My Wife and My Dead Wife Read online

  My Wife and My Dead Wife

  A Novel by Michael S. Kun

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-59692-891-6

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  MacAdam/Cage

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  Copyright © Michael S. Kun

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 1-931561-69-9

  Book and jacket design by Dorothy Carico Smith

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Portions of this novel have appeared, in different forms, in USA Today, The City Paper, Fiction and Story Quarterly.

  Lyrics to the song “Winona Forever” by Michael Kun are used by

  permission of Capitol Records. The song appears on the album “ABBA-Cadabra: ABBA Sings The Magical Songs of Michael Kun.”

  Lyrics to the song “Grandma’s Kitchen” by Michael Kun and Bruce Springsteen are used by permission of Columbia Records. The song appears on the album “Springsteen and Kun: Best Friends Together Again For One Night Only” under the alternate title “Hey, Granny, Won’t You Come Out Tonight.”

  Lyrics to the song “A Whisper Tames The Wild Horse” by Jewel and Michael Kun are used by permission of Elektra Entertainment Group. The song appears on the album “Jewel Sings Songs About Horses And Unicorns.”

  Lyrics to the song “Dance With Me Bobby Bailey” by Elvis Costello and Michael Kun are used by permission of EMI Records. The songs appears on the album “When Elvis Met Michael.”

  Lyrics to the song “Umbrella Steps” by Michael Kun and Britney Spears are used by permission of Columbia Records. The song appears on the album “Britney Dances To The Songs Of Michael Kun! And Sings Them, Too!”

  Lyrics to the song “This Is My Song” by Michael Kun, Marilyn Anderson and Steven Kun are used by permission of A&M Records. The song appears on the album “The Kun Family Singers Sing Timeless Songs Of Regret And Remorse.”

  Lyrics to the song “Georgia Rain” by Michael Kun and Wayne Newton are used by permission of Highlight Reccords. The song appears on the album “Newton and Kun: Your Hair Looks Worse Than Mine. No, Really, I Mean It.”

  For my parents

  MY WIFE AND MY DEAD WIFE

  A novel by Michael Kun

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1: COWBOY OUTFIT

  CHAPTER 2: ELECT HAMILTON ASHE FOR A BETTER TENTH GRADE

  CHAPTER 3: BLESSED ARE THE LITTLE FISHIES

  CHAPTER 4: TAILORS NEED SEAMSTRESS

  CHAPTER 5: NINES

  CHAPTER 6: THE SUITCASE WITH THE STICKERS ON IT

  CHAPTER 7: SHE WAS ONLY THE GROCER’S DAUGHTER

  CHAPTER 8: MISS REDBOOK

  CHAPTER 9: MARIO LANZA WAS HERE

  CHAPTER 10: MONKS IN THE KITCHEN

  CHAPTER 11: BETTER THAN RUTH

  CHAPTER 12: MY BLACK THREAD

  CHAPTER 13: A THOUSAND BREATHLESS SUMMERS

  CHAPTER 14: SOMEONE FELL AND WE ALL LAUGHED

  CHAPTER 15: MY DEAD WIFE

  CHAPTER 16: SHE HASN’T PAID A DIME

  CHAPTER 17: DO YOU LOVE ME YET?

  CHAPTER 18: WHAT GOD HAS TORN APART

  CHAPTER 19: MON PRESIDENT, MON AMOUR

  CHAPTER 20: THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROBERT DE NIRO FAN CLUB

  CHAPTER 21: KISSING SAM

  CHAPTER 22: KEATS, YEATS, BROWNING, FROST AGAIN

  CHAPTER 23: TELL ME SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW

  CHAPTER 24: OUR LITTLE ANGEL

  CHAPTER 25: WHAT WILL BIGMOUTH SAY ABOUT THE BANANA PUDDING?

