A Shattered Wife Read online

  The waiting area was deathly quiet.

  Martha did not respond except to hug herself as she tried to process his words. The other women looked stricken, pale and disbelieving, as if his diagnosis concerned their own husbands. No one made a move to comfort her, though. She realized that she was swaying slightly, and reached for a chair to steady herself.

  Paul touched her arm. "Maybe you should sit down."

  Martha wanted to do anything but sit down. "Can I see him?" she asked. Her own voice sounded strange and far away.

  He nodded and smiled a little, his hair falling forward casually with the movement. "Only for a few minutes, though. He’s been heavily sedated. Follow me, please."

  Martha stared in disbelief when she saw the giant mountain of a man lying flat on his back, helplessly attached to tubes and hoses. Her eyes stung, and the smell of antiseptic made her sniff. With trembling fingers she touched his thick, wavy hair, eyelids, and the familiar, broadly lined face. She could not ever remember him being sick, and her heart ached.

  "I'm here, Bill. I'll always be here," she whispered.

  ***

  William only got along well with his parents, especially his father, when he was in Cleveland and they were in Virginia. His mother was over-protective, always clucking over him like an old hen; she smothered him. His father was overpowering, dominating. William Jr., built small like his mother although he had the auburn hair and piercing blue eyes of his father, never had any desire to follow in his dad's footsteps. After college, he moved to Cleveland, established an accounting firm that was becoming quite successful, married and fathered two children. He was happy there. Cleveland was his real home. Visits to his parents were only obligatory ones.

  He arrived at the hospital at 2:00 a.m. and found his mother sitting alone in the empty waiting room. Over her faded cotton dress, she wore a cardigan sweater that was much too big for her. Sitting there, slumped over slightly and pressing nonexistent wrinkles out of her dress, she looked twice her age. Lines creased her face and wisps of silver hair hung limply on her thin neck.

  Before letting her see him, William made an attempt to adjust his thick glasses and emotions. Neither action was successful. The ordeal that lay ahead was not a welcome one, yet he had expected it sooner or later. His parents were growing old and, like it or not, it was his duty to care for them.

  When Martha looked up she smiled weakly and went to him with open arms. "You look so tired and thin," she said, reaching to touch his face.

  "I worked yesterday and haven’t gotten much sleep," he explained, trying not to sound impatient. "How’s dad?"

  Sudden hot tears sprang to her eyes for the first time since they had taken Bill away. She turned her face from him.

  "Mom?" William's voice held a note of exasperation. If his father was dead, he wanted to know.

  "He’s been hurt badly. He has a broken leg and he may be…uh…he might be…." Martha fished a crinkled handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose.

  "What? Might be what?" William shook her gently.

  "Paralyzed…."

  "Might be?"

  "It might be only temporary. They won’t know for a few days," Martha sobbed, finding it almost impossible to talk. So far she had held up, but now there was someone to lean on. She didn’t have to be strong as long as William was home.

  The same hands that shook Martha moments before now pulled her to him and he was immediately sorry for his thoughts. She drove him crazy sometimes, but at the moment she looked like a forlorn lost child. William held her until she stopped crying, feeling the corner of her glasses push against his chest.

  Finally, very softly, he said, "Let’s go see Dad."

  Entering the room, William’s reaction was almost identical to Martha’s. His father had never been sick, not even with a cold, as far as he could remember. The terror of trying to live up to his father’s expectations had, at some point, turned to hatred, but now there was only pity. Seeing the old man heavily sedated and bedfast reminded him that Bill was just sick, and more vulnerable than William had ever seen him.

  ***

  After Bill’s accident, questions about money and other matters surfaced. Martha had no answers of her own and looked to William. "Medicare won’t cover all of Dad’s expenses," he told her one evening after dinner. "Do you have hospitalization?"

  Martha shook her head. "I don’t know. You’ll have to ask your father."

  "I can’t."

