by Peggy Webb
—Howard
Elizabeth’s cooking two of my favorite dishes, chicken and pear pie. I guess I ought to take that as an indication that things are going to be all right between us, but after last night, I’m having doubts about everything. Including my own masculinity.
What’s wrong with me? I went all the way to Florida to get Elizabeth—who’s looking better than I’ve seen her in years, by the way—and still I couldn’t perform. On top of that, my stomach’s growling from hunger and the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen are making my mouth water; and I’m sitting here like a rabbit in a hole, scared to get out of this chair and face my own wife.
It must be the approach of bedtime that has me paralyzed. Fear. That’s what I’d tell my patients, but darn it all, I never thought I’d have to question my own motives.
“Howard. Dinner’s ready.”
I jerk like a guilty schoolboy. Elizabeth’s standing in the doorway, and now there’s nothing I can do except follow her to the dinner table and try to make conversation without tripping over my own tongue. I don’t know what to say to her anymore. When did that happen? After she left or before?
She’s set the table with our good china and even lit candles. If she’s trying to create a romantic mood, she’s failed. What she’s created is panic. Expectations I can’t seem to fulfill. Performance pressure.
It’s not her fault, though. Maybe none of this is. Maybe I need to make an appointment with my colleague Jack Warner and have my own head examined. Obviously I’m doing something wrong or a generous-hearted, undemanding person like Elizabeth would never have left.
“This looks delicious,” I tell her.
“Thank you.”
We fall into an uneasy silence like two people who’ve been set up on a blind date and can’t decide whether it’s a big joke or whether it will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to them.
“Howard…” she begins, and I nearly drop my fork.
“Yes?”
“I was just thinking.”
I wait, hoping for a revelation, but she starts arranging her food in separate little piles in her plate, making sure the beans don’t touch the corn. She’s always done that, refused to mix her food. I used to think it was cute. Now I want to jerk the fork out of her hand and tell her just to eat her food like a grown-up.
After I get myself under control, I say, “What were you thinking, Elizabeth?”
“About redecorating the house.”
Is that all? I don’t know whether to be relieved or mad. Surely she didn’t leave me because she was tired of the way the house looks.
“Well, sure, honey. Whatever you want.”
This pisses her off, and she puts down her fork real slow. Now what?
“What do you want, Howard?”
“What do you mean, what do I want?”
“Do you like the house the way it is, or would you be upset if we changed the colors?”
To be quite frank with you, I never even notice. If you asked me the color of my own bedroom, I’d be hard-pressed to say. I don’t really care, for that matter, but I can see this is not the response Elizabeth’s looking for. I wrack my brain trying to think of something noninflammatory to say, but I’m as lost as if she’d asked me to design a rocket ship. What do I know about decorating?
“What color did you have in mind, hon?”
“Purple.”
Great-granny in a nightshirt! A purple room. Guaranteed to produce nightmares and maybe even insanity.
“Why not something more soothing? Say blue. Or beige.”
Uh-oh. She pushes her plate back and gets out of her chair with the painstaking slowness of an ancient arthritic.
“For your information, Howard, the house is already blue and beige.”
She marches stiff-backed to the kitchen, and I don’t know whether to shit or go blind, as the old saying goes. Well, she asked and I told her. She can’t have it both ways. She either wants the truth, or she doesn’t.
Should I follow her into the kitchen and try to smooth things over, or sit here and finish my pear pie? To tell the truth, I’d as soon tangle with a crosscut saw as corner her in the kitchen, so I finish my pie.
I sit there a while waiting for her to come back, but obviously she’s abandoned me to the wretched contemplation of living an unobservant life. If Elizabeth had as many patients’ problems to observe and rectify as I do, she’d come home and sink in her chair just grateful for the cushion. She wouldn’t care if the walls were blue or purple or turd brindle.
What I feel like doing is standing up and shouting, “Just paint the whole damn house purple and be done with it,” but that would be the end of marriage as I know it.
And, hell, what do I know? Nothing, it looks like.
Except that this whole unfortunate interlude is driving me to think in curse words. I’m not the kind of man who uses foul language. In my opinion only the uneducated or the lazy do that. There are too many wonderfully descriptive words to resort to gutter language.
The clock that belonged to my great-grandfather Martin chimes eight times in the hallway. Two and a half more hours until P.T.—Performance Time.
If I didn’t have to go in the kitchen where Elizabeth is, I’d pour myself another cup of coffee and sit here trying to figure the best course of action. Why can’t she be like other women and plead a headache? At least, every now and then?
In our thirty years together she’s never refused sex. Not even that time she had flu and could hardly hold her head off the pillow. Why she turned me on is a mystery, and why I even approached her under the circumstances is an even greater one. But she didn’t refuse me, and it was some of the sweetest sex we’ve ever had. Tender. Beautiful.
Maybe I’ll tell her I’ve got work to do. That might fly. After all, I took two days off traipsing down to Florida to get her.
“Howard?”
She’s in the doorway looking normal. I can always tell whether she’s in control by her facial expression and her body language. One of her truly endearing qualities is that Elizabeth lacks subterfuge.
