The Man Who Loved His Wife Read online

  Femmes Fatales restores to print the best of women’s writing in the classic pulp genres of the mid-twentieth century. From mysteries to hard-boiled noir to taboo lesbian romance, these rediscovered queens of pulp offer subversive perspectives on a turbulent era.

  Faith Baldwin

  SKYSCRAPER

  Vera Caspary

  BEDELIA

  LAURA

  THE MAN WHO LOVED HIS WIFE

  Gypsy Rose Lee

  THE G-STRING MURDERS

  MOTHER FINDS A BODY

  Evelyn Piper

  BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING

  Olive Higgins Prouty

  NOW, VOYAGER

  Valerie Taylor

  THE GIRLS IN 3-B

  STRANGER ON LESBOS

  RETURN TO LESBOS

  Tereska Torrès

  WOMEN’S BARRACKS

  BY CECILE

  Published in 2013 by the Feminist Press

  at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center

  365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

  New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition

  Text copyright © 1966 The Authors League Fund, as literary executor of the Estate of Vera Caspary

  Originally published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover and text design by Drew Stevens.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Caspary, Vera, 1899-1987.

  The man who loved his wife / Vera Caspary.

  pages cm

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 978-1-55861-847-3

  I. Title.

  PS3505.A842M36 2014

  813'.52—dc23

  2013035186

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  1

  THE DIARY WAS STARTED, PROPERLY, ON JANUARY first. More than merely the beginning of another year, it marked a new phase in the life of a man. Fletcher Strode had always known quick satisfactions, easy delight, and the exercise of such teeming energy that if one of his many projects failed, he had at once plunged into more extravagant activities. The written word had neither dazzled nor distressed him; the only books he had read all the way through were detective stories. There can be no doubt of their influence on the purpose and content of his diary.

  It was a good thick book, beautifully bound in dark green morocco stamped with his initials. He had got it as a Christmas present, one of many useless, expensive trinkets elaborately wrapped to make a show under the tree. Together he and Elaine had selected the Douglas fir, trimmed it, admired their work but there had been no surprise in it and no one to help them celebrate. Over an abundant Christmas dinner at a charming table, merriment was pretense. They had hoped on New Year’s Eve to recapture some of the old joy, wore New York clothes and drank Cordon Rouge ’59. For a short time, dancing to a tune that had driven them half out of their minds that first whirlwind season, they had let themselves believe a miracle would bring about a return of that delightful fever. They hurried out of the nightclub, leaving half a bottle of champagne.

  On the hilltop their house was as lonely as a ship far out at sea. The night was silent, the world exclusively theirs. In the hall Elaine dropped the fur-lined cloak, left it crumpled on the floor. Before they reached her room, Fletcher had jerked down the zipper of her dress and kissed her back, inch by inch. The chiffon fell about her feet. She stepped over it grandly and, with a fine disregard for things treasured by colder women, tossed upon the dressing table encumbrances of gold, jade, and pearls. Long legs shining in misty stockings, thighs round and female, a narrow strip of satin girdling her hips, she teased and pranced before him like one of those naughty French girls on posters. Fletcher played at the game of pursuit until he had caught her and performed the ritual of the bra, unfastening the single hook, pulling her to him with rough joy, circling her torso with his heavy arms, cupping big hands over her breasts. They kissed like new lovers. This was how it had been in the beginning; they followed the routine for luck.

  Out in the dark an owl hooted.

  Fletcher cursed, but silently, because Elaine actually liked having an owl screeching on the telephone pole near the house. It was amusing (Shakespearean, she said) to hear to-whit, to-who in the night. Fletcher regarded the owl as an enemy. A city man who had learned to live with crickets and night birds, he could not tolerate the mockery of the raucous tones. In the pause between the cracked cries, Fletcher lay tense, waiting for the unbearable repetition.

  Elaine kissed him with many small kisses, touched and teased in a way that would once have aroused superior power. “Be patient, darling.” In aborted groans Fletcher cursed the earth and heaven, himself, the owl. “Try, darling, to relax. Just a bit longer, dear.” Into Fletcher’s mind hobbled the memory of a boy whose unequal arms trembled, whose drawn legs jerked at every step. Sick at the sight of deformity, Fletcher had admitted the poor cripple to his office to offer an unsteady tray of pencils and shoelaces. A dollar had brought tears to the animal eyes, spittle had caked loose lips while, gulping and winking, the poor fellow had spewed out gratitude. Fletcher’s generosity had been the easy penance of a healthy man. He did not like to remember this, but the spastic ghost came to haunt him during those fragile, important moments when he could least afford to be tormented by memories.

  “Patience, dear.”

  Her voice was like a breeze sweeping his cheek. A man’s patience could not hold forever. Her whispers grew fainter, endurance flagged, the owl hooted. Worn and disgusted, he left her.

  “Sorry, darling.”

  The owl hooted again. “Damn you!” Fletcher cursed the owl because he could not curse a wife who pretended the failure was her own. She had no right to remorse. Alone in his bed he thought of Elaine alone in hers, and became resentful of her suffering. Had she been older, less lusty, merely performing her duty toward the husband who kept her, he would not need to have tortured himself with the concern of her. He lay and listened to the faint stir of her restlessness, heard the click of a light switch, the sound of running water, the clatter of a cupboard door.

