Michael’s Wife Read online

  And almost immediately he turned the car onto a dusty side road and then in the front yard of a house. He might as well have described it, “just across the tracks.”

  Three squat one-story houses of peeling stucco sat close together, one pink, one beige, one green. No trees, shrubs, or driveways. There was little need for a driveway because what grass remained of the lawns sat in sparse dry clumps a foot apart.

  The car parked in front of the middle beige house, facing the door, and to her right she could see the green of the air base across the main road. That green ended with the fence. On this side, all was arid and dusty.

  “Perhaps military life doesn’t look so appealing after all? Something of a comedown after Tucson?”

  Laurel didn’t answer, but opened the car door. She could take anything he could hand out—she hoped. Stepping out of the air-conditioned car, she could almost feel the weight of the sunlight on the top of her head. The heat took her breath away.

  Inside was even worse. The house was a choking stucco oven draining life from anything that moved in it. The front door opened into a small living room furnished with a Danish modern couch and two chairs—the wood scuffed, the dark brown upholstery worn and pilled. Cheap identical lamps sat on end tables. A coffee table, its blond finish out of place, stood in front of the couch.

  Along one wall between a bedroom door and a small hallway sat a long low stereo console, too large for the room, too expensive for the house, obviously moved from Michael’s bachelor quarters. Faded blue drapes, bare brown tiles, no bars to protect the windows, no massive bolted doors. The house seemed open, vulnerable.

  Michael began carrying boxes and luggage in from the car and she followed Jimmy around the partition that made up one wall of the living room. One could walk around either end of this partition to enter the kitchen.

  An ancient refrigerator banged instead of hummed. It and the white steel cabinets, apartment-size gas stove, dinette set, and a new clothes washer with the tags still on it crowded the kitchen to overflowing. She explored and found food in the refrigerator, plastic dishes and odd pots and pans in the cupboards.

  Sliding glass doors led into the backyard, their undraped panes reflecting the sun’s dazzle off the white concrete patio. A wire fence enclosed the backyards of all three houses making a good-sized play area and Laurel was relieved to see a swing set, sandbox, and tricycle. Jimmy would at last have playmates. Separate sets of clothesline were strung out behind each patio. The one on the left held a lonely bra.

  A bath and two tiny bedrooms completed the house. Michael had set up Jimmy’s crib and one twin bed in the back bedroom. In the front bedroom was the mate to the twin bed and Michael’s belongings.

  So that was how it was to be.

  Laurel dragged back to the kitchen and sank into a chair. Jimmy followed with a little truck he had retrieved from one of the boxes and lay on the floor at her feet sucking his thumb, pushing the truck back and forth languidly with his free hand.

  It was too hot and close to move. Laurel couldn’t help but compare this with the shaded walkways and huge cool rooms of the house in Tuscon.

  It started with a giggle. But soon she was laughing so hard she doubled up, her head on the table. She didn’t know why she laughed, she didn’t have the energy, she shouldn’t use up what little air remained in the stifling kitchen. Jimmy perched on one elbow and grinned at her.

  Michael came to lean against the partition, his shirt front soaked with sweat, his tie loosened. “You are sane, I hope,” he said, his forehead and dark brows set in quizzical lines.

  The comment sent her into another fit and Jimmy squealed delightedly.

  Michael almost hid the amusement in his eyes. He caught himself and opened the refrigerator to find a can of pop and two cans of beer. Jimmy soon made a sticky mess of himself and the floor with the pop. She gulped at the icy beer between giggles.

  “Welcome to Castle Devereaux, appointments by Cheap Rental,” Michael said, raising his can in a mock toast. “I’m glad you find it so amusing.” His eyes were half-lidded, secretive as he leaned against the refrigerator, looking down at her. He dwarfed the kitchen, looking even bigger than he had in the house in Tucson.

  “Amusing? It’s pathetic. We’ll fry in this place. Isn’t there any way to cool it?”

  “We don’t run to refrigeration, but there is a swamp cooler on the roof. If I can figure out how to turn it on.”

