ProetryPlace Blog 48
The Night My Wife Tried to Kill Me
A memoir noir
Every soul on earth has secrets—dark moments from the past too shameful or too painful to share with any other. Marriages have secrets too, known only to the loving partners who trust each other with details of their union known to them alone.
But secrets are the makings of good stories—too good not to share. Few remain long-hidden from view. In the course of time or under severe stress, secrets eventually will emerge from their murky hiding place.
The outing of the secret rewards the secret holder with mental relief far superior to any physical catharsis. As James Joyce wonderfully phrased it, “Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”
Sara Gruen, in her novel Water for Elephants (a book I highly recommend) said this of secrets, “ . . . at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it doesn’t.”
It is therefore without remorse or reservation that I now reveal the long-held secret of the night my wife tried to kill me.
~
In truth, Dolly, my wife of many years, on the occasion of these allegations was not yet my wife. In fact, on that occasion she would likely have been greatly amused or perhaps appalled had I or anyone suggested the possibility that we would wed. But neither were we strangers, nor long to remain mere acquaintances.
Here then, at last, is the true story of that dreadful night three-score and four years ago.
~
Dolly and I met at college. It was my freshman year at the Milwaukee State Teachers College. I lived in my parents’ home and rode the bus to school during the day while working various full or part-time jobs on nights and weekends. That left little time for social life away from school, so I focused on fun while I was there. I spent most of my time playing cards in the student union and only reluctantly attending a hodgepodge of introductory classes with no particular academic goal in mind.
Bob Anderson (no relation) a newfound friend, classmate in Chemistry 101 and fellow card-player, persuaded me to join the Student Social Committee. It seemed like another good excuse to avoid serious study, so I did. That is where I first saw her.
Dolly, stood before the gathered Social Committee, like a collegiate Joan d’Arc, bravely articulating her proposals for whatever issue was under discussion. Her soft, shoulder-length hair moved in agitated waves as she turned to parry any argument or deflect any question. She amazed me with her self-confidence, her thoughtfulness and command. All she lacked was a white steed and armor.
She blew me away.
I did not have a similar effect on her, although Bob did catch her attention.
Our first face-to-face encounter was somewhat inadvertent. Dolly was chief marshal of the homecoming parade, which she commanded while driving her father’s WWII Army Jeep up and down the parade route, checking on us lesser, immobile marshals at various fixed points along the route. Bob and I were assigned to directing traffic at separate street intersections.
It had been arranged for Dolly to pick me up (I was car-less, as usual) after the parade and transport me to the college for the homecoming dance that followed—at least, so I thought.
There was a threat of snow in the cold, fall Wisconsin air. I shivered and swore as I paced and waited impatiently for my promised transportation. But Dolly had gotten her Andersons mixed up, and it was Bob, not Richard that she sought. She had no intention of being my chauffeur when she arrived at my intersection after the parade was long-gone and said, “I’m looking for Bob. Where’s Bob?”
“He’s not here. I’m freezing. You’re supposed to pick me up.”
“No I’m not!”
She frowned, slammed the Jeep into first and started away.
“Hey, what about me?” My words chased her through the frigid air. “I don’t have a ride!”
The Jeep jerked to a stop. “Well, climb in then. I’ll find Bob later.”
The WWII surplus vehicle she drove had been used as a utility vehicle on her father’s tree nursery. It was never driven at night and was not meant for use on city streets.
After proceeding slowly for a few blocks, I reluctantly mentioned that it might be a good idea to turn on the headlights.
“Oh, they don’t work.”
The side street we were on bore no traffic but soon we turned onto a busy thoroughfare, a four-lane divided avenue. At last, I thought it prudent to mention that we were proceeding up the wrong side of the boulevard.
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are. Look!”
A wall of headlights on vehicles released by the traffic light a block down the road, accelerated in our direction. I braced for the impending crash. With total alacrity, Dolly swung the Jeep across the dividing median and proceeded down the other side of the boulevard.
“No problem.” She smiled.
Richard Allen Anderson, http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment