by Nancy Roman
Martin promised the children that as part of Jonny’s birthday celebration the next month, we would all take the train to the Bronx Zoo. They spoke of almost nothing else from that moment.
Turning four turned out to be a problem for us as well as a joy for Jonathan. He could not be kept in his crib. And moreover, he did not fit. He took to crawling into bed with Martin. It was a solution that symbolized deeper issues for me than a little boy growing up.
I had now been married nearly five months. It seemed I had been permanently installed on the sofa.
I had no one to confide in. No one to ask whether this arrangement was a blessing that most women would have appreciated. I spoke in vague terms to Constance as we watched the children run in the park.
“Do you ever disagree with your husband?” I asked.
“Ha!” Constance replied. “You would be more correct to ask if we ever agree.”
“How do you bring up sensitive issues that you disagree upon? Do you ever get your way?”
“Occasionally. What sometimes works for me is appealing to his pride.”
“How do you do that?”
“Well, last fall I wanted a new stove very badly. I could not do the simplest things with the stove we had. So one evening I said, ‘This stove is terrible. It is a shame that we are too poor for a new one.’ Well, Thomas’ pride couldn’t bear the idea that I thought we were poor, and he went out and purchased a new stove.”
This surprised me. First, that a Bolshevik like Constance cared about cooking, and even more surprising, that her husband, who was even a more committed Bolshevik than she, would not want to be thought poor. And then of course, surprised that this would work.
“If that had not worked, what else might you have tried?” I asked.
“Well, you could get him drunk.”
CHAPTER 27
I thought about Constance’s advice for several days, but each time I imagined the prospective conversation I backed down.
Then an opportunity presented itself.
I figured that it would not hurt to add a bit of drink to the mix. So after the children had been put down for the night - Jonathan in Martin’s bed, and Charlotte in Jonny’s crib that was slightly bigger than her own, I took out the half bottle of rye whiskey from the cupboard. I poured Martin a generous glass, and a thimbleful for myself, to add something to my thimbleful of courage.
“Martin,” I said, “we are in dire need of additional beds.”
“I know,” he replied. “Jonathan has gotten so big. And he kicks,” he laughed.
“This is a very nice apartment and convenient for your work. I like it here. Many of the other tenants have foregone the parlor and turned it into a bedroom. I think we should do that for Jonathan and Charlotte. Buy beds and put them in the parlor.”
He took a large drink of whiskey. “I suppose,” he said.
“And I need a bed as well. I cannot continue to sleep on the sofa. My health is deteriorating from such poor sleep, and I need to be fit to be the best mother for the children.” I drew a breath, drank my sip of whiskey, and continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Giametti’s apartment has two bedrooms. Mr. Giametti is still not well enough to seek work, so they have decided to let their second bedroom. They have put up a posting in the stairwell.”
Martin looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“So I would like to tell the Giamettis that we will lease the bedroom. And each night once the children are settled for the night, you could go downstairs and sleep there. And I will stay here in this bedroom so I can be available for the children if they need me. And I know that you are exhausted in the evening from your long hours. I think we can make it work.”
Martin put down his glass.
“Are you telling me that you are willing to let the neighbors see that husband and wife do not share a bed?”
“I see no other choice,” I said. “I know it will be embarrassing. But there is no alternative. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Husband and wife share a bed.”
CHAPTER 28
So we became husband and wife. In sleeping arrangements anyway. We bought a small bed for Jonathan and placed it in the parlor. We moved the larger crib for Charlotte to the room as well, and hung heavier drapes to keep out the morning sun and the street noise. Jonathan was thrilled, although a bit fearful to be alone with his sister for the first time in his young life.
“Look what I have bought for you,” I said, handing him a present that I had wrapped in colorful paper and tied with one of Charlotte’s hair ribbons.
Jonathan’s eyes opened wide - as did his little mouth, making a perfect O - and he tore through the wrapping. Inside was a small pewter bell.
“This is your special power. Like a king summoning his servant. When you ring this bell, I will jump up and run to you. ‘Here I am - just for you!’ I will say.”
“For real?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But this is a very big power. Mama gets very tired at night too. So you must be careful to use this power only when you need to.”
“If I get scared, will it be okay to use the power?”
“Absolutely. That is exactly what the power is for. And you may ring the bell if your sister is scared too. Because she is very little, and she may be scared more than you, because you are almost four and very brave. But I will come when you ring your bell.”
“I think this is a very good idea,” Jonathan said gravely.
That evening I kissed the children goodnight and sat in the kitchen for a very long time. I justified this by telling myself that I wanted to be sure on this first night that if Jonathan tested his bell, I would be able to run to the room and prove to him that I would be there immediately.
Jonathan did ring his bell quite soon after I turned out the light. I jumped up and ran to the room.
“I thought I heard Charlotte cry,” he said.
