The Carpenter's Wife Page 12

  Romy said, “You mentioned there were two things…?”

  “Yes, of course.” Betty sat up. “The second thing is good sex.”

  Romy shrank visibly. Her eyes narrowed; she blushed.

  Betty stifled a smile. She patted her visitor’s hand. “See, a man is first and foremost a visual being. What he sees arouses him. That’s crude. We women are a bit more sophisticated in our makeup. For us to enjoy lovemaking, the moment, the atmosphere, intangible things like that need to be right. If our men want to make us happy, they better take a holistic approach—“

  “A holi…?”

  “They better take our entire being into account.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Yes, sure…”

  Betty turned toward her and looked at her probingly. “Admit it, you too like it better when your husband starts your day off with a compliment, when he praises you from time to time during the day, and when he surprises you with flowers or some such thing in the evening...”

  That never happens, Romy didn’t tell her host.

  “…if he’s a little romantic. It softens you much faster than when he comes and simply makes demands.”

  Romy sighed. Tom didn’t do that either.

  “A little romance makes sex so much more enjoyable—for a woman.”

  Romy sat silently. The seat had suddenly gotten uncomfortable. She wiggled and tried to adjust in it.

  But Betty remained on subject. “A man doesn’t need all those emotional contraptions. All he has to do is look. He wants to look; he needs to look. Smut peddlers grow rich by exploiting this trait in universal man, and we Christian women can’t just ignore it. We must respect that need.” She gave a wily smile. “It’s actually enjoyable to toy with them there. A little packaging has never hurt a woman yet,” she whispered, acting confidential. “Do you want some more tea?”

  Romy stared at the small table. Then she said, “I’ll pour,” and grabbed the pitcher.

  “Me too, please.” Betty went on, “The Bible isn’t silent on those things, Honey. The Song of Solomon is salient here; it’s very explicit. Solomon was a man. In the book he admires his lover’s body in erotic detail. The king obviously looked long and hard at his new bride.”

  Romy shifted in her chair. She turned pink.

  “Breasts are ‘two young roes that are twins’ to him. Her navel is a ‘round goblet.’” She laughed gently. “I don’t know how much of a compliment that is today. Back then you were hot when your belly stuck out.” She giggled.

  Romy swallowed against the frog in her throat, her eyes darting around the room. Betty was a doctor’s wife, she had a different attitude toward the human body. She, Romy, was holy… Holiness…

  “The word of God is not at all silent on the subject of conjugal sex. Solomon and Sulamith discuss it freely, which means, we should too. They speak of many things. Of romantic settings and of interesting clothes, of perfume, even love in the outdoors.

  “Men differ from women. But I conclude from the Song of Solomon that the Lord doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with the wiring of either sex. Men are men. It is up to us to accept that.” Betty gazed at her guest. “Of course, the whole thing needs to be mutual. But you—especially you—can look at sex as a ministry to your husband.” She paused to sip her tea. “Some men require a little more than others. I would have to be very mistaken if yours weren’t one of those.”

  Romy suddenly stared at her watch. “Oh my!” she cried. “It’s almost twelve thirty. The kids are coming home from school and I haven’t even thought of what to cook yet. Tom’s going to love me for this.” She stood.

  “Well, you better run along then.” Betty got up too. She accompanied her guest to the door. Walking through the foyer, she said, “Romy. A last word from Solomon.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the small foxes that spoil the vine. It’s the sum of small things that weighs us down and makes life miserable.” She had an indefinable expression in her eyes. “I imagine, a man like your husband appreciates an accommodating wife. I’m sure that’s what you are. He is building a new church in a strange city. The task is complex. His life is hard enough as it is.”

  So is mine, Romy thought, unwilling to say so.

  “I’m sure he appreciates your ministry.”

  My ministry, huh?

  “He has only you.”

  She looked up. “And I have only him.” It was a plea.

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t sure Betty understood. She had needs too. More elementary ones than sex. For a woman. Security for instance.

