Husbands

Helene’s eyes pop open.

She nudges Douglas. He stirs, but doesn’t wake up. She nudges him again.

“What?”

“Smell that?” she asks.

She waits. It takes him 20 seconds.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Yep.”

They look at each other.

“He got up and made coffee?” he asks.

“Apparently,” she says.

They stay still and listen. A sound comes from the kitchen. It’s a chair scraping against the linoleum.

“You better go check,” Douglas says.

Helene gets up, puts on her robe, and pads to the kitchen. Arthur sits at the table, wrapped in his Scotch plaid robe, perusing the sports page. She stands at the doorway for a few moments, watching him. He keeps reading. The only sound comes from the burbling coffeemaker. It’s as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed. He finally notices her standing in the doorway.

“Hey there,” he says.

“Morning.”

“Mugs?” he asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did you move the coffee mugs? I can’t find them.”

Helene feels an odd sense of relief. He’s still forgotten some things. She goes to the cupboard above the coffeemaker, where the mugs have been for the last ten years. She takes out a pale yellow cup and reaches for the coffeemaker.

“Can you get mine?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“My mug. The black one.”

She looks at him for a moment. He smiles at her. She rummages through the cupboard until she finds the black mug. It has Without Blues Life Would B Flat emblazoned across it in blue letters. He’d always used it in the morning. It had been a habit, before he lost his habits. He hadn’t touched it in months. Helene decides to test him. She fills the cup, puts in a packet of artificial sweetener, and places it in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says, not lifting his eyes from the sports page.

Helene takes two more mugs out of the cupboard and fills them. She moves to the refrigerator, opens the door, and scans its interior. She doesn’t want anything, but is stalling, waiting for Arthur to taste his coffee. She hears him put down the paper and pick up the cup.

“Um,” he says.

She closes the refrigerator and turns. Arthur is looking down into his cup.

“Something wrong?” she asks.

“It’s sweet,” he says, holding the cup out to her. “Remember? I take it without.”

“Right,” she says. “Without.”

Helene takes the mug, dumps it in the sink, refills it and places it in front of him.

“All right?” she asks.

“Right as rain,” he says.

She stands there for a moment.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says. “Right as rain. Want some breakfast?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Henderson.”

“Hester,” she says.

“Hm?”

“Her name. It’s Mrs. Hester.”

“Ah. Yes. Mrs. Hester.” Arthur looks at the clock above the stove. “She’ll be coming in just a bit, right?” he asks.

“Yes. Eight-thirty.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, looking down at his paper. “Okay then.”

Helene goes to the back door, unlocks it for Mrs. Hester, and then returns to the kitchen. She picks up the two mugs from the counter and heads for the master bedroom. Douglas is sitting up in bed. She hands him one of the mugs and sits beside him.

“Well?” he asks.

“He’s there, but he isn’t.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He made coffee, but didn’t know where the mugs were,” she says. “Then he asked for his favorite mug. He hasn’t touched it in months.”

Douglas looks at the steam rising from his coffee.

“Maybe these are just a few stray, lucid moments,” he offers.

“Maybe. Maybe not. He also remembered he took his coffee black, without sweetener. And then he said something.”

“What?”

“‘Right as rain.’ He always used to say that until, you know, he didn’t.”

“I see,” Douglas says. “Anything else?”

“Yes. He got Mrs. Hester’s name wrong, but remembered she comes at 8:30 sharp to make his breakfast.”

Douglas puts his coffee mug on the nightstand. He hasn’t taken a sip.

“Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have known Mrs. Hester made him breakfast,” he says.

“Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have known Mrs. Hester,” Helene says.

They sat in silence. Douglas speaks up. “What the hell is going on?”

* * *

“So. What’s going on?”

Helene poses the question to Dr. Horne as he settles behind his desk. He’s just examined Arthur, who sits in the waiting room chatting with the receptionist. Chatting. Yet another resurrected ability. A month ago he would’ve sat in sullen silence.

“That seems to be the question of the hour, doesn’t it?” Horne asks.

He tries to smile, but doesn’t quite bring it off. She sits in her chair, staring at him, waiting. Horne is a neurologist, one in a conga line of white coats droning through a chain of protocols all pointing to the inevitable. Physicians, geriatric psychiatrists, neuropsychologists, geriatricians, gerontologists. There have been so many that Helene put them on a spreadsheet to navigate the labyrinth of names, medications, and insurance requirements.

