by Marge Piercy
Here she was for the second time in a few months packing up the clothes of someone she had loved. Ross’s things were much finer than Nina’s, of course; she had chosen most of them. That Irish wool cardigan she had bought at Filene’s the first year she had felt flush at Christmas. That holiday season, Robin was fourteen and busy with track and basketball; Tracy was eleven, pudgy, in love with all animals. Torte was a wriggling puppy. Ross had arranged for Cesaro to take the girls for New Year’s, and they had gone off to an old inn in the Berkshires for a snowy icicle-glittering weekend, a mini-honeymoon far more luxurious than their original. She sighed, not even sure if she was grieving for herself or for Nina, both her losses blending.
Caring was a habit that died slowly. He had not taken enough warm socks. He had packed his raincoat but forgotten the zip-out lining. Everything went into boxes. Her back ached, but she was glad to have the clothing on its way. Every item of his left around was a little booby trap of memories.
At four-thirty she caught sight of herself in the long mirror, disheveled, wearing old wool slacks and a sweater that had been new when Tracy was a baby. She raced for a quick shower. She decided to dress as if she were going out to dinner; she would wear the red jersey he had never seen. Tracy had made her return the two tent-sized kaftans and had picked out three dresses for the same money from the designer shop, in the after-Christmas sales. She could not imagine where Tracy could have developed clothes sense. Daria had little, tending to want to replace a worn dress with one as much like it as possible, an open-ended series of sensible little black dresses with jewel necklines. Ross had always preferred his wardrobe in blue. Robin dressed like a preppie. But Tracy was demonstrating a sense of fabric and style that bemused her mother.
She sat at her vanity for once and actually combed her hair and put on makeup. Then she remembered the jimmied door of his study and flew down to lock it properly. She hovered in the living room, realized she did not want to be caught waiting for him and scuttled to the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. Lately she could go days at a time before it was full enough to turn on.
The doorbell rang. She had been afraid he would simply barge in, after his reminder on the phone that the house was still half his. She opened the door, stepping aside. As Ross came in, Torte raised his head and then flung himself through the air with astounding speed, colliding with Ross in midhall. Torte was hysterical as a puppy, leaping and licking, barking and snuffling, an explosion of joy.
“I packed up everything from Robin’s room. I even found a few things in my bedroom, in that bureau.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said in gruff embarrassment.
“It’s easier for me, to have the things out.”
“I wasn’t planning to take all this stuff tonight.…” He came to a halt in front of the wall of boxes.
“I’m sure you can store the boxes someplace. You have a great deal more to pack, anyhow.”
“I don’t have room for all my books and files in my little condo.… That stuff can wait.…”
“Your darkroom stuff,” she prompted. He did not look any different than he had when he left; she had expected some signs of change.
“Oh, I won’t take the darkroom equipment away from you. You may well want to use it.”
“Ross, you took the camera. And I’ve never done darkroom work.”
“You might want to run off some of those publicity shots I took for you. Let’s see, my summer clothes can stay for now. I haven’t any storage to speak of. I’ll get movers at some point.…”
“Ross, it’s important that you do take Torte.”
“Torte?” Ross caressed his head. “He’s glad to see me, isn’t he, old boy? The North End is no place for a dog.”
“He misses you terribly. He’s grieving—”
“Don’t project, Daria—”
“I’m not projecting. I assure you he’s grieving much more than I am. You were nicer to him than to me in recent months. He hasn’t been eating. He’s an old dog. He can’t adjust to your disappearing.”
“He’s your dog too. Really, you can get him to eat if you remember to take the time to exercise him daily. Maybe the cats bother him.”
“He’s pining away for you. You have to feel some sense of responsibility for him.”
He turned, glaring, his upper incisors resting on his lower incisors in a fierce grimace. “I’ve had enough of your assigning responsibility, Daria. Lay off me. I’m not taking Torte to the North End. It’s simply impossible.”
“Because of Gail’s German short-haired pointer?”
“You like to pretend you know so much. One dog? She raises them. Dozens of dogs, dozens and dozens! Torte would be miserable, I’m telling you. Now stop trying to make me feel guilty, because it won’t work. I’m free of that.”
He began carrying boxes out to his Mercedes, puffing and hauling. She did not offer to help but sat in the living room ostensibly reading an essay by M. F. K. Fisher. Finally he had the car loaded. He came to stand over her. She went on moving her eyes back and forth across the wriggling type until he spoke. “Daria, it’s time to talk turkey. You must put the house on the market. I can do it tomorrow. I talked to Bud—”
“No. I’m staying.” She put down her book, ostentatiously marking her place with her finger. “I will not be uprooted.”