  Neither slept much. At half-past seven on New Year’s Day Elaine found Fletcher in the den with a cup of instant coffee grown cold at his elbow. She wore a smile. “Oh, darling, you’re writing in your diary.”

  He covered the page with his arm.

  If she had noticed the gesture of concealment she gave no sign of it. “You’ll enjoy keeping a diary,” she said, finding some pleasure in his using her gift. “Don’t have any inhibitions. About anything. Just put it all down, your craziest notions. Later when you read it over, you’ll find it terribly amusing.”

  Elaine had a lot of favorite words. The way she emphasized and thrust them at him sometimes annoyed Fletcher. He found amusing a reproach. A man who could not satisfy nor be satisfied ought, at least, to be amused. His first entry would never amuse anyone:

  Happy New Year, Fletcher J. Strode. Oh, yeah. A lousy lot you have to be happy
about. Just another 365 days to wonder about what FJS is doing here. I would be a lot better burning down there and so would my wife. She knows it. I know it. God knows it. She is getting to despise me and I do not blame her for it. I would not blame her for anything she might do.

  “What have you written?”

  He looked up sheepishly. His eyes, in spite of all that he had gone through, were still childishly wide and blue, fringed by lashes that women remarked upon enviously. His wife laughed at the secrecy, swooped down to kiss him. His covering the diary did not displease her because she felt that Fletcher ought to have something, if only the diversion of recording secret thought, to reawaken the spirit of that vital and impetuous man with whom she had fallen so vitally and impetuously in love.

  IT WAS NOT that love had died. Quite the opposite. Circumstance had reshaped their lives and emotions. Elaine had become softer, more mature, in many ways, maternal; Fletcher more dominating and willful. He had to possess her fully. She was the ether and the substance, the strength and the ornament, the reason and despair of his life. In this lay their tragedy.

  Five years earlier, a hearty man of forty-two, Fletcher J. Strode had fallen so profoundly in love that he felt that he would die unless he won the darling creature. At this time Fletcher had been boisterous, given to impulse and high living, easy laughter and hard work. In Elaine Guardino he had found more than a desirable girl. She had, as he had, a madness for living, spent her energy and her earnings with a zest that had been due not simply to youth but to a freedom of spirit which he had never before found, nor expected, in a woman.

  At the time of their marriage all of their friends had predicted early disaster. An unlikelier couple could not be imagined. There was a difference of nineteen years in their ages; their tastes were incompatible; every element of character, background, and education was dissimilar. Her friends considered him the stereotype of the self-made man, a show-off who expressed himself by conspicuous spending and loud talk. His cronies were sure he would never be able to live contentedly with a highbrow who talked about ambivalence, Shostakovich, existentialism, and Martha Graham.

  They met in New York at Sardi’s restaurant after a play opening. One of Fletcher’s associates had invested money in the show. Elaine had come with a young actor who had a minor part. The place was thronged, too many people crowded on the banquettes along the walls. Perhaps it was for the benefit of the graceful girl beside him that Fletcher Strode boomed out startling, boastful statements; perhaps it was not an accident that upset a bowl of marinara sauce over her dress.

  His apologies had been overwrought. While waiters dabbed at her with hot water, she had tried to comfort her unhappy neighbor with assurances that the dress was unimportant, inexpensive, and would probably come back from the cleaner’s good as new. Fletcher had not asked her to send him the cleaner’s bill. This would have been too mean. Instead he had found out that she was a photographer’s model, Miss Giordino, traced her address, and sent a new and costly gown. She had refused to accept it. Her dress, she told him on the telephone, had come from a cut-price shop, the spot was almost invisible, and he was too, too generous. They had argued for half an hour, and she had finally agreed to discuss it with him at dinner.

  “Is your name really Elaine?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “Elaine, the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat.” He had offered this proudly. Tennyson’s poems, like Emerson’s essays, had been a chore for him in school.

  She told him that her mother had been working on illustrations for a children’s edition of The Idylls when she met Professor Guardino. “It was a pickup. At the Tate. Mother had gone to London to study the pre-Raphaelites and set up her easel before Burne-Jones, and Papa was a refugee from Rome waiting for his American visa. He had thought of translating Blake into Italian and was looking at the lithographs. But he never did. Blake, I mean. He always said Mother took his mind off the project. You see, it was inevitable that they named me Elaine.”

  Fletcher had not seen it at all. Her smile and the ivory pallor of her flesh, cheekbones, pointed chin, and her sweet habit of blushing made the names Tate, Burne-Jones, Blake, more important to him than the day’s stock market quotations. Fletcher Strode had never before met a girl who could be, at the same time, so refined and so lusty. Three weeks after he spilled the marinara sauce he had asked his wife for a divorce.

