The Doctor's Wife

  “Yeah, right.”

  Bascombe opens her door and helps her out and escorts her as if they’re an old married couple. The chapel is crowded, standing room only. Mourners shuffle past the open casket. “He must’ve been a hell of a Christian,” Bascombe whispers to her as they approach the coffin. “Look where it got him.” Sawyer is laid out in splendor, wearing an expensive black suit. His hands are crossed on his chest, a gold ring on his pinky finger. Just beyond the coffin, his wife and daughter receive mourners, their eyes swollen with grief. Annie notices the gold necklace around the daughter’s neck. Theresa. “You recognize him?” Bascombe asks.

  “Never seen him before.”

  “He’s one of them. That group.”

  A chill rushes through her.

  “Look around. See if anyone looks familiar.”

  Behind her dark glasses, Annie furtively searches the large room. To her surprise she sees Joe Rank slouched in a distant corner next to his wife, who holds a swaddled infant. Annie can tell by some of the white shoes that many of the people have come from work at the hospital. Just as they are about to walk out, a familiar face grabs Annie’s eye. “Now, what is she doing here?”

  “Who?”

  “That woman right there. Lydia Haas.”

  “You know her?”

  “She’s the wife of one of my colleagues.”

  “Strange people. We’ve been over there from time to time, their house on the lake. Back in the days when he was a big shot. Used to have wild parties. Drugs. We had to get an ambulance once. For the wife. A real nut job. She was all cut up on her legs. All these crosses in blood, you know, crucifixes. Turns out she did it to herself.” He shakes his head. “Sick.”

  Annie’s heart turns dully. “I don’t know him very well,” she hears herself say. “I used to see him at the pool.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it appears that Marshall Sawyer knew her. And I have a feeling I know why.”

  Annie looks at him. “She’s one of them, isn’t she?”

  “I suspect she is. And I intend to find out.”

  Why hadn’t Simon told her, she wonders now. He must have known. Bascombe drives her home through the snow, the sky a pearly violet. The snowflakes are fat and slow. He drops her off and waits while she unlocks the door and steps inside. Waving good-bye, she watches the detective’s car pull down the long driveway, out of sight.

  A thud on the back porch makes her freeze. Her legs go weak. She stands very still, her ears animal keen, and holds her breath. Soundlessly, she moves into the dark powder room at the back of the house. It’s still snowing and there’s a wind, the trees bobbing and swaying, obstructing her view of the backyard. Long shadows shift on the snow, but that’s not a shadow, it’s a person. There’s somebody out there, someone running toward the woods.

  Annie grabs her keys and runs outside to the car, starts the engine, twists on her high beams and drives off the driveway onto the snow, around to the back, roaring over the bumpy field, her headlights bounding after a fleeing jackrabbit, coming up suddenly on the back of the intruder, wiry and agile as a panther in black pants, a black hooded windbreaker, a black wool face mask, nearing the edge of the woods, where the trees stand in solemn unity. Annie’s foot hits the floor and she drives as far as she possibly can, coming up against a wall of branches. Leaping out of the car, she scrambles into the woods. The runner trips, enabling Annie to catch up—uncertain and terrified of what she will do when she does. Annie grabs the runner, realizing that it’s a woman, and gropes for the mask, tearing it off. She recognizes the girl from the wake. It’s the dead man’s daughter, Theresa Sawyer.

  74

  AFTER THE WAKE, Reverend Tim comes up to her and ushers her away from the mourners. “I have some information for you,” he tells her. “It’s about the Knowles woman.”

  “What about her?”

  “I hear she’s expecting.”

  “What?”

  “One of our members is on the inside at the clinic. She happened to see Knowles’s name on a urine sample. Of course, we don’t know who the father is.”

  Lydia stands there, feeling the wind on her shoulders. Someone is laughing inside her head, someone is teasing her. Annie and Simon sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.

  Reverend Tim touches her arm. “I thought you should know.”

  75

  “I’M SORRY I RAN like that,” Theresa tells Annie, drinking tea at her kitchen table. “I just don’t know who to trust anymore. I saw your car. I didn’t know it was you. I got scared.”

  “You can trust me,” Annie says.

  Theresa has brought her an envelope filled with newspaper clippings. “I’ve been keeping these just in case,” she explains, spreading them out on the kitchen table like a crude collage. “I knew him sort of, your husband. I just wanted to help if I could. My folks don’t believe in it. They’re part of a group run by our minister. They were very angry at him.”

  “So you gave him the gun.”

