Betty Martin

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The Husband’s Head

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She hadn’t owned her husband when he was alive and had only a piece of him now that he was dead. Although he could not physically resist, coercing him into the journey would be wrong. There were also legal concerns. Would she be arrested for what she was contemplating doing? While she grappled with the issues, her husband’s head rested beside her in its bowling bag. They’d planned this trip when he had been whole, bought a Lifetime Seniors Pass, and dreamed of the beautiful nature in the National Parks. It wasn’t perfect like this, but it was better than nothing.

  The bowling ball bag had been his. It was in good condition, the leather supple, the handles sturdy, the color an unobtrusive brown, a quality bag, the exact size to fit its current contents. The beach was deserted, the sun about to set. She unzipped the bowling ball bag and there he was—face serene, salt and pepper hair haloed his head, a large Roman nose perched over a delicate jaw. She lifted him out.

“One last sunset at home before leaving, unless you tell me different.” She looked him straight in the eyes. He had already agreed, but she was giving him a second chance. She held him close and felt his head nod yes.

She maneuvered the chair, the head on her lap, to face the ocean. Here, where they lived, near the Pacific, was the beginning. They would see more sunsets, just as beautiful or more so, though this one was special. It was their sunset, the one they’d seen hundreds of times together when he could stand and embrace her.

  Her grief counselor had taught her a technique, deep breath in, a second of holding, a slow, measured exhale out. She did this now and tasted the salt in the air and a snippet of poetry came unbidden. “Her sorrowless, salt self. That’s Mary Oliver.”

“I prefer Coleridge. And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I.”

“Hush, you.”

She bent to the side, inspected his expression. A lopsided smile had come to his lips.

This had been how they dealt with the big issues. Make do, make a joke, make the best of it. It was how she was raised, and he, also, but a stroke was a serious message sent from the brain that the body was compromised. The little aches and pains had frustrated him, the daily ritual of rising in the morning, the skeleton having to get used to bearing the weight of the body all over again, and then the stroke had come. They hoped it was only going to be one and then another happened, and another, each one chiseling at the hope they had left, reducing it to crumbles.

“That’s all behind us,” She said aloud. The sunset dissolved into the night sky, as it always did, the spectacle over. She put her husband’s head back into the bowling ball bag and zipped it closed.

In the morning, she went by herself to pick up the rental car, a job he had always done. Nobody would question her need to get away after such a significant death and nobody would suspect she wasn’t traveling alone, and also, nobody cared at the car rental. The attendant handed her the keys and smiled at her the way young people do, oblivious of the fact that they, too, would age. She paid for long-term parking for their rusted Olds and drove away in the modern SUV rental with the large screen to run Google Maps except in the mountains where reception was tricky. This was good. This trip was going to be good. She channeled happy thoughts to ease the nervous knot in her chest. They’d seen Redwoods, and Sequoias, they’d traveled to Yosemite, but there was so much more, and they would see the rest.

She cleaned the bowling bag with saddle soap, leaving a clean scent and poked air holes on the sides near the bottom. She had her paper maps in case Google failed her, and her husband’s head in the bag, unzipped and on the floorboard to talk her down should the driving get difficult. Usually, he drove, another task left up to her now that he was only a head.

His body had gone to science and science took full advantage of his gift, divvying up his riches, keeping his head for stroke research. They peered into his brain, took pictures, sliced, and diced, and once they were done, they sent her a letter of gratitude along with her husband’s head. The choice had been hers to receive it. That’s something few people knew about donated remains. She couldn’t help herself, wanting to see his face once more. With care and trepidation, she unpacked him, layer by layer.

What a surprise to see him looking so good when she’d expected a Frankenstein, bandaged, bruised, and sewn together. He was none of that. If she did not know, if she pretended she was seeing his head only because the rest of him was covered with a blanket, she could pretend he was whole. 

Did she scream? Did she faint, did she run around and tear her hair out when he blinked? No. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She touched his cheek with a finger and his cheek was warm. His skin had a healthy pink glow, and when he opened his eyes, they were a sparking hazel, not clouded, not milky. They were the eyes she’d fallen in love with forty-five years ago. 

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She packed moist towels and plenty of water in a cooler along with a small bag for herself. At Joshua Tree, early visiting was better than late, a chance for fewer tourists and therefore, greater safety. She wished she could talk to strangers and share their experiences with others like they had done in the past. Connection to others was a point her grief counselor had made to her. It was natural for her to pull away from socializing for a time. She should watch out if that period of time extended longer than it should.

“How should I know when it becomes longer than it should?” she said.

“When you only talk to the head of your husband?” He tried to chortle. It came out as a choke.