  On the first date Fletcher had told Elaine that he was married, technically. His wife and daughter lived in an exclusive New Jersey suburb while he kept a bachelor’s apartment in New York. Mrs. Strode always explained that her husband was too busy in the city and too restless for commuting and added that his devotion never flagged. The truth was that they loathed each other. He gave her a good allowance and kept up the appearance of marriage to guard himself against designing women. He had been sure that he would never remarry.

  Kay Strode had put up a bitter fight. She was content to live without her husband, but not without the legend of devotion. There were tears and arguments, countless meetings with lawyers, exorbitant demands, endless haggling over the will and the insurance. All of this delay had heightened Fletcher’s impatience. Twenty-four hours after the divorce papers were signed, he and Elaine were married at the Maryland farm of one of his business friends.

  In spite of dire predictions it had been a good marriage; more than this, delight by day, ecstasy at night. Elaine had shown herself to be a female of such fiery talent that her delirious husband had looked back to earlier exploits as mere rehearsals for the endless fulfillment of love. There was never a moment’s doubt of her sincerity. No half-contented woman would have responded with such rapture. The difference in their ages had been no bar to her emotions. Adoring, she had let flow upon him her rich stream of feminine skill in making a man feel supreme, the hero, the god, infallible. Nor did the husband suffer because she was his superior in education, a college graduate, a daughter of a professor who had written books in two languages. Instead, she confessed awe of his business mind, listening like a child while he explained deals and schemes.

  Looking back, as he often did nowadays, it all seemed too romantic, unreal in its perfection, but he liked to think about it that way. There had been, of course, small clashes. Every marriage has problems, disagreements, bursts of temper. Elaine could be wayward and childlike with a man who had probably become the image of her dead, adored father. Elderly doting parents had spoiled her somewhat; thwarted, she could become a vengeful imp. But the fights had been brief. There was no malice. Elaine’s reproaches, her tricks of revenge, could not be compared with the stinging refinements of the first wife. Kay had criticized endlessly, sneered at Fletcher for showing off, complained that he was vulgar and loud. “Do you think I’m too noisy?” he had once asked, humbly. Elaine had answered that his big voice was appropriate to his big body and lusty nature. Everything about Fletcher Strode had this quality of power; even his graying hair grew thick upon his large head.

  In both fun and business he had been noisy; sung bass, led the cheering at games, shouted commands, hurled retorts, yelled with anger, boomed out bawdy jokes, won arguments by sheer vocal authority. Fletcher Strode had shouted his way to the top, confounding competitors and frightening creditors by screaming secrets that others would whisper. Today he saw his past as a jubilant vocal exercise and attributed all of his gains to the supremacy of his voice. This power was gone now, never to be recovered.

  To save his life, the doctors had said when they took away his voice. Carcinoma of the larynx, when discovered in time, is one of the most curable of all cancers. Although he had been informed of the effects, he had believed that the operation would affect no more than the vigor of his speech. The rest of his body could live as it always had, in full and pleasing exercise of its demands. The loss of his vocal apparatus would be compensated for by different mechanics of sound production. His voice would be stilled for a time, but when the wound was sufficiently healed,
he would learn to control a different set of muscles and would be able to speak in an altered voice. Examples were quoted to him, statistics read, stories told of patients who had overcome trauma and gone on with their work, enjoyed sports, eaten heartily, and made love to women.

  During the mute period after the operation, he had been eager and positive that he would soon acquire a new voice. A breezy, self-confident man entered his hospital room to tell him, hoarsely, that many of those who had suffered the same operation had been able to return to work within a few weeks. This man, who had lost his voice box several years earlier, promised that with patience and practice, Fletcher would be able to speak as well as he did. Hell, I’ll do a lot better, Fletcher told himself. Thinking of the success he had achieved in business, the money he had made, the obstacles overcome, he knew himself the better man. He was both contemptuous of and amused by those sympathetic friends who, visiting him at the hospital, shouted at him or whispered, using their lips extravagantly as though he were deaf.

  I’ll show them.

  After he left the hospital, optimism collapsed. There were too many changes. Smell and taste returned slowly and were never as keen as they had been. He had to breathe through a hole in his neck, a wound that could never be allowed to close now that his windpipe had been removed, there was no connection between the mouth or nose with the lungs. He had to cough, sneeze, and blow his nose through this opening. There would be no more swimming for him, nor could he step into the shower carelessly. His loud and boisterous laughter was silenced forever. Every action required adjustment. Encounters with old friends left him morbid. Strangers appalled him. Going out became a nightmare.

  When the voice therapist had been introduced, Fletcher had welcomed an angel. For months this hideously cheerful woman tried to teach him to belch aesthetically, but from the first day, he so loathed the processes of learning to lock in his breath and speak through the esophagus that he became fixed with the idea that he would never conquer stubborn muscles. Never before had his body failed him. Form and competence had been readily acquired in every sport he had bothered to learn. But the voice exercises were not sport. Repetition bored him. For years in business he had been able to leave petty detail to employees. Patience was not one of Fletcher Strode’s virtues. Wearisome practice drove him to despair. Unable to progress at a satisfying pace, he often lost his temper. Fury and frustration robbed him of what little voice he had acquired. When he forgot himself and tried to shout in the old, authoritative manner, he could utter nothing but a string of unintelligible sounds.