  “A whole lot of good it did.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated it.”

  “They killed my father.” She looks down at her hands. “I feel like it’s my fault.”

  “No, that’s not true. You had nothing to do with it.”

  Theresa nods her head gratefully.

  “You’ve done a very impressive job of organizing these,” Annie tells her, looking over the articles, many of which pertain to the renovation of the building on South Pearl Street that houses the clinic.

  “It used to be a crack house,” Theresa says. “I used to run by there sometimes; it was nasty.”

  Early photographs show the building at its worst, boarded up and swarming with graffiti. Once Celina occupied it, a transformation occurred. Other articles reported on the opening of the clinic, detailing the services it proposed to offer, and the ribbon-cutting ceremonies, where Susan Todd, the sassy head of Planned Parenthood, wielded the scissors. To Annie’s surprise, she finds the article she had written about late-term abortion. It was the article, she recalls, that Joe Rank had alluded to that night at the Spaulls’ party. Her name, she notices, has been circled in red pen, next to which someone has clarified in the same red ink the doctor’s wife. Other articles focus on the protestors. A large photo shows the protestors making a human chain in front of the clinic. Even in the grayish blur of the newsprint their rage comes through. Annie opens the junk drawer in the kitchen and gets her magnifying glass. “Maybe you could help me with this,” she suggests. “Why don’t you circle all the people you recognize from your minister’s group.”

  Theresa takes the pen and studies the photograph and begins circling. She gives the page to Annie, who studies the faces carefully, each one urgent with purpose. A small, shrunken figure stands in the shadows. If it weren’t for Theresa’s black circle, she might not have even noticed her, but now that she has, everything comes clear.

  The woman is Lydia Haas.

  76

  SUPINE ON THE MATTRESS, Michael hears a familiar sound coming from outside. Two sounds that make a rhythm. Ah, yes, he knows. Someone is digging. He has the distant memory of Annie out in the garden, planting bulbs for spring. A shovel, that’s what it is. Going into the soil, then coming out again. Making a great big hole.

  He pulls himself up, realizing that his legs have gone aquiver. Holding on to the cold cinder-block wall, dragging the chain behind him, he explores the parameters of the cellar, desperate to find a window. Cobwebs stick to his fingers as he traces the cold walls in the darkness. He discerns the texture of plywood, feels the cold air swarming all around it. A window underneath, he surmises, pulling the wood board off with his bare hands, ignoring the splinters pricking his fingertips. Light streams in and his hands sweep the cold glass; his eyes feast on the outside world, drinking in the colors of the distant trees. He blinks, his eyes stinging and blurred. And then he sees her. She’s digging a grave.

  “Ther
e’s no hope for us now,” she tells him later in a state of agitation. “Your wife is pregnant.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?”

  “I’m her husband. Of course I know. We’ve been trying to have a third.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not yours.”

  “Of course it’s mine,” he says, and he believes it.

  “Prove it.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference.” Breaking into tears, she drops to the floor and beats her fists into the cement like a small child having a tantrum. “Do you have any idea what it feels like? He doesn’t love me anymore.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” he says, wanting only to placate her.

  “What do I have to do?” she shouts. “What do I fucking have to do?” Producing a pair of scissors from her apron pocket, she holds it up with menace like a threat, then uses it on herself, slicing off her hair. The locks fall to the floor, ragged as feathers. “There,” she says, satisfied, appeased. “Do you like it? Do you think it’s pretty?”

  Her hair looks haphazard and deranged, but he says, “Yes, I think it’s very pretty.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She sings the taunt.

  “It’s very pretty, Lydia.”

  “I want you to convince me.” She tugs at the hem of her dress, then turns it up in her fingers. She’s showing him her underpants, which are flowered and childish, like Rosie’s. “I have an inny.”

  “A what?”

  “My belly button. Do you want to touch it? Do you want to put your finger in it?”

  “No.” His stomach turns. “I would not.”

  But she comes nearer. “Don’t you want to touch me?”

  He is thinking about the scissors in her pocket. Now she is pulling off her dress. “Lydia, what are you doing?”

  “I know you want to.” Her body is delicate, frail. Nearly emaciated. A girl’s body. “Don’t lie. Everyone wants to touch me.” She runs his hand over her belly, up her torso to her tiny breasts, her neck, the bones of her face. Abruptly, she drops to her knees. Somewhere deep inside his brain he thinks of grabbing the scissors and cutting open her throat, but now she has ventured into his pants and is trying to put his disinterested penis into her mouth. Frustrated, she grins at him imploringly. “No wonder she’s fucking him.”

