The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre
"Martin, Martin, please stop, wait for me. Martin, stop!" Louisa's pleading voice rang through the dank February air as I hurried toward the car park. Not as impervious to the wind driven wetness as I wished, I brushed rain from my face and tried to calm myself before Louisa reached me. Moments before I had slammed my hand onto the desk of Penelope Hastings Blevin and pronounced her an incompetent imbecile. So startled were she and Louisa, that they only watched as I hastened from the office of the fool charged with saving my marriage.
Following Louisa's brief trip to Spain at Christmas, we had established a bit of détente in the ensuing weeks. She remained at her cottage through January, but on February 1 she had taken the momentous step of bringing James and their belongings back to Fern Cottage. One condition of her return was that we enter couple's counseling. Louisa had a few meetings with a psychologist in Plymouth who, in turn, referred her to a marriage counselor in Bude.
Our first meeting on 7th February had been tolerable. After working with my own psychiatrist for many months, I was prepared for the session. Louisa tried to make a social event of it, nattering on about tea, artwork and photos of Ms. Blevin's twin daughters. To her credit the therapist smoothly directed Louisa to the matter at hand, and my new wife was soon crying out her frustration with me and our marriage.
In the unfortunate manner of most women, Blevin only encouraged Louisa's assault against me. Not much of what Louisa said was without merit. I had been cold, distant and uncaring to her and even James. It began shortly after our marriage. What I thought would be the beginning of a life, a life I had longed for, had become intolerable to me. Chaos had always been my enemy and now I was mired in it.
From Louisa's dress and hygiene habits, I imagined she would be spare and tidy in our living arrangement. To the contrary. She found nothing amiss with undressed beds, dishes stacked on the drain or towels askew on their rods. Clothes need not be stored in cupboards; chairs were perfectly adequate.
Music was her companion, more so than I. There was never silence in my home. The toys she selected for James had to squeak, buzz or rattle to stimulate his auditory senses. She encouraged him to make noise as well. Quiet was not expected of James, even when reading to him. "Oh, James," she would coo, "what does the duck say? what does the dog say? what does the rabbit say?" The last I found particularly perplexing as rabbits made no sound beyond the thump of their feet scurrying from my path.
Each morning I retreated to my surgery office as early as possible to avoid the noise, confusion and disquietude of life with Louisa. Michael Pruddy, James' baby minder, arrived as Louisa left for school, and I gladly acquiesced in his desire to right the cottage. By lunch time order had been restored, and I submersed myself in the life I once had. Journal in hand, I read and ingested a nutritious lunch with little more interruption than the occasional squawking seagull. This was what I wanted; this was what Louisa called boring. Weekends were unspeakable.
Charles Wynkoop, my psychiatrist, assured me that Penelope Blevin had behaved professionally in urging Louisa to voice her frustration with me. I often asked Louisa why she was so angry, but she would only shake her head and say, "You don't understand, do you? This is not what I expected. I thought, well, I thought. . . ." As her voice trailed off, she would often turn from me. She gave no more clue about what I didn't understand or what she expected. It was unwise to ask again as it seemed to make her angrier or perhaps sadder.
Last week, I tried to engage Louisa in conversation about our first meeting with the counselor. But she thought it better to talk with Ms. Blevin present. Even driving from Portwenn today, Louisa ignored and shushed me when I attempted a discussion. Her petulance arose from my request that she not play music as we drove. Saturday morning's surgery was extended by several last minute patients, and I had little time before our half three appointment in Bude. I yearned for calm so that I might properly maneuver the sodden roadways and prepare for another emotional meeting with the counselor.
To my surprise and certainly Louisa's, Penelope Blevin turned her attention to me rather than my wife.
"Martin, you don't mind if I call you that," she began. "How did you meet Louisa?" No one had ever asked that question, and I answered in a straightforward way.
"I was being considered for a post as the GP in Portwenn. I was introduced to Louisa by the head of the PCT. She was the lay member of the interview panel."
"Well, actually," Louisa interrupted, "Martin first saw me on the flight to Cornwall."
Smiling benignly at Louisa, the counselor asked, "So you introduced yourself to Martin before the meeting?"
"Uhm, not as such. I didn't meet him. Only saw him. He was looking at me oddly. Had to change my seat as he was making me a bit uncomfortable."
"I see. Now shall we continue with your husband?"
Louisa bobbed her head and had a sip of tea to mask her discomfiture.