She pulled over and reached into the cooler for water. Lifting him out, she set him down on the passenger seat. Guiding a metal straw between his lips, she trickled in some water. A thin stream leaked out below his neck. “Better?” He moved his head up and down on his neck stalk. A damp, pale pink stain appeared on the seat.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re here, and we’re together.”

She described the view to him as she drove, looking for a deserted turn-off and an empty parking lot where she could park and take him out to see for himself. Curved trunks and straight, wiggling appendages gesticulating angrily, that’s what the Joshua trees looked like. They were members of the agave family, she had read, not actual trees. The Mormons had named them Joshua for a prophet who had lifted his hands up to the sky.

She found a turn-off and a spot to park. A bee fly hovered near the open car window. Bee flies lay their eggs in living hosts. She snatched at the automatic window control. Before it closed, the bee fly got in. Whipping off her neckerchief, she snapped at the bee fly hitting it with a corner. It landed on the car floor, next to her husband’s head and crawled in a dazed zigzag towards him. With her heart hammering, she stomped it.

Catastrophes loomed. Another bee fly, a wind-swept piece of debris, a jumping Cholla cactus that shot its spines into his tender flesh. He wanted to see more. They stopped two more times before she told him no. No more. She couldn’t help herself. She had become the parent, deciding when to leave, when to stay.

Highway 40 took her to Needles and there she found a cheap motel cabin, and there she laid down on the bed, resting his head on a pillow. The bee fly that had hovered above her husband’s head, the accidental stain on the rental car’s seat, and most of all, the disparity between what could and could not be. Yesterday, she’d been filled with happiness and the gift of borrowed time. All she wanted was for them to be able to be together for another lifetime. Was that so much?

“This was supposed to be fun, our last trip together before you—” She couldn’t say it.

“Come closer,” he murmured.

He did what he could to comfort her, making shushing sounds, singing threads of half-remembered crooner songs until, under the spell of his low baritone voice, she fell asleep.

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The air was crystal clear the next morning when she got behind the wheel. She started the engine with a fresh attitude. “Next stop, Grand Canyon!” Already, she’d driven over 275 miles. In the SUV, she was higher up than other drivers in sedans and sports cars. The way it hugged the road and didn’t topple over gave her confidence. The terrain passed in shades of brown capped above by a blue sky. As the miles blew past, she played a game of tapping a finger on the steering wheel whenever she passed one of those round feathery bushes that dotted the roadside. They were numerous and she found herself tapping her finger against the steering wheel often.

“A regular ol’ finger-tapper, aren’t you?”

“Does it bother you?”

“I wouldn’t say it bothers me, just noticing, is all,” said her husband’s head from the open bowling bag on the floorboard. Did it remind him that he was without them, without fingers, a hand, and all the rest? Or was it only annoying, like any repetitive sound? She stopped tapping her fingers. She knew it wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t what they had envisioned way back when. “We’ll be there in one more hour according to Google.”

Her husband’s head let out a puff of air. “I wish I could eat. With my teeth, I mean. I miss the feeling of chewing.”

She fed him protein shakes she poured out onto a lipped platter setting his head down in the center. In a process she did not understand, he took in this food through the vessels in his neck. She could see it happen through his skin, the neck muscles working, drawing it up, the cheeks plumping, the eyes bulging and then bing! It entered his brain and recharged him. Maybe it was time for a recharge. As a living body with all his parts, he’d always gotten cranky when he was hungry.

“Do you want me to set out a protein shake?”

“No,” said her husband’s head with a mournful extension of the “o” sound.

“You’ll feel better when we get our first glimpse of the canyon.”

Late in the afternoon, they arrived at Grand Canyon National Park. A few people had gathered by the railing of the South Rim to wait for the sunset. She zipped up the bowling bag and slung the handles over a shoulder. She joined them at the rim, other tourists making room for her. “It’s going to be a beaut tonight. A Harvest Moon,” said a spectator to her right. She smiled and nodded.

When was the last time she’d paid attention to the sky when a harvest moon was hanging there? To see a harvest moon in such a special place. It felt like the world was telling her, yes, keep going.

She unzipped the bag with her husband’s head inside and positioned him for optimal viewing. Optimal viewing in a bowling bag wasn’t optimal. She lowered the zipper some more. It was the best she could do.

Yes, it was beautiful. Yes, it was indescribable. No, it was not affirming her decision to do this. Its extraordinary size gave her the sudden impression it was mocking her, pointing at the ludicrous nature of their current situation. He had agreed to the trip. Had it only been to please her?

