41 4
PART ISAN REVIEW
Olive said she would marry him outside the Church when he was
divorced. But Margaret would not let go. Olive's father was a pretty
decent old guy, an osteopath, and he understood what it was all about.
Finally he said, "See here, I have to advise Olive. She is asking me. I
am mostly a freethinker myself, but the girl has to live in this town."
And by now Wilhelm and Olive had had a great many troubles and
she was beginning to dread his days in Roxbury, she said. He trembled
at offending this small, pretty, dark girl whom he adored. When she
would get up late on Sunday morning she would wake him almost in
tears at being late for Mass. He would try to help her hitch her garters
and smooth out her slip and dress and even put on her hat with shaky
hands; then he would rush her to church and drive in second gear in
his forgetful way trying to apologize and calm her. She got out a block
from church to avoid gossip. Even so she loved him, and she would have
married him if he had obtained the divorce. But Margaret must have
sensed this. Margaret would tell him he did not really want a divorce;
he was afraid of it. He cried, "Take everything I've got, Margaret. Let
me go to Reno. Don't you want to marry again?" No. She went out
with other men, but took his money. She lived to punish him.
Dr. Tamkin told Wilhelm, "Your dad is jealous of you."
Wilhelm smiled, "Of
me?
That's rich."
"Sure. People are always jealous of a man who leaves his wife."
"Oh," said Wilhelm scornfully. "When it comes to wives he
wouldn't have to envy me."
"Yes, and your wife envies you, too. She thinks, 'He's free and
goes with young women.' Is she getting old?"
"Not exactly old," said Wilhelm, whom the mention of his wife
made sad. Twenty years ago, in a neat blue wool suit, in a soft hat
made of the same cloth-he could plainly see her. He stooped his yellow
head and looked under the hat at her clear, simple face, her living eyes
moving, her straight small nose, her jaw beautifully, painfully clear in
its form. It was a cool day, but he smelled the odor of pines in the
sun, in the granite canyon. Just south of Santa Barbara, this was.
"She's forty-some years old," he said.
"I was married to a lush," said Tamkin. "A painful alcoholic. I
couldn't take her out to dinner because she'd say she was going to the
ladies' toilet and disappear into the bar. I'd ask the bartenders they
shouldn't serve her. But I loved her deeply. She was the most spiritual
woman of my entire experience."
"Where is she now?"
"Drowned," said Tamkin. "At Provincetown, Cape Cod. It must
have been a suicide. She was that way-suicidal. I tried everything
in my power to cure her. Because," said Tamkin, "my real calling is
to be a healer. I get wounded. I suffer from it. I would like to escape
from the sicknesses of others, but I can't. I am only on loan to myself,
so to speak. I belong to humanity."
Liar! Wilhelm inwardly called him. Nasty lies. He invented a
woman and killed her off and then called himself a healer, and made