  “Tell him greetings from me.”

  “Sure will.” Romy sprang down the steps into the boiling afternoon. Unlocking the car, she turned around and said, “Thanks for everything, Betty. You’re such a perfect hostess; the buffet was perfect.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Bye.” She started the car.

  Betty waved as she drove off.

  17

  Wednesday, 9 July 2003, Night, 26°C

  Coming home from midweek service, Tom angled the big Beamer into the narrow one-car garage, assisted by the park distance control sensors in both bumpers. The front end began to beep without intermission, and he shut the engine down and left the BMW’s pleasantly acclimated interior, stepping out into the sweltering heat of the night. The rickety garage door screeched when he lowered it. He had to slam it shut a couple times, since the ornery thing didn’t want to click home. After closing the front gate, he went into the house.

  Coco had heard him and began to howl when he stepped through the hallway door.

  Tom patted her. “Hello there, puppy.”

  She jumped and ran off into the kitchen, tail wagging.

  Romy came out of the living room, wearing a white T-shirt over a black bathing suit. She was barefoot. “Hi.”

  Tom scanned her, top to bottom. “Hello.”

  They kissed briefly.

  “Plan on swimming tonight?” He turned toward the kitchen.

  “No, I—”

  “And what do we have here?” Coco came back, waving a chewed-up rabbit. “Don’t tell me puppy dog is bored,” Tom said.

  He asked Romy, “Were you at Ralph and Gina’s?” Their back yard held the only pool in Elmendorf.

  “No. Not tonight.”

  “Didn’t you swim there once?”

  “Last year. When you were in America.”

  The dog nudged his knee, growling, holding the rabbit between clenched teeth.

  “What is it, baby?” Tom said. “You wanna to play? Girlie wanna play? That so?” He took the badly mangled animal and jerked it around a little. The dog growled some more and jumped with delight. Then Stark spied his late-night food on the kitchen counter. Cheese, salami, some cauliflower, and a piece of rye bread, all assembled on a rustic board. Coco’s dish on the floor was already empty. “That’s why you’re so happy, huh? I see. But I’m hungry too, baby.”

  He went into the kitchen, washed his hands, and took a half-liter bottle of alcohol-free Erdinger from the fridge. He began to pour.

  Romy had followed him. She now leaned against the kitchen doorframe, one foot down, one on its toe, and looked at him. “There’s dip in the fridge.”

  “Here,” he said, handing her the board. “Mind taking this?” If he’d hurry, he’d catch the 9:45 news on ZDF. The show was a riot. Its anchor, a mirthful man named Klever, had the most precious snobby air about him, and his overwrought “news analyses” of all things American usually made Tom chuckle with delight. Viewed with the appropriate sense of humor, European news casts could be hilarious. Naturally, Stark didn’t rely solely on TV for information. He’d figured out long ago that television was to news what bumper stickers were to philosophy. He had since turned to the blogs of the Internet.

  Tom rushed upstairs and came back in rainbow-colored swim trunks. After letting the dog out, he turned on the TV, settled into the easy chair, and began to eat.

  Romy s
at down on the love seat opposite Stark, her legs drawn up beside her.

  Klever was already at it. Tom giggled when the anchor commented on President Bush’s IQ again, this time casting Condoleezza Rice in the role of black maid. Following her master around, she watched out for him, parsing him, jumping in whenever he put his foot into his mouth. Klever marveled endlessly how she could stoop so low as to do such a thing. She was selling herself; she betrayed her people.

  “You doozie!” Tom cried. “She believes in him. She’s no slave.” Turning to Romy, he said, “Here they had slaves until nineteen forty-five.”

  Romy tried to ignore Klever. “You’re late today.”

  Tom turned the TV down. “Hmm.” He munched. “Talked to Norman after the service.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You know, Norman Kowalski. Old guy with two girls. Been coming off and on.”

  “Right.” She fell silent. After a while she said, “Tom…”

  He was listening to Klever. “What?”

