Chapter One
Ford
Have you ever lost someone who meant more to you than your own soul?
I did. I lost my wife Pat.
It took six long, tortured months for her to die.
I had to stand by and watch my beautiful, perfect wife waste away until there
was nothing left. It didn't matter that I have money and success. It didn't
matter that I'm called an "important" writer. It didn't matter that Pat and I
had finally started building our dream house, an engineering miracle that hung
onto a cliff wall and would allow us to sit quietly and look out across the
Pacific.
Nothing at all mattered from the moment Pat came home and interrupted me while I
was writing - something she never did - to tell me that she had cancer, and
that it was in an advanced stage. I thought it was one of her jokes. Pat had a
quirky sense of humor; she said I was too serious, too morose, too
doom-and-gloom, and too afraid of everything on earth. From the first, she'd
made me laugh.
We met at college. Two more different people would be hard to find, and even
Pat's family was completely alien to me. I'd seen families like hers on
television, but it never occurred to me that they actually existed.
She lived in a pretty little house with a front porch and - I swear this is
true - a white picket fence. On summer evenings her parents - Martha and Edwin
- would sit on the front porch and wave at the neighbors as they passed by. Her
mother would wear an apron and snap green beans or shell peas while she waved
and chatted. "How is Tommy today?" she'd ask some passerby. "Is his cold
better?"
Pat's father sat just a few feet away from his wife at a wrought iron table, an
old floor lamp nearby, and a box of gleaming German tools, all precisely
arranged, at his feet. He was - again, I swear this is true - known as Mr.
Fix-It around the neighborhood and he repaired broken things for his own family
and his neighbors. Free of charge. He said he liked to help people and a smile
was enough payment for him.
When I went to Pat's house to pick her up for a date, I'd go early just so I
could sit and watch her parents. To me, it was like watching a science fiction
movie. As soon as I arrived, Pat's mother - "call me Martha, everyone does" -
would get up and get me something to eat and drink. "I know that growing boys
need their nourishment," she'd say, then disappear inside her spotlessly clean
house.
I'd sit there in silence, watching Pat's father as he worked on a toaster or
maybe a broken toy. That big oak box of tools at his feet used to fascinate me.
They were all perfectly clean, perfectly matched. And I knew they had to have
cost a fortune. One time I was in the city - that ubiquitous "city" that seems
to lie within fifty miles of all college towns - and I saw a hardware store
across the street. Since hardware stores had only bad memories for me, it took
courage on my part to cross the street, open the door, and go inside. But since
I'd met Pat, I'd found that I'd become braver. Even way back then her laughter
was beginning to echo in my ears, laughter that encouraged me to try things I
never would have before, simply because of the painful emotions they stirred up.
As soon as I walked into the store, the air seemed to move from my lungs, up my
throat, past the back of my neck, and into my head to form a wide, thick bar
between my ears. There was a man in front of me and he was saying something, but
that block of air inside my head kept me from hearing him.
After a while he quit talking and gave me one of those looks I'd seen so many
times from my uncles and cousins. It was a look that divided men from Men. It
usually preceded a fatal pronouncement like: "He don't know which end of a chain
saw to use." But then, I'd always played the brain to my relatives' brawn.
After the clerk sized me up, he walked away with a little smile that only moved
the left side of his thin lips. Just like my cousins and uncles, he recognized
me for what I was: a person who thought about things, who read books without
pictures, and liked movies that had no car chases.
I wanted to leave the hardware store. I didn't belong there and it held too many
old fears for me. But I could hear Pat's laughter and it gave me courage.
"I want to buy a gift for someone," I said loudly and knew right away that I'd
made a mistake. "Gift" was not a word my uncles and cousins would have used.
They would have said, "I need a set a socket wrenches for my brother-in-law.
What'd'ya got?" But the clerk turned and smiled at me. After all, "gift" meant
money. "So what kind of gift?" he asked.
Pat's father's tools had a German name on them that I said to the man -
properly pronounced, of course (there are some advantages to an education). I
was pleased to see his eyebrows elevate slightly and I felt smug: I'd impressed
him.
He went behind a counter that was scarred from years of router blades and drill
bits having been dropped on it, and reached below to pull out a catalog. "We
don't carry those in the store but we can order whatever you want." I nodded in
what I hoped was a truly manly way, trying to imply that I knew exactly what I
wanted, and flipped through the catalog. The photos were full color; the paper
was expensive. And no wonder since the prices were astronomical.