Of course, she fooled me completely with this running away business, but I’m hoping that was an oversight on my part. Something I’d have seen in her face if I hadn’t been so busy trying to keep Glenda MacIntyre from committing suicide and Rachel Freeman from starving herself to death.
“I’m sorry I flew off the handle,” she says.
“That’s okay.”
“It was trivial. I guess I’m just trying too hard for an instant fix.”
She runs her fingers through her hair. I’ve always loved it when she does that. She has this thick, glossy hair that feels like the pelt of a very healthy animal. I guess there are more romantic ways to describe it, but that’s the best I can come up with. When it comes right down to it, I guess I’m not a very romantic guy.
She’s still standing in the doorway, and I get up and put my arm around her shoulder. She leans into me a bit, and we just stand there, holding on.
I’m not fooled, though. Fixing what’s wrong with our marriage is not going to be this easy.
“Howard?”
“Hmm?”
“After I finish the dishes let’s just sit on the sofa together and hold hands. Do you mind?”
Hold hands? We haven’t done that since we were dating. I’m not sure I even remember how.
“No, I don’t mind.”
When she glances up I see a flash of disappointment, and I figure I’ve just put my foot in my mouth again. Why do women make such a big deal out of stuff like holding hands?
“That would be great, Elizabeth.”
“Good.”
She heads back to the kitchen and belatedly I follow.
“Need any help in here?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then. See you in a bit.”
I wander toward my favorite chair, and then jump up, guilty. Should I be sitting on the sofa waiting for her or should I get up and
join her when she comes in? How ridiculous to be stymied by ordinary things. Things I used to take for granted. I feel like somebody from Mars who has just stumbled to Earth and doesn’t know the least thing about human behavior.
Furthermore, my heart feels funny. If I have a heart attack in the middle of all this, maybe Elizabeth will get her mind off purple walls and holding hands and onto things that really matter, like being able to sit down in your favorite chair after a good meal and fall asleep, or for that matter, enjoying the meal without worrying about whether you can get it up in the bedroom afterward.
“Howard? Is anything wrong?”
Lord, there she stands staring at me as if I’ve lost the last hair on my head. I reach up just to make sure. My bald spot feels two inches bigger than it did yesterday, but all this stress is enough to make you lose your hair.
“No, nothing,” I say. “Why?”
“Well, you’re just standing there in the middle of the floor looking funny. I thought maybe you were sick.”
Come to think of it, there’s an idea. If you’re sick, how can you be expected to go charging around like some pheromone-fueled hero when you know full well your white stallion has turned to a jackass?
And so I tell her, “Just a touch of indigestion, that’s all.”
First swearing and then lying. What next? I never knew there were so many levels a desperate man could sink to.
“I’ll get you some Tums.”
My relief when she leaves the room is short-lived because I know she’s coming back. With antacid tablets that taste like chalk. It’s my own darned fault that I’ll have to suck it up and eat them anyway. That’s what I get for lying.
I hear the sound of a cabinet door slamming and then staccato tapping on the hardwood floor. She always walks like that when she’s in a hurry or irritated. I’m hoping for the former.
Before she gets back I sink onto the sofa and put my feet on the coffee table, trying to act as if I’m relaxed and settling in for an ordinary evening.
She hands me the tablets and I start chewing.
“I hope it wasn’t the chicken,” she says.
“Of course not. I’ve had a lot on my mind. That’s all.”
There’s a shawl draped across the back of the sofa for no good reason that I can think of, and she fiddles with the fringe.
“I guess I’m the cause,” she says.
“Well, some, but work’s been a bear.”
“Oh.”
I don’t talk about my patients and she never pries, but when you’re casting around to think of something to say to your practically estranged wife and the subject of work is off limits and sex is a land mine waiting to blow your prized body parts off, it’s hard to come up with a viable alternative.
Finally she says, “Do you want to watch TV?”
I leap up and turn it on before she can change her mind. There’s some insipid comedy with a laugh track playing, and I try to act as if I’m enjoying the show, but out of the corner of my eye I can see her stiff-necked posture.
What am I doing wrong now? All of a sudden I remember that she wanted to hold hands. I reach out and take hers, but it lies in mine like a dead fish, so I guess she’s changed her mind. Clearly, if I want this marriage to succeed I’m going to have to take up mind reading.
I sit through the comedy and some inane detective show hanging on to my wife’s hand with all the passion of somebody hooked up to life support. Shouldn’t there be more to this? Shouldn’t I be feeling the fires that lead to foreplay or at the very least a little tingle that might lead to some nice hugging and kissing?
What I feel is defeated. And I guess she does, too, because when she says, “I’ll make us some coffee,” I don’t tell her to stay.
Everything starts settling back to normal when she leaves. Feeling like a car running on overdrive too long, I sag against the cushions and close my eyes.
The next thing I know, I’m waking up with cotton in my mouth, a dull throbbing behind my eyes and the guilty realization that I fell asleep on the sofa and left my wife to climb the stairs to our bedroom with nobody except the dog. I guess that’s one way to get out of having to face the possibility of sexual humiliation, but it’s also a surefire way to send the wrong message to a wife who has already run away once.