  “Get out.” He shoves her hard away from him and she falls back on the hard cement and bumps her head. She starts to bleed.

  She laughs. She laughs and laughs. “Oh, I’ll get out,” she says, “I’ll get out all right. And you’ll be lucky if I ever come back!” The lantern swoops in her hand as she flees up the stairs, slamming the door behind her. Then comes the sound of hammering, all around the doorframe, one nail after another while she mutters and curses—a madwoman’s harangue. The door quavers with each blow and over the next several minutes of continuous pounding it becomes exceedingly clear to him that she has no intention of coming back.

  77

  MUDDLED WITH SLEEP, Simon hears a car pulling up the driveway. The rattling diesel tells him it’s Lydia. She leaves the engine idling and storms into the house, making a lot of noise. He looks at the clock: three A.M. After so much whiskey, his head feels bruised and dim as a turnip. The smell of cigar smoke floats up into the room. Pulling himself up, he realizes that he’s afraid of her. Now she is on the stairs. And now she is in the room, standing at the foot of their bed. He has never seen his wife smoke a cigar before and he doesn’t approve of it. Women have no business smoking cigars. “What are you doing? What do you want?” He braces himself for something, he does not know what. And her face breaks open with a smile.

  “I hear congratulations are in order.” She hurls the lit cigar at his naked chest.

  Struck by the burning ash, he jumps and rolls around on the bed, trying to retrieve the cigar. “Jesus fucking Christ! What are you trying to do, burn the house down?” He puts it out in his water glass.

  “What do you think I am, stupid?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t fucking know?”

  “I have no idea what—”

  “Now everything’s ruined,” she blubbers. “Ruined!”

  Before he can even respond, she’s gone, her car racing off down the driveway.

  Wearily, he pulls on his trousers, his shirt. What time is it now? Three-twenty. Groggily, he staggers into the bathroom to urinate, wash his face. “I hear congratulations are in order.” What the fuck is she talking about?

  He calls the detective and tells him about the visit. Then he gets into his car and drives around looking for her. At a loss, he drives down to his studio. It’s not until he’s there, standing in front of the painting of Annie, that he realizes what she meant.

  78

  “I HAVE A GUN,” Lydia Haas says, waking Annie out of a deep sleep. The room is dark, splotched with moonlight. Annie sees her standing there in a red wool coat. She sees the gun and her heart lurches and jolts.

  “Get up.”

  “What do you want?” Annie gets out of bed, grateful that she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and Michael’s thick socks.

  “It makes me sick just to look at you,” Lydia says.

  Everything slows down. Annie’s mouth goes dry.

  “Let’s go. We’re going for a ride.” Annie moves into the hall, past the empty rooms of her children, then sinks, on shaking knees, down each step. “I need my shoes,” she says haltingly, trying to figure out a plan. “I need my coat.”

  “Hurry up,” Lydia says, moving closer with the gun. Annie pulls on her coat and steps into her winter boots, her mind scrambling. “I’m right here, you feel that? I have a very powerful gun and I’m an excellent shot. I’m especially good with moving targets. Don’t tempt me to pull this trigger.”

  They walk through the dark to Lydia’s car. “You’re driving. The key’s in there.” Annie gets behind the wheel. Gravity presses down, her body stiff, rigid. She has never been so terrified in her life. Lydia climbs into the back and puts the gun to the nape of Annie’s neck. “Back out. Get on 66 going north.”

  Annie does what Lydia asks and gets on Route 66. The car reeks of cigarettes. The snow falls heavily, making it hard to see. Up ahead, a group of deer crosses the road and she can feel the tires slipping when she brakes.

  “You make me want to puke,” Lydia says. “You make me want to throw up.”

  “Look, obviously you’re upset.”

  “I don’t know what he sees in you.”

  “I can’t change what happened. But it’s over. It’s been over for a long time.”

  “It’s not over! Don’t you lie to me! Don’t you tell me it’s over when I know very well that it’s not.”

  “But it is.” Annie can barely get the words out, her voice almost pleading. “I haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”

  “Lies! All lies!”

  “Look, look, calm down. Please! This isn’t right. You don’t have to do this. It happened, I admit it. It just happened.”

  “Nothing just happens! You thought about it. You made a decision. Whatever happened to self-control? It was one of my old shrink’s favorite subjects. Exercises self-control. You should have tried a little harder, Mrs. Knowles, because fucking my husband was the biggest mistake of your life.”