Private Life

by Jane Smiley

  After the first day, she hated to go out with him, but he insisted they shop together and walk Stella together. He would not allow her to make or receive phone calls, but after a few days, there weren’t any. He was unfailingly, frighteningly polite. He read to her about the arrival of the survivors from Wake Island as prisoners of war in Japan. He read to her about the loss of Singapore, and then the Philippines. When she simply refused to come out of her room, he brought her toast and cups of tea. One afternoon, he was sitting just off the entryway, where she could see him from the top of the stairs. He was reading a book and keeping his eye on the door. She descended the stairs and confronted him.

  She said, “I want to go out, Andrew. If only for a walk. By myself.”

  “My considered opinion is that it isn’t safe out there.”

  “What could happen?”

  “There are those who believe that the Japanese are planning to execute a major attack on all the shipping, airfields, cities, and oilfields along the coast of California, which would result in the massive evacuation of millions of civilians to the east.”

  She felt a flutter in her throat at this idea, but she said, “Are there, really? What do you think?”

  “I admit that it would be an unprecedented tactical undertaking.”

  “If it’s not safe out there, then it’s not safe in here.”

  He looked up at her. “But why go out, is my feeling. We would only use up more energy and require more calories to sustain ourselves.”

  “I’m going out.”

  “Well, I’m sure Stella would like a walk as well. Perhaps once or twice around the block would do us all some good.”

  “You are keeping me captive!”

  “I don’t think of it like that, my dear.” He put down his book, got up, reached for his coat. She saw that he was obdurate in a way only he could be, in the way he had always been—like something large and insensate, a statue of himself. She went back upstairs.

  She sat down on her bed and looked out the window, over the top of the many-trunked black-walnut tree in the side yard. The long dull-green leaves were well out, and the dangling ropes of buds were beginning to form. Margaret knew that if she stood up and looked down at the beds, she would see daffodils, but daffodils would remind her how long she had let him keep her here.

  The terrifying thing, once again, was how plausible everything he said was. Hadn’t this always been true—the very first time she met him, on that bicycle of Dora’s, he had talked about telephones and she had believed him. And then, what was it, levees breaking or something on the Mississippi below St. Louis, and then double stars, and then his half-mad and permanently bitter former student and all the other resentful colleagues and unrelenting enemies, and then, of course, the universe itself, with its pillars of gravity, or was that iron cables? And vast spaces that he spoke about in a warm tone of voice, as if those spaces belonged to him above all other men. She had seen marriages from the outside, and even, a little, from the inside—it was utterly routine for women to talk about other women’s marriages as Lavinia had talked about the Bells’—Mr. Bell staying out of the house as much as he could, and Mrs. Bell doing what she pleased, and everyone knew he thought she was a fool. Beatrice had gotten married and entered upon the same dissatisfied but workable course, and no one expected marriage to be anything different. All sorts of commonplaces covered it—“live and let live,” “make the best of things,” “it could be worse,” “sauce for the goose.” The ladies in her knitting group had dispatched one another’s marriages every week or so for almost forty years.

  Nor did they seem intimidated by Andrew. Even when they were not playing poker with him, they asked him questions and joked a bit and said goodbye and forgot about him. No doubt in her absence they dealt out a set of commonplaces about him, too—“thinks awfully well of himself,” “too big for his britches,” “barking mad.” Even thinking of these bits of phrase was reassuring in its way.

  But no. Marriage to Andrew was not that small. She could not make it small—not by parsing it out in daily tasks or making pleasant conversation or doing as she was told. He wanted something from her that all of these activities did not give him. Right then, she could feel what he wanted emanating from the floor below, mushrooming up the staircase, through floor vents, under the door—he wanted agreement, belief, even, possibly, worship. And he wanted that worship to be large and surrounding, something that he could feel, not the mere something that she, or anyone, could give. She had agreed with him more often than not over the years, hadn’t she, and as soon as she agreed, he looked past her for a grander and more satisfying embrace. The hugeness of his ideas made her small, and then the smallness of her agreement goaded him to seek more. She enlarged in his mind only when she didn’t agree with him—then he set himself to conquer her, and overwhelm her disbelief.

