AHMM, May 2010 Read online

  And then he says, “What handkerchief?” I mean really, what handkerchief? He had made such a big deal of it when he unwrapped it, how it would go so well with such and such a suit, and how he would be a bit of a dandy, with a handkerchief in his pocket, jutting out like some kind of sculpture. He quite liked it, and he may deny it now, but he made a big to do over it. I'm sure the kids will remember because they bought him a book or something and the red handkerchief overshadowed it. I do remember that he stood in front of the big plate glass window, the one that overlooks the yard, he stood in front of that window with the handkerchief in his shirt pocket, and he had the book open like he was reading it. I remember now, it was a book about painters, like Romantic Painters or Painters of the Renaissance or something. And he had the book open and balanced on his hand, and he put the other on his chin to mime thinking. And the kids thought it great fun and they cheered and took a picture. So he did like the book, of course, but it was the handkerchief that really completed the look, that really made him feel like he was lord of the manor, so to speak, king in his castle and whatnot. So that's why the handkerchief was so important when I suddenly thought of it as I was cutting through the meat. And then for him to pretend that he doesn't know what I'm talking about, well, it's preposterous. I mean, he goes to the trouble of posing for some kind of portrait painting, and then he pretends to forget it. Really. The man can be so infuriating. So when he asks me what I'm doing and then pretends not to know the item to which I'm referring. Well. He says that, he says, “I do not recall the item to which you are referring,” as if I'm some dopey prosecutor who has just stumbled into his office, glad to be offered the job of licking his shoes. So that's when I realize that not only does he know the item to which I am referring, which he obviously does, but he is hiding it for some reason.

  See, lawyers think they can cover things over, as if they were magicians or conjurers. Remember that movie where the whole time the hero, who was he, one of those dark-eyed mysterious movie stars, he thinks he's conning everyone and in the end he's the one who's being conned? What's that film? In any case, exactly. He's making statements and asking questions like this is some kind of investigation, and the whole time his eyes dart back and forth exactly like that movie villain. So he seems like he's the one asking the questions, but the whole time he's looking for an escape route, like I'm the one who's threatening him, like I'm the one who up and hid the red handkerchief. And why would he do that?

  Well that's when it comes to me, about the handkerchief being perfect for wiping up blood. I mean, where is it? If he used it, for example, to staunch his own blood, wouldn't it be in the dirty clothes? Wouldn't I stumble across it during my duties? Where else could it be? I always go through his pockets, so if it was there, I would have found it. But it wasn't there. So where was it? Exactly. Right.

  So he comes in and starts asking me questions. And then he acts like he doesn't know. It is a butcher knife, and it is a simple jab, a gesture, like pointing with your finger, only I don't have a finger, I have a knife. So, it could be perceived as threatening. But I'm his wife. He backs slowly out into the hallway, as if I am a stranger with a switchblade. But I'm not. And I'm not threatening him. I'm merely gesturing. But where's the handkerchief? He still doesn't say. He's still proclaiming his innocence. And then the blood comes to me, you know, an image. Perhaps that's why I thought of it while I was cutting the meat, because the handkerchief resembles blood. I think it's crimson, technically. That's blood, right? So I'm looking at the blood and I think of the handkerchief. Then, I'm looking at my husband, and I remember the blood.

  "The chops,” I say. Maybe I wave the knife a little. A little. And so I keep walking toward him, back to the kitchen, and he's backing up.

  "No,” he's saying. “No.” And maybe I'm waving the knife, like what? I mean, I don't know. I have the knife, but I'm thinking about the chops, and how they are warming up and I have to get them back into the refrigerator. And I have to find the handkerchief, of course, because where is it? Things don't just disappear, everyone knows that. If you lose something, it still is somewhere, wherever you lost it. But a grown man doesn't just lose something precious to him. A gift from his wife. That's something that he keeps track of, something that he puts back in his drawer at the end of the day. I know because I've seen him do it. He takes it out of his pocket and refolds it and puts in his top drawer. And then the change goes on the top of the dresser and so on. But the handkerchief always goes back in the top drawer. And I should know, but I haven't seen it in, what, weeks.

