Jane Newhagen

Under the Circumstances

 

 

“I guess the honeymoon’s over.”

 

“Our honeymoon will never end, Jenna.” Evan exuberantly lifts her across the threshold. “Now we can move ahead with our lives, just like we’ve planned. I’ll go back to teaching at Beddington Academy and write my book. You’ll design more award winning buildings. We’ll be rich, respected in the community, and very, very happy. I promise.”

 

The early summer days brim with newlywed pleasures that he’d never dreamed of. Gifts to enjoy and put away. Sparkling Waterford crystal flowered Lenox china, two Wusthof knife sets. “I love all these things and I love our house. But what I love most is you!” exclaims Jenna.

 

“God you’re beautiful.” Evan luxuriates in his anticipation of their passion as he gently unbraids Jenna’s pearly blond hair. “I am so lucky to have you.”

 

At dinner, Jenna smiles impishly. “I have a surprise for you. I’m going to have a baby.”

 

“How long have you known? Why haven’t I noticed anything? We hadn’t planned for a child yet!” Evan’s head stings as he bumps it on the table retrieving his fork.

 

“We’ll have time to get used to the idea,” Jenna laughs as she clears the table. “I’m only two months along.”

 

Evan mostly forgets about it. The present is so sweet. Why dwell on the future?

 

One day Mr. Winthrop, the headmaster, interrupts Evan’s English Lit. class. “Your wife is on the phone. Please come to the office,” he says in his usual monotone.

 

“I’m at the hospital. I’ve lost the baby. Please come. I need you.”

 

Evan speeds to Beddington General.

 

“They don’t know what happened,” says Jenna. “I’m perfectly healthy. There’s no reason for it, but I feel like it’s my fault.” She becomes quiet and pensive.

 

“We’ll try again as soon as we can,” Evan says. “I want you to be happy.”

 

“I don’t know,” Jenna replies. “Dr. Whitman said to wait at least six months.”

 

The depression lingers. Evan pressures her to make love. He needs it and maybe it will raise her spirits. Maybe she’ll conceive again and she’ll be herself. She reluctantly consents, but the joy has gone out of it. Evan gives up.

 

In January, Jenna announces that she’s pregnant again.

“See.  I told you we can make a baby,” Evan beams. “We were right to go ahead.”

 

After the second miscarriage, Jenna doesn’t go to work anymore. Evan never knows what to expect when he comes home from school. She blames him and does crazy things. She writes on the walls. Evan cleans up and puts her to bed. She breaks dishes all over the kitchen. Dr. Whitman prescribes an antidepressant. Evan’s work suffers.        

                                                           

Mr. Winthrop calls him to his funereally somber office, framed in oak and draped in damask.  “Why aren’t your reports on time? Why did you leave your 8:00 class with no supervision? Why did you miss the faculty meeting on Thursday?” Mr. Winthrop’s solution is probation. “Yes, sir.” Supervision. “Whatever you want, sir.”

 

Evan’s solution is lies. Tales of broken down cars, power failures, and ruptured pipes.

 

It’s a Wednesday when Jenna meets him at the front door naked. She’s cut off her hair and smudged her face and her body with acrid soot from the barbecue. Her hands and fingers are caked with charcoal she scraped from the bottom of the grill. “Murderer! Bastard! Rotten prick!” she screams.

 

Jenna is committed for psychiatric treatment. Evan tries to bury himself in his work, but he can’t think, let alone concentrate.

 

Winthrop calls another meeting.  “Evan, your contract comes up for renewal in April. Unless things change radically, I won’t recommend that you continue as Professor of English at Beddingham Academy. I hope you understand.”

 

Evan understands perfectly. No wife. No job. No future. After a wasted attempt to forget it all at Kelly’s Corner Inn, he goes home. His head throbs with the pressure of the last weeks. His crazy wife has turned herself ugly and blames him for the dead babies. He can barely get through a day of teaching no brain English classes and soaks up beer like a sea sponge until he can barely walk or keep his eyes open.

 

He’s given up trying to figure out what to do. Even the doctors don’t hold much hope. Evan has been banished. His visits enrage Jenna. She vows to kill him. He can’t find a solution to this twisted maze except to keep walking through it, doing the same things, trying to dilute the poison of reality with another beer.