“It’s a good thing you called me then,” I reassured him. “I will tuck her in more securely, and that should comfort her.”
“Could you tuck me in again too? I think I might have gotten up, even though I know I’m not supposed to,” he said. And I wrapped him up even though the night was warm, and kissed his cheek.
But that was early in the evening, and they had now been asleep for hours. My nighttime chores were done, my book finished, the newspaper read, letters to my mother and Amelia in their envelopes. Still I lingered. I considered putting Jonny in Martin’s bed, and sleeping in his new cot myself.
This is what I wanted, I told myself. I am a wife and it is time to be a wife. Time for Martin to be a husband to a living wife rather than a dead, though dear, one.
I left the kitchen light burning - to allay any fears from the children as well as to ensure that I did not stumble myself should I need to go to them. I tiptoed into the bedroom.
Martin was already asleep, on the side of the bed against the wall. At least he had left room for me. It encouraged me a bit.
He slept on his back with the blanket pulled to his chest. His shoulders and exposed arms looked like marble in the dim light filtering in from the kitchen. He wore his undershirt. I knew he slept in his underwear. Occasionally when I went into the bedroom late at night to tend to a crying child, he would have already risen to take the baby in his arms. “We’re fine,” he’d say, “Go back to bed.” Except of course if Charlotte had soiled her diaper. That was women’s work, by some sort of federal statute I believe, and he would hand the child carefully to me
It’s possible that Martin’s underwear had been a concession to my presence from the beginning. I don’t know. How would I know what intimacy he shared with my sister? Or whether he would ever share it with me?
I undressed with my back to him, in case he should waken. Given the warm night, I chose my lightweight nig
htdress. It was plain but pretty. I loosened my hair. I laid down on the bed beside Martin, and I felt him stir.
“Goodnight, Lucinda,” Martin whispered. And he turned on his side with his back to me.
I was so relieved. I was so heartbroken.
CHAPTER 29
Although I awakened very early, Martin was already up. I couldn’t imagine how he had climbed over me in order to escape the bed, but he was gone. A magician.
I rose quickly and wrapped a dressing gown over my nightdress, ran a quick brush through my hair, and entered the kitchen. Martin was not there. In the parlor, which was now a bedroom, the children were still asleep.
I checked the icebox, I picked the coffee pot up from the stove and shook it lightly. Empty. He had not eaten, or taken a lunch, or made coffee. He was gone.
If he meant to leave me with the children over sleeping arrangements, I would need to decide what to do quickly. Pack up the children and get on a train for Springfield, I imagined. Maybe that would be for the best after all.
My mother would help me with the children. My father might employ me in the lumberyard. Perhaps it was not too late to ask Peter O’Hara if he still had a mind to marry me. Maybe he would, if Father could persuade the Bishop to have my marriage to Martin annulled. If I could bring myself to admit my failure.
I woke the children and bathed and fed them. They were excited about spending the night in their own room. Even Charlotte said, “my room,” pointing to the parlor.
“Were you okay too, Jonny?” I asked. “Not afraid, I don’t think.”
“No I wasn’t scared at all,” he said. “It was quieter. Papa snores sometimes. I don’t think I like the clock tick-tock. That sounds bad.”
“I will move the clock out of the room tonight,” I said.
“Mama, were you afraid in your new room?” Jonathan asked.
“No,” I said. “I have your Papa to protect me.”
The day was long. No other women appeared at the park. I shopped a bit, although there were no bargains to be had, and I spent too much on a mediocre piece of beef. I put the stringy unappetizing hunk to simmer on the stove, hoping it would be passable as a stew. I made cookies with the children and burned one batch so badly, we threw them out the window for the pigeons. That, at least, had the children laughing.
By six o’clock Martin was still not home. I fed the children my poor excuse for stew, and gave them lots of bread and butter to atone for the disastrous meal. I did the washing up, leaving Martin’s unused dishes in their place at the head of the table.
Then I took the children onto the big feather bed, the bed where I had lain near but not touching their father, with the zoo book my mother had sent us. We read the story twice through, and then went page by page and gave all the animals names.
“Constance!” said Jonathan of the giraffe, “because she is so very tall!”
“Malcolm!” said Charlotte of the pig. “Because he can eat so much!”
“Mr. Giametti,” I suggested of the bear. “Because you wouldn’t want to wake him when he is sleeping.”
We decided the flamingo was Amelia, the lion was Grandfather, and the lioness was Grandmother. Jonathan was happy to be the monkey, and jumped on the bed making silly faces until we all fell over in laughter.
That is when Martin walked into the bedroom.
“What is this? A party? Why was I not invited?”
“You can be the elephant, Papa!” exclaimed Jonathan, and Martin let out a big trumpet roar and threw himself upon the bed.
He landed on top of me.
He was quite drunk.
I scrambled out from under him.
