The Good Husband

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four more previously-cherished and lavishly cared-for dogs for the local humane society to shelter. Animals confused by the sudden absence of the woman who had cared for them, loved them, took them out for daily walks in the quiet neighbourhood of single-family homes with its adjacent parks. She is no longer there to feed them, speak to them, assure them that each day will be the same as those it succeeds. Her future is now a chasm of silent grief, and theirs is separation, confusion and a woebegone sense of something gone dreadfully wrong, that no human could quite discern or attribute to a species other than their own. They are two large-dog breeds, two middling-sized. Each with its own personality, and needs. As a group they made a very well-disposed team, with her to guide them past little lapses in their social compact.

Now they languish, ears flat to their heads, tails tucked firmly into their haunches, eyes solemnly following the activity of the staff at the humane society animal shelter. Each to a cage, none knowing nor quite caring about the whereabouts of the others, waiting, in their patient, canine way for order to be restored to their lives and their caregiver to walk through the door with her huge welcoming smile.

They had lived with her for all the years of their lives worth remembering. When she was absent during those periods when she was at her job, they awaited her return. Mostly sleeping, occasionally engaged in solitary play. But all four, when the time arrived in the late afternoon when some arcane animal sense informed them she would soon re-enter their lives, circled around the front door, then sat stoically, until she finally entered to be regaled with a chorus of welcome. She would rub the tops of their heads in greeting, bustle about a few minutes, then haul out their leashes, and take them out for a quick run through the neighbourhood.

The neighbours were always aware of her presence. She was not shy, not averse to greeting them, talking about neighbourhood things. She had good relations with them and they liked her living close to where they did; a good person, and a good neighbour. When she eventually brought home a young man, to introduce him to her dogs, everything seemed fine. He was a nice young man, with sandy hair that streamed over his forehead, deep brown eyes, and a good manner. She had met him when she’d taken the dogs to a far-off quarry turned into a recreational park for companion animals where their owners could let them run free off the leash. He wasn’t a dog-owner, but he had been there, walking about, and they had stopped to talk.

Over the course of the next several months he called often, and they went out on casual dates. It wasn’t that she was lonely and felt she needed a man to complement the quality of her life. She was happy enough with the family she had; herself and her dogs, and her extended family with whom she kept in constant contact. He liked her practical, matter-of-fact nature, accepting him for what he appeared to be, not closely questioning him, asking, prodding, why he didn’t have a regular job. He had enough of that from his family. He was happy to work when he felt like it, at casual, part-time jobs that paid just enough. And when he got tired of working he managed to manoeuvre himself into a job loss, and still qualify for unemployment insurance. Giving him the time he wanted to just mosey about life, at his own speed, fulfilling his very own need.

She had a regular, full-time job, a responsible one, as a professional, with a department of the federal government. You could see that she earned a respectable income, since she owned her own home, and he admired that. He had great admiration for her love of life, her sparkling good humour. It gave a nice balance to his moods, when she went out of her way to sympathize, to lift his spirits. He loved running his fingers through her long, silky-straight hair, worn shoulder-length. It suited her, with her green eyes, her fine complexion, her neat facial features; a pretty woman with an athletic build, nicely contoured.

He appreciated her casual disregard for social custom. He felt that same way himself. So it was a little surprising, he felt, when she said after six months of comfortable companionship that she’d like him to move in with her, but it wouldn’t work for her outside of marriage. He hadn’t anticipated that kind of conventionality from her. But he didn’t mind, after all. Because truth was, he did love her, and he told her that, and he could see how much it pleased her to have him say that, and to hug her whenever the mood took him. Oddly she didn’t like holding hands in public. But that made good sense, since the dogs’ leashes were often at the ends of her hands when they were out in public, other than at night during their decreasing number of nights-out dates.

Their marriage was a muted affair. A few of her close friends from her high school days, from her office, and her sisters, father and mother although they were separated. His father attended, and a few of his cousins; friends, none. Everyone seemed to get along. It was kind of festive, he liked that, and so did she, the casualness of it all.

He always went with her, when she visited with her family. They made him feel welcome, and he felt comfortable enough with them. The dogs, they were always brought along, too. Everyone had long ago accustomed themselves to the reality that wherever she went so too went her dogs. Bad enough, she said, she had to leave them at home while she was out working. In her leisure hours they deserved her company.

He actually didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching her with the dogs. They more or less ignored him, but came alive when she was around, and he thought that was interesting, the dynamic between them. He watched her set out their bowls at feeding time. Her assiduous attention to their regular appointments with the veterinarian he knew were expensive. Her life, her earnings, she could do what she wanted with all of that. It had no impact on him, other than as an observer, and an equal-opportunity recipient of her warm attentions.

Well, sometimes he felt irritated when he was in the house alone with the dogs, and they might be curious about something he would be doing in the kitchen, and he’d snap at them. That would effectively clear the room. They’d slink out, find somewhere else to install themselves. He was, in fact, alone often in the house with them. So, she said brightly to him and to anyone else who might remark on it, how terrific it was that the dogs were no longer lonely, with his presence.

