set the shell aside on a paper towel and fry up the eggs, scoop them onto a plate, and sit beside me at the table.

  My wife didn’t eat eggs. She liked the sound of the crack. She liked to make me breakfast, but it was rare for her to cook much otherwise.

  My wife making me these eggs seemed one of the acts that I thought proved how true and generous she was, that she would make me eggs when she didn’t even like them. I would deny myself the truth of how much I knew she loved the sound of them cracking. I convinced myself it was all for my benefit. I told myself that she made us quiet down before she cracked the eggs to amuse me.

  It took me so long to realize very little was done for my benefit.

  We would sit as the sun shined brightly through the window, and the way the light hit the left side of her face, I began to see wrinkles, deep furrows forming beside her mouth, the crinkles aside her eyes I admired so lovingly remaining after she smiled. Her forehead was striped with pencil thin creases. Those long fingers I had watched perform their egg-cracking ritual, now fidgeting with a pajama drawstring, were growing bony and form-fitting.

  One morning, when I was still avidly testing what I could get away with, two months of married life under my belt, I said, “Tell me a story.” And for some reason she granted me my wish.

  She raised her eyebrows and those pinstripes thickened above. I never asked my wife for stories. I thought they were something she wanted for herself, but that morning I felt greedy.

  “You want me to tell you a story?” my wife said.

  “Please. I’ve nothing else to do today.”

  “I only know true stories,” she offered, unsure.

  “No true stories. I want a story that’s never existed, even in theory.” I felt myself getting excited. I was limiting her. “I want a child’s bedtime story right now—in the morning.”

  My wife smiled, energized and nervous. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “One never does.” I shook my head, challenging, playful.

  My wife held her breath, staring at me.

  My wife swallowed.

  My wife inhaled and began, as if part of her knew this time would come. She was always prepared. I ate my eggs.

  “Once there was a warehouse room that was empty. It had hardwood floors and three steel pillars lining the center of the vast space. The room had four white walls. On the fourth wall, there were four windows. There were many pipes and a radiator, one tiny radiator to heat the entire area. That warehouse wanted nothing more in the world than to be filled with useless objects: with soundless phonographs and tick-less clocks. That room wanted spout-less teapots and halves of saucers, typewriters with irreplaceable ribbons and cracked vases. The room longed to be lined with punched through canvases and oatmeal box cameras. It wanted newspapers too brittle to be opened and read and jars upon jars of keys with no locks. The room wanted objects that were both less and more than they once were. The room was hungry to be filled and silent with clarity. The room stared out its windows at a bleak urban landscape.

  “A man began to visit early in the morning. He brought with him a card table and a folding chair. He brought a ladder and a fine-tipped permanent marker. The man brought his jacket and his boots. On his first visit the man began a ritual. The man paced back and forth through the space. He would start at the door and walk along the wall of windows. When he reached the opposite wall he would take one step over and walk in the opposite direction. He would zigzag his way around the entire room in this manner, plowing the floor with his careful, beside themselves, strides. When he reached the opposite corner of the room he took out his marker and removed the cap. He would draw something tiny on the wall, in an area of about four square inches. Each day he would fill another square with something.Some days it was a gentle little face. Some days a tiny country scene would unfold in the square. Some days he would write a small account of something or other. He would work his way across the wall this way and when he finished a line he moved up and began another. When he could no longer reach he paced his way around the room carrying the ladder.

  “On a Sunday he used up his first marker and placed it on the ground in front of where it had run out of ink. He did not finish the picture that day. He left it partially complete on the wall next to a white space and an intricate Spanish-looking design. The next day he began with another marker.

  “On another Sunday he finished this wall entirely, and on Monday he began the next wall. The back wall was lined with pens now.

  “Each day after the man paced and then drew, he sat at his table and looked at the walls. He set a timer and sat for one hour along the windowed wall, too far away to see any of the individual pictures. He sat, sometimes silent, sometimes humming. During this time the room thanked him for coming each day to help fill it up.

  “At night the warehouse was alone. Moonlight shined in, flooding the floor, but never reached the walls.

  “The room felt fancy and wild, armored with the drawings the man had covered it with. In a few years the man finished the room. One early morning he brought a camera in as well and took several rolls of film. He tried to get a picture of every section of the four walls, even the portions surrounding the windows. He left once with the table and chair. He returned. He left once with the ladder. He returned. He left once with the camera, his jacket, his boots. Before shutting the door behind him, he set the last, unfinished marker on the ground, outside the span of the door swing. The man shut the door behind him and didn’t bother to lock it.

  “The room was full. It was painted with pictures and littered with pens. The room was quieter now, with no one to thank, but still content. The room felt still and stagnant. It waited for someone to come and discover the pictures, for someone to appreciate how the room had grown.