All through their poking, prodding, and testing, Arthur continued to lose bits and pieces of himself. First came an aggravating forgetfulness. He lost his cellphone, car keys, and sunglasses. Next came words. Not a promising development for an intellectual property attorney. It got worse. He’d read legal documents and forget their contents almost immediately. He had difficulty managing his schedule at the firm. When they dined out with other couples, he’d seem distracted, acting as if spontaneous conversation was a foreign language.

In the next few months it wasn’t a matter of forgetting his responsibilities at the firm. He couldn’t remember where the firm was. One morning the state police contacted her. He’d been stopped drifting from lane to lane on the New Jersey Turnpike, 60 miles away from their residence. The police brought him home. He never went to work again.

The symptoms leached their way inward, first digesting his profession and then feeding off his passion. Jazz. Blues. It was the thing that first brought them together, a shared, almost genetic love of a lost world populated by Lead Belly and Charley Patton and Blind Willie Johnson. On their first date they went to a little jazz club, holding hands for the first time as they listened to a Peggy Lee look-alike croon through “Why Don’t You Do Right?” It became their song.

Arthur’s vinyl library was his prized possession. Helene tried to slow the degeneration by making sure he listened to something each day. At first it seemed to work as he gloried in Chick Webb’s “Blues in My Heart” and “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” But as the weeks passed his response withered. The day came when she sat him in the den and put on Count Basie’s “Jive at Five.” He listened to it for a few moments, then looked at her, his eyes wide, mouth slack.

“Do I like this?” he asked.

She turned it off and hadn’t played any records since.

Horne taps away at the laptop on his desk, presumably reviewing Arthur’s history. Helene waits, still staring at him. He finally looks up.

“It happens,” he says.

“What?”

“A temporary lull in the progress of the disease.”

“It’s not a lull,” Helene says. “It’s a reversal.”

“That’s impossible,” Horne says.

“Is it?”

“Yes. Unless there are other factors.”

“Such as?”

“Procedural or biological anomalies.”

“You mean something was missed?”

Helene is a litigation attorney. It’s her instinct to pounce on nebulous language. Horne doesn’t answer. Helene presses on.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not without more testing,” he says.

“And how long will that take?”

“A matter of weeks,” Horne says. “No time at all.”

“Maybe to you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It won’t feel like ‘no time at all’ to me.”

Horne doesn’t answer. Helene doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t feel comfortable telling him about her situation. Everyone is losing their words. Helene rises from her chair and walks out of the office.

* * *

The situation is Douglas.

After Arthur’s condition was diagnosed, Helene assumed financial power of attorney and made sure Arthur’s will was up to date. She also hired Mrs. Hester, a widowed registered nurse and nutritionist who worked with the merciless efficiency of a Prussian officer.

And then Helene took care of herself. She found Delores, a therapist who specialized in caregiver counseling. In the first month of weekly sessions, Helene explored her grief for a spouse who still ambled through their home, a ghost stalled in transit.

It didn’t take her long to start talking about Douglas, who had been Arthur’s closest friend for the last two decades. The men met at their firm, where both had become partners. Douglas and his wife, Annabelle, socialized constantly with Arthur and Helene. They even vacationed together. The relationship went still deeper. Douglas helped Arthur through his chronic depression, which was eventually eased with medication. Arthur and Helene supported Douglas and Annabelle through their son’s drug addiction and rehab. And Annabelle was there for Helene when she found out she couldn’t have children.

As the couples became ever closer, Helene sensed Douglas was attracted to her. She felt the same. But they left the tension hovering just out of their reach. The first seismic shift in their lives occurred when Annabelle passed away from breast cancer two years ago, leaving Douglas bereft and bewildered. Arthur and Helene made sure to continue including him in their social activities. The attraction remained, but they kept it latent — even after Helene found out about Pixie Parker.

One day in the early phase of Arthur’s forgetfulness, he’d left for work without his cellphone. Helene found it and on impulse riffled through his texts. She found several from Parker, a paralegal at the firm who Helene had met at the last holiday party. She wore an auburn retro-pixie hairstyle. Helene planned to confront Arthur, but his symptoms accelerated, and Helene kept her counsel. It was a good move. Within months, Arthur had no memory of Parker or her pixie.

Helene told Delores about the texts, and then went a step further. Hoping for some empathy, she revealed her attraction to Douglas. Delores was more than empathetic. After a few weeks of discussing the situation, she encouraged Helene to pursue what she called “an affirmative life strategy.”

“I’m not sure I know what that is,” Helene said.

“Yes, you do,” Delores replied.

