DEAR WIFE
How do you manage to live so long with the same wife? Whats your secret? My brother would always pose that question every time he visited.
Love and a great deal of patience. Thats all there is to it, I would answer, never changing my reply.
That sort of recipe isnt for me. I adore all women. Each ones a riddle waiting to be solved. Living with a book Ive already read? Spare me, my brother would grin.
My younger brother, Edward, married at eighteen. His bride, Annie, was ten years his senior. Sweet-natured and entirely devoted, Annie had fallen hopelessly in love with Edward for life. Edward, though, was merely entertained.
Annie rightfully took her place in Edwards childhood home, where seven other relatives resided, and gave birth to their son, Michael. She truly felt the bird of happiness had finally landed on her shoulder. The new family were allotted a tiny room of their own.
Annie possessed a cherished collection of ten precious porcelain figurines, which she guarded with deep affection. She arranged them with great care atop an old chest of drawers. Our large family all knew how precious those delicate ornaments were to Annie. She would often stand before the chest, admiring every piece.
At that time, I was just considering settling down and searching for the one woman I wished to spend my whole life with. As fate would have it, that dream came true; I have now been married to my beloved for more than half a century.
Edward and Annie lived together for ten years. Annie could claim little joy from that marriage. She tried her utmost to be a good wife, loving Edward and their son with all her heart. She was quiet, compliant, and agreeable. But something was always missing for Edward.
One evening, my brother returned home the worse for drink. Something about Annie, her manner or appearance, rubbed him the wrong way. He began to nitpick, made crude remarks, and grabbed her roughly by the arms. Sensing an argument was about to erupt, Annie slipped quietly out of the room with Michael in tow and made her way into the garden.
Suddenly, a dreadful crash echoed from indoors. Annie instantly knewthe shattering of her treasured figurines. She rushed back inside, and her worst suspicions were realized.
Her beloved collection lay strewn and broken across the floor, reduced to a pitiful heap of fragments. Only one figurine had survived unscathed. Annie ran to it, lifted it gently, and kissed it. She said not a word to her brute of a husband, but her tear-filled eyes said it all.
From that day on, a rift opened up between Annie and Edward. In truth, I believe Annie, in her mind, had left the marriage. She carried out her duties as a wife and managed the household with skill, but it was all done mechanically, without enthusiasm or devotion.
Edward spent more and more time drinking. Soon enough, unsavoury women friends and dubious companions began to appear in his life. Annie guessed what was happening, but kept her silence, retreating ever further into herself, becoming more withdrawn with every passing day. Edwards absences grew longer; soon, he hardly came home at all.
In the end, Annie understood that chasing after the wind was hopeless. Eventually, she and Edward parted wayswithout shouting, without accusations or bitterness. Annie took Michael and returned to her hometown. The last whole figurine was left behind, standing forlorn atop the chest, a memory of her former life.
Edward wasted little time sinking into a wild, untethered existence. He flitted from woman to womanLillian, Susan, Claireprofessing love for each in turn, only to move on just as quickly. My brother was careening towards ruin. He married and divorced three times. He drank himself senseless with astonishing regularity.
And yet, Edward was no fool. He held a respected post at the university as a skilled economist. He was frequently invited to lecture in other cities, and even published his own textbook. Bright prospects were predicted for Edward. But drink and reckless living blotted out all promise.
At one point, our family believed Edward had finally settled down. He announced his intention to marry a stunning woman and invited us all to a modest wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son, and it was clear from the outset that the boy and Edward would never get on. Edward failed to appreciate what it meant to wed someone with baggage. That stepson would eventually bring about the dissolution of their marriage five years laterthe tension between them nearly turned violent.
After that, Edwards parade of fleeting sweethearts resumedLillian, Susan, Claire… He professed undying love for each, always planning a lifelong future that never arrived.
But life has its own ideas. At fifty-three, Edward fell gravely ill. By then, the women had all slipped away, quietly and forever. My sisters and I tended to Edward during his last days.
Simon, theres a suitcase under my bed. Bring it, would you? Edwards voice was weak, and every movement pained him.
I fetched the dusty suitcase from beneath his bed. I opened it and gasped. It was full of porcelain figurines, each one wrapped tenderly in a soft cloth.
I collected them for Annie, you know, Edward murmured. I could never forget the way she silently looked at me when she found her collection destroyed. Lord, how that woman suffered with me. You remember all those business trips I made about the country? I bought figurines wherever I could. Theres a double bottom in the suitcasetake out the money there. All my savings. Give it to my dear wife. Let her forgive me. We shant meet again, Im sure. Simon, promise me youll see to it.
I will, Edward. You have my word, I choked out, knowing my brother was slipping from this life for good.
Theres an envelope with Annies address under my pillow, he managed. Edward never turned to look at me again.
Annie still lived in her childhood town. Michael, I learned, had been suffering from a mysterious illness. The doctors were baffled and suggested seeking treatment in Europe, if possible. I found this out from a letter of Annies tucked under Edwards pillow. It seemed Annie had never lost contact with her former husband, though only in writingshe wrote; he never replied.
When my brother was laid to rest, I set out to fulfil his last request.
I met Annie at a small railway stop. She was delighted to see me, embracing me warmly.
Oh, Simon, you and Edward, youre like two peas in a podthe very image of one another.
I handed her the suitcase and, as my brother had asked, pleaded his forgiveness: Annie, forgive poor Edward. This is for yousome money and a few things of his. Look at them at home, wont you? Edward always thought of you as his true wife. Remember that.
That was the last time I saw Annie.
I received just one letter from her:
Simon, thank you to you and Edward for all youve done. I am grateful to God that Edward was part of my life.
Michael and I managed to sell the figurines to a true collector. I could never look at them calmly, knowing each had passed through Edwards hands. It is a pity he left us so soon. The proceeds let us move to Canadamy sister had been urging us for years. I no longer had anything holding me to England. I suppose Id always hoped Edward would call me back. He never did But Im touched that he thought of me as his dear wife to the end. So perhaps he didnt stop caring for me after all. By the way, Michael is happy here and feeling much better. Farewell.
No return address was leftThere was no reply I could write to Annie that would not seem painfully insufficient. I sat for a long while with her letter in my hands, recalling the long and winding roads of our familys livesthe missed chances, the silent sacrifices, the things held dear until the last, and the things released, like migrating birds seeking warmer shores.
From time to time I would pass by Edwards grave and leave behind a fresh wildflower, letting the wind carry my quiet prayer. I hoped he knew, somewhere beyond my reach, that amends had been madenot perfectly, but gently.
And sometimes, at dusk, I pictured Annie and Michael on a faraway porch, basking in rare daylight, their old sorrows grown faint amid the laughter of some new friends. I imagined the last of the porcelain figurines scattered in memory, their fragile beauty dissolved, replaced by something sturdier: forgiveness, and the tentative hope of new beginnings.
Perhaps thats all any of us can wish for at the enda single, undestroyed piece left standing, and a little light by which to remember it kindly.