  We're back in the kitchen. He sits down at the bar and watches me. I have the knife still, of course, and now I'm finishing with the chops. You have to do things that way, first one thing, and then the next. So I need to finish. You make the marinade, then you remove the bones, and then you put it all together. That's the way it's done. Things are done that way, step by step. So I have the knife and I'm working on the meat.

  "Oh,” he says, like he just realized. Like, oh, the knife is for cutting meat, like he finally understands the invention of knives, something he's never understood his whole life. And to tell you the truth, I don't like him in the kitchen with me. It's my place. I make the food, and I know where everything is, a place for everything. Things do not go missing in the kitchen. I know where my knives are, for example, and where the dish towels are and the measuring spoons, and so on. So him sitting here, it's like he's saying, I'm on to you. I know your game, lady. “Oh,” he says. Like he's going to ask me where something is, and I'm not going to know. It's like I've got a schematic drawing in my head and each drawer is labeled. It's so simple. It's just like that. “Oh.” So I turn to him. I'm going to say something. Something nice maybe. Maybe I won't say something nice, I don't know. So I turn to him with the knife still in my hand. But my back was to him before, you see. So I turn around with the knife. And maybe it has some blood on it. Maybe, I don't know. And he goes, “Aah!” Not “oh” this time, but “aah!” Not “aha!” like he just found the answer, like he remembered where the red handkerchief was, but “aah!” like he'd stubbed his toe, or caught a rose thorn in the thumb or something. Like he'd been stabbed. Maybe. How should I know? What does a man who has been stabbed sound like? That's not something you learn. So he makes this sound and then he goes running down the hall and locks himself in the bathroom.

  Of course I follow him. With the knife. What kind of wife drops the knife when her husband makes a sound like that? So I follow him and I'm outside the bathroom and I'm listening. I'm hearing calming sounds, the sound of running water. My mother used to do that when she was upset. She'd just sit in the bathroom and let the water run. Like a stream she said. So he's running the water, I assume, because that's what I hear and some deep breathing, like you do at the doctor's office. And I'm knocking, and saying, “What's going on in there?” And I still have the knife in my right hand and I'm knocking with my left, asking what's going on. Because, what do I know? He could be dying in there for all I know, or he could be going to the bathroom. What else do you do in there? I guess he could be washing his face or something. But he's not that type. He's all business. If he's in there, there's a reason. I mean, he's breathing deeply, maybe he's having a heart attack. That's as good a place as any.

  That explains the blood in the hallway. Blood from the lamb chops. I don't like to think about the little lambs, so I tell my kids they are just chops, you know, every animal has a chop. Personally I think of sheep, the smelly ones from the zoo. I mean, no one feels sad about them. They'd just as soon eat you as take grain from you hand. So you may as well eat them. Actually maybe I'm thinking of the goats.

