A Shattered Wife Read online

  Martha stared at his broad back and longed to put comforting arms around him. With only a few adjustments to their home, the fiercely independent man in a wheelchair bathed, shaved and dressed himself every morning without wanting or needing help from anyone. She still needed him, though. After a few minutes, her longing grew less intense and she relaxed. Being pushed away from him was a painful experience that she had endured more than once.

  "Well," she said finally, "Paul will be here soon. I’d better start lunch.

  Bill didn't even acknowledge that his wife had spoken.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dr. Paul Newsome steered his battered yellow VW expertly around potholes in the narrow gravel road that led to the Landry farm. He took a deep breath of clean spring air, exhaled and began whistling a tuneless song. For the first time in many years, he was content with his life.

  Every Wednesday afternoon, while other doctors from the hospital in Roanoke played golf, Paul visited Bill and Martha Landry. When Bill was discharged from the hospital, he refused to come back in for checkups or therapy. It seemed only natural for Dr. Newsome to make an exception in this case and make house calls on his stubborn patient. As Paul’s fondness for the elderly couple grew, his professional visits soon turned into a weekly luncheon date. The formalities were gone. He referred to them as Bill and Martha and they, in turn, called him Paul. After sharing a late lunch, they would usually sit on the porch or by the fireplace, depending on the weather, and talk. Paul, a gun collector and hunting enthusiast, shared his interest with Bill and that was almost always the main topic of conversation. They rarely discussed Bill’s condition, yet Paul found out what he needed to know.

  He knew why he was growing so close the elderly couple. His own parents had brought him into the world, given him an excellent education…and little else. Martha was gentle, warm and loving - so very unlike his own mother, who lived in California in a huge house with servants. Bill was strong in body and spirit. Just the opposite of his own father. Bill and Martha Landry, Paul decided, would make perfect foster parents. He could almost picture himself calling them "Mom and Dad".

  When he rounded the bend in the road, he caught a glimpse of the Landry’s neat white farmhouse. It was nestled into a hollow, almost entirely blocked from view by tall pines, sugar maples and sycamores, their leafy branches stretching greedily toward the sun. His whistling turned into a happy grin.

  A few minutes later, he turned into the wide, gravel driveway that curved toward the back of the house. A neat border of newly budding peonies and rhododendrons edged the drive, and from here it could be seen that the house was not alone. The lot contained several outbuildings, all whitewashed and in excellent repair despite their evident age. Once in a while, Paul went for solitary walks into the woods that surrounded their home. He was able to gather his thoughts and find a little peace there.

  Unfolding his long, lanky frame and climbing out of the car, he crossed a narrow foot bridge that led directly into the back yard. Bill was in his usual spot on the end of the back porch, binoculars around his neck and his .22 within easy reach. Martha was inside, probably preparing lunch. The young doctor smiled happily. He was home.

  Martha came out onto the porch carrying a tray that held a pitcher and two frosty glasses. "I made lemonade," she said brightly.

  Paul grinned, and bent to kiss her cheek. "Great! Lemonade is my favorite."

  "Lunch will be ready soon," Martha said, blushing at his kiss.

  Even though this wasn’t necessarily a "professional" visit, Paul’s trained eyes noted a slight change in Martha’s appearance. She looked pale and a little thinner, even though her eyes still glowed with warmth when she looked at him. Her crisp cotton housedress made him think of buttercups as he watched her return to her kitchen. He thought that she needed grandchildren, lots of them, to cuddle and spoil.

  Contrary to Martha’s slight change in appearance, Bill seemed, if anything, to be gaining more strength and looking healthier every week. For a man in his sixties, he had made a remarkable recovery from the accident. On his last examination, all of Bill’s vital signs were normal and he was strong with a good healthy color, alert, and interested in his surroundings. With a man of Bill’s character, this was not surprising. During his hospitalization, he had never once mentioned pain or fatigue, although there must have been plenty. Admitting to either of these might be misconstrued as weak and unmanly; Bill was certainly neither of these, and Paul felt fierce admiration for the man.