  She jumped and Jimmy ran to clutch at her leg as a grating, clanging noise like that of a car with a loose radiator fan filled the house. A musky odor soon seeped into the room.

  “Pe-u, now I know why they call it a swamp cooler.”

  “It hasn’t been used for a while. The smell should go away soon. The switch is here by the bathroom door,” he yelled above the racket. The cooler settled to a roaring hum, drowning out even the ancient refrigerator.

  Michael didn’t join them for lunch but showered and dressed in his tan uniform. He stopped in the kitchen to get a peanut butter kiss from Jimmy and turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “Have fun, little mother.” He was gone before she could ask when he would be home for dinner.

  She bathed Jimmy, put him down for a nap, showered and dressed in yellow slacks and overblouse, sandals, and a yellow scarf to tie back her thick, hot hair. Jimmy had adjusted to the cooler noise and slept untroubled as she moved about the room unpacking their clothes.

  At the bottom of the last suitcase she found the battered orange slacks and thought of Harley and of her meeting with Michael in Raymond McBride’s motel. She held them for a moment, running her finger over the tear in the pant leg, wondering how it got there, then put the slacks back into the suitcase.

  Her future was the main worry now, but the orange slacks fed her nagging anxiety over the past. When would it catch up with her?

  The house felt cooler, especially in the hall as she moved through it to the kitchen. But heat still filtered through the exposed glass of the sliding doors. Those doors would have to be draped; the glare was almost worse than the heat.

  Opening the refrigerator to find another beer, she heard a rapping behind her and turned to see a woman in shorts standing on the patio. Laurel slid the door back.

  The woman was short and plump and wore her shorts a little self-consciously. “Hi, I just came home and heard your cooler going so I figured my new neighbors had moved in.” Her smile was friendly, her eyes curious.

  “Come in. I was about to open a beer; will you have one with me?” It was a relief to get the woman inside and slide the doors closed against the heat.

  “I could use one. I never really appreciated beer until we transferred to the desert. I’m Myra Patrick.” She spoke all in a rush as though nervous or excited. “I live in the pink dump next door.” Myra slid into a chair by the table and looked around the kitchen. With brown hair cut short and deep dimples in each cheek, she looked like a slightly overweight pixy.

  “Laurel … Devereaux,” she said, handing Myra her untasted beer and finding herself another in the refrigerator.

  “Devereaux? You don’t know a Mike Devereaux, do you?”

  “My husband’s name is Michael.” Laurel sat at the table and opened her beer.

  “No, this one isn’t married … or he wasn’t.” Myra sat up in her chair. “Captain? Mike J. Tall, dark … blue eyes?”

  “That does sound like Michael.”

  Myra was in the process of lighting a cigarette, but she gaped at Laurel and the match burned down to her fingers. She jumped, blew it out, and lit another.

  “You mean you landed Mike Devereaux? Wait till this gets out.” She rolled her eyes in amused wonder. “When did all this happen?”

  Laurel got her a saucer for an ashtray and turned to find Myra looking at the highchair.

  “No, still wrong one. You are not newly wed. This Mike came from Tucson. He and Pat, my husband, served in Vietnam together. Mike’s got darkish skin and funny blue eyes. He’s pretty fast but n
ot that fast,” and she grinned at the high chair. “Tell me about your Michael and kids.”

  Laurel was embarrassed. She’d better straighten things out before Myra said anymore. “We have one son—Jimmy. Jimmy and I have been living in Tucson with Michael’s family and Michael has darkish skin and funny blue eyes. We were married before he went to Vietnam. Jimmy is two. I think we’re talking about the same man.”

  The cooler roared into the silence between them. Myra’s cigarette halted halfway to her mouth and stayed there. It was the first time she’d sat still since she came in.

  Michael could have warned her that he was moving them in next to friends of his.

  Her visitor didn’t look quite convinced. “He’s been stationed here for months. Why did he wait till now to bring you here? I guess I … we just assumed he was single. He always had plenty of money, and married men don’t. He never mentioned you or the baby. And he seemed free to.…” She caught herself and looked at the refrigerator to avoid Laurel’s eyes. “I’m. sorry. I didn’t come over here to drink your beer and then spread tales.”

