My Wife and My Dead Wife by Michael Kun

Author:Michael Kun [Kun, Michael S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59692-891-6
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited
Published: 2006-09-17T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13: A THOUSAND BREATHLESS SUMMERS

When your girlfriend doesn’t come home at night, you’re supposed to think, I hope she’s all right. I hope she wasn’t in an accident. Or you’re supposed to think, Maybe I should call the police. Maybe I should call the hospitals.

Or you’re supposed to think I wonder if she’s left me, especially if that’s what your wife did.

Only I don’t think that at all.

Instead, I think, Guitar Walter.

Guitar Walter.

Guitar Walter.

GUITAR WALTER.

Guitar Walter with his guitar.

Guitar Walter with his oily hair.

Guitar Walter with his college books, sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee I paid for.

Guitar Walter sitting on my couch and smelling my girlfriend’s perfume like a dog sniffing around for a treat.

Guitar Walter with his hands all over my girlfriend.

At two o’clock in the morning, all I can think about is Renée and Guitar Walter kissing.

What I think about at three o’clock is worse, bare arms and legs everywhere.

What I think about at four is horrible.

x

I shower. I shave. I make a pot of coffee. I get dressed. Renée still isn’t home when I leave for work. She hasn’t called. I don’t know any of her new friends’ telephone numbers. I don’t even know their last names, so I can’t look up their telephone numbers or call directory assistance. You can’t dial 411 and say, “I’d like the telephone number for Guitar Walter.” You can’t say, “I’d like the number for a girl named Claire Something-or-other with red hair and pale skin.” You can’t.

I stop on the way to work to get some more Krispy Kreme donuts, and when I get to the shop I tell Debbie and Palmeyer about how Renée didn’t come home last night. Debbie makes an “O” with her mouth, then covers it with her palm.

“That’s terrible,” she says. “Did you call the hospitals?”

I tell her, “No,” and she says, “We’d better.”

For the next half hour, we take turns calling the hospitals. I look up the numbers in the phone book, then Debbie calls them.

“Is there a girl there named Renée Yates,” Debbie says, and after a little while she looks at me and shakes her head side-to-side, no.

“Ask if there’s a Renée Ashe,” I say.

And Debbie does, and then she shakes her head, no, again.

We call all of the hospitals that are listed in the phone book. There are more hospitals than you can imagine. There must be more sick people in Atlanta than anywhere in the world. Or else they’re very small hospitals.

No Renée Yates at any of them.

No Renée Ashe.

Then we call all of the police stations in the area. Hands. Feet. Legs. Breasts. I try to put them together in my mind to complete two naked bodies, but I can’t.

Same thing.

Then I start picturing her with Guitar Walter again.

I try to call her at home, but there’s no answer. I just keep getting our answering machine saying, “Hello, this is Renée Ashe. My husband and I are out at the present moment. Please leave a message.

I work on a sports jacket for five minutes, fixing the buttons on the sleeves, then I call home again.

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