Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (43 page)
“I asked you a fucking question,” Annie shouted.
“I don’t talk to whores,” the man said, and the line went dead.
43
JUST TO TORTURE HIM, Lydia worked on the assignment at the kitchen table. Simon stalked the room with his mug of tea, squinting down at her work with perturbed frustration. Deciphering her handwriting was a near impossibility, according to the nuns at her old school. Sister Eleanor, the cruelest sister, with eyes black as prunes, had bound her hands with surgical tape when Lydia had failed to write in the proper position.
“What are you writing?” he finally asked.
“Oh,” she sighed in a voice light as meringue, “just an assignment for a class I’m taking.”
“What?”
Just as she’d thought, Annie hadn’t told him anything during their fuck session. “Don’t worry, Simon, you don’t have to pay for it. Actually, it’s free. All the spouses are allowed to do it.”
The look on his face was priceless. “You’re taking a class at St. Catherine’s?”
“Is something wrong?”
He’d broken out in a sweat. “I just wish you’d told me.”
“I’m telling you now. It’s a writing class. The art of the
personal
essay.” She emphasized the word
personal.
personal
essay.” She emphasized the word
personal.
“A writing class? What in hell for? You have no interest in writing.”
“Matter of fact, that friend of yours teaches it.” Quivering lips, twitching shoulder. An old man, she thought. A disgusting, horny old man. “Well, it’s been nice chatting.” She grabbed her bag and started for the door. He grabbed her violently.
“What do you think you’re doing, Lydia?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” she repeated derisively.
“Answer my question!”
“I don’t have to answer to you.” Roughly, she pulled away and walked out. It wasn’t until much later, when she’d driven into town to solemnly walk the aisles of the supermarket, that she realized she’d left her assignment on the kitchen table.
44
SIMON IMMEDIATELY TRIED calling Annie’s cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. He left a message on her machine at the college, begging her to call him, but he knew she wouldn’t. He also knew that she would end their affair; perhaps, in her own mind, she already had.
It’s over,
he thought, a sinking feeling in his chest. His stomach on fire. Over.
It’s over,
he thought, a sinking feeling in his chest. His stomach on fire. Over.
He would go to the registrar’s office in the morning, he decided. He would have Lydia’s name removed from Annie’s class roster. He would explain to the forlorn woman behind the counter that his wife was delusional, thinking she could handle a college-level class, and would not be attending any more of them.
The idea of never seeing Annie again, of never touching her, filled him with the deepest sense of anguish. He would go to her office in the morning, he decided. He would explain the situation. He would find a way to reach her.
But when he went to the college the next morning, Annie’s office was locked.
“Where’s Professor Knowles today,” he asked Charlotte, the department secretary, in as casual a tone as he could muster.
“Called in sick.”
“Oh?”
Charlotte gazed up at him. Her pencil, he noticed, was all chewed up on the end of it. “You look rather disappointed, Professor Haas.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I am. We were supposed to have lunch today.”
“Lunch?” Her big brown eyes widened suggestively. He didn’t appreciate the suggestion.
“Yes, Charlotte, we were going to
masticate
together.”
masticate
together.”
Charlotte’s face simmered. “Oh?”
“You might want to look it up.” He grinned. “Masticate.”
She gulped. “Okay.”
“Has she canceled her classes?”
“Professor Wendell is covering for her this afternoon.”
“Thank you, sweet Charlotte.”
Halfway out of the room, he heard the thump of her dictionary.
Felice Wendell taught all her classes in Briggs Hall, on the north side of campus. Felice was in the midst of lecturing when he slipped into her room, inspiring a ravenous eruption of whispering among her students. Felice flushed and smiled at him. “Well, now, what an unexpected delight. Hello, Professor Haas.”
“Hello, Felice. Ladies.” He sported a charming grin. “May I have a word with you, Felice? Won’t take a minute.”
“Of course.” She walked over and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “What could possibly be so urgent?”
“I just spoke with Annie Knowles,” he lied ruthlessly. “She mentioned you were teaching her class this afternoon. Look, I’ll teach it. I don’t have anything this afternoon.”
Felice scoffed, “Be my guest. I was doing her an extreme favor.”
“I realize that. I’m happy to do it.”
“Well, isn’t that nice. You know I’d never refuse
your
services, Simon,” she said dramatically, loud enough for the students to hear. “But who’s doing
whom
the favor? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
your
services, Simon,” she said dramatically, loud enough for the students to hear. “But who’s doing
whom
the favor? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
He cracked a smile. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He bowed slightly and walked out.
Felice called after him. “They’re reading their essays aloud, something about lovers and enemies. I gather it’s a subject you know something about?”
Without turning around, he answered, “Yes, I know something about that.”
At noon, he entered Hillard and located Annie’s classroom. He was a few minutes early. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Lydia’s face when she found him sitting here. Contrary to her devious little plan, she would
not
be reading her essay, which was chock-full of slanderous untruths.
My husband is an abusive man,
she’d written.
Once he locked me up in a closet. I didn’t eat for four days.
This, of course, was entirely fallacious.
He has the sexual needs of a predatory animal.
Well, perhaps that one he would allow.
not
be reading her essay, which was chock-full of slanderous untruths.
My husband is an abusive man,
she’d written.
Once he locked me up in a closet. I didn’t eat for four days.
This, of course, was entirely fallacious.