  CHAPTER 26: YOU ARE HAMILTON ASHE

  CHAPTER 27: MARCO. POLO.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At this stage, I believe it is my duty as your author to acknowledge all of the fine literary societies, humbling awards and generous artistic grants without which I would not be standing before you today, presenting you My Wife and My Dead Wife. However, I have never received any grants of any kind, generous or otherwise, and the only relevant award I ever received was a giant Hershey bar for winning a spelling bee in Mrs. Cantello’s sixth grade class at Sicomac Elementary School in Wyckoff, New Jersey. So, without further ado, I’d like to thank Mrs. Cantello and the fine people who make Hershey products. Thank you, thank you. Without you, this book would be chock full of misspelled words. And my skin would have been much clearer during my teenage years.

  Much more importantly, I’d like to acknowledge the fellowship, patience and good cheer of the following people, all of whom continue to put up with my stuff and nonsense. They are, more or less alphabetically: Jeff Aghassi, Jamie Allen, Scott Allen (MacAdam/Cage CEO, who will send me larger and more frequent checks if you each buy more copies of this book), Luis Alvarez, the Andersons (look, Charlotte, that’s Uncle Mike on the back cover), the Andresinos, Chris Antone, Mark Attwood, Cecily Banks (who once lent me her pants, which is all I’ll say), Lori Bauer, Andy Bienstock

  (Baltimore’s best DJ), Howard Bloom, Sandra Bond (world’s nicest agent), my friends at BookWorks in Albuquerque (especially Nancy Rutland, Lindsay Lancaster and Carolyn Valtos), Bert Brandenburg, Jeff Brody, Pete Bulmer, the Campbell-Corrys (the closest thing to my family, if you don’t count my family), the Callahans, the Cherofs, Jim Crane, Mike Curran, Harrison Darby, John Daugherty, Stephen Dixon, Peter Farley, Karen Fazukas, Eric Feinstein, Doug Fellman, Melissa Goldsmith, Maricela Gonzalez, Rich Hafets, the Hennellys, David Hoiles, my friends at Jackson Lewis (especially the Los Angeles office), Bert Johnson, the Johnsons (Scott and Ben, look who’s on the back cover), the Kennedys, Tasha Kepler, Dallas Kingsbury, Susan Krell, the Kuns, the Larias, the Lebaus, Cecily Lesko (did you notice that I have two close friends named Cecily—imagine the odds), Holly Levin, Ann Lloyd, the Longos, Sharon McConnell, the McGees, Nancy Miles, the Millspaughs, Melanie Mitchell, Kate Nitze, Mindy Novick, Maria Olsen, Rob Pattison, Tom Piekara, David Poindexter (MacAdam/ Cage publisher who may or may not have had his arm twisted quite severely before he signed me to a contract), Jeanne Vaeth Porter, Terry Prince, Bill Quinn, Richard Rabicoff, Kristy Raska, the Richardsons, Phil Rosen, Anne Rumsey, Avril Sande, Evan Shenkman, the Sienas, Teresa Siriani, Dorothy Carico Smith, Doug Smith, Stan Smith, Tom Smith, pretty much anyone else named Smith, the Solitars, Jon Spitz, Larry Stone, Jackie Sumanis, Wanda Thomas, Amy Toboco, Guy Tully, Todd VanDyke, the Visages, Pat Walsh (editor/nemesis/supporter/confidant—a more complex relationship would require a therapist), Doug Warren, the Weymers, James Williams, Cara Wilson, Serena Wiltshire, Doug Wolfe and Michael Yockel (the only person ever to risk his job in support of my writing—shame how that worked out, wasn’t it).

  Special mention, and special thanks, must be given to the Class of 1984 of the Johns Hopkins University and the Class of 1988 of the University of Virginia School of Law. Never mind all the support and encouragement they gave me; they frequently offered to take notes for me so I could skip classes to write. Those are special people.

  To all of you, I offer my thanks.

  And to those of you who will believe this book to be autobiographical, I say, “Oh, please.” For one, the narrator and I have different names. For two, the narrator grew up in Georgia, while I grew
up elsewhere. As for the fact that the narrator is single, dim-witted and putting on weight…well, I suppose you’ve got me on that one.

  CHAPTER 1: COWBOY OUTFIT

  Renée is NOT my wife.

  Sure, she says she is. She’s a sweet girl, sweet as cake batter, but she is NOT my wife and we are NOT married, despite what she may be telling people.