  "How’s the hunting?" Paul asked as he sank lazily into a nearby chair and poured himself a glass of lemonade. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and relaxed with a sigh.

  "Not bad," Bill answered with a rare smile that showed teeth too straight and even to be his own. "The more of those groundhogs I get rid of, the better."

  That was Bill; go get ‘em! Just like Marshall Dillon, with guns blazing, he was after the ornery critters that put him in the wheelchair. "They can do a lot of damage to your land," Paul said as he watched a bumble bee working on clover nearby.

  "That’s not all they can damage," Bill grunted, indicating his legs.

  "Lunch is ready," Martha called from the open door.

  Delicious aromas tugged at Paul’s appetite, bringing him quickly to his feet. The house was filled with old but comfortable furniture and, like the outside, kept neat and tidy. The linoleum floors glistened and a fresh pine scent was always present.

  On Wednesdays, Martha made lunch their biggest meal of the day, and today she had outdone herself. There was a juicy roast smothered with potatoes, baby carrots and onions and thickly sliced homemade bread hot from the oven. Martha’s prize winning apple pie topped with creamy ice cream completed the meal.

  "That was delicious!" Paul exclaimed, patting his flat stomach when he finished the last of his pie. "Probably the best meal I’ve ever had."

  "You say that every week!" Martha felt herself grow warm with pleasure at his compliment. Bill rarely noticed what he ate and never complimented her. "I’m glad you enjoyed it."

  Paul tipped his chair back on two legs, stretched his long, lean frame and yawned. "And now, with your permission, sir, I would like to go for a long walk."

  Bill pushed his plate away and took a sip of his coffee. "Be my guest. I’d go with you but…"

  Paul grinned. It was good to hear Bill joking about his legs. He was well on his way to almost a full recovery, mentally as well as physically, except for the use of his legs.

  Martha was disappointed when Paul stood up to go. She thought about bribing him to stay with more pie.

  "You just watch out. Someone might mistake you for a deer or a squirrel. Accidents do happen, son. Even when you’re careful." Bill warned, but his smile softened the stern sound of his voice.

  Paul frowned slightly and then remembered something he had been meaning to ask. "You know, Bill, you never told us exactly what happened."

  "What happened?"

  "You know, the accident. We only guessed at the circumstances." Paul crossed his arms and leaned casually against the door frame. Sunshine filtered through the sheer curtains, giving him a golden halo.

  Martha, jolted by Paul’s question, busied herself clearing the table, not daring to look at anyone. She expected Bill to explode into a white-hot rage as he had when she asked about the accident. If that happened, Paul would never come out here again.

  Instead, Bill took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on a distant object. "It was one of the damnedest things that ever happened to me."

  Anticipating a long story, Paul returned to the table and held his cup as Martha poured more coffee.

  "I was in one of the upper pastures checking on a storage barn when I spotted a young buck. You know the kind - fast, perfect condition and full of himself." Bill flicked an amused glance and Paul hooked his thumbs across his massive chest and nodded. He knew the kind of animal Bill was describing; an animal in its prime, the perfect trophy.
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  "He would get just out of range and then turn and look to make sure I was with him. I swear, he was daring me to come after him." Bill paused to light a cigarette. "I fired once or twice and missed, so I followed him into the woods. That’s when it happened."

  Martha and Paul waited patiently. The only sound was the solitary ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the hall.

  Taking a deep drag and blowing out smoke, Bill continued. "Those damn groundhogs must have a series of tunnels all over that hillside. I was unlucky enough to step into one of the entrance holes to their burrow."

  "But according to the EMT on duty, you were found at the bottom of the hill," Paul interrupted.

  Bill nodded. "I was running. I really don't remember, but I guess I must have been going too fast to stop. When I stepped in that hole, my weight must have pulled me out and I kept going. I remember rolling over and over and when I finally stopped, I couldn’t move."