“We’re going to sell the house, because I’m not going to leave my capital tied up in it. We’ll split what we get, that’s more than fair. You can keep your Rabbit. I’ll pay Tracy’s school expenses till graduation. How’s that for fair?”
“I don’t think it sounds fair, actually.”
“Ferguson will explain it to you. He’s doing the divorce for us.”
“He may be doing it for you. He’s not doing it for me.”
Ross sighed, giving her a look of suffering patience, a man dealing with an idiot child. “Fine, Daria, hire that two-bit asshole who represented your hysterical friend Gretta. If that makes you feel better, dandy. Even that shyster can explain the facts of life to you. Just remember, the more money we spend on lawyers, the less there’ll be left to settle up with. Just keep that in mind.” He stomped out. Torte followed him to the door and tried to leave with him. Ross had to push the terrier back as he shut the door. Then Torte sat and howled. Putting her hands over her ears, Daria fled upstairs and threw herself on the bed. She hated Ross. She hated him.
Friday at four, her phone rang. It was Fay. “We’re giving you another chance. We took the holidays off. Is Walker home yet?”
“Fay, he’s moved out.”
“Aw, come on. Are you convinced we’re mental cases?”
“He left me. He has a girlfriend and he left me. He moved into a condominium in Boston on the harbor.”
There was a short silence. “For real?”
“The day after Christmas.”
“So that’s what was happening?”
“Yes.”
Another silence. Fay said, “I don’t know if I should commiserate with you or what. I can’t say I think zits of the man. But when my old man left me, I hated people who told me it was for my own good.”
“It’s just, I’ve been married to him my whole adult life.”.
“Figure you got a lot of it left. Myself, I discovered I like living alone with the kids. I’m closer to them, I don’t fuss so much—you’d think I’d worry more, but I don’t.”
“Fay, I saw the deed to your building, and my name really is on it. He asked me to sign it over to some trust. He said it’d been put in my name just for convenience, whatever that means.”
“Did you sign?”
“No, I put him off.”
“So what happens now? You admit you’re our landlady, so do we have to fight you now for decent conditions? I showed you the stairs and the boiler—”
“What happens is that I see a lawyer and find out if I really own it. In the meantime, yes, I’m going to act as if I do. I’ll collect the rents. We’ll meet and figure out wha
t needs work first. Maybe we can make a gradual start on repairs—”
“Not so gradual, hey? We’re living with that shit.”
“But let me explain what’s the problem. There’s an enormous mortgage on your building, and I have to find out what the monthly payments are.”
“A mortgage? What do you mean, enormous?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but like two hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thou? That’s impossible. You’re making this up!”
“I had the same reaction, but I counted the zeros.”
“Jesus. That’s a new one. Maybe there’s oil under the basement. I have to tell Mac and Sandra María and Tom about that one.… Thanks for the info.”
“Do you finally believe me? That Ross left and that I don’t know what he’s planning and what he’s doing in your neighborhood?”
“I guess so.” Fay sounded reluctant to let her off the hook. Daria waited out a longish silence. Finally Fay said gruffly, “Yeah, I believe you. So now we’re back to square one.”
“Not if I do own the building. Then at least I have a right to find out about that mortgage.”
“Maybe he’s planning to evict us and renovate?”
“I suppose he could do a lot of renovating for that money. He could have it gold-plated.”
“Listen, I’m going to get hold of the guys and tell them. You got his new address?”
“Be my guest, I’d love for you to picket him. Plus his girlfriend has an apartment on Beacon.” She gave Fay both addresses. “Her name is Gail Wisby.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Fay said. “Look, the first part after your old man leaves, that’s the worst. Soon it gets easier.”
Almost immediately afterward, her phone rang again. She assumed Fay was calling back, but it was Annette. “Daria, did you have your number changed? I’ve been trying to call to invite you over Saturday with the Gordons, but they say your old number is disconnected.”
Nobody in the neighborhood ever used her business number; it seemed to shock them mildly that she had one. “I have one phone now. I need only one because there’s only one of me. Ross left.”
“Daria, that’s awful. But he’ll be back. It’s a fling.”
“I don’t think so. He’s already proceeding with the divorce. He’s even worked out what pittance he’s offering. It’