Created phantasms of the mind

Aug. 7, 2008

Dear Pat,

Should news of my untimely accidental demise reach you, please suggest the authorities investigate a more unnatural cause of death.

I think my wife might be trying to kill me.

My suspicions arose after my return in the spring from a road trip to California and Canada. During my absence DC revarnished all the floors in our house. She did the work herself, a monumental job requiring her to move heavy furniture from one room to another. My first reaction was admiration, for both her industriousness and the sparkling outcome. Now I wonder if it all was part of a Hitchcockian plot.

In "Notorious," the American spy played by Ingrid Bergman is slowly poisoned by her husband and mother-in-law. The poison is in every cup of coffee she drinks. DC would have to be in cahoots with all the espresso shops in town to pull that off. But her plan may be far more diabolical.

Our once-worn floors are now so slick that Hank and Lucy squeal their paws trying to change direction quickly. The floors snared me a month ago when I tumbled halfway down the back stairway. DC shouted from the bedroom in the dim morning light, worried that one of the dogs had taken a fall. No, it was only me, I groaned.

My left hip hurt and felt numb at the same time. Not enough to keep me from standing up and heading right out to play golf that morning, of course. But within a day the swollen hip looked like a purple and black cantaloupe.

DC acted unusually remorseful. I assured her that varnish was not to blame. Then she confessed that she was unable to sleep the night before the accident, so she'd applied a cleanser to the back stairs but hadn't removed it. She suspected the cleanser made the steps even slicker than the varnish.

When I reassured her that her insomnia was not responsible for my stumble DC laughed, saying if she ever decided to bump me off she now knew how. Was that just the usual darkness around the edges of her sense of humor?

I never would have become suspicious if not for the second assault. This time it was germ warfare. DC, who hardly ever gets sick, brought home a virus that put her in bed for a weekend. She reported being dizzy and stuffy and achy. I brought her soups and sympathy.

Just as DC began recovering the wretched virus knocked me to the ground. Complete lethargy. Not even enough energy to play golf. I'm sure that has never happened before.

DC brought soups and empathy. So did Ingrid's husband.

Was DC hoping to drain even more of my life force? And if so, why? In this weakened state of near malarial thinking, objectivity is elusive.

A homicidal look crosses DC's eyes whenever she hears me say anything like this, but sometimes golf can offer answers to questions about life. Most of the difficulties golfers face are not on the course but rather "the created phantasms of the mind," Arnold Haultain wrote a century ago in "The Mystery of Golf." But are these phantasms in DC's mind or mine?

Hacking and sneezing, I descend the back stairs warily these days, always turning on the overhead light I never bothered with before. The slight ache in my hip reminds me that danger could be anywhere. I sleep with one eye open and a 9 iron.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a former reporter for the Southeast Missourian.