  “I think I know what you were going to say. But it’s all right … I.…”

  “All right!” Myra’s friendly expression hardened as she dashed the cigarette into the saucer. “Look, I’m sorry I said as much as I did. But if we’re talking about the same man my opinion of Mike Devereaux has just fallen to dead zero.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. You see we’ve been separated for a long time. He.…” Laurel caught herself with surprise; she was actually defending Michael.

  “Well, that explains a few things. I guess I’d better let you get to your moving in.” She rose quickly as if eager to get away.

  “Myra? You will come back?” Laurel said, suddenly realizing how lonely she was without friends.

  “Oh, sure. Tell you what. I’ll round up Colleen. She lives on the other side of you and we’ll have coffee at my house tomorrow morning. Nine-thirty? Bring Jimmy. My Sherrie is three and they can get to know each other. Okay?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  But Myra still shook her head as she stepped off the patio and headed home.

  Laurel stood Jimmy in front of the toilet in the bathroom when he woke up from his nap. She tried to explain what she wanted of him, but he just looked blank. When she finally gave up, he hosed down the floor, one wall, and her slacks.

  That afternoon she scrubbed the bathroom. Motherhood wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  She waited dinner until six-thirty and then fixed eggs and bacon for the two of them, turning on the radio that sat on the kitchen counter, to relieve the loneliness of their dinner.

  “… of the rioting at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Officials at the University in Tempe say that they will be ready for any such student disorders on their own campus but don’t look for any trouble during the hot summer months.

  “Newsmen report that summer has forced the hippies from their winter encampments on the desert and that even the largest colony, near Florence, has been evacuated.

  “Officials report that the incidents of hepatitis have decreased in the southern part of the state as the hippies have moved north.

  “On the weather scene, tomorrow will be clear with temperatures ranging over 100 degrees in the Valley of the Sun and.…”

  Laurel switched off the radio. The mention of hippies always reminded her of Harley and his mistaking her for one. Where was Harley now? What was he doing?

  Michael didn’t come home until after they were in bed. When she got up the next morning, he was dressed and was going out the door. He paused only to say good-bye to Jimmy.

  Laurel finished the breakfast dishes by seven-thirty and decided to try out the new washer. Lifting the lid of the plastic diaper pail she choked on the acrid smell of ammonia. Picking up the pail, she closed her eyes and dumped the whole grim mess into the machine. Then she worked on the sticky spot on the kitchen floor where Jimmy had spilled his pop. Finally she gave up and scrubbed the whole floor. It was barely eight-thirty in the morning and already her back ached.

  At first it sounded like an explosion. The floor trembled beneath her, the windows rattled, and there was an answering tinkle from the cupboards, a roaring noise from outside the house.

  “Jet, Mommy!” Jimmy, jumping in his excitement, tried to open the sliding doors and point all at the same time.

  They both rushed out onto the patio and watched as one jet after another, sun glinting off their silvery sides, rose from the base, crossed the road, and screamed over the house.

  Laurel dashed back into the kitchen, her hands clamped over her ears. Her body trembled, her heart raced. The noise … something about that noise sent her into near panic. She didn’t know why.

  Some time after the last plane had soared above them she finally stopped the trembling in her legs. Tears smeared her cheeks as she stood gripping the cool edge of the sink, trying to understand her reaction. Just as she turned from the sink, a picture floated before her inner vision.

  A picture of gently swaying tall-tipped pines encircling a patch of sky … a contrail drifting diagonally across it … the white streak in the intense clean blue outlined in moving jagged green-black … as if she were lying on the ground looking up at the sky.

  Suddenly she began to tremble again.

  11

  A sleepy-looking blonde sat at the table drinking coffee with Myra. Laurel tapped on the glass.

  “Come on in!” Myra filled a third cup from the percolator. “Laurel, this is Colleen Houghton.”