  Then when he leaves the bathroom he goes to lie on the couch in the living room. He doesn't feel well. It's probably something he ate. He was always skipping breakfast and then drinking tons of coffee and then eating something stupid, like a hot dog, on the way home. And then he moans. So maybe he was in the bathroom because he had heartburn or something. I don't know w
hen he leaves the bathroom, because I'm in the kitchen. I'm cutting the meat and then mixing things and putting things together for dinner. The house doesn't run itself, it doesn't just produce food, though the kids think that, of course. They think the food just appears on the table for them, like magic. Ask them to set the table and it's like you want them to perform some kind of mystical rite. Set the table? They think life just happens. But I know it doesn't. So I'm in the kitchen, doing this and that. I can hear him moaning on the couch, of course. He's moaning. Not the same sound, not the “aah!” like before but more like “ooh, ooh” over and over. He can really play up the suffering, really milk it. I'm sure he's uncomfortable, but he doesn't say so. And he hasn't even addressed my question about the red handkerchief. I think about it while I chop the meat. I have this big bowl of marinade and I'm chopping the meat and putting it in there. Then I cover it and put it back in the refrigerator for later. And then I have to do the vegetables and the potatoes, there's that to do, and unload the dishwasher. But I'm done with the laundry. So I listen to him moaning on the couch, and I still have the knife in my hand, so I go to the door of the kitchen and I say, “What is it?” Because I want to know. What is it that's making him moan that way? And he clutches his stomach and his face balls up, like agony. That's what I think. But still, there's this nagging question in the back of my mind, where's the handkerchief? Where did he put it? So I ask him again, but this time I go right up to him where he's lying on the couch. I put my face right up next to his and I whisper, “Where's the red handkerchief?” I say it real soft so as not to alarm him. He's bunched up, he seems to be in real pain. I still have the knife in the one hand. I'm not doing anything with it though, I'm just holding it, down. Maybe I had been holding it above him, maybe, before I bend down to whisper in his ear. That explains how the blood gets on his shirt. Maybe I flung some blood across the kitchen at him when I turned around before. Or maybe it got there by dripping.

  And then he says, “What?” again. He's not a stupid man. What kind of man just keeps saying what? He knows what I'm talking about. The handkerchief. He hasn't forgotten. That picture that the kids took, he framed it and put it up on the mantle, like it was a real portrait, painted for the man of the house. So there it is, right there. Perhaps I get a bit upset. I don't mean to. I don't mean to drop it on the floor. But I do. Okay. Things fall all the time and break. It happens. You move on.

  He just stays there on the couch, moaning. He won't stop. He just keeps making that same sound, over and over. I tell him to go into the bedroom. Then I tell him to go down to the basement and watch some TV. He won't go. I won't say I dragged him. How does a woman of my size drag a man of his size down the stairs? I mean, he's over six feet tall. He works out at the gym. And me? I carry laundry up and down those stairs, sure, three times a day. And I work the vacuum there. But a man? Can't be done. Besides, down there is his space. I don't go in there. I don't like the dark wood and how the leather couch smells like a dead animal. I prefer to stay upstairs, where a little sunlight shines in the window and I can look out at the yard and see the flowers blooming. That down there is his thing and he's welcome to it. Smells like sweat and death down there. I don't drag him, he just goes down there like I ask, so I don't have to hear him moaning, and he can watch some TV. And there's a bar down there, so he can fix himself a drink. Myself, I don't go much for that kind of thing, so I don't know what he keeps down there. Maybe some whiskey or scotch. He wants to smoke cigars, but I absolutely forbid it. No smoking in the house. My mother died of lung cancer, but she never smoked a day in her life. It was my dad who was the smoker, and he lived to be eighty-five. So that's how it is. He likes it down there, he said, away from the noise. By which he means the kids with their friends and always using the ice machine, which sounds like a jackhammer. So he goes down there and I can hear the TV up here, but I can't complain because it's better than listening to him moan.

  I still have the knife. When I ask him, nicely, to please go downstairs if he's going to continue that moaning, I guess I still have the knife. But I don't jab with it, or gesture. I just have it, and I stand in the kitchen doorway and I say, please, won't you please go downstairs and then I won't have to hear your infernal moaning which sounds like a horse giving birth to an elephant. I mean, how much can one woman listen to? So I have the knife, and maybe I punctuate my sentence with it, making a kind of exclamation point in the air, but I'm a good distance away when I do it, and there is no way that my little line in the air could be seen as an attack. I mean, I just move it up and down, emphasizing my point, like, hey, listen here, I'm talking to you. And he does seem to listen because that's when he goes downstairs. I don't know how he gets there, I assume he walks, because as soon as I'm done making my point, I turn around and go back to the kitchen.

  The knife. I have the knife in my hand and I finish the meat. So I finish cutting the meat and I put it in the refrigerator, and then I wash the knife, I always do that because if you don't, if you just leave it dirty in the sink, that dulls it, and then it's not sharp enough to cut anything. So you have to wash the knife right away, that's what I do. And I dry it and put it away. And that's where it is. The knife is right there, where I put it after I washed it.