  And yet—she lay down—his own developing smallness was what preoccupied him, wasn’t it? He had been the most brilliant boy in their town, the best student at the university, that genius who changed the nature of the universe, that big fellow who bestrode the Rockefellers’ university, until he was pushed here and shunted there, sent to an out-of-the-way island, only to be elbowed out of there, now confined to this ramshackle house and mostly (completely) forgotten unless he was recollected as a mere nuisance. She pitied him as a wife should, but that very pity, that wifely impulse, made her susceptible to ideas like Einstein blowing up London and the Kimuras spying and Pete not being Pete at all, but someone else—perhaps Einstein in disguise? If she listened to Andrew long enough, she would believe that anything was possible, and yet everything wasn’t possible, and so there you were—at an impasse.

  That day, she simply kept to herself except for two forays to the kitchen for tea. All Andrew said, looking up from his paper, was “Perhaps you will feel like cooking again tomorrow.”

  And then he was gone completely. When she came down toward midday for a cup of tea, Stella was confined to the kitchen. Andrew’s empty coffee cup was sitting on the morning paper, and with it, he had secured a note. It read:

  My dear,

  You will be most surprised to learn that I have taken the train to Washington, D.C., on pressing business. For the last week, I have been torn as to my responsibilities as a navy captain. I understand what I must do here in Vallejo, but I have come to believe that my larger duty is to personally deliver my report to the Secretary of the Navy. It is urgent that the movements of certain persons be restricted. I have been unable to speak to Secretary Knox over the telephone, as I am not as well known to him as I have been to others in the past, and so I see with regret that I will have to return to my old haunts, and do what must be done. I am sure that, once I have spoken to Secretary Knox, the recommendations I intend to make will be speedily implemented. As for your own activities, my dear, it is my belief that they can make no further difference to our national security at this point.

  She went upstairs, put on her clothes, and went out with a very happy Stella, though not before calling Pete, who didn’t answer.

  The knowledge that Andrew was somewhere between their street and Washington, D.C., and speeding away from her was thrilling. She suspected that his sense of mission would only grow more pressing as he acted on it—every step would reinforce every thought; every thought would motivate another step.

  The weather, neither bad nor good, seemed glorious. The intervals of sunlight were dazzling, the intervals of fog invigorating. Daffodils were up, though not blooming. Pruned stubs of rosebushes had developed tiny shoots. There was a fragrance in the air of sweet grasses. Stella trotted in front of her, jaunty and alert. They walked toward the center of town.

  In the period of her confinement, the crowds on the streets and in the shops and cafés had doubled. At the Warrington, she could hardly get in the door, so busy was it. She had to pick up Stella and carry her in. The lobby was crowded; every phone booth held a caller. More people were lined up, their nickels in their hands, w
aiting. Behind the desk, Cassandra and her daughter (now sixteen) were checking in guests, and there was another clerk busy, too. The customers lined up five deep. As she passed them, looking for Mrs. Wareham, she heard Cassandra say to one young man, “Sir, we are putting men four to a room. Otherwise, we have nothing for you. We are that full.”

  Then she saw Mrs. Wareham, sitting reliably in the parlor off the lobby. Mrs. Wareham was doing some embroidery, but stood up when she saw her. Margaret hugged her tightly.