  “Can I take my T-shirt off?”

  He snorted. “I don’t care.” He kept staring at the TV.

  The newscast went into the segments on domestic news.

  She pulled her white top off, laid it down, and fixed her eyes on him. Leaning forward onto one outstretched arm, her legs still drawn, she looked like Andersen’s little mermaid in Copenhagen’s harbor. In a bathing suit.

  Tom didn’t see her.

  “You know, Norman…” he started again.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s in his late sixties. The girls are six and nine; they’re his grandchildren. They’ve been with him for two years now. Last April a court finally awarded him custody.”

  “How come? Don’t they have parents?”

  “’Course they do. But the mother’s a derelict on dope. His daughter-in-law. She has visiting rights.” He munched some more before he said, “She came by last Sunday night at ten thirty, demanding he hand over Denise. You know, the older one. She was filled with Heroin up to her hairline—the mother, not Denise.” He chewed again.

  “And?” Romy said, leaning back, stretching her legs out. “Did he hand her over?”

  “Are you kidding?” He threw her a glance. “She might have sold the kid to some pervert for not a lot more than the next fix. From what I understand, she’s a real sicko.”

  “So, what’d he do? Norman.”

  “Kicked her out—literally. She screamed, but he used his hands and feet and got rid of her. She had a nosebleed when she left.” He chuckled. “Poor dude; I feel for him.”

  Romy hugged herself.

  Tom went on, “When she was gone, he mopped up the blood and lighted a consecrated candle. Then he prayed for her soul.”

  She whispered, “He’s Catholic, huh?”

  “Mmh. He thinks she’s not going to bother him for a while. Might have a concussion. He decked her good.”

  She relaxed and lengthened her legs some more, wiggling her toes. “So, that’s what you talked about…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His eyes were glued to the set. Yawning, she returned to a more comfortable position.

  “Wasn’t all. Actually, it wasn’t even the first of it.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “His son died on Monday.”

  “What?” She sat up. “Norman’s son?”

  “Yeah, the dad of the kids. Did you know he’d been an inmate at Bayreuth State Prison?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Been there for two years.”

  “How come he died?”

  “Doctors were plugging a bypass around his heart. Drugs and alcohol damage your heart, you know. Didn’t work out. He lapsed into deep coma and reawoke one more time. Died a couple hours later. Croaked. Just like that.” Tom paused. “His name was Dariush, Dariush Kowalski. I guess they write that with an S and a Z. Dariusz.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Only the TV rambled on.

  Tom was finished eating and put the board onto the small table next to his easy chair. “Old Norm, he was weeping and carrying on. He said, ‘How am I going to break it to the girls? How am I going to pay for the funeral? I’m on a slim pension.’ And this, and that.” Stark sighed. “I didn’t have any quick answers either. The best I’ve been able to do was to listen as the old man poured out his desperation. He sounded better after a while. We left the church at nine thirty.”

  Romy, deep in thought, picked her lower lip. “That man, Dariusz. Why was he in jail…?”

  Tom had anticipated her question. “Raped his 16-year-old stepdaughter. Three years ago. Nearly tore her apart.”

  “That’s disgusting.” She frowned.

  Tom shrugged. “He’s dead now. At forty. Just a year older than me.” He huffed impassively. “What a life.”

  “Raped her, huh…?” Romy said.

  “That’s right. She was unconscious when they found her. He’d been a real brute. First he broke her arm, then he—”

  “Tom!”

  He giggled at Klever, who’d just demeaned ex-chancellor Kohl in a side thought. “Her face was beat to a bloody pulp; there was blood smeared all over her bedroom wall. Even on the ceiling…”

  “Spare me.”

  “Sorry.” He cast a weary eye at his wife. “Believe me, it wasn’t pretty.”

  Romy’s eyes glazed over.

