Free The Man Who Loved His Wife by Vera Caspary Page B

in his hand, he walked in the garden. “Shut up!” croaked Fletcher at the owl. A hoot gave hideous echo. In the dark the man threw rocks at the telephone pole. “I want to die,” he challenged, his voice ringing out in full deformity. “No hope, no hope,” mocked the owl.
    Back in the house, he poured a measure of whiskey. Two pills were already down, the vial in his hand. He had so often thought of swallowing the whole hoard, had seen himself forcing the last ones into his mouth, had grimaced at the bitterness of gelatin capsules, had gagged at the thought of so much swallowing, had felt a dark and lovely cloud descend. Once more he counted the pills. How many? In the newspapers he often read about sleeping pill suicides. Amounts were never given. Sometimes the poor slobs were saved. God forbid! No humiliation could cut deeper, no failure scar a man more cruelly, than the defeat of attempted death.
    â€œNo hope, no hope,” the owl repeated. Fletcher’s hand trembled, the vial fell. Pills were scattered over the carpet, rolled under the furniture, hid themselves in shadows. He turned on all the lights, searched on hands and knees, counted, found three missing, went down upon his knees again to run both hands over the thick pile of the carpet. He had grown tired, the dark and lovely cloud descended so that he had barely strength to pull himself together and totter to his bed. The fog had entered his mind. He could not remember if he had swallowed more than the two pills.
    DEATH, LIKE MONEY, cannot be acquired by wishing. Fletcher woke drowsily and in a vile mood, knowing that he had to live through the irritations of another day. When Elaine said she had been surprised at his having slept so long and had twice cometo his room, he flew into a rage and asked if she had hoped to find a corpse in his bed.
    â€œEat your breakfast and don’t say such silly things.”
    Under the date of September eighteenth there appeared in his diary this item:
    Last night R.J. came to swim with us. My wife was all hot and bothered and kept giving me looks that sent shivers up my spine because I knew what was on her mind. She must have felt very guilty because she began to flirt with me like a girl on the make. Later she came to my room in a new nightie that showed everything she has. She praised my physique and said I was more attractive than the younger men and asked if I remembered how we used to hurry home from places in N.Y. and throw our clothes on the floor. But she did not throw that expensive nightgown on the floor. She came to bring me sleeping pills, and when I tried to make love she let me know she was not interested.
    He stopped to pace the floor while he pondered the subtleties of the falsehood. No one could deny the facts except Elaine, who would be believed by no one who read the diary after her husband’s death.
    Elaine came to the library to ask him something, saw the diary open on the desk, remarked that she was glad to see him occupied. Her voice was a shade too cheerful, her eyes darkly circled, her smile an effort. After she had gone he wrote:
    Am I wrong to distrust her? Suspicion haunts the guilty mind. But what am I guilty of? I wait like a sitting duck and do nothing to protect myself from the danger that hangs over me. This is because my life has no purpose and the future means nothing any more. When the time comes and she does the desperate act I wonder if I will know and resist. I see into her evil heart but cannot make any move against her because . . .
    Here the entry finished. He could not acknowledge love in a document designed to destroy her. And since love had been the only virtue left in his life, his refusal to admit its existence was also an act of destruction. With passion futile, with no activitiesto involve mind or body, the man was compelled to reject himself. He became indifferent in other ways, showed little excitement when his stockbroker telephoned from New