A kid, about ten, bent down to get a rock. He’d been tossing pebbles into the canyon while his parents gaped at the view. The pebbles weren’t enough to get his parents’ attention. He picked up a jagged stone and drew back his arm. At the same time, he caught a glimpse of what was inside the bag. A gargled yell came out of his mouth, a parental rebuke came out of his mother’s mouth and she yanked the bag’s zipper shut.

His mother shook him. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance and you’re going to appreciate it.”

“Show’s over anyway. Let’s get outta here,” said the father.

“But, I saw it!”

“We all saw it.” The father took the child by the shoulders and steered him away while the mother put away her binoculars.

After the family left, she looked down at the bag. A few of her husband’s hairs had gotten caught on the zipper and he hadn’t uttered a peep. She walked quickly back to the car. It took all her willpower not to run.

Once inside, she worked her husband’s hairs out of the zipper. “I’m sorry,” she murmured on repeat. He winced, opened, and closed his mouth a few times. No screams came out.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed to be the only words she could say.

“It was bound to happen at some point.”

Was he referring to the accidental sighting or his scalp pain? “Shall I put some cream on it?”

“Just leave it.”

“You’ve already done enough.” He didn’t say it. Leaning the driver’s seat back, she let the silence between them percolate. They’d seen Joshua Tree and now, a brief look at the Grand Canyon. They had Zion, Bryce Canyon, Arches, Mesa Verde, and the Great Sand Dunes on their list. An unattainable list.

Her husband’s head pricked the silence. “It was an amazing view.”

“Would you mind awfully if we just went home?”

“It’s probably best.”

“We could stop at Lake Mead.”

“You’re the driver.”

Since it was night, they stayed at the little motel she’d already booked. She ate an unhealthy dinner of soda, chips, and cookies and conked out in a junk-food stupor. In the morning, she caught the local road leading to I-40. It was better for her to be familiar with the drive. She was the driver and he didn’t complain.

In four more hours, they were at Lake Mead. A cold snap had come through. The sky was wooled with clouds. The water was an inky blue where it didn’t reflect the grayness from above. Lucky weather for them. She released him from his bowling bag prison and set him on the picnic table. She unpacked a lunch for herself and set a shake out for him. A stiff wind blew, raising a shock of his gray hair. It had grown longer. She hadn’t brought along a pair of scissors. She did, however, have their book of poetry. She finished her sandwich and brought it out.

“The Road Not Taken?”

“Ugh,” he said.

She picked something else. “Gaily bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow, had journeyed long, singing a song, in search of Eldorado.”

She scanned further ahead. She had forgotten how it ended, with the knight’s health failing, the search fruitless. Ozymandias? Not with the mention of trunkless legs. “O To Sail” was unusually short for Whitman, yet with the second line, To leave this steady unendurable land? Nope. It seemed that all the poets in the collection emphasized death, dying, and regret.

He finished recharging, his skin bright and healthy, his face filled with contentment. He closed his eyes and began to recite:

     ­­    ­­    ­­  ­­      ­­    ­­    ­­  ­­      ­­    ­­    ­­  ­­      ­­    ­­    ­­  ­­   A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

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She moved closer and crouched, kissed him on the lips, gently, so she would not tip him over. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my darling.”

It got colder. She packed up. No sunset over the water here. They would take a last look and be on their way.

She took I-15 back. In places, it stretched out for miles as a two-lane highway and she was often the only driver on the road. Brown sand, browning scrub bushes, the distances passed in a consistent monochrome. She stopped at a Greek restaurant in Baker and regretted it. She asked him if he wanted another shake and he said no. It had been since Lake Mead, the last time he’d had one. He looked pale and his cheeks drooped.

“Really? Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’m just tired.”

And cranky. He was getting cranky again. She’d stop during the next hour and set him on his platter, willing or not.

It began to rain, a sudden desert rain that drenched the land and was gone. The road, coated with dust and oil from months of dry weather, got slick. She slowed. Traffic thickened. Taking advantage of a standstill, she set the bowling bag on the passenger seat and opened it up for some driving encouragement.

“You’re doing fine, darling.”

She wasn’t doing fine. Whenever traffic moved, there was a driver who took advantage and cut her off to get ahead. Dealing with other drivers like this unsettled her. She was right to drive slower. Why couldn’t they? Her hands gripped the wheel. The anticipation of something going wrong was agonizing.

A car behind her smacked into her rear bumper. She screamed. Her hands that had gripped so tightly to the wheel saved her from a blow to the forehead, the impact going into her wrists and traveling up her arms instead.

Traffic stopped completely around them. The man in the other car got out. He was a tall man in a camouflage-printed baseball cap and a button-down shirt. He spoke loudly to be heard through the closed window. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

She sat woodenly behind the wheel. The man tapped on the window. She moved her neck to face him, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. Her eyes were unseeing. His eyes were not.