  When I'm done, I'm free to look for the red handkerchief. It's still bothering me, and I feel that if I just devote some time to it, that I can find the red handkerchief. Things don't just disappear. They don't. Each thing is somewhere, even if the thing is concealed. Or if someone is concealing it from you. So I begin my search. I am very methodical. It has to be in the house, doesn't it? If it isn't in the house, then it's somewhere else, and I can't very well control that, can I? So I start with his dresser, and of course it isn't there. And then I go to his closet. Then the bathroom. He never keeps stuff in there, but if he wanted to hide it from me, isn't that where he would put it? Because I would never think to look there.

  I don't know what he is doing. Watching TV I suppose. I can hear it drifting up from the basement. I can't hear any more moaning, but that's the point. For me not to hear the moaning.

  I continue my search in the bathroom, and I look through every drawer. And it is disgusting. I mean, the things in here. There's old hair and dead skin, and fingernail clippings, and used cotton swabs. Who keeps such things? So I get out the bleach. To clean up. The bathroom is supposed to be the most hygienic room in the house. That room is all about cleanliness and order. I start with the top drawer and work my way down. It's simple enough. Just a bit of bleach and water, a clean rag, and you just wipe things up.

  When I'm done with that, it's easy enough to do the kitchen. I already have the bleach out and the bucket. I get a new rag, of course. The bathroom is disgusting, but the kitchen is clean, I keep it clean. But if you have the bleach out and you've just been cutting meat. I mean, it makes perfect sense. I get the rag and I just do a quick swipe, just swish and it's done. It takes no time at all. There isn't a lot of mess. I just like to know that no one is going to get sick from the meat on the counter, from the germs. So I clean the kitchen. Real fast. And an idea comes to me: the dirty rags. Because I have the dirty rags and I'm collecting them, from under the sink in the kitchen, and the ones I had just used to clean. And I'm going to take them down to the laundry room, which is where you keep all the dirty stuff. That is, until it gets clean and then you bring it upstairs. But you can't keep the dirty stuff upstairs. That wouldn't be right.

  I take the dirty rags and then I realize that if I wanted to hide something, something dirty, I would hide it with other dirty things. Like with like. And then, who knows, someone might wash it, without thinking maybe, maybe because they don't see the thing you had hidden, because you'd hidden it, and then maybe it gets washed and then it isn't dirty anymore. So maybe someone else washes away the evidence for you. That's when I go around the house and start collecting the dirty rags. I already have the ones from the bathroom, and then I get the ones from the kitchen. No surprises there. But then I go to g
et the ones from the garage. Sometimes he works in the garage, and I have a separate place for him to put those rags because I don't want them mixing with the regular rags. In the garage, there's a little plastic pail for him to stash the rags. And wouldn't that be the perfect place? If you were trying to hide something from someone and that someone never went into the garage, that would be the perfect place, right?

  I go in. I go right into the garage and dump the rags out. And guess what I find? With the old rags I'd made from his jeans and old T-shirts. Right in there. It has grease on it and something else. I can't say for sure if it's blood, but it could be. Who can say? So I take the rags and all the cloths soaked in bleach and I put them right into the washing machine. What's that saying, the men they work from sun to sun? Exactly. Just when I think I'm done with laundry for what, twenty-four hours, bam! More laundry. So I put everything in there, just cram it in, it's full and I run a load. But before I start it, before I can turn the water on, that's when I hear silence coming from the den. And that's what's so weird. It's never silent. First there's TV, there's always TV, and then when he's bored with that he's got that infernal music he likes to listen to. He says it takes him back. So it's the TV or the music. And sometimes that talk radio, with the yelling and the shouting. He loves that. He sits and laughs and laughs. At what, I have no idea. What's he laughing at? I don't know, honestly. But I don't hear a thing, nothing, Just silence. He's stopped moaning. So, finally, I think, he's stopped the moaning, he's feeling better.