  "Why?"’

  "He refuses to answer my questions. He thinks I'm just being nosy." William didn’t try to hide his frustration.

  "Well, I don’t know anything about it. Your father took care of all that." Martha's tone was curt, and she busied herself with clearing the table of food and dishes.

  William shook his head as he watched her bustling back and forth in her spacious kitchen. She was a plain woman and he had never known her to wear makeup or have her hair done at a beauty shop. The flat, sensible shoes that she always wore barely made a sound on the gleaming floor. As far as he could tell, she was content to live like her mother. She had washed Bill’s socks and cooked his meals for the last 40 years. He, in turn, had been in charge of everything else, including their finances. Martha was more than mentally equipped to handle these affairs, but over the years they had settled into a comfortable pattern and liked things the way they were. He was in charge of their stability and she could concentrate on growing her garden, cleaning her house and caring for her family without the additional worries over money.

  New linoleum was the only change that had been made in the room since he was a kid. The kitchen was dominated by a huge, well-scrubbed oak table that his father built before William was born. The few appliances, including a stove and refrigerator, looked and performed show-room new, and the faint smell of pine, clean and fresh, hovered in the air. He wondered how anyone could be so content with so little. Didn’t she ever wish for more? A trip? A remodel? A real washing machine at least, instead of that wringer squatting in the laundry room?

  "Dad’s always in charge, isn’t he?"

  "As it should be," Martha said defiantly, running scalding hot water into the sink, not turning to look at her son.

  William folded his arms on the table in front of him and rested his head on them. He felt like he had been here for a month and longed to go home. His father was as demanding as ever, even from his hospital bed, and as always made him feel like he was 10 years old.

  He rose and began to pace the length of the kitchen, but paused at the big oak gun cabinet in the corner. He felt his face burn with embarrassment. On his twelfth birthday, Bill bought him a gun; he was going to learn to hunt. The gun smelled of oil and explosions and it frightened William. He was more afraid of disobeying his father, though, and went along quietly. Even now, he remembered how heavy the weapon had felt in his skinny arms.

  They were tramping through the woods, Bill giving a lecture on safety, when a young buck with one-inch spike horns bounded out of the trees right in front of them. It paused in its flight and huge brown eyes met William’s terrified gaze.

  "Now," Bill said, his voice trembling with excitement. He touched William’s shoulder. "Take a good look at him through your sights."

  Trembling from head to foot, William followed instructions.

  "Aim for the shoulder. Hold it steady, let out a breath and squeeze the trigger," Bill continued, unaware of his son’s response.

  Seconds ticked by.

  "Do it, boy."

  More seconds passed. Both William and the deer remained motionless.

  William dropped the gun. "I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t," he’d whined, feeling like a small child. He'd wanted to obey, but the animal was strong and beautiful and he just couldn't think of a reason to destroy it.

  At the sudden movement, the deer fled.

  Bill turned on his son, bewildered.

  William was shaking uncontrollably and sweat ran down his face and into his eyes, blend
ing with tears.

  Bill’s anger knew no bounds as he shouted and cursed at his son. One final, vicious statement burst from Bill and destroyed their already deteriorating relationship beyond repair. "You’d better hurry back home, little boy, and put your dress on."

  "William, are you going to drive me to the hospital?" Martha’s question brought him back to the present with a start.

  "Mom, you know I can’t stay here much longer," William said as he pushed his heavy glasses back up on his nose with a thin forefinger and then stretched lazily. He had learned to discard the unhappy memories quickly.

  "I know that," she answered, taking off her apron and putting on her coat.

  "When Dad gets out of the hospital, who’s going to drive?"

  Martha blinked at him through her wire rimmed glasses, looking so much like an owl that William wanted to laugh.

  She hadn’t thought about Bill not being able to drive. He could do anything, always had, but she realized her son was right. Life was going to be more different than she imagined. "All we have is the truck and…"

  "And you’re going to learn to drive it," William told her.