  After what happened in Decatur, she signs her name “Renée Ashe,” and she runs all over town saying, “I’m Renée Ashe. I’m Hamilton Ashe’s wife.” Not, I’m Renée YATES, Hamilton Ashe’s GIRLFRIEND. She even signs her name “Renée Ashe,” with a big loop at the end. I don’t know how she ever got it in her head to tell people she’s my wife. We don’t have a marriage license, we never had a wedding ceremony, we never did any of the things you have to do to become man and wife. NONE. She just started saying she was my wife, and she keeps saying it over and over.

  “Hello, this is Renée Ashe,” she’ll say when she answers the phone.

  Or she’ll say, “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Ashe” when she introduces us. She’ll walk up to complete strangers, people we’ve never seen before and will never see again, and she’ll extend a hand and say, “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Ashe. We’re pleased to meet you,” like we’re running for public office and we’re looking for votes.

  “My husband’s first name is an old family name,” she’ll say. “He goes by ‘Ham,’” she’ll say, then she’ll spell it for them as if they’ve never heard the word “ham” before, as if they came from some remote country where they’ve never heard of such things as “ham and eggs” or a “ham sandwich.”

  I’ll ask her calmly, “Renée, why do you keep telling people that you’re my wife?”

  And she’ll say, “Because I am.”

  And I’ll say, “My foot you’re my wife,” only I don’t use the word “foot.”

  And she’ll say, “I am so your wife. We’re married.”

  And I’ll say, “By what power can you declare us man and wife?”

  And she’ll say, “There’s a little thing known as a common law marriage.”

  And I’ll say, “I’ve never heard of any such thing, and I know people who are lawyers,” which is true. My older brother Carl is a lawyer. Not only that, he’s a good lawyer with a top-notch Atlanta law firm.

  But she’ll say, “A) You don’t know people PLURAL who are lawyers, and B) even if you did know lawyers, they’d have to be the stupidest lawyers in the world if they’ve never heard of something as obvious as a common law marriage.”

  That’s another way things changed. Before, we used to just talk like normal people do. I’d say something, then she’d say something connected to that, then I’d say something connected to that, and it’d go on and on and, before you knew it, we’d be in bed and naked. But now we don’t have what you would call normal conversations. Every time we talk about something, it’s like she’s a scientist trying to prove some theory. And she’s always using A’s and B’s to do it. Or 1’s and 2’s and 3’s.

  For instance, I’ll get dressed in the morning and she’ll say, “Go get changed. I don’t like 1) your shirt, 2) your pants and 3) your socks.”

  Or I’ll ask what she’s cooking for dinner and she’ll say, “We’re having A) hot dogs, B) cole slaw, C) potatoes and D) lemonade.”

  I’d never heard something so funny as someone trying to sound intelligent because they say “D) lemonade.” As if the King or Queen of some country runs around saying, “D) lemonade.” As if some professor at Harvard University comes home from work at the end of a busy and frustrating day and his wife will say, “We’re having D) lemonade.” As if anyone’s wife talks that way.

  That’s a bad example, of course, because Renée is NOT my wife. She’s not my wife because A) I never asked her to be my wife, B) we never got a marriage license, C) we never had a wedding ceremony, and D) lemonade.

  Here’s another way things have changed: Renée’s always telling me I’m fat. If I’m fat, why does she keep baking all the things she bakes? Cakes and pies and cookies. She used to bake once in a while, but after what happened in Decatur, she does it every single day like normal people might brush their teeth or wash their hair or things of that nature. I’ll come home from work and have dinner, and then she’ll say, “How about a nice piece of yellow cake?”

  I’ll say, “No, thank you.”

  And she’ll say, “I baked it just for you. It has chocolate icing.”

  And I’ll say, “I’m full, Sweet Potato,” which is what I call her sometimes.

  And she’ll say, “Come on. I baked it special for you. Why don’t you sit down in front of the television and I’ll bring you A) a piece of cake, and B) a glass of milk.”