What if she does it again? I snap on the lamp and glance at my watch. Six o’clock. Too late to climb into bed with her and try to make up for not sleeping there last night. Besides, I can’t afford to miss my eight o’clock appointment. My patients depend on me, and at least in that arena, I can shine.
Of course, if I were one of my patients I’d take my own advice and hustle up the stairs and talk to my wife. I’m halfway up the stairs when I realize that I don’t have enough time for any meaningful communication, and what’s the point of starting something I can’t finish? Besides, if last night’s any indication, having a real conversation with Elizabeth will require approximately the same length of time it took Thomas Jefferson to write the Declaration of Independence.
Although it’s unlikely Elizabeth can hear me from upstairs, I tiptoe back to the downstairs bath, shave with a ladies’ pink plastic razor, nick my chin in two places, and then go into the laundry room, hoping to find a clean shirt that Kate hasn’t already taken to my closet.
Alas, she’s too efficient to leave anything undone, so I smooth the wrinkles in the one I’ve got on and hope nobody notices them underneath my sports coat. At least I always keep an extra in the hall closet. That comes from years of being called into emergencies while I’m having dinner or watching TV. A coat always reassures a patient that you know what you’re doing, and having one in the downstairs closet shaves about four minutes off my response time.
I nab the coat, write Elizabeth a note and then head for the office.
It’s a relief to walk in to the smell of freshly perked coffee and the sight of Lucille sitting at the receptionist’s desk with her hair in a bun.
“Good morning, Dr. Martin,” she says, and I feel myself relaxing into something resembling normal.
“Good morning, Lucille. I want you to look up the number of an interior decorator and ask him to go over to my house today. I want the works. A complete overhaul. Tell him the sky’s the limit.”
There now. I’ve made Elizabeth happy and I can check change house off my list.
“Anybody in particular, Dr. Martin?”
“No. Just somebody with conservative tastes and a good reputation. Oh, and somebody who doesn’t use purple.”
Feeling a sense of accomplishment, I pour myself a bracing cup of coffee and go inside to wait for my first patient.
On second thought I go back to the doorway and clear my throat so Lucille will look up.
“Lucille, would you say I’ve been a good husband?”
I know this sounds like a foolish question to ask my receptionist, but Lucille is the one who wraps my gifts to my wife and books the trips we take. She’s the one who knows about the times I’ve cancelled appointments so I could attend to some crisis Elizabeth had.
“Why, of course, you are, Dr. Martin. Any woman married to you could thank her lucky stars.”
It’s pathetic to need vindication from Lucille, but when you feel lower than the ugliest toad on the bottom of the scum pond, you’ll do about anything to make yourself feel better. It’s human nature. And now I feel like a better man, a man who will be able to figure out a wife he thought he already knew.
CHAPTER 13
“If marriage were hair, I’d perk it up with some titian red.”
—Beth
Jane wraps me in a bear hug, tells me I look great and then ushers me into her sunroom and plies me with food.
Her Southern pecan sticky buns are fresh from the oven and the coffee is French roast. Sitting on a yellow chintz chair, I try to settle back into my skin. About the time Aunt Bonnie Kathleen died, I jumped out of it and haven’t been able to find my way back. I feel like a woman trying to put on a Lycra leota
rd, hopping on one foot while one leg of the leotard sags to my knees and the other flaps around, whacking me in the butt.
The note I found on the hall table this morning lies on the coffee table between us. Elizabeth, it reads. I’m sorry about last night. Could you pick up the pants Kate dropped off at the cleaners? Howard
When I hand it to Jane, she reads without comment. This is her way. She never offers opinions unless I ask, and then she won’t venture one unless she knows the facts.
I tell her about the way Howard and I suffered through an evening together as if we were perfect strangers, and the way he fell asleep in his chair.
“So…” I add. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s just being a man. Not many of them shine in the romance department. Even my Jim.”
“I ran away, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he see that I want to be more to him than chief cook, bottle washer and errand boy?”
“It’s going to take more than one evening to settle your marital issues.”
“But you think they can be settled?”
“Yes, if that’s what both of you want.” She studies me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Is that what you want, Beth? To make your marriage with Howard work?”
“That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.” Stalling, I reach for another bun and eat the pecans off the top. “This is going to sound awful, Jane. But I’m not sure what I want. Howard’s a good man, a good father, a good provider, and a part of me wants to just settle down and say, ‘Okay, so maybe it’s not like it was when we were twenty years younger, but at least I have this.’”
I sip my coffee and nibble some more while she waits in that perfect patience I’ve come to depend on.
“But there’s a little rebel inside me who’s stamping her foot and demanding more.”
“More of what, Beth?”
“Everything. Marriage, career, me. I want to be more. I’m tired of this mousy, careerless woman who sits at home waiting to be provided for.”
“You’re talented, Beth. Not every woman can compose a symphony.”
“Neither can I.” My voice cracks a little when I tell her about playing my awful opus for the Prices, and she reaches over to squeeze my hand. “I’ve wasted all these years chasing a bogus rainbow.”