Michael’s Wife by Marlys Millhiser

with arms like those she had seen that first morning in the desert.
    â€œClaire said Mr. Devereaux was a professor. A professor of what, Consuela?”
    â€œOf the desert.”
    â€œIsn’t that a rather wide specialty?”
    â€œI don’t know about these things. But he writes many books and keeps poor little animals away from their mothers and dirty bugs he keeps in there. He plants things inside that would grow better outside.”
    â€œDoes he teach?”
    But Consuela was hurrying her on her way. There were stone stairways at all four corners of the inner courtyard leading to the upper balconies. The back section of the house was mostly garages, and Consuela led her past them and up a stairway to a door which she unlocked.
    â€œThis is a place that I wanted for you to see, Mrs. Michael … so that maybe you would understand.” Consuela’s eyes were still expressionless as they studied her face, but there was something watchful about her. This must be what she’d been leading to.
    â€œUnderstand what?”
    â€œCome and see.” The old woman stood aside for her to enter.
    Laurel’s first impression was that this was a storeroom for broken furniture. Dusty pieces of chairs, picture frames, wooden cabinets, and a table lay on the floor. She soon realized that it was instead a scene of ugly destruction. How could there be such a room in a house like this?
    A drum with a jagged hole in its center … a battered toy truck lying on its side … books torn from their covers and scattered … a barred dirty window, the lower pane replaced with boards.
    The room darkened as Consuela closed the door and locked it. And Laurel felt smothered in the dry, dusty air.
    â€œConsuela, what is this place? I don’t like it. Unlock the door.”
    Consuela lowered her heavy body into the one chair still intact, a wicker rocker that creaked as she rocked. “Here, sit.” She motioned to the single bed which sagged at one corner. “Before you leave I want you to know of this. This was the nursery. He did it with an ax; he cried afterward and then he screamed. We had to call a doctor to quiet him … oh, poor baby.” Tears dripped over pudgy cheeks. “Mr. Paul and I … we had to hold him until the doctor came.”
    â€œAre you trying to tell me that Jimmy did all this? He couldn’t possibly.…”
    â€œNo, not Jimmy. Jimmy’s father.”
    â€œMichael?”
    â€œHe was only ten, my poor Michael … such a big strong boy … his brother would not let me clean it up. He would bring him here and make him look at it when Michael was bad … then Michael grew too big to be forced to come … and now no one comes here.” So much emotion in her voice, so little on her face, just the wetness of tears.
    â€œWhy did he … do this?” There was something wrong with a child who would do such a thing, and she thought of the burning metallic eyes against the dark skin.
    â€œBecause of the death of his mother. Did he never tell you of her death?”
    â€œIf he did I don’t remember.”
    â€œMy Maria and Mr. Devereaux and Michael were coming home one night in the car … and there was an accident. Maria, my lovely Maria … she died … and poor Michael was there and saw it. He was not hurt bad … a few scratches. He loved his mother. He was only ten.”
    â€œMr. Devereaux—was he killed, too?”
    â€œNo, but for many months he was in the hospital. He was a big man. So handsome and full of spirit. But after he came home from the hospital he was never well. He grieved so for my Maria, he became suddenly an old man.”
    Sunlight filtered through what was left of the dirty pane and dust speckles floated through abandoned cobwebs.
    â€œYour Maria?”
    â€œI raised her from a little girl. I worked in her father’s house and then she brought me here when she married Mr.