"Precision," the man said, summing up everything in that one word. I pressed my
lower lip against the bottom of my upper teeth in a way I'd seen my uncles do a
thousand times, and nodded as though I knew the difference between a "precision"
screwdriver and one out of a kid's Home Depot kit. "I wouldn't have anything
else," I said in that tight-lipped way my uncles spoke of all things mechanical.
The glory of the words "two stroke engine" made them clamp their back teeth
together so that the words were almost unintelligible.
"You can take that catalog," the man said, and my face unclenched for a moment.
I almost said gleefully, "Yeah? That's kind of you." But I remembered in time to
do the bottom lip gesture and mumble "much obliged" from somewhere in the back
of my throat. I wished I'd had on a dirty baseball cap with the name of some
sports team so I could tug at the brim in a Man's goodbye as I left the store.
When I got back to my tiny, gray apartment off campus later that night, I looked
up some of Pat's father's tools in the catalog. Those tools of his were worth
thousands. Not hundreds. Thousands.
But he left that oak box out on the porch every night. Unlocked. Unguarded.
The next day when I saw Pat between classes - she was studying chemistry and I
was English lit - I mentioned the tools to her as casually as possible. She
wasn't fooled; she knew this was important to me. "Why do you always fear the
worst?" she asked, smiling. "Possessions don't matter, only people do." "You
should tell that to my uncle Reg," I said, trying to make a joke. The smile left
her pretty face. "I'd love to," she said.
Pat wasn't afraid of anything. But because I didn't want her to look at me
differently, I wouldn't introduce her to my relatives. Instead, I let myself
pretend that I was part of her family, the one that had big Thanksgiving
dinners, and Christmases with eggnog and gifts under the tree. "Is it me or my
family you love?" Pat once asked, smiling, but her eyes were serious. "Is it me
or my rotten childhood you love?" I shot back, and we smiled at each other. Then
my big toe went up her pants leg and the next moment we were on top of one
another.
Pat and I were exotic to each other. Her sweet, loving, trusting family never
failed to fascinate me. I was sitting in their living room one day waiting for
Pat when her mother came home with her arms pulled down by the weight of four
shopping bags. Back then I didn't know that I should have jumped up and helped
her with them. Instead, I just stared at her.
"Ford," she said (my father's eldest brother thought he was bestowing a blessing
on me when he named me after his favorite pickup), "I didn't see you sitting
there. But I'm glad you're here because you're just the person I wanted to see."
What she was saying was ordinary to her. Pat and her parents easily and casually
said things to make other people feel good. "That's just your color," Pat's
mother would say to an ugly woman. "You should wear that color every day. And
who does your hair?" From someone else, the words would have been facetious. But
any compliment Pat's mother - I could never call her "Martha" or "Mrs.
Pendergast" - gave came out sincere-sounding because it was sincere.
She put the shopping bags down by the coffee table, removed the pretty
arrangement of fresh flowers she'd cut from her backyard garden, and began
pulling little squares of cloth out of the bags. I'd never seen anything like
them before and had no idea what they were. But then Pat's parents were always
introducing me to new and wondrous things.
When Pat's mother had spread all the pieces of cloth out on the glass-topped
coffee table (my cousins would have considered it a matter of pride to break
that glass, and my uncles would have dropped their work boot-clad feet on it
with malicious little smiles) she looked up at me and said, "Which do you like?"
I wanted to ask why she cared what I thought, but back then I was constantly
trying to make Pat's parents believe that I'd grown up in a world like theirs. I
looked at the fabric pieces and saw that each one was different. There were
pieces with big flowers on them, and some with little flowers. There were
stripes, solids, and some with blue line drawings.
When I looked up at Pat's mother, I could see she was expecting me to say
something. But what? Was it a trick? If I chose the wrong one would she tell me
to leave the house and never see Pat again? It was what I feared every minute I
was with them. I was fascinated by their sheer niceness, but at the same time
they scared me. What would they do if they found out that inside I was no more
like their daughter than a scorpion was like a ladybug?
Pat saved me. When she came into the living room, her hands pulling her thick
blonde hair up into a ponytail, she saw me looking at her mother, my eyes wild
with the fear of being found out. "Oh, Mother," Pat said. "Ford doesn't know
anything about upholstery fabrics. He can recite Chaucer in the original
English, so what does he need to know about chintz and toile?"
"Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote," I murmured, smiling at Pat.
Two weeks before I'd found out that if I whispered Chaucer while I was biting on
her earlobe, it made her wild for sex. Like her father, an accountant, she had a
mathematician's brain, and anything poetic excited her.
I looked back at the fabrics. Ah. Upholstery. I made a mental note to look up
the words "chintz" and "toile." And later I'd have to ask Pat why being able to
recite medieval poetry should exclude knowledge of upholstery fabrics. "What do
you plan to upholster?" I asked Pat's mother, hoping I sounded familiar with the
subject.
"The whole room," Pat said in exasperation. "She redoes the entire living room
every four years. New slipcovers, new curtains, everything. And she sews all of
it herself."
"Ah," I said, looking about the room. Every piece of furniture and all the
windows were covered in shades of pink and green - or rose and moss as Pat
later told me.
"I think I'll go Mediterranean," Pat's mother said. "Terra cotta and brick. I
was thinking of trying my hand at leather upholstery with all those little nails
around the edge. What do you think of that idea, Ford? Would that look nice?"
I could only blink at her. In the many houses I had lived in, new furniture was
bought only when there were holes in the old, and price was the only
consideration for purchase. One of my aunts had a whole set of furniture covered
in three-inch-long purple acrylic. Everyone thought it was wonderful because all
three pieces had cost only twenty-five dollars. Only I minded having to remove
long purple fibers from my food.
"Mediterranean is nice," I said, feeling as proud of myself as though I'd just
penned the Declaration of Independence.
"There," Pat's mother said to her daughter. "He does know about upholstery."
Pulling the little hair tie out of her mouth, Pat deftly wrapped it around her
ponytail, and rolled her eyes. Three weekends before, her parents had visited a
sick relative so Pat and I'd spent two nights alone in their house. We'd played
at being married, at being our own little family, and that that perfect house
was ours. We'd sat at the kitchen table and shucked corn, then we'd eaten dinner
at the mahogany dining table - just like grown-ups. I'd told Pat a lot about my
childhood, but I'd only told her the deep angst part, the part that was likely
to get me sympathy and sex. I'd not told her the mundane, day-to-day things,
such as rarely eating meals not in front of a TV, never having used a cloth
napkin, and only using candles when the electric bill hadn't been paid. It was
odd, but telling her that my father was in prison and that my mother had used me
to punish my father's brothers made me seem heroic, while asking her what the
hell an artichoke was made me feel like the village idiot.
The second night we spent together in her parents' house, I lit a fire in the
fireplace, Pat sat on the floor between my legs, and I brushed her beautiful
hair.
So, later, when she looked at me over her mother's head, I knew she was
remembering the night we'd made love on the carpet in front of the fire. And
from the looks she was giving me, I knew that if we didn't get out of there soon
I'd be throwing her down on top of her mother's fabric samples. "You're so
alive," Pat had said to me. "So primitive. So real." I didn't like
the "primitive" part but if it turned her on...
"You two go on," Pat's mother said, smiling and seeming to intuit what Pat and I
were feeling. And, as always, she was unselfish and thinking of others before
herself. When the drunk teenager who killed her a few years later was pulled
from his car, he said, "What's the big deal? She was just an old woman."
*
Pat and I were married for twenty-one years before she was taken from me.
Twenty-one years sounds like a long time, but it was only minutes. Right after
we graduated from college, one of the teaching jobs she was offered paid
exceptionally well, but it was in an inner city school. "Hazard pay," the man on
the phone who was begging her to take the job said. "It's a rough school, and
last year one of our teachers was knifed. She recovered but she wears a
colostomy bag now." He waited for this to sink in, waited for Pat to slam down
the phone.
But he didn't know my wife, didn't know what her boundless optimism could take
on. I wanted to try my hand at a novel, she wanted to give me the chance to
write, and the money was excellent so she took the job.
It was difficult for me to understand such selfless love as hers, and I was
always trying to figure out the why of it.
Continues...
Excerpted from WILD ORCHIDS
by Jude Deveraux
Copyright © 2003 by Deveraux, Inc.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Copyright © 2003
Deveraux, Inc.
All right reserved.