He has the sexual needs of a predatory animal.
Well, perhaps that one he would allow.
Ah, here they were now. Lovely girls with swinging long hair and fresh faces, unlike his tormented Lydia. Sylvia Wheeler, one of his art students, took a seat at the table. “Hello, Professor Haas. Where’s Ms. Knowles?”
“She couldn’t make it today. I’m filling in for her.”
“Groovy.”
“Ah, here’s the little woman now.”
His wife appeared in the doorway, her face flushed persimmon. She looked positively mortified. Her lips began to tremble, and he thought she might burst into tears, but she didn’t. “Don’t worry, love, I’ve got it right here.” He waved her assignment in the air like a handkerchief. “You won’t be marked off, if that’s what’s troubling you.”
He could feel her desire to run out, but something kept her there. She hesitated in the doorway while the other girls leered with fascination.
“Moving right along. This may be fun, actually. I’ve never taught around a table before. Something like
duck duck goose,
I imagine.”
duck duck goose,
I imagine.”
Some of the girls snickered. Lydia took her seat, her yellow fingertips scrambling to button up her cardigan. He observed her complexion, sallow and agitated.
“As some of you may know, I’m Simon Haas, and this”—he pointed to Lydia—“this is my
wife.
”
wife.
”
The girls shifted in their chairs, stifling giggles.
“We’ve been together for a long time, haven’t we, Mrs. Haas?” He tossed her a smile. “Now, as some of you know, for many years your class-mate here was the subject of many of my paintings, which turned out, in some instances, to be difficult for both of us. People look at the work and think what they want and feel what they want.”
The students shifted in their seats, eyeing him uncertainly.
“Now, then, when you write these autobiographical pieces about your lives,
writing from the heart,
as Ms. Knowles calls it, it’s important to understand that people will interpret your work any way they want to. Strangers. It’s every artist’s dilemma and we have little control over it. And it can be very painful for you, as well as for the people you write about, so I warn you to choose your subject matter with care.” He shot Lydia a cold look. “You see, it’s easy to call a man like me an asshole without really filling in all the gray areas. Like the lines in a drawing, black and white makes a picture; no matter how crude, it’s still recognizable in some way. It’s the framework, the
architecture,
so to speak. But then there’s
gray,
and that’s the heart of your work. Gray is where you want to get to, but it’s difficult. Anyone can take a piece of charcoal and sketch a figure; even a stick figure will suffice. Anyone can write a sentence that describes a person doing something. But it’s the gray area that beckons the true artist. It’s the place that lures us, frightens us, and even deceives us. It’s the place that drives us to do things. Awful things.”
writing from the heart,
as Ms. Knowles calls it, it’s important to understand that people will interpret your work any way they want to. Strangers. It’s every artist’s dilemma and we have little control over it. And it can be very painful for you, as well as for the people you write about, so I warn you to choose your subject matter with care.” He shot Lydia a cold look. “You see, it’s easy to call a man like me an asshole without really filling in all the gray areas. Like the lines in a drawing, black and white makes a picture; no matter how crude, it’s still recognizable in some way. It’s the framework, the
architecture,
so to speak. But then there’s
gray,
and that’s the heart of your work. Gray is where you want to get to, but it’s difficult. Anyone can take a piece of charcoal and sketch a figure; even a stick figure will suffice. Anyone can write a sentence that describes a person doing something. But it’s the gray area that beckons the true artist. It’s the place that lures us, frightens us, and even deceives us. It’s the place that drives us to do things. Awful things.”
He took Lydia’s assignment and flattened it on the table before him. Folding it, he fashioned it into a paper airplane. He knew he was being cruel, but he couldn’t help himself. “You will discover that, in order to learn, failure is often necessary. But even the worst material can often be put to use.”
He sailed the plane through the air toward the wastepaper basket. With perfect aim, it nose-dived directly into it. He met Lydia’s eyes. Hers burned with anger.
“That’s all for today,” he said with a smile, then walked out.
45
ENTERING THE SOUTH COTTAGE the next morning, Annie noticed that her mailbox was crammed with papers. The papers had been carelessly torn from a notebook and were filled with sloppy cursive handwriting that resembled Henry’s. In lieu of a paper clip, the student had used a safety pin. The name in the upper-right-hand corner was Lydia Haas.
My husband has eyes like soda tin and a heart like a black stone. He likes to have sex with me whenever he can. He is a magnificent lover. I give myself up to him. He brings me little presents. Sometimes he likes to use sex toys that drive me crazy. Once, he took me to a shop on Lark Street and made the shopkeeper explain how to use the bondage toys. Right there in the store, with people coming and going and me down on my knees, the manager showed my husband how to turn me into his love slave. I am completely at his disposal. I satisfy all his whims. I tremble in his hands. He likes me to put on outfits. Sometimes I put on my Catholic school uniform and show him my dirty white underpants. Sometimes he will tie me to the chair and feed me yellow custard . . .
Annie could read no further. She crumpled the paper up in her hands. She wanted to burn it, but she knew she could not. Furious, she went into her office and shut the door and burst into tears.
Never again!
she thought. Never would she let him near her.
Never again!
she thought. Never would she let him near her.
Disgusted, she opened her window and gulped the cold air. How could she have been so stupid? Now she was feeling nauseous. What could she have been thinking? She had gone blind, she decided. She had forgotten who she was.
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