  “It wasn’t too long before a younger man realized the warehouse room was unlocked though, and snuck in. He looked at the walls for hours and brought a girl and a flashlight back with him the next night. The boy’s plan worked and the girl fell in love with the boy. Well, really she fell in love with the room, but she loved the boy for showing it to her. The room could tell it was itself that the girl loved, but was happy to help the boy. They came back every night for a week and then the boy invited some other friends to the warehouse. These other friends were too concerned with themselves to recognize the beauty of the room. They made fun of the room and of the boy so that they could feel they were the focus of attention. They couldn’t understand why anyone would want to cover a room in tiny pictures like this and leave it unlocked and unprotected. The other kids said that the artist mustn’t have cared much. The other kids returned on their own later that night with cartons of rotten eggs, and hurled them at the walls. The crack of the eggs on the walls was deafening. The room smelled awful. The drawings ran in some places, drooping down the walls. In others they turned jaundiced glossy, dribbling yolk, smattered with eggshell bits. The kids left, hooting and hollering, the empty egg cartons confusing the order of the pens on the ground.

  “The next day the boy and the girl swung the
door open and were overwhelmed by the stench. They took deep breaths outside, and peeked in at the damage. They looked at each other and tears matched tears in each of their eyes. They found clean spots on the walls and kissed the room.

  “The boy and the girl walked out hand in hand. They looked back at the building when they were about a block away and kept walking. The room was lonely, but content, because it was still quite full, and all the more beautiful with the addition of the eggshells.”

  My wife looked down now. It felt like she was finished with the story, but I wasn’t sure. “That was heartbreaking. Thank you.”

  She took my plate with her aging hands. “Good,” she whispered. My wife made me breakfast and told me a story. I was sure she was as generous as wives could be. She exhausted herself.

  25.

  MY WIFE MADE A FEAST of a dinner.

  I arrived home late and she was lying on the couch listening to her warped records.

  I saw the table elaborately set. Candles had burned to stubs in the candlesticks.

  My wife didn’t even look up when I opened the door. She stared into the space ahead of her.

  I smelled the faint scent of something rich and gourmet. I realized the food must be cold.

  The smell was what had soaked into the textiles of the room.

  Pillows held the buttery garlic scent of lobster.

  Freshly baked bread wafted from the curtains.

  The smell of chopped and sautéed vegetables clung to the simple black tee shirt my wife wore as she laid on the couch. Her pants were in a puddle on the ground beside her. My wife’s legs leaned on each other, knock-kneed and tired.

  The aroma of white wine drifted from the tablecloth, where I saw one of the goblets had been spilled, still laying on its side.

  A bowl of fruit sat in the middle, colorful, but whole and unscented.

  “Something smells delicious,” I said, trying to cover up the fact that I knew I was late.

  On the couch my wife continued to stare straight ahead.

  “I didn’t know you were making such a fancy dinner tonight. What’s the occasion?” I said this in a way I hoped sounded appreciative and excited, rather than defensive.

  I knew it was not one of our birthdays, our anniversary, or Valentine’s Day. This must have been a reasonless act of love and I had come home late, hadn’t called.

  Now I think, But how was I to know? She hardly ever made dinner.

  “I’m not mad,” my wife said.

  To this I had no response. I had made no indication that I assumed she would be. She knew me too well. She could tell that my careful responses were apologetic rather than unknowing. I said nothing.

  “Sit down here by me,” she said, scooting her legs up further.

  I sat down by her feet, ran my hand from her knee to ankle repeatedly. I gave in like I always did. “I should’ve called. I’m sorry.”

  “Not a big deal.” My wife smiled. “It was a silly idea I had. I thought I might try my hand at cooking a nice, fancy meal for the two of us. I can warm it up. Sit here by me for a while.”

  “Were you going to paint the table after we ate?”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that. I guess all that food’s still good for something. I could finally make that painting I’ve been going on and on about. Eh, I’m tired. It’s exhausting cooking a feast. Rest here with me and we’ll get to work in a minute.” Her eyes glazed again.

  I was still uncomfortable. “Did you spill that wine glass on purpose?”

  My wife looked at me confused, started to sit up and turn around. “Did one of the wine glasses spill?”

  “You didn’t notice?” I asked. I assumed she’d knocked it over after having been seated at the table waiting for me a minute too long.

  Her head turned, her eyes were trained on the spilt wine. I heard her suddenly smell it with a strong sniff. “No. When could that have happened? We need to clean that up before it stains the wood.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, standing, patting her knee. I crossed to the table and began to remove the settings, the plates of food.

  My wife turned to watch me. “How could that have happened?” she repeated.

