A Good Wife

Uncle Joe had worked for my grandfather all of his adult life. He had been a vibrant, handsome man with a mane of thick white hair and blue eyes always full of mischief. Now he sat in a wheelchair, confined and stricken by a stroke, never to walk or speak again. His pretty and substantially much younger wife, who had never been far from his side during the good times, was with him round the clock, keeping him dressed, shaved, and occupied. She read to him, fed him, saw to it that he didn't cheat on his physical therapy, got him up each morning and put him to bed each night. She entertained him with gossip and crossword puzzles, forced him to see old friends, took him to Red Sox games, wheel chair and all. She never gave up or let up, never compromised, never accepted his paralysis as a permanent despite all the doctors telling her to make peace with the inevitable. After the first year, she made her only concession and hired a part time nurse to come on weekends and a three day a week housekeeper.
This strength of purpose and determination, this loyalty, stunned Uncle Joe's friends and in particular, the female members of my family. Aunt Vickie had long been reputed to be a former chorus girl from New York, a girl with an ache to perform at Radio City Music Hall, a burning ambition to be on stage, and Probably, my viperish Aunt Helen said darkly, Of Low Character. My mother agreed, A barfly, she said scornfully, Only after his money. My grandmother was a trifle more charitable, her tolerant side making an effort if not a a very enthusiastic one, Well, she replied tartly, At least she's not a common street walker. My daddy, caught in mid swallow of ginger ale, over heard this conversation and laughed so hard he nearly choked, For the love of God, he sputtered, She's from Vermont! She was a waitress at a diner in Stowe! Not to be outdone, my Uncle Eddie joined in the fray, Not only that, you old battleaxes, she's a Democrat! he yelled from the safety of the kitchen, And worse, he paused for dramatic effect before adding, I have it on good authority, a Yankees fan!

This bit of blasphemy was too much for my grandmother who detested the arrogant New York team. Mind your business, Eddie, she warned him, Don't think I can't still wash your mouth out with soap. Uncle Eddie and my daddy collapsed with laughter at this threat and my mother and Aunt Helen stiffened their spines in righteous indignation, furious at being caught being in their own cattiness and backstabbing.

I never knew what Aunt Vickie actually was - but chorus girl, playmate, golddigger or hash slinger - she stuck with my Uncle Joe for the remainder of his life, at his side through every illness and every dark hour and in the end, all I knew for sure was that she had been a good and faithful wife for more than thirty years, that she had loved him every minute of every year, and that she was barely fifty when he died. She buried him quietly in Mount Auburn Cemetery with my daddy and Uncle Eddie at her side, then took a train to Vermont. She never remarried.