The Man Who Loved His Wife. Vera Caspary

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СКАЧАТЬ a twenty-dollar art book, a Japanese kimono. Before the operation, when his voice was whole, he used to burst into the New York apartment shouting, “Hi, lovable, I’ve brought you a present.” Recently he had brought her a pair of amethyst earrings which she treasured less for their value than the price he had paid in pride in letting a strange shopkeeper hear his mangled voice.

      Today a gift would be a gesture of penitence. She would understand too well, offer tact too generously. Better let the whole thing blow over . . . unless she had already packed and left him.

      At the parking lot he found Cindy waiting and reproachful, swearing that she had not been more than three minutes late. Her hands were empty. She had bought nothing, merely enjoyed looking at things too costly for her modest purse. Fletcher did not bother to comment. At the time of the divorce he had established a trust fund for his daughter. Cindy’s income was around seventy-five dollars a week, secure and permanent. What had she to complain about?

      “I think it’s time we had a heart-to-heart talk, Daddy. It’s impossible to say anything in front of Don, he’s so proud.”

      Fletcher only half listened. Rush hour traffic, changing lights, heedless drivers, the glare of late afternoon sunshine, long lines of cars belching gas fumes, compounded his impatience. He drove too fast, cheated the changing lights in the urgent need to find Elaine at home, loving and unchanged. He framed the words of apology, heard her laughter and forgiveness.

      Cindy talked on and on about Don’s misfortunes, not only in the office where they gave the best cases to members of the partners’ families, but in previous jobs. “He simply doesn’t have the connections in New York. And it’s too brutal there, Daddy, you don’t know.”

      The boulevard climbed a small hill. A shaft of sunlight smote Fletcher’s eyes. Elaine’s laughter dissolved, the smile vanished. He saw her empty room, the dressing table bare of her jewel case, her jars and bottles, a note on the polished wood. She would say she had borne his moods as long as possible and that she was sorry, so terribly, terribly, tragically sorry. Hidden in a place where no one would ever think of looking for them, Fletcher kept a secret store of sleeping pills.

      “We’ve never asked you for any favors. Or money either,” said Cindy with a little grimace of humility. “Money doesn’t matter so terribly much to us except that you’ve got to keep up appearances. People would never want to pay a man a decent salary if they think he needs it.” The absolving stream of laughter mingled with the shriek of a passing police car’s siren. “Not that my husband expected anything, but people did talk a lot about me having a rich father. I told Don the truth, that seventy-five a week was every blessed cent I had in the world, but still there was the impression. Could I help it that Mom keeps up that big house and all? It wouldn’t have been natural if he hadn’t expected some excellent contacts at least. And when we came out here . . .” The laughter fluttered indecisively. Since Fletcher gave her no encouragement Cindy went on, “We did think you’d need a legal representative. Or something. Of course Don would have to pass his bar examinations but he’s been reading a lot on California law. It’s not too different basically, he says.”

      They turned off the boulevard onto a shady street. In a passing taxi Fletcher noticed a passenger in a large black straw hat. It was the kind of hat Elaine wore on sunny days. Fear stabbed at his heart again. He turned to look backward.

      “Please, Daddy, watch where you’re going!”

      He had crossed over the yellow line. He pulled the car over and pressed his foot hard upon the accelerator.

      “Daddy! We’re in a twenty-five-mile zone.”

      He drove the rest of the way at thirty and felt like a cripple. The ascent of their hill seemed endless. In the driveway he sounded his horn. The signal often brought Elaine running out to meet him. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold and without the pots that ought at this hour to have been bubbling and giving out pleasant odors. Her bedroom was too tidy, but the jars were still there, the jewel box and perfume bottles. In the living room the cushions were plumped up and in place. No newspapers and magazines littered the tables of the den. Alone, deserted, voiceless, and spent, Fletcher thought once more of his hidden pills.

      At the end of the corridor a door opened, “Are you back? Oh, dear, I’m late. I didn’t hear you come in, the shower was on, I guess.” Elaine ran toward him, sweet-scented and warm. Of their own volition his arms curved around her. She pressed herself close to enjoy his strength. Resentment and fear fled, he forgot frustration, believed himself the man he had been, pulled open the white toweling robe to feel her soft flesh.

      Cindy appeared. Elaine, self-conscious when her husband’s daughter witnessed the most ordinary caress, jerked herself away. Fletcher grunted, furious because the priceless, hopeful moment had been interrupted.

      “What’s this?” asked the girl.

      “A hat,” Elaine said.

      Cindy held it aloft, a man’s hat, high-crowned, narrow-brimmed. “Whose?”

      “Dr. Julian’s. He was here this afternoon.”

      Elaine moved backward toward the wall, as if deeper shadow could make her invisible. After Ralph had left, she had changed the sheets on her bed, stood under the shower, soaped herself in the hottest water she could bear, rinsed with a cold stream, seeking discomfort as partial penance.

      “Who’s he?”

      “A doctor. He took care of me when I had the flu, and he’s a friend, too. He asked for you Fletch.” There was no response. Elaine’s voice reached a higher pitch, was forced down as she added, “He used to live in this house. He stops in to see us sometimes. He was visiting a patient in the neighborhood.”

      In the redundant, shrill explanation Fletcher sensed disquiet. Visions flashed, nude bodies writhed, sparks shot high, miniature suns dazzled, a carousel of arms and loins, caresses, attitudes, breasts, positions, all at a giddy pace. Fury rose, phrases came to mind, savage anger stifled by affliction and helplessness. Elaine had disappeared. Her bedroom door was closed. She had shut herself away from him.

      At the corner bar in the den he filled a glass with ice, poured unmeasured whiskey. The drink brought no solace. This day had been an endurance contest against trivial irritations. Tomorrow would be no better. To regain self-esteem he looked backward to a past seen as a flashing parade of challenges and victories. Setbacks and losses were forgotten, for in the end he had put across big deals, recouped losses, kept ardent faith in himself. Fletcher Strode! Better off dead than enduring this life of petty defeats; showing the spleen of a spoiled child, throwing food at his wife, sulking because she had talked to another man.

      Elaine had never given him any real cause, his reasonable mind argued, to suspect disloyalty. On another level he ached to punish the faithless creature, to keep her forever from the pleasures of love. The diary was brought out of its hiding place, touched reverently like a secret scripture or a secret weapon.

      Her doctor paid another call on a healthy girl. Is the redhead in league with her? Perhaps Dr. Julian is only her sucker being used to provide her with some pill or poison that will do the job on me. Maybe a pain-killer because she is soft and would not want to see me suffer. I do not think she would dare tell him about her diabolical plan. Maybe she consults him about the psychological condition of her poor husband. It would be clever if she told him she worries about me wanting to commit suicide. How little they know about me. As if Fletcher Strode would take the coward’s way out . . .

      He stopped to read what he had written, proud and somewhat astonished by his use of words. Elaine came into the room СКАЧАТЬ