  “Margaret! Sit down right here.” Mrs. Wareham patted the chair next to hers and poured her a cup of tea from the pot on the table beside her, but her face was alive with curiosity. “What has become of you? And Andrew? I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  Margaret sipped the tea and told her friend about their strange interlude of spousal imprisonment—in spite of herself, she made it sound more eccentric than frightening—then about his departure for Washington. Mrs. Wareham clucked with such comforting disapproval that Margaret felt a bit of horror set in. Yes, he had imprisoned her—that was not too strong a word—and so she said, vehemently, “I don’t care about him! Good riddance! But where is Pete? And whatever happened to the Kimuras? The last I heard they’d been—He wouldn’t let me even use the—”

  Mrs. Wareham pursed her lips and started shaking her head. She had seen nothing of Pete in weeks, and as for the Kimuras, Lester had been charged in connection with an illegal gambling operation, and given no bail. That was as much as she knew. “Where Kiku and Naoko are, I cannot tell you. They are lost in the melee.”

  They both glanced through the door into the lobby. Even here, Margaret thought, the melee was frightening. She said, “But Lester’s in jail?”

  “I say this as a Canadian citizen, Margaret: the sheriff’s department will make use of any excuse to keep a healthy young Japanese fellow behind bars.” She leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Someone from the base who shall remain nameless told me that the very fact that there has been no sabotage is the clearest proof that some huge act of sabotage is in the works!”

  “Was that Andrew?” The back of her neck prickled as she said this.

  “No, Margaret, not Andrew.”

  Reprieve.

  Mrs. Wareham put her hand on Margaret’s knee. She said, “Time to be patient and hope for the best. We don’t know what they are doing, or if they were picked up.”

  “I know they were picked up! I went to Japantown two days after the attack, and a neighbor told me they were picked up. They weren’t doing anything.” But she couldn’t go on. The “melee” was too big, too chaotic. Her imagination could not follow the tiny figures of Mrs. Kimura and Naoko into it. She had that odd feeling again, that terror of her own life, as if she had not lived it yet and didn’t know whether she would survive all the events she had already survived. All of the sense of freedom and pleasure that she had been feeling vanished, right then and there, no matter that Andrew was probably to Sacramento by then. She rearranged Stella on her lap, and felt that she might never speak again.

  The letters from Andrew began about four days later. They came every two days. Other than hefting the envelopes, which were thick, and looking at the postmarks—Salt Lake City, Kansas City, Pittsburgh, Washington, D.C., Washington, D.C., Washington, D.C.—she didn’t open them. She decided to follow the promptings of her heart and pitch them. She occupied her days by walking to the Warrington and doing as Mrs. Wareham did, working for the Red Cross. They knitted four nights a week, all in khaki yarn—vests, hats, socks, mufflers, even a child’s one-piece suit or two (but in navy blue). During the days, they packed supplies to be sent off—surgical dressings, washed and mended articles of clothing from the Salvation Army, decks of cards, copies of books, stationery, envelopes, pens, and other items wounded soldiers and dispossessed civilians might find useful or entertaining. When the ladies asked after Andrew, Margaret said that he was doing secret war-work in Washington. Since everyone seemed to be doing secret war-work, no one probed any further.

  One day, when she was walking to the Red Cross center, she saw in the Examiner, “Ouster of All Japs in California Near!” She walked right past. In the next few days, she found she could follow the story entirely by means of headlines and gossip—internment camps, relocation centers. Once again, Pete had been prescient, but she had had no word from him, either. Fortunately, there was a lull in Andrew’s letters, but then a thick one arrived. She held it in her hand and stared at it. He had been gone for weeks now, the only pleasure of her existence. She almost opened the letter, but then she put it in the drawer of her bedside stand. Two nights later, though, when she came home from the knitting, after she changed and got into bed and turned out the light, she began to sense Andrew’s letter. It chilled the room, an ice cube, a black dot in space, infinitely cold. She turned on the lamp, opened the drawer, took it out, carried it down the staircase and into the kitchen, where she opened the back door and tossed it into the yard.

  1942

  EPILOGUE

  1942

  ONCE PETE PULLED AWAY from the curb, she couldn’t help stepping out on the porch and watching his car for a few moments—he turned north on Marin Street and disappeared. How long did she stand there then, staring blankly across the street at the front door of the Rutherfords’ house? As long as it took for Lydia Rutherford to open the door and shout, Margaret? You okay?