  Tom went on, “Wasn’t his first rape either. Must have been a pretty monstrous neighbor. Guys like that… They move in and out of places. You don’t know where they hang around. Can be anywhere. And for the most part they look normal. In the U.S. there’s a law now, requiring them to register with the police. In California they post those guys’ addresses in the Internet, I read. Good thing God has his hand on you…”

  She looked at him, sternly, soberly.

  “Norman loved him in spite of it all. The old guy was dejected. Oh man, he wept. Went on like David over Absalom. ‘My boy! My boy!’” Tom shook his head.

  The newscast was wrapping up with the weather report. He raised his eyes and finally caught sight of his mermaid. He studied her. “Say,” he said, gesturing, “aren’t you hot in that full body armor you’re wearing?”

  “No.”

  “You sure you’re comfortable?”

  She cast a reproachful glance at him.

  “Why aren’t you changing into something… less?”

  “I-I need to go to bed.” She got up.

  Looking after her as she left, T-shirt in hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done something terribly wrong.

  When the creaking of her steps on the wooden stairs had ended, he switched the TV off, got up, and went to check his e-mails one last time today.

  18

  Saturday, 12 July 2003, Afternoon, 34°C

  The old hall of Saint Joseph’s community center in Wilmersbach with its gray-lacquered walls and worn-out stage was filled to overflowing with visitors this afternoon. Fathers, mothers, aunts, the occasional uncle, and grandparents—mostly grandmothers—populated the three long rows of tables arrayed. Tobacco smoke swirled, an animated murmur filled the air, and coffee cups and cake plates clinked and clanged in a cacophony of noises, until at two o’clock sharp the large room fell silent. A live guitar started to strum and the show began.

  Romy sat by a table on the far end, watching her daughter walk out onto the stage with firm steps. Sarah was dressed in a cute granny dress, a gray wig, and round glasses. She was the lead character this year’s Kindergarten play.

  Oma Sarah had just recited her introductory four-line poem into the microphone, and people clapped, when Romy heard the door open. She turned to look.

  Gina Delors entered. Seeing Romy, she waved with a smile and came over. “Is this chair still to be had?” she asked quietly.

  Romy nodded wide-eyed, taken aback by Gina’s outfit.

  The carpenter’s wife wore the highest high heels and the hottest hot pants Romy had ever seen, making Gina’s le
gs the longest in recent history. Romy blushed, vicariously feeling ashamed for her. She couldn’t help but think that if Gina would bend over, she’d show. Her white blouse wasn’t exactly a very good keeper of secrets either.

  Good thing Tom wasn’t here, Romy thought. He would have told her off in no uncertain terms.

  Other women, especially teens, were dressed similarly, the heat excusing deviations from the dress code; proper was different this year. But since the others didn’t match Gina’s physique, the effect she had was unlike that of the teens. The men, even old ones, on the tables around them, were noticing her. She had to realize that, Romy thought. What was she doing running around like this?

  Gina sat down and carefully draped one tanned leg over the other. Then, resting her chin on her fist, she followed the action on the stage with a vague, absent-minded smile on her face.

  The show was over and Sarah came running up to her mother. People commented her on the way, but she didn’t stop until she stood by the table in front of Romy. All smiles, she waited to be praised.

  “You were great, Honey,” Romy said, brushing over her hair.

  Sarah giggled.

  “Suuuper,” said Gina.

  An older gentleman came up behind Sarah. “Got to get back there,” he said. “They’re giving all the kids free ice cream cones.”

  “Yippee!” Sarah jumped and clapped her hands.

  Romy nodded. “Go run, Honey.”

  Sarah ran away.

  The noise of many voices filled the air again. Gina leaned closer and said to Romy, “I’m surprised your husband isn’t here. I thought I might meet him today.”

  “No,” said Romy. “Today’s Saturday. Saturdays he works on his sermon.”

  Gina’s eyes became round. “But the program runs only an hour.”

  Romy shrugged. “I know. The kids will perform again on Monday. He’ll watch her then. He said.”

  Gina laughed. “Men. Mine’s not at home either. I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s probably in the shop. Works all the time.” She rolled her eyes.