"Please tell me how your relationship progressed from that first meeting to where we are today, Martin." Glancing at her desk clock, she noted, "We have 45 minutes, so do take your time."
I did not fill five minutes with my succinct recitation of our nearly five year relationship. Several times, Louisa made to interrupt, but a sharp look from Ms. Blevin prevented it. I understood that last week was for Louisa, and this session was to be focused on me. Well, then, the counselor must find subject matter to fill the time. I had nothing more to say.
"Thank you, Martin. Tell me then, why did you become a doctor?"
This question was not new to me, but no one had posed it recently. My nearly automatic response was "My grandfather and father were surgeons. I became a surgeon as well."
"So surgeon rather than doctor, is that right?"
"Uhm, yes." I would dispense of my reason for leaving surgery quickly. "I had been a surgeon but developed haemophobia. I couldn't remain in that post, so I became a GP. That's why I happened to meet Louisa. I stopped being a surgeon and became a GP."
"It's interesting that you couple Louisa with becoming a GP," Dr. Ellingham. This new formality from Blevin was noticed but I wasn't certain of her intent.
"Did you feel it necessary to follow your father into a surgical career or were you genuinely interested in the field?" Again, an odd query from the counselor.
"No I wanted to be a surgeon. I was fascinated by mechanical objects. The body is a complex machine. So many elements, so many ways to take it apart and set it right."
"Tell me a little about how you developed your particular interest in surgery, if you will. Last week Louisa mentioned that you had been a cardio-vascular surgeon. That must involve serious medical conditions. Did you find it challenging?"
How could I explain my passion for surgery, having reassured Louisa that I was content to remain a GP. Louisa moved forward in her chair, seemingly eager for my response.
"Well, I became keen on surgery when I was perhaps 10 or so. I was at boarding school and had most Saturdays to myself. We were allowed a bus ride into the nearby village, and most boys took trains home for the weekend. I had no place to go, so I went to the cinema. It was a small place, more of a village hall. The owner was quite eccentric and showed only cowboy and gangster films. Sergio Leone Euro-westerns and the like. American films as well.
"I don't know if you've seen this sort of thing, Ms. Blevin, but there is a good bit of shooting and blood involved. I would note the location of the wounds and try to determine how they could be repaired. Anatomy books from the school's library showed the areas quite graphically, and I sorted out the rest. Some injuries were too damaging, of course. The shots to the heart or the gut could not be repaired. At least not with my medical knowledge at the time. Later as a surgeon I was able to repair those organs. Damage was rarely caused by bullets. More from accidents or age-related weaknesses."
"Which of those films was your favorite, Martin?" Now I was again "Martin" to Ms. Blevin.
I noticed Louisa's befuddled look as she turned from one to the other. I imagined that she was wondering as I was the reason for these questions.
"Uhm, well, probably not a western as such. More the gangster films. They were set in the 1920s and 1930s and the guns were more powerful and could inflict more damage. Surgery to correct those injuries took even more skill. 'The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre' was probably my favorite. If only I had reached them in time, I imagined saving the seven Chicago gangsters shot that day. The cause of death for most was exsanguination. With the bleeding stopped, I would have surgically repaired their wounds. Not that I should spare a gangster's life, of course. Much later, I read an American newspaper account of the injuries, and I could have saved them.
"So from an early age, you were fascinated by blood and gore, Dr. Ellingham. Do you find it ironic that the very thing that interested you in surgery forced you from the field?"
"Now, Penelope, you've gone too far," Louisa exclaimed. "Martin is very sensitive about his phobia. He is seeing a psychiatrist. It's nothing to do with me."
"But you met him only because he developed the phobia, Louisa. He is seeking help to deal with its underlying causes. These are the same issues that are affecting your relationship. Last week you identified his problems at length, didn't you? Martin is trying to sort out his issues. This will help the both of you.
"What you must learn to do as a couple is talk about your mutual issues and how they affect your marriage. You said Martin doesn't talk to you and only scolds you for being noisy and messy. You've lived separately for longer than you have been married. And you've only lived together for – what – two weeks again. Is that what you want from marriage?"
"No, course not. But Martin doesn't understand. This isn't what I expected." Louisa looked accusingly at me.
"Louisa, you have been saying that I don't understand and that this isn't what you expected since we married. Please enlighten me." My patience was waning, and I found myself wishing I was at boarding school, lost in my imaginary life with cowboys and gangsters. It made more sense to me than the state of my marriage.