  Margaret summoned up a smile and waved her hand, then turned and went back inside. She closed the door. She locked the door.

  It was almost four.

  She went into the kitchen and let Stella out, then fixed a bowl of food for her—some leftover rice and some small scraps of pot roast and boiled carrots. I have, she thought, no reason to be alive. Thinking this was a sort of pleasure, so decidedly did it contrast with every thought that Andrew had ever entertained. Through the window she could see his last letter. In eighteen hours it had turned into a wet white rectangle in the lily bed.

  She was in bed but not asleep when Andrew stepped onto the porch. Stella, who was downstairs, barked twice—her bark that said, Someone is here; I know who it is. The door to Margaret’s room was open, and she went out into the dark hall without making a sound, but not down the stairs. She had locked the front door; he had a key. The door opened and closed. He set down his bag and greeted the dog. Not having read the telegram, she hadn’t kept the light on—he stumbled on the hall rug, knocked against something, then found the light. Margaret shrank back into the shadow. After a moment that was punctuated by his sighs, he went into the kitchen. The kitchen light flooded into the hall. Now she heard him open cabinet doors, pull out a chair. She untied and retied the belt of her wrapper, then twisted back her hair, which was falling in her face. She went back to bed.

  But she could not stay away after all. When she at last entered the kitchen, he was turned so that his back was to the door. His elbow was on the table and his head was propped on his hand. Stella, in her basket by the stove, lifted her head but didn’t get up. Margaret’s first sensation was resentment at the renewed tedium of it all. Her second was of the cold, now that she was out of her warm bed and in the clammy kitchen. It would be colder at the racetrack, in that immense building, of course.

  When she sat down at the table, Andrew lifted his head as if its weight was almost too much for him, and turned to her. He sighed. She knew he wanted her to ask him how he was, or how his train trip had been, but she didn’t say a word. After a very long time, he said, My dear, you are up. May I offer you a cup of tea?

  She shook her head. Andrew, you should know that I didn’t read any of your letters, and so I have no idea about your trip. I don’t even know for sure why you went.

  Well, Einstein …

  I was afraid of that. You went to report Albert Einstein’s activities in Vallejo to the navy. How did they take it? She couldn’t keep an edge of mockery out of her voice.

  They … He paused but then soldiered on. Every agency is overwhelmed by the war effort.
At first I couldn’t get in…. He shifted in his chair. No one in Knox’s office knew who … Then he coughed and said, Well, my dear, they asked me …

  Just then she was genuinely curious. Go on.

  They asked me to stay away. They … He began clearing his throat over and over.

  Well?

  Someone gave an order that no guard should admit me to any secure building in the capital, and if I tried to gain admission, I was to be arrested. He fell silent, trying to leave it at this.

  Did you get arrested?

  More silence, then, One time.

  Andrew!

  I didn’t mean to argue with the young man, but he was very disrespectful.

  What happened then?

  I spent a night in jail. In the drunk tank, because they seem not to have had anywhere else to put me. It was rather interesting. My theory is that drunkenness is actually a sort of allergic reaction—

  She said, Stop.

  He took a deep breath. I paid a fine. Five hundred dollars. But then he fell silent again.

  She stared at him. You should know that they did act on the one report, and they threw Mrs. Kimura in jail and interrogated her and now she’s dying of pneumonia she contracted there. The whole thing makes me both angry and sick.

  Oh dear.

  Oh dear?

  I didn’t mean for that to happen.

  What did you mean to happen?

  I thought maybe they would be sent to live with relatives in Japan. You said that the older boy had gotten married—

  Andrew, they weren’t spies.

  He smoothed his mustache and took a sip of his tea. He said, No, of course, they weren’t spies.

  Einstein isn’t a spy.

  No one seems to think that he is, no. No one seems to think that he’s been to Vallejo, either. You did express doubts, my dear. I admit that. I don’t remember what you said in so many words….