A week later Helene and Douglas went off for a short, off-season trip to Cape May, leaving the oblivious Arthur in the care of Mrs. Hester. After a hazy weekend of love-making, long dinners in dark restaurants, and meandering walks on a bracing, autumn beach, the mutual attraction transformed into something else. When they returned, everything had been altered. Arthur smelled of the past. Douglas became the future.

As Arthur continued to disappear within himself, Douglas came to their home with increasing frequency. He started spending the night. Within a month, he was living there. Arthur was moved to the guest room. It wasn’t a difficult transition. Arthur still faintly recognized Helene but wasn’t aware she was his wife. Mrs. Hester proved just as agreeable.

“Should we have a discussion?” Helene asked her one morning.

“About what?”

“The arrangement.”

“No.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“I mind my own business,” Mrs. Hester said. “It’s my strongest skill set.”

Everyone settled into a pattern. Each day Helene and Douglas went off to their respective firms while Mrs. Hester looked after Arthur. By the time they came home at the end of the workday, Arthur had been given dinner and put to bed and Mrs. Hester had left for the day. There was only one anomaly, as Dr. Horne would put it: as Helene and Douglas carried on with their domestic life of love-making, dining, and binge-watching Netflix, Helene’s husband was in the next room.

Everyone knew the next step. Helene didn’t want to talk about it. Mrs. Hester did. So much for her strongest skill set.

“Things are going to change,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Arthur. He’s relatively high-functioning now, but this won’t last. It can’t.”

“I know.”

“Do you? You’re only taking care of him for a few hours at night. It’s going to get worse. Much worse.”

Helene knew what that meant. She started researching caregiver facilities that week. She toured a few with Douglas. They all smelled of urine, minced food, and disinfectant.

“Maybe we’ll find something better,” Helene said.

“No,” Douglas said. “We won’t.”

They were about to settle on a facility about two miles from their home when something changed. It was Arthur.

* * *

“So. What are we going to tell him when he starts?” Douglas asks.

“Starts what?”

“Asking what the hell I’m doing sleeping in his bed, with his wife.”

The question would have seemed ludicrous just three weeks ago. But Arthur’s ability to rise and make himself coffee is just the most recent sign of an inexplicable return. In the next few weeks he starts getting dressed each morning, participating in conversations, actively following the TV news and bantering with Mrs. Hester about the quality of her red lentil soup. He is also more conscious of Douglas, vaguely aware that they are friends, and even engaging him in increasingly earnest discussions about baseball and the California wildfires.

It isn’t an unfettered return. He wants to use his laptop but can’t recall passwords, and while he asks for his cellphone, he’s forgotten a number of its functions. But Douglas is right. Questions are coming. Arthur keeps recovering scattered pieces of himself. At mealtimes, Helene notices Arthur sneaking discreet glances at Douglas.

Helene’s instinct is to put off a decision and seek asylum in denial.

“Maybe Dr. Horne is right,” she says. “This could be a lull.”

“A lull?” Douglas says. “Two weeks ago Arthur didn’t remember he was an IP attorney. Yesterday he made a reference to Lockean Theory.”

Helene laughs. Douglas doesn’t.

She waits another two days before contacting Dr. Horne. He says his staff was still evaluating the medical data, which is his way of saying he has no idea what is going on. He asks if Arthur is still progressing. Helene notes his growing awareness and the increasing frequency of his interactions.

“That’s phenomenal,” Horne says.

It’s the first correct diagnosis she’s heard in weeks.

After returning home later that day from work, she finds Mrs. Hester in the kitchen, preparing vegan broccoli soup.

“Where’s Art?” she asks.

“In the den.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Check it out yourself,” Mrs. Hester says without turning from the stove.

Helene walks toward the den. Before she reaches the door she hears it. Music. In a few more steps she recognizes the tune. It’s Sidney Bechet playing “September Song.” Arthur sits on the couch, cradling the album cover, swaying with the sweet lilt and sweep of the sound. He finally notices Helene standing at the door.

“Beautiful,” he says, smiling. “Just beautiful.”

* * *

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Douglas asks as they drive toward the Eight Elms Country Club.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Helene asks.

“Us. That’s why.”

“Everyone at your firm and mine knows.”

“Knowing is one thing,” Douglas says. “Understanding is another.”

Helene initially had the same reservations as Douglas, but Delores the therapist dismissed them, noting that socializing as a couple was one more progressive step in establishing an affirmative life strategy.