  "I imagine that suddenly not being able to move your legs is a frightening experience," Paul said softly, shaking his head.

  "It sure as hell was. And I’d lost my gun. When I think about what could have happened out there in the woods with no protection and not being able to move, I want to kill every groundhog I see."

  Bill’s voice had suddenly grown so angry that both Paul and Martha looked up, startled. His mouth was a hard white line and his eyes were glassy.

  "Well I, for one, intend to be very careful," Paul said as he rose and went outside.

  The heat generated by the sun was more like mid-summer than early spring and felt good on his head and back after being in the cool interior of the house. Within minutes he was completely out of sight. Peaceful solitude surrounded him.

  "Were you trying to scare him?" Martha asked timidly when she was sure Paul could not hear her.

  "Why would I do a thing like that?" Bill was heading out the door to resume his constant vigil on the driveway and garden.

  "Were you?"

  His wheelchair stopped at the door and the silence was so long that she was afraid she had pushed him too far and made him angry - again.

  Without turning to look at her, he answered, his voice full of knives and ice. "Accidents do happen, Martha. We both know that."

  Martha studied the toe of her shoe in silence as Bill left the room, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He could and would talk to Paul about everything, but if she tried to discuss anything but the weather, she ended up making him angry and feeling guilty and ashamed.

  After a brisk walk to help digest his lunch, Paul came to a clearing in a grove of trees beside a small pond. It was shady and he welcomed the coolness. He relaxed his lean body on a carpet of soft pine needles with his hands clasped behind his head. A bee buzzed nearby and a bird chirped somewhere overhead. The earth smelled good, rich and fertile. This was his favorite place on the Landry property, maybe even in the whole world.

  With everyone else worlds away, the young doctor closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander aimlessly. He was not surprised when Kate Alberton danced brightly through them like a prim ballerina on tiptoe. Copper-red hair, green eyes and freckles came to mind every time her name was mentioned. Slim but well-built, she had a pert nose and small heart-shaped face that made her look half her age. Hearing her happy laughter made him glad to be alive. Best of all, she loved him.

  After the wreck of Paul’s first marriage, he swore off women. He distrusted them and vowed he would never open himself up to be hurt again. Katie was changing his views quickly, though. She was a gifted psychologist who worked with abused children and their families. They met at the hospital where they were involved in the same child-abuse case and quickly became fast friends. After only one or two casual dates, Paul knew that a miracle was happening. He was falling head over heels in love. A contented smile crossed his face when he thought about making love to her. Someday soon, he was going to bring her out here. He had an important question to ask her and this was the perfect spot. He closed his eyes and smiled.

  The next thing he knew, the digital watch on his arm told Paul that he had been asleep for an hour. Leaping to his feet, he brushed twigs and loose dirt from his jeans as he hurried back down the path. He hadn’t intended to go to sleep at all and still had to examine Bill.

  He stopped by his car and grabbed his medical bag before going back to the house.

  "What’s that for?" Bill asked, indicating the black bag Paul was carrying.

  "Time for your 5000 mile checkup," Paul said lightly.

  The examination was carried out in the bedroom with Paul poking and prodding and asking a great many questions. Bill was not happy about being examined; he never was. Telling the doctor to take his cold instruments, get back to his hospital where he belonged and stay there would have given him great pleasure. With effort, he kept his anger under control.

  "Your recovery is amazing," Paul said as he finished. "It must be the fresh air."

  Bill buttoned his shirt and shrugged. "Clean living."

  After Paul left, the house felt cold and empty to Martha. She needlessly straightened cushions on the sofa and rugs on the floor, made a fresh pot of coffee and finally, as a last resort, joined Bill on the porch. Even the silence between them was better than being alone in the house.

  Bill made no attempt at conversation. He sat, brooding and clutching his gun tightly, and watched for some tell-tale movement in the shrubbery bordering the driveway. Suddenly, with one swift, easy movement, he jerked the rifle into firing position, the iron sights automatically lining up as the stock touched his cheek.