  I finished clearing the table and bundled up the tablecloth. I dumped it in the hamper, but the wet spot had whitened the wood in an oddly-shaped splotch already. “Maybe the glass wasn’t flat on the table; maybe half of its base was on a piece of silverware or something. It could have tipped anytime. Maybe when I came in.” Whenever we shut the door, the whole apartment shook.

  My wife’s face calmed a bit, but her hand lingered near her stomach, like something had jarred deep within her, like she might be sick.

  I went into the kitchen to get a rag and some Pledge.

  I heard my wife hum along with the record.

  I rubbed at the splotch, but the white darkened only a shade to pale brown, still distinguishable from the rest of the table.

  She stood, peculiarly still and meditative. “How odd,” my wife said softly. It didn’t feel like she was talking to me.

  I walked into the kitchen and called to her. “I’m gonna start warming this up in here, alright?” I worked to restore the food to its original grandeur, added a few spices of my own, and my wife eventually joined me, watched me work while she leaned against the sink.

  We ate the meal standing at the counter. We never returned to the dining room, never even settled at the kitchen table. We cracked into the lobster on its platter, which was balanced on the burners of the stove. We ate the vegetables from the large bowl I microwaved them in. We pulled off chunks of bread I had warmed in the oven, slathering on butter straight from the wax-paper covered stick, with dull knives. I poured another glass of white wine for each of us and we drank them down quickly; we poured again.

  When we had demolished the countertop, the wreckage was severe. It looked as if an army of hungry scavengers had invaded our kitchen.

  It was then that we sat down at the table and each pulled a piece of fruit from the bowl.

  I took an orange, deftly peeling the skin off in two pieces.

  My wife took an apple. She ate it with a knife in hand, slicing off chunks, piece by piece, instead of just biting in. The knife would meet her thumb, and I would watch for blood each time, but she remained unscathed.

  We traded with each other, placing slices into the other’s mouth.

  When we finished our fruit, I asked her, “Sure you don’t want to do a modern still life of this mess on the counter?” She looked tempted for a minute, but then I saw artistic ambition give way to the urge to have everything tidy again. She shook her head. We slid lobster carcasses into the trash. We wrapped up the remaining bread. We put the leftover vegetables in Tupperware. We poured out the little wine that was left in the bottle between our two glasses. I washed the dishes; she dried and put them away.

  We wandered back into the living room. My wife eyed the spot on the table. “Did you try to get this out?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “This is the best that can be done?”

  I nodded the truth.

  26.

  I READ A STORY I’d found in an art history book to my wife. We were sprawled on the couch of a bookstore. This activity defined most of our fifth year together: colonizing one or more stuffed pieces of furniture in bookstores or cafes for the better part of a day.

  The story I read was an account of why Rodin’s great monument to Balzac lacked hands.

  “As Rodin was nearing the completion of the cast for what was to be his monument to Balzac, he called a student in to share in his joy and excitement at his progress.

  “The student came into his studio and Rodin pulled the sheet from the plaster cast.

  “‘Master,’ the student gasped, ‘this statue is truly superb, but, my god, those hands are magnificent! They are surely the most beautiful thing you have ever created.’

  “Annoyed, Rodin quickly covered the statue, and ushered the student from his studio,
calling a second pupil in to hear another opinion.

  “The second apprentice entered and Rodin, again, pulled the sheet from the plaster cast with a flourish.

  “‘Master,’ the student brought his hand to his face in amazement, ‘those hands are incredible. They are proof that you are the best sculptor this world has seen.’

  “Enraged at the affirmation of the previous student’s statement, he grabbed the chisel and hammer from his nearby worktable and in two hard knocks, had freed the hands from the sculpture. They fell to the ground shattering beyond repair.

  “‘Master, what have you done?’ The student fell to the ground grieving for the loss of those beautiful hands.

  “‘This was not meant to be a statue of hands. I never would have forgiven myself if the world had been distracted from the greatness of Balzac because of the hands I made him.’”

  My wife stared at me.

  I watched her eyes and, below them, saw something in her lap twitch.

  My wife’s hands were pulsing in tightly wound fists.

  Something was ticking its way up from her lungs.

  That something reached her lips and she opened her mouth: “But how was it that Rodin knew Balzac’s hands weren’t prettier than his prose?”

  I didn’t respond; I knew I couldn’t argue. I knew we would be quiet while we waited for the tension to dissipate. We sat and read silently for a long while. I switched books to try and ease the situation.

  My wife cleared her throat. She had something to say.

  A bookstore employee cut her off before her first syllable made its way out: “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’ll have to put your shoes back on.”

  My wife looked at this gentleman with an expression that said, “C’mon, really?”