One of the young partners at Arthur and Douglas’s firm is getting married, and both Helene and Douglas received invitations. Arrangements were made with Mrs. Hester to take care of Arthur on the Saturday of the wedding. Helene and Douglas decided to skip the church ceremony but attend the reception.

“Where are you going?” Arthur had asked when Helene was dressing.

“A wedding.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Clint Morgan’s,” Helene said. “Do you remember Clint Morgan?”

“Clint,” Arthur said absently. “Morgan.”

“Yes. A partner at your firm.”

“Clint,” he said again. “Morgan.”

He stared at her but said nothing more. Mrs. Hester summoned him to lunch. Helene stopped in the kitchen before they left for the reception. Arthur had finished his lunch and was sitting at the table with Mrs. Hester. They were reading the paper.

“We’re going,” Helene said.

“You have fun now,” Mrs. Hester said from behind her paper.

“My gray suit,” Arthur said.

“What?” Helene asked.

“I’ll wear my gray suit,” he said. “To the wedding.”

Mrs. Hester lowered her paper and looked at Arthur, then Helene. Arthur went back to his reading. Mrs. Hester shrugged. It was just one more non sequitur, a fragment of thought that rose and faded into nothing.

“We’ll be back about nine or so,” Helene said.

Douglas drove. As they backed out of the driveway, Helene noticed movement from behind the living room window. It was Arthur, starting at them as they drove away.

* * *

“Maybe you were right,” Douglas says. “We don’t seem to be shocking anyone.”

He sounds disappointed. They’d been at the reception for an hour, and all their friends greeted them warmly, chattering about the bride’s elegant gown and the graceful church ceremony before moving on to the main attractions: drinking and law firm gossip.

After 45 minutes Helene feels herself relaxing, joining in the speculation on firm mergers, office romances, and which associates would be elevated to partner in the fall. The only awkward moment comes when she spots Pixie Parker across the room, chatting with another partner. Her pixie seems a brighter shade of red than Helene remembers. Parker turns and their eyes meet. Parker looks away quickly. Helene almost laughs.

A few minutes later she and Douglas are seated at a table deftly balanced with colleagues from both their firms. After the usual toasts, the conversation flows through a few more rounds and the dinner. The meal ends and the table dissolves as everyone heads to the dance floor or the bar to chat with other couples.

A small band plays a medley of mellow pop music. Helene and Douglas dance slow and easy through a few songs before Helene excuses herself to go to the ladies room. When she returns, Douglas is in deep discussions with some partners near the dessert buffet.

Helene is about to join them when she notices a small commotion by the bar. A knot of people surround someone, laughing and reaching out to shake hands. She twists and turns through the dancers on her way to the bar for a closer look. The little cluster parts to reveal Arthur at its core. He stands there smiling, drink in hand, dressed in his gray suit.

“He was quite persuasive.”

Helene turns to find Mrs. Hester at her elbow. She is dressed in a navy blue dress. It’s the first time Helene has seen her dressed in something other than her aquamarine med-gear. Helene looks back at the cluster. Arthur is beaming and talking.

“I tried to call you and Douglas,” Mrs. Hester says, “but I kept getting voicemail.”

“We turned off our phones,” Helene says.

Arthur says something. Everyone laughs.

“Right after you left he came out of your bedroom fully dressed,” Mrs. Hester says.

“Fully dressed.”

“I stalled as long as I could, but he insisted.”

“Insisted.”

“He even had me stop at my place on the way to change,” Mrs. Hester says.

Helene turns to look for Douglas. He is still at the dessert buffet, engrossed in conversation. The band winds up whatever tune it’s playing and starts another. Helene recognizes it immediately. It’s “Why Don’t You Do Right?” At that very moment Arthur looks away from his little audience and spots Helene. He waves. She waves back. He starts walking toward them.

“What should I do?” Helene asks.

“What can you do?” Mrs. Hester says.

“You look wonderful,” Arthur says when he reaches Helene. He gives a nod to Mrs. Hester.

“I think this is a good time for a drink,” Mrs. Hester says. “Or maybe several.”

She goes off to the bar.

“Did you notice the song?” Arthur says.

“Of course,” Helene says.

“Would you like to dance?”

Helene doesn’t answer. Arthur takes her hand and leads her through the swaying couples to the center of the floor. They start dancing, turning slowly clockwise. Helene looks over Arthur’s shoulder. Douglas is still talking, completely unaware. It’s as if he’s in a different part of the world.

Helene waits for the band to finish, but they keep playing. All she can do is keep dancing. All she can do is wait for the song to end.