  So, I’ll do it. I’ll sit down in front of the television with the remote control, and I’ll find something to watch, and then she’ll bring me some A) cake and B) milk, and then she’ll watch me while I’m eating, watch me like a cat watching a bird, ready to pounce. When I’m finished, she’ll say, “There, now wasn’t that good?”

  I’ll say, “Yes,” which is usually true, because Renée is a very good cook.

  And then, not ten minutes later—not ten minutes—she’ll pat my stomach and say something like, “Do you have a baby in there?”

  Or, “Looks like I’ve got a chubby hubby.”

  Now, why would she say something like that after she practically stuffed the cake in my mouth in the first place? Why would she say something like that when I am NOT her husband?

  Why?

  Why?

  x

  When you get right down to it, everything really started to change when Renée lost her job at the hospital. She was working in the gift store where they sell cards and candy and stuffed animals and things of that nature. One day she came home from work and said, “Ham, honeypie, I need to talk to you about something.” She had a very serious look on her face. She wrung her hands the way people do when they have arthritis.

  I said, “What?”

  And she said, “I lost my job. They fired me. They said it was a layoff, but it still means I don’t have someplace to go to work tomorrow.”

  I said, “Oh, God, that’s terrible.”

  And she said, “No, no, it’s okay.”

  And I said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll find another job.”

  And she said, “That’s just it. I don’t want to get another job.”

  And I said, “Why?”

  And she said, “I’ve got dreams, Ham. I’ve got things I want to do with my life, and I want to try to do them.”

  And I said, “What sort of dreams?”

  And she said, “I’m too embarrassed to tell you.”

  And I said, “If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

  And she said, “Well, I suppose I should be able to tell my boyfriend.”

  She said “boyfriend,” not “husband.” And at no time since—at NO time—did we ever get married. I may not be a genius, but I’d sure remember something like that. Anyone would.

  That’s when Renée said, “What I really want to do is to be a singer.

  And I said, “Really?”

  She looked down at her shoes and said, “Really. I want to sing and play the guitar. I want to be a country-and-western singer like Patsy Cline and Dolly Parton.” She named some other people whose names I forgot right away.

  Here I’d known Renée for more than three years, almost four, and I never knew she wanted to be a singer. The only times I ever heard her sing were when she sang “Happy Birthday” on someone’s birthday or when she sang some Christmas carols at Christmas parties. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” “Silent Night.” “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” She wasn’t half-bad, but she wasn’t so good that you’d say to yourself, “Lord, that girl can sing! She could charm the birds right out of the trees. Heck, she ought to be a professional singer.” No, when she sang, she just blended in with everyone else, that’s all.

  And another thing: I never hear
d her listen to any country-and-western music the entire time I’d known her. Never. She always listened to the same music as me, which is rock and roll. Aerosmith. The Doors. The Rolling Stones. Music like that.

  “You think it’s silly of me to want to be a singer, don’t you?” she said. She was still wringing her hands. She looked up from her shoes.

  I said, “No, of course I don’t think it’s silly.”

  “I mean, me wanting to not look for another job and everything so I can be a singer? You don’t think it’s silly?”

  “No, no,” I said, “We can get by on my paycheck. Things will be tight, but we can do it,” which I wasn’t really sure about. I work in a tailor shop. I don’t make a fortune like some people in Atlanta do. But I didn’t want her to get more upset than she already was, so I said what I said about how we could get by on my paycheck.

  Renée said, “It won’t be for long, I promise you that. I figure I need to take some time to stay at home and write some songs, and then I’ll go to some of the clubs in Decatur and see if they’ll hire me to play. Then, if I can play a couple times a week, I bet I could make as much money as I was making at the hospital. Maybe more.”

  And I said, “What if they offered you a record contract,” which I don’t know why I said, getting her hopes up and all.

  And she said, “Why, I’d be the happiest woman in the world.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

  I’ve never seen Renée so happy as she was at that moment. Never, except maybe a few days later when I bought her a guitar on the way home from work. I bought it used, so it wasn’t too expensive, and the salesman threw in a black guitar case for free because we once worked together somewhere, although neither of us could remember where. You’ve never seen anyone so surprised as when I came in the front door and gave her that guitar.