"It's Valentine's Day, Martin," hissed Louisa, "and your only mention of it is that stupid, childish story about American films. That's what you don't understand, Martin. I expected a husband who would be normal. Someone who would bring me flowers, even a Valentine card. It's the day for lovers. I thought, well I thought, my husband would at least say 'Happy Valentine's Day, darling,' but not you. You are hopeless. I'm not sure why I married you or how long I can live with you."
Louisa's stinging words shocked me into silence but not Penelope Blevin. "Louisa, you do understand that your anger with Martin is not related to the lack of flowers or a card," she began. I did my best to follow her prescriptive advice to Louisa, who had nothing but complaints about me. Based on my wife's renewed criticism, it seemed she had already consigned our marriage to divorce.
Eventually, I heard enough from the two and committed the previously described action against Penelope Hasting Blevin's desk. My graceless exit followed.
Louisa finally caught up with me at the car park, and I waited as she shook out her umbrella. "Look, Martin, I'm sorry for what I said back there. But you never do what I expect. How difficult would it be to bring me flowers? Buy a card. Something to show you love me."
Every bit of advice Dr. Wynkoop provided on dealing with Louisa came to mind. The primary piece was "when all else fails, hold her." I reached for Louisa and, for once, she did not resist. She came against me, and I pressed her to my body. The embrace grew tighter as I felt her begin to cry. Soothing words would have no effect on Louisa. I knew that from last week.
Tears spent, I handed her my handkerchief as she never carried one or had a tissue at hand. After entering the car, she mumbled, "Oh, God, Martin, I'm so sorry. Let's forget about all of this. Just take me home."
"I can't."
"Martin, stop. It's a long drive through the rain. I promise not to bother you. I'll be quiet."
"I can't forget about all of this, Louisa. Just as I can't understand why I make you so angry. I'm sorry our marriage isn't what you expected and that I'm not the husband you wanted. The more I talk to Charles Wynkoop and now this Blevin woman, I realize that your idea of marriage is very one-sided. You've determined what you want, and I'm to comply with your plan. If I don't, I am nasty, a bad father or any number of insulting traits you ascribed to me today. I have no more say in my life. I've given up any thought of being a surgeon for you. I've agreed to remain in a stultifying village for you.
"On the other hand, Louisa, you have the child, a post as head mistress, and the life you want. The only thing you've sacrificed is living with me. And who knows when you'll find an excuse to trot back to your cottage or be rescued by your conniving mother."
Louisa's eyes did not leave my face as I spewed forth what I would have said to Penelope Blevin, given the chance. It felt good to unburden myself. Perhaps, this was what Louisa wanted.
"Martin, do you love me?"
No, not that again! The constant need to reassure Louisa that I loved her, that James loved her, that every pupil at Portween Primary and ever villager loved Louisa Glasson.
"Yes, I love you Louisa. I've told you and shown you any number of times that I love you. But love is only the basis for a relationship. You have to sort out everything else. People can love each other but not get along enough to make a life together. I'm finding that Dr. Wynkoop is right. Aunt Joan was right when she called us chalk and cheese. Aunt Ruth told me that I should let you go. Any number of villagers have said the same thing to me: 'You can love Louisa, but can you live with her.'"
"Well, Martin what's your answer. Do you love me enough to live with me?"
Wynkoop posed that question to me repeatedly. Initially, I hurriedly answered "yes," even as he cautioned me to consider my response. Lately, when he asked, I said I needed more time to think. "Good, Martin, you're making progress. You're not letting love be an excuse for marriage. It must be the reason for marriage."
Now back to Louisa's question. I responded as I recently did to Dr. Wynkoop: "I need time to answer that, Louisa."
"I see, Martin."
As we silently drove back to Portwenn, I imagined I was a surgeon in Chicago on the Valentine's Day when seven men were gunned down by a rival gang. I reviewed their injuries and knew how to save each of them.
Saving lives, I could do. Saving my marriage, like being a husband, was not something I anticipated at age 10 or at age 43 when I first met Louisa. I glanced at my wife who was settled into the seat, her eyes closed. Was she thinking of saving our marriage or escaping from it? Had I brought her flowers or a Valentine card, would it have made a difference? Had I just massacred my marriage on St. Valentine's Day?
The End
Author's Note: On February 14, 1929, members of a Chicago gang headed by the notorious Al Capone disguised themselves as policemen and brutally killed seven rival gangsters. The event became known as The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre and was the subject of several films, including the one Martin recalled from boarding school.