  The blonde was beautiful, small and already made up over a glorious suntan. “Welcome to the ghetto.” Colleen Houghton gave her a dreamy smile and then looked at Jimmy. “So this is Mike Devereaux’s little boy.”

  “Do you know Michael, too?”

  “No, but I’ve heard a lot about him.” And in a languid drawl that had to be Texan: “You’re going to be something of a shock around here.”

  Myra’s house was identical with her own, less shabby, with more color to the walls. A little girl in a sundress and ponytail peeked around the partition wall. Jimmy leaped onto Laurel’s lap and glowered back at her.

  “Sherrie, come meet Jimmy,” Myra said. “He’s going to live next door and you’ll finally have someone to play with.”

  Sherrie moved timidly toward Jimmy, reaching out to touch his leg as if she couldn’t believe he really existed. It took some persuasion to get them out the door, but before long the children sat in the sandbox throwing sand at each other.

  “Are you Air Force, too?” Laurel asked Colleen.

  “Well, sort of. I’m what you call a hanger-on.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Myra said matter-of-factly. “Colleen lost her husband last year in Vietnam.” Neither woman even blinked.

  Colleen shrugged. “I’ve just never got up the gumption to leave. My friends are here and it’s cheaper living near a base with the BX and all. More eligible men, too.” She gave Myra a knowing look and said, “You might as well tell her.”

  Myra bit her lip and looked away. “I’d just gotten Colleen around to saying I could fix her up with your husband. I honestly didn’t know he had a family, Laurel, and it’s the same Mike. I saw him leave this morning.”

  “Oh,” Laurel said a little lamely. She could see Colleen’s blonde next to Michael’s dark; they’d make a stunning pair.

  “No harm done, I guess. I hadn’t said anything to him about it. Don’t tell, huh?” Myra refilled the cups. “I feel pretty silly.”

  The conversation promised to last until noon, settling into woman talk, Myra’s recipes, Colleen’s golf, gossip of the base that Laurel couldn’t follow, dull nothing chatter to pass the time. Laurel was soon bored and disturbed. She felt no more at home here than she had in Tucson. Using the excuse that she still had some unpacking to do, she left.

  Taking Michael’s Polaroid camera outside, she snapped pictures of Jimmy in the sandbox and on the swing. When Colleen left Myra’
s, she asked her to take a picture of the two of them.

  All afternoon the jets returned home. Michael didn’t.

  Another late lonely dinner, and when she’d put Jimmy to bed, she sat on the lumpy couch with pen and paper. She’d had an uneasy feeling that time was running out for her since morning when the roar of jet fighters had sent that strange vision bubbling up from the shadows of her mind. Laurel couldn’t explain why; she didn’t know if it was a memory. It could have been a picture she’d seen on a postcard or something irrelevant her subconscious had let surface at random as it might in a dream. But it had made her resolve early in the day to write that long overdue letter to Lisa Lawrence. Pride would not let her go to the phone to talk to this remote mother who could give her up so easily. But fear drove her to at least write her plea for help.

  Her first inclination was to start the letter with “Dear Mrs. Lawrence. But she wrote instead, “Dear Lisa,” looked at it and started again on a fresh piece of paper, “Dear Mother.” She began her letter in a breezy style, explaining that she was back with her family, living near the air base, much of Jimmy, little of Michael. And then she moved abruptly to a detailed list of what she had learned about herself, pleading with Lisa to fill in the gaps.

  “This will sound strange, I know, but I can’t remember anything before last April. No one here will believe that. I want to know about you, my father, my home, myself—anything you can tell me may help me to remember. I am so afraid, not knowing about myself and what I have done in my life. But worst of all, I don’t know what I might do. How I will react to things. It is like living a nightmare, watching myself and others but unable to change anything or control my life at all. And this will sound the strangest yet, but I sense that I’m in some kind of danger and I don’t know what it is. I must remember before it closes in on me. The one thing that keeps me going is Jimmy. I am trying hard to make up to him for what I did. I love him so.” Laurel asked that her letter be answered at once, enclosed the pictures, and sealed the envelope.