  "But I can’t!"

  "Oh, yes, you can. You’ve driven before and you’ll do it again. Lessons start right now." Ignoring her bewildered expression, William placed the keys in her hand and went outside. Even in his father’s absence it wasn’t easy for him to take charge, but he knew it had to be done, for his mother’s own good…and his own.

  A week later, Martha was a different woman. Despite her lack of concern and experience in dealing with financial matters, William soon had her well informed. Forgotten skills were relearned quickly and Martha, with a new glow of self-confidence, was dealing with the situation better than she or anyone else expected. She even enjoyed driving her husband’s bright red pick-up to and from the hospital.

  In the end Bill’s paralysis was permanent. Confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life, he considered it a fate worse than death. He came home with a volatile temper, a booming voice, and a determination to kill every rodent he saw.

  CHAPTER 2

  Standing at the kitchen window, Martha dried her hands on a striped dish towel. She wore a cotton dress that was printed with tiny, colorful flowers and a crisp white apron. Lovingly she gazed at the land that was growing greener and richer every day, aided by spring rain and sunshine. She had come here a blushing bride so long ago, but the changing seasons never ceased to amaze her. A sudden breeze billowed the brilliant white curtains, bringing a contented smile to her face.

  The sharp crack of a .22 caliber rifle shattered the morning air like fragile glass. Startled, she dropped the dish towel. Her peaceful thoughts came to an abrupt end with the firing of the gun, and she gritted her teeth and winced.

  The six months following Bill’s accident had taken their toll, leaving a barely perceptible weariness in her expression. Friends and neighbors saw her smile less and less these days. Walking slowly through the cheerful yellow laundry room, which was really a large pantry just off the kitchen, she came to the back door. Through the screen, on the opposite end of the back porch, she could see Bill sitting in his wheelchair. The gun was lying across his useless legs.

  It was times like this that Bill almost forgot his confinement. His piercing, steel blue eyes that would never need the aid of glasses lit with a cold smile as he watched the small groundhog kick once and then collapse in a crumpled heap beside a budding maple tree about 50 yards away. He rarely missed his target. Sensing rather than hearing his wife at the door, his smile disappeared and a stony, unreadable mask slid into place.

  It was almost like she was looking at a stranger.

  She pushed open the screen door and moved out onto the smooth wide-planked back porch that ran the length of the house. Bill had wanted to paint the porch, but Martha liked the white wood. The scent of pine was still discernible, too. It was one of the few arguments she had won.

  Since the accident, Bill had made it a point to never look directly at his wife and today was no exception. He lit a cigarette and studied the surrounding woods carefully.

  "It’s warm for this time of year," Martha said, and sat down stiffly in an old cane bottom chair, a good distance from her husband.

  "Yes, it is," Bill answered, his tone polite. They sounded like strangers on a bus.

  Another warm breeze sprang up and caressed Martha’s silver-streaked hair, which she wore in a loose bun high on her head. Most signs of winter were gone and the deep, green woods surrounding their house loomed before her like a prison wall. A thick, heavy silence settled over them and she let her wrinkled, discolored hands smoothed her apron over her knees. She hated the silence almost as much as she hated the courteous, superficial conversations they shared.

  "It won’t be long until corn can be planted," she observed. "I heard a whippoorwill last night." The words came out as a croak, threatening to choke her. If they didn’t talk more, Martha was afraid she might forget how.

  Again, without a glance in her direction and using that formal tone, Bill said, "Yes."

  To Martha, it seemed as if he was growing colder and more distant every day. Now, he brought his binoculars to his face and studied something in the distance. These days, he did all of his hunting from this porch.