“Oh my,” I said to the children, “Look how tired Papa is! That’s because it is way past bedtimes, and we must all get into bed quickly.”
“Play zoo!” Charlotte insisted.
“We will play again tomorrow. Now it is time to sleep.” I said.
I carried her to the parlor, with Jonathan reluctantly following. We said our prayers. I went through their small repertoire of Our Father, and Hail Mary, and Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I had changed the words of the last one to ‘If I should cry before I wake, I pray the Lord my tears to take.’ I wanted no more death in this house.
As reluctantly as the children went to bed, that is how reluctantly I made my way back to the bedroom. Martin was asleep, face down diagonally across the bed. He was snoring. I considered going back to the parlor and squeezing in with Jonny. But I changed to my nightdress and brushed my hair. I sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced Martin from his shoes. I tried to ease him over to the far side of the bed with a gentle push on his shoulders. He was motionless. I pushed slightly harder, but he was unmovable. Finally, I gave up, and laid down in the small space left me, my back against his left shoulder. In his stupor, he turned on his side and put his arms around me. He enveloped me as if I were a bird in the nest of his body. I felt the warmth rise from his chest and his breath against my neck. Never in my life had I been so close to a man.
I did not think I would sleep, but the activity of the day and the stress of the evening finally overtook me.
Some time in the night I awoke to the weight of his body. I was rather surprised that my own frame could hold such weight so easily - that I was not crushed beneath him - that I still breathed.
His mouth found mine. His hands found my breasts. He penetrated me.
The night before my hurried wedding, Mother had described what she called Marital Intimacy. She had told me it would hurt, and quite a lot, but that over time the hurt would stop and it would become nice, even pleasurable. “Bear it until it reaches that place,” she said. “It is worth it.”
And so I did that night. I cried out only once. And then I bore the hurt. I drove my mind into the future, when the pleasure would overtake the pain. I let the tears flow noiselessly.
Martin thrust into me the final time. His body shuddered above me. “Oh, Catherine!” he cried. He tumbled off me, and turned his back.
I rose from the bed and went to the small lavatory that Catherine had been so proud of. I washed myself of the mix of Martin’s fluid and my blood.
Martin still had his back to me when I returned to the bed. I held him in the same nest that he had held me earlier in the evening, one arm around his shoulder. I touched his hair and caressed him as he wept.
CHAPTER 30
Martin did not look at me throughout breakfast. He concentrated on his coffee and his eggs, while I sat with my hands in my lap.
He was out the door and halfway down the first flight of stairs, when I heard him stop. He came back up. Standing in the doorway, still not meeting my eye, he said, “I can’t.”
“You can’t what? Be married to me?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, Lucinda, Nothing so harsh. I just can’t talk… about it… not now. I’m sorry. Give me time.”
“I’ll wait,” I said. “Not forever, but I’ll wait.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and left.
Another long day ahead. I concentrated on scrubbing the floor. I gave each child a brush and a pan of water, and a section that they were required to wash. They got more water and soap on themselves than on the floor, but it allowed me time for my own thoughts.
It had been over six months since Catherine died; five months since I had married Martin. Last night, our pretend marriage had finally been consummated. Did that mean that I could no longer receive an annulment? Perhaps I still could…after all, Martin had been drunk.
I did not think he despised me. Perhaps we could find a larger apartment, or even a house. We could then have separate bedrooms, and we could return to our previous life.
I should never have employed Constance’s tactic to pressure Martin to share his bed. This was all my fault. I should h
ave given him a year - or longer - to mourn. Then perhaps he might have grown to love me, at least a little.
And that was the heart of the issue. He married me only to care for his children. He did not love me.
But I loved him.
God help me, I loved him from the first moment he stepped into our house in Springfield. Twelve years old, to his twenty-five. He was so handsome, so witty. And so in love with my sister. I loved my sister. I did not want her to die. I did not want her husband. But now I had him. It was a sin. I had committed a mortal sin.
I had told Martin I would not wait forever. Why did I say that? I could not pressure him into loving me. When he comes home tonight - if he comes home - and if he comes home sober - I would tell him that I will raise his children, and take care of his home forever, and never ask for a thing.
So I went, around and around. The children and I washed that floor over and over. Any longer and we would have scrubbed down to the Giamettis’ apartment.
I was finally brought out of my dismal reverie by the call down on the street from the fishmonger. “We got cod! We got flounder! We got blues!” I ran to the front window and leaned out. I hollered back, “I’ll buy some flounder. Wait for me!”
I grabbed my coin purse and the children and we ran, wet and dirty, down the stairs.
“Fish! Fish!” I yelled. “Holler for the man!” I encouraged the children.
“Fish! Fish!” yelled Jonathan and Charlotte.
I felt a little better by the time Martin came home.
He came in on time and bearing chocolates. “From Helga’s,” he said, and the children claimed that was their favorite shop in the whole world, while also asking, “What is Helga’s?”