  Martha folded her hands in her lap, squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath. A cool evening breeze blew across the porch, making her shiver. The sharp crack of the gun echoed off the surrounding hillside.

  "Finally," Bill chuckled softly to himself. "I’ve been after that big bastard all week."

  Too bad, little groundhog, Martha thought.

  "What did you say?" Bill asked, the pleasure already gone from his face.

  "Nothing," Martha answered quickly. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? She didn’t think so.

  Bill cocked his head, looking like a big moose, listening.

  "What did you hear?" Martha asked quietly.

  After a few minutes Bill shrugged his broad shoulders as if it were unimportant. "Never mind." Martha saw the dark look come over his face. It was clear that he had been listening for and heard something. But what? She was too afraid to ask. A mixture of worry and fear engulfed her, two emotions with which she was becoming more familiar every day. With trembling hands, she smoothed her apron and said, "It’ll be dark soon. Why don’t we go inside?"

  Bill made no reply.

  "It’s chilly. At least let me at least get you as sweater," Martha said, rising.

  His voice steady and low, he said, "If I want a sweater, I’ll get it. Now go inside and leave me alone."

  CHAPTER 4

  Unlike her plentiful vegetable garden, Martha kept her flowerbeds small and easy to manage. Caring for the beautiful flowers was more than a hobby. The roses, azaleas and geraniums were substitutes for her distant grandchildren, and she spent pleasurable hours poring over catalogs and learning the names and needs of each special flower. Her garden included Blue Girls with four inch double flowers, the dazzling red Mon Cheri and delicate pink Royal Highness, both boasting five-inch blooms. Her favorite was the unusual Caribia with dashing red markings on yellow petals. Diligent study had taught Martha about the particular soil requirements needed for healthy plants. All of her plants were tall and bushy and had deep green foliage. If she was so inclined, she could have won blue ribbons at any flower show with her wonderfully fragrant and showy plants.

  Grateful for the morning sun that warmed her arms and back, she stooped over these plants, digging out the last of the winter coverage. By Memorial Day they would be in full bloom, fragrant and beautiful.

  "Martha," Bill said softly from the porch. He'd been sitting there, brood
ing and watching her, all morning.

  Surprised at his tone of voice, Martha looked up to see him leering at her. Her heart began to pound.

  "Come here," he said.

  With both hands on the ground, Martha pushed herself to her feet and slowly went to him.

  "You know, it’s been a long time since I felt like your man," he said in a husky voice.

  "Y…y…you’ve been s…sick," she stammered, not really knowing what to say, almost afraid to look at him.

  "Well, let’s go inside and see how sick I am."

  Martha wanted to protest, wanted to run away from him. But this was her husband. At least he was paying attention to her.

  In the kitchen he turned and ordered Martha to her knees in front of him.

  "Come on, baby. You know what I want," he said, unzipping his trousers with shaking fingers.

  She knew what he wanted and the thought of it revolted her. "Bill, I can’t…"

  "Do it!"

  Thirty minutes later, a red-faced Martha was pushed away. She had done everything he requested, but it was useless. He was impotent, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Still, there was that ridiculous guilt that hung over her like a cloud as she hurried back outside and rushed to the peace of her roses.

  Bill followed a few minutes later. "I think we should expand our garden space this year," he said, his voice hard and cold again.

  Martha glanced up at him, not surprised to see the angry scowl on his face. When he made no further comment, she stood up and stretched. Too embarrassed to face him, she studied the plot of ground that had fed them for so many years. The rich earth stood ready. It had been plowed and disked and straight rows had been neatly arranged by Michael Adkins.

  Bill and Michael had known each other since childhood, and their friendship had only grown deeper and stronger over the years. It was the country way. They shared equipment, farming know-how and a sympathetic ear when needed. More than once they celebrated the birth of a calf or the sale of a steer with bottles of scotch.