  Earlier that day, in the cool, misty dawn, Martha had watched rabbits playing and a doe and her two fawns nibbling tender grass at the end of the yard. She had been watching the animals for years, and her soft reassuring voice and gifts of food eased their fears enough to bring them closer to the house. Not much, of course, but at least they let her observe. No one knew how much she missed gathering eggs from cackling hens and hearing milk from the cows hissing noisily into a shiny aluminum pail. Even the hound she raised from a pup was dead. Wild animals were all that remained on what had once been a lively farm.

  As she sat smoothing her unwrinkled apron, wondering what to say next, two robins flew about, calling to one another from time to time and gathering materials for the nest they were building in the sugar maple where the groundhog had died. They were the only visible visitors to the area and seemed in a hurry to get away.

  "We could use some rain, too," Martha said finally.

  Bill nodded and shifted his position slightly to get a better view of the small plot of ground that was Martha’s garden. From this end of the porch, he had often tossed stones across the narrow, high banked creek that separated the yard and garden to scare away rabbits. He no longer used a stone and he was no longer interested in just scaring them.

  A single cloud scuttled quickly across the crisp blue sky.

  Unlike Martha and the animals, the plant life was oblivious to any sense of danger. Clean, once-productive hay fields were filling quickly with young trees and the seemingly indestructible multi-flora rose. When she and Bill planted the trees and shrubs surrounding their house more than 30 years ago, they were to serve as a protective cocoon. Now, an army of thick green leaves and undergrowth advanced closer every day, hiding them from the outside world. With the onslaught of spring growth, Martha’s protection smothered her. She longed for the black, barren trees of winter that at least allowed her to see more of the sky.

  She continued smoothing her apron over her lap, her liver-spotted hands continuously fluttering. She was torn between needing Bill’s attention and an unexplainable fear of him that caused her emotions to flip-flop. He never looked at her and his big hands were either wrapped around a gun or balled into tight, angry fists. If their eyes met, would she see her love reflected there or something else - something that fed the uneasiness that had been growing inside her since the accident?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Martha studied her husband. Even in the wheelchair he sat ramrod straight and held his shoulders square. There was a little more silver in his auburn hair but nothing had dimmed the blue of those eyes. She called them 'gunslinger eyes' and they could still make her heart leap into her throat.

  He had worked
hard and made a good life for them. How could all their years together add up to this polite, guarded discussion about the weather? That hunting accident had taken her Bill away and left this bitterly angry stranger in his place, a stranger that destroyed animals senselessly.

  That familiar, sharp crack so close to her ear jerked Martha back to the present.

  "Damn, I missed that one!" Bill snarled and spat angrily into the tender spring grass growing at the edge of the porch.

  Martha was glad and sent up a silent thank you. The animals needed all the help they could get with him around.

  The sudden, insistent shrilling of the telephone brought her to her feet. Bill’s deliberately rude behavior had alienated all of the friends and neighbors that had helped during his illness. Now, no one came to visit. Rarely did the phone ring. Hurrying through the kitchen and into the living room, she answered it breathlessly.

  "Hey, it’s Milly. Got any mail going out?" Her chewing gum popped loudly.

  This was not an unusual phone call from their rural mail carrier and Martha smiled at the sound of the woman’s raspy voice. "No, none today."

  "Well, there’s none for you, so I’ll just save myself the trip."

  Martha heard Bill fire the gun again. Her grip on the telephone receiver tightened and she squeezed her eyes shut. "See you tomorrow, then," she said when she regained her composure. Her voice sounded more cheerful than she felt. At least when Milly brought mail, even junk mail, she had some link with the outside world. Still, it was silly for her to make the trip for nothing.

  "Who was that?" Bill asked as Martha replaced the receiver.

  The tiny woman jumped and put a shaking hand to her heart. He had wheeled into the living room to his place by the front window and she hadn’t even heard him. "Milly. No mail today," Martha answered.

  Had he been eavesdropping?

  Bill switched on the television before she finished speaking. He made no sign that he heard her and she watched him scowling darkly at the screen, his huge hands rolled into angry fists.