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There were many changes and surprises in the fall and winter of 1973, lots and lots of ‘em. While telling this story I skimmed over most of two decades, only telling you the major stuff that mattered, so I could get to the most important parts quicker. 1973 was the most important year of my life, by far.
My wife Elaine’s son Stanley and his wife Louise had another girl, their fourth child. We decided that it made sense for them to swap houses with us, since their two-bedroom trailer was getting far too small for them. Stanley and his brother Thomas agreed to help me clear the trees from a small hill after the first frost, then remove the stumps and build a small new house for Elaine and I the next year. We would stay in the trailer in the meantime. As simple and relatively easy improvements, we added a second bathroom, porch, and a large living room to the 140-year-old house. They decided to turn the small living room that sat at the top of the basement steps into a laundry room and pantry. Stanley bought a clothes washer and a big freezer, and I helped him move them in.
Most of the family was at a picnic in town on the day Elaine died. After breakfast I called my pal Joshua and invited him to go fishing. He said he needed to do a few things, but would be happy to in couple of hours. I’d make some sandwiches for lunch and he’d pick up beer on the way to the lake. I decided to hook up the pipes and hoses for the new washing machine while I waited for him. I was laying on the floor and reaching behind the washer so I could screw in the last water pipe.
My wife Elaine stormed in and shouted, “One of my friends saw you kissing the neighbor Nora! That must be why we never make love anymore! You’re cheating with that SLUT!”
I had cheated with Nora many times, but that ended five years earlier. I wondered if somebody saw me kiss her cheek goodbye after I visited her family the previous week. I rose to a kneeling position while saying, “You’re crazy! I don’t make love to you anymore because you refuse every time I ask! If you tell somebody ‘no’ every time for years…”
I got to my feet and stood, while she screamed, “And you hug her daughter Sally sometimes, and always gave her treats when she was a kid. I bet you’re fucking that WHORE, too!”
The next few seconds are a blur in my mind. I had a sudden burst of rage. She had called my child a whore! I don’t remember exactly what I did to my wife. I think I shoved her, maybe. Probably. Her shoulder slammed into the wall near the top of the stairs. She screeched, “EEEEH!” as she tried to catch her balance. I reached to grab her arm and keep her from falling, I really did.
I wasn’t quite quick enough. She tilted away, out of reach. I saw her tumble head-over-heels on the way down. Her head hit the concrete stairs at least twice, and she landed on her head, too.
I froze in shock, staring at her broken and unmoving body. After maybe three breaths, I stupidly shouted, “ELAINE! Are you okay?”
She obviously wasn’t. Her head was cocked to the side at a totally unnatural angle. Her right arm was broken, with bones sticking through the skin. Blood poured from her head and arm, then pooled and congealed on the cellar floor. Her eyes were wide open and quit moving after a few moments. I could see her breathing, at least for the first minute that I stood at the top of the stairs gazing at her. I don’t know how long it was until I heard a car park in the driveway. I realized I needed to do something, and quick!
I let the heavy steel pipe drop from my hand and carefully strode down the steps. I heard Joshua knock on the screen door and ask, “Bruce?” He walked into the house and called again, “Bruce?”
I shouted, “Down here! The basement. I think she’s dead!”
He froze at the top of the stairs, like I had. He glanced around a little, then cautiously descended the small steep stairs. He felt her neck a few moments. “No pulse. No breathing either. Ah… we better call an ambulance. Or… I guess the coroner, since…”
I don’t recall him leaving the basement but he must have, since a while later three men carried many things into the cellar. One of them closed her eyes, and I stared at her shoes as they took her away. Elaine’s slip-ons had fallen off halfway down the stairs and the brawny young men left them there, not that she needed them anymore.
I sat on the cold concrete floor, staring at her empty shoes and trying to make it real in my mind. I felt loss, regret, and a twisted sense of relief. I remembered loving her so very much when we married early in 1942. I had a brief involuntarily smile when I realized I wouldn’t need to put up with her anymore, but felt terrible guilt about things between us going so wrong in the decades since.
Joshua took my hand and led me upstairs. As we got to the top, he kicked the pipe I had been holding and it rolled under the washer. He said, “Don’t worry, buddy. It was an accident, so there’s no need for an investigation. Let’s go get a drink, and something to eat.”
My first wife Elaine was buried three days after she fell, on August 18th. I drank five whole bottles of whiskey that week, instead of the usual two. When I went to complete the water and sewer lines for the washer after her funeral, I pulled a pipe from underneath the machine. My friend Joshua, the District Attorney, had…
What I did and the fact he covered it up were unthinkable, so I tried hard not to think about it. I grabbed a rag and hurriedly wiped Elaine’s hair and dried blood off the pipe. I’m pretty sure I had only shoved her away from me, but…
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