 

He goes to the bedroom to change his shirt. Jenna’s hair is draped on the headboard. After they took her away, Evan gathered it together and patiently combed it until it all ran the same direction. He tied it together at one end and braided it the way she wore it. The disembodied tress, almost three feet long, hangs there where he can stroke it as he lies in bed. It’s the only remainder of his beautiful wife, his beautiful life, and his aborted dream.

 

He doesn’t get past the bed. He’ll just lie down for a while. He can’t let himself fall asleep no matter how tired and groggy he gets. If he sleeps, he‘ll dream and live through it all again. And again. Until he wakes up crying and can’t stop.

His strategy for staying awake is to flick the headboard with his index finger. It gives a satisfying ping. Then he says, “One little piggy went to market.” Flick. “One little piggy stayed home.” Flick. “One little piggy ate roast beef.” Flick. “One little piggy had none.” Flick. Then he starts again. As long as he can hear the pings and repeat the rhyme, he knows he’s awake.

 

“One little piggy went to market. Ping. One little piggy stayed…”

 

It’s not working. He must be dreaming. She’s standing in the doorway, her pearly hair bobbed and a loose white gown hanging below her knees.

 

“Jenna,” he shouts.

 

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I want to be with you.”

 

“You’re supposed to be in the hospital; how did you get here?”

 

“I’m an architect, remember? I know more about their building than they do. So I let myself out. I wanted to be with you, just like this.”

 

She glides to the side of the bed. “Be mine,” She says. “Be mine now!”

 

Evan breathes too hard, then too little. He’s woozy from the beer and hyperventilation. “Just come lie next to me,” he says, trying a little ping to reassure himself that he’s awake and alive. Jenna lowers herself to sit on the bed and smiles. “I want to be with you again. Our family will finally be together. Those two little boys who never lived long enough to breathe. You. And finally, me. We’ll all be together and happy at last.”

 

She raises her right hand brandishing a Wusthof bread knife.

 

Evan holds his breath. This is not a dream. She is still crazy and she definitely wants to kill him. He rolls to his side mumbling, “Jenna, Jenna. I love you.”

 

She glides the knife back and forth in the air like a violin’s bow.  “See how it cuts the air?” she says. “Such a beautiful knife. It slices through bread like butter. It will slice through you like ice cream.” She saws more quickly and lowers the blade horizontally toward Evan’s throat.

 

He rolls to the floor between the bed and the wall as the knife nicks his chin.

 

Frustrated, Jenna throws herself on the bed, swinging the knife like a scimitar, slicing the sheets, the mattress, the lace curtains.

 

Evan slides under the bed and wiggles to the opposite side. He stands up cautiously. “I’m over here, honey,” he whispers breathlessly.

 

Jenna sits up and begins to turn. Evan grabs her braid from the headboard, loops it around her neck, twists it, and pulls.

She struggles, but he pushes her face down onto the pillow. She hacks at him blindly. He jams his knee into her back, pinning her shoulder against the bed. He pulls until her breath becomes a labored wheeze. “Stop!” she gasps as she drops the knife.

 

Evan doesn’t stop.

 

Reducing a human body to disposal-sized pieces can take more than a day, so Evan calls in sick. Thank heaven for the Wusthof knives! Without the cleaver he could never have done it. When he finishes, he runs the whole set through the dishwasher. Not recommended by the manufacturer, but necessary under the circumstances.

 

The circumstances have taught him a great deal. He no longer feels hope or love, but there is no horror either. No anger. No pain. No regret.

 

Evan walks evenly up the stone steps and knocks firmly on the headmaster’s door. The oak paneling and damask curtains greet him like a casket welcoming the dearly departed.

 

 

 

Jane Newhagen is the author of two historical novels, “Sand Dollar” and “Pieces of Eight,” both tales of old Key West. She collaborated on the photographic essay, “After Life, Images of the Key West Cemetery.” Four-time winner of the Key West Writers’ Guild Short Story Contest, her stories are included in their anthology, “Voices from Key West.” She is the archivist at the Key West City Cemetery.

 

Bienvenue au Danse, Jane!