Occasionally the neighbour whose house was closest to theirs heard shouting during the day, and understood that the dogs were doing something inconvenient, irritating or plain bad, and he was disciplining them. He never laid a hand on them for physical punishment, though. He respected how she felt about her dogs. Why shouldn’t she?

She had told him once how those dogs had come into her life. They were all what she called ‘rescues’, dogs that had been abused, abandoned, and she had taken them in. She had coped with their aggressive suspicion, determined to turn their temperaments around, to invoke trust in them, to treat them well, to gain their trust. It took a long time, but eventually, each of the dogs came around and became loyal and trusting of her. When she had taken in the last dog, one that had been rescued from as far away as Iqaluit, it had taken her the longest time, she said, sighing, looking at the dog as she spoke, lying comfortably before her feet, its thick husky-fur on its large, muscular shepherd body resembling a placid bear. He respected her enormously, he told her, for her conscientious kindness to those animals. Not that he particularly cared for dogs, any dogs, but he could, he told her, relate personally. As one who had been abused, neglected. That won her heart, he was convinced of that.

She didn’t seem to mind that she was the bread-winner. In that sense, she simply continued what had always been her reality. She had simply added another member to her family. She never chided him for his lack of enterprise, his unwillingness to apply himself to working, to look around to find something he would like to do, rather than limp along from one impermanent service job to another. And that was really good of her, he thought, and he appreciated that too about her.

So at the funeral mass, when the good Father, speaking of how loving a person she had been, remarked “Unfortunately Gwendolyn’s love was not reciprocated” he was wrong, dead wrong. Gwen loved him and he loved her, he most certainly did. No one could take that away from him, from them. He always would love her, recalling the soft smoothness of her skin, her arching back when they made love, her cuddling into him afterward, her soft words of love. They loved one another very much. No one could take that away from him, not her family who blamed him and now hated him, nor the pastor who in his ignorance thought he could take away the love he had for her.

His father sat well back in the last pew at the church during her funeral mass. He described to him later how there were so many people, extended family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, all there to mourn his wife’s too-early death. And his father sat there, later, comforting him, telling him not to worry too much. Things would unfold as they would. He would be there, at the trial, to testify on his behalf.

He knew his son, and he knew the kind of relationship he’d had with his wife. He saw them, after all, each and every week, since they visited him every week-end, and he could see the mutual love and respect they had for one another. He knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for what had happened. It wasn’t his son’s fault, he was a good husband, and he loved his wife. Something had happened, quite obviously, but it would all come out, and his son would be exonerated. Hadn’t he said to the police who came to arrest him at his father’s house where he had stayed the last few days, crying his broken heart out that his wife had refused medical treatment? And then they took his boy away.

It would be revealed that she had a medical condition that threatened her life, but she refused to seek out medical help. What could his son do in the face of such an indomitable will, other than submit to her wishes? He knew how much his daughter-in-law meant to his son, how she turned his life around, how he stopped drinking incessantly after he met her. How happy he was with his new life. He knew from observation, and from knowing his son. Why, when they were separated while she was off at work and his son at his own workplace - sometimes even helping him with a roofing job - they were always using their cellphones, staying in touch.

It seemed odd to him that an autopsy had been performed on his daughter-in-law, but that was likely standard procedure in such mysterious sudden-death cases. He had been concerned for his son’s state of mind. Completely inconsolable, weeping, tearing at his hair, mourning his wife. “Buck up, fella” he said, patting his heaving back. “The truth will out, and everyone will realize that you’re beyond suspicion. Her medical condition killed her, and that’s the truth.”

But police detectives thought otherwise. And after the results of the autopsy were revealed to them they knew their first instincts were correct. Trauma to the lower body, legs and feet. The upper body badly burned. Her body discovered in the basement of the house.

Well, if they asked, and it will likely be a matter of enquiry during the trial, her bereaved husband could explain that, too. How, sometimes, he’d had to correct his wife, instruct her. He had no intention of causing harm to her, and she knew that. That was a huge component of his love for her. She never, ever judged him. She would ask him quietly to stop doing something that bothered her. And then when he calmed down, she would talk, talk, talk to him for what seemed like an interminable period of time. Sometimes all that talk gave him a raving headache and he would tell her so. She was so concerned for his well being. She would immediately stop talking, cuddle him to her, run her slender, loving fingers along the top of his head, and rock him until he fell asleep. She was his very own treasure. He will never, ever get over her untimely death. No one would ever know how much he loved her, how he would miss her.

And the dogs? Well, their separate photographs appear on the website of the Humane Society. One by one they have also appeared in newspaper advertisements, in the hope that people at this time of year, preparing for Christmas, might feel it in their hearts to have some compassion for truly lost dogs looking for a home. For all the dogs, the description includes nothing of the misfortune which befell them, but the legend “much loved, high-energy dog needs a new home” follows them all.

If they were to be adopted by some kindly souls looking for the company of faithful companions at the Christmas season, it would please the ghost of their mistress so very much. A matchless gift to her on her 34th birthday, this coming Christmas.