His Wife Leaves Him полностью

They were out for a walk. It was Sunday, around five, getting dark, and when they still lived in the Baltimore apartment on West 39th Street. Rosalind was in a sling on his chest. He was holding her head up with one hand and holding Gwen’s hand with the other. They passed a neighborhood Chinese restaurant on the way back — The Poison Dragon, he started calling it after the incident, when its real name was The Golden Dragon — and he said “Like to get takeout tonight? We’ve never had any from this place and we should try it,” and she said “I already have dinner prepared — salmon and a quinoa dish and you said you’d make a salad.” “Then just soup. We’ll have it when we get home. It’ll warm us up. But not egg drop or hot and sour. Something different.” They went into the restaurant and ordered a large container of the “neptune house soup,” with scallops and shrimp and rice noodles and black mushrooms and baby corn. About a half-hour after they ate the soup — maybe fifteen minutes: he knows it was an unusually short time — he got stomach cramps and felt nauseated and he said “Oh, no, shrimp again,” because he’d got sick like this twice before from bad shrimp, and she said “You too? Cramps? Nausea? It has to be the soup. I’m so glad we didn’t give Rosalind any. Both of us have to induce vomiting before it’s completely digested.” “You mean to stick your finger down your throat?” and she said “It’s briefly uncomfortable and disgusting, but it can save days of being sick.” “I can’t do it. Never could. I don’t know what it is, but something stops me, even though I know it’s for my own good.” “Well, I’m certainly going to do it. One of us has to stay well to take care of the other and Rosalind,” and she went into the kitchen bathroom and he heard her throwing up. He waited a minute and said through the bathroom door “Gwen. I’m really not feeling well, so I’m going to lie down,” and she said “I’m sorry, my sweetie. I only wish you had done what I did. I’m already feeling better.” “Just so you don’t think I’m a complete chicken, I did try to in our bathroom, gagged a little but nothing came up,” and she said “Maybe you didn’t go down far enough. Try again. It’s always worked for me,” and he said “I’m just going to have to hope it doesn’t get worse than it is.” “Well,” she said, “yell for me if you need anything. I’m going to wash up, change Rosalind and get her set for the night, and then treat myself to a very weak tea.” He rested on their bed, tried to fall asleep but couldn’t, had to rush to the bathroom several times to vomit or because of the runs. She came in every half-hour or so, felt his head, said “No temperature, but I wouldn’t have expected any,” asked how he was and he said “Much worse,” or just looked at him and said nothing and left. Then she came in and turned on the TV to the public television station. A promo was on for a Masterpiece Theatre series starting next Sunday. He said “What are you doing?” and she said “It’s the final episode of the James Herriot program — the English vet. I know you don’t like it, but I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” “But I’m sick; very sick. Been doing nothing but vomiting and shitting diarrhea the last two hours. The TV noises and flickering — just the voices — will make me feel even worse. I need quiet and rest,” and she said “I hate saying this, but if you had done what I first suggested you do, you wouldn’t be feeling this bad. Now it’s too late, and I don’t think I’m asking too much. An hour, that’s all.” “There’ll probably be a rerun of it sometime this week. Isn’t that what they normally do with a series?” and she said “I checked the monthly program guide. If it were on this coming week I wouldn’t have come to watch it now, but it isn’t scheduled again. I’ll keep the sound low and you could turn over so you don’t see the screen. But what you should do is go into the guest room and try to sleep there.” “I like our bed,” he said. “I feel better on it and in this room,” and she said “Listen, Martin, I’m sorry you’re so sick. But you have to give me a little too. This is the only television I’ve watched since the previous episode last Sunday. If we had another television set in one of the other rooms, I’d watch it there. But we don’t, and now the program’s starting. So, my poor little sweetheart, I’m afraid I’ll have to watch it here. Now please let me.” “Okay,” he said, “go ahead. But I have to say I’ve never seen you act this way to me before. You’ve never shown such inconsiderateness, such…well, you know, lack of sympathy…everything,” and she said “Oh, if you want to call what I am asking for here that, which I don’t think I’m being, then I’ve shown it. Maybe you just didn’t pick up on it before.” “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “I won’t forget this, Gwen, I won’t.” Then he felt sharp pains in his stomach again and got up and rushed to the bathroom. The television volume was much lower when he came back. He got into bed, lay with his back to her and the set and stayed in that position and said nothing to her till the next morning. When she came to bed she said things like “Want me to sleep in another room? Are you feeling any better? Can I get you anything? Do anything for you? I’m sure you’ll be much better in the morning. I certainly hope so. All right. Goodnight, dear.”