The unzipped bowling ball bag had tipped over from the impact. Her husband’s head lay on the floor. The mouth of the man who had hit her dropped open. His eyebrows shot up.

“Psst, psst,” her husband’s head hissed. She didn’t notice. The man reeled back and said “Gah!”

She unbuckled her safety belt. With difficulty, she picked him up off the floor. She and the man who had hit her locked eyes. She wasn’t a person who lied normally, and because of the state she was in, she couldn’t have thought of any lies quickly. Rolling down the window glass she told the man, “It’s my husband.”

The man wasn’t reassured. He ran back to his car in a bow-legged lumber. The damage to his big old Chrysler was minimal. A ton of tickets littered the dashboard. For multiple reasons, the man would be better off putting as much distance between himself and the crazy lady in the SUV. Drivers had kept up a steady clamor, honking and jostling, making it past the two stalled cars in fits and starts. The man started his engine and joined them.

She got off at the next exit to give herself a chance to recover. Breaking her accident-free record was trivial. She’d escaped without having to explain to police how she happened to have the head of a person in her car.

He was back in the bowling bag, zipped up tight when she stopped for gas. She bought a granola bar, some peanuts, and a package of cheddar cheese and pretzel Combos. In the car she dug into the Combos.

“Would you like something to eat now?”

“I want to be home.”

“We’ll be there in about two hours. You should eat.”

“No, thanks.”

She’d gotten off the crowded highway and took a local route the rest of the way. The radio blared a mix of classic rock, Bowie, Jagger, Zappa, the music of her youth. Her arms and neck felt better. She started to sing along, hopelessly off-key. It usually got a rise out of her husband, but he said nothing. 

She switched to a jazz station and didn’t attempt any vocalizations, not even a “Bee, bop, bop” when Ella started to scat. Their little yellow house looked the same, the plants in front a little drier. Even native plants needed some water. The rest of their lawn was gravel.

“We’re home!” She yanked the bay window curtains shut and lifted him out of the bag. His eyes were closed, his pallor, gray. The corner of his lips sagged. She swept a lock of hair back from his face.

“I know, I know.” She ran fresh water into a shallow pasta plate and brought it over. With a hand on each side of his head, she set him onto the plate. He absorbed some of the water. She watched the puddle get smaller. Knowing he would refuse, she stopped her tongue from asking if he wanted a protein shake.

“Anything more I can do?” The words, so familiar, the ones she’d spoken so many times in the hospital as he lay dying, before their second chance, the road trip which was to be their great escape from death and sorrow. He did not answer. She caressed his cheek.

Giving in to exhaustion, she made a nest with her arms on the table and laid her head down inside it. She fell asleep, waking in the early morning to the squealing chirp of a Spotted Towhee.

Her husband’s head had toppled over in the night. There it was, horizontal in the pasta dish. “Oh,” she whispered, and then, with an intake of breath like a child readying for a tantrum, she let out a cry. All the grief she had worked so hard to move beyond came rushing back. She cried until she could no longer do so and then she slept again.

When she woke up she was calm. His head lay on its side. They’d had their second chance. Now, it was over.

The eyes that had so attracted her had closed, his aquiline nose had slackened. She thought of the Romans, how they lopped off the heads of Greek statues, the heads on display under glass at museums. Such noble heads. She kissed the top of her husband’s. It was cold and hard like the marble of those long ago statues.

An old hat box of her mother’s, the kind meant to store the large hats ladies used to wear, sat at the back of the hallway closet. She got a step stool, climbed up, and retrieved it. Gold and red strips ran in an alternating pattern all along the sides. The box was handsome. It had an aura of romance, a whiff of nostalgia, the perfect reliquary. She placed the afghan from his favorite chair inside, then his head. Kissing two fingers, she touched his forehead and closed the lid. In broad daylight, she took the hatbox out to the backyard, found a shovel, and began to dig a hole by the crepe myrtle in the corner.

Her neighbor, walking her dog, stopped next to the trash cans about to make a doggie bag deposit. She’d always wanted to catch her neighbor doing it. If she ever caught her neighbor in the act, she’d say something about putting shit in her trash cans. Not today. Today, both women had been caught in the act, she with her shovel, her neighbor with the doggie bag.

“What you doing over there?” her neighbor chirped.

What would be her reply? She could say, “Go to hell!” or a milder version, “Mind your own bee’s wax!” She could make up something about hating this hatbox, digging for treasure, or training for a hole-digging marathon. Telling the truth was another option. Why not?

“I’m burying my husband’s head.”

The neighbor shook hers, tugged at the dog’s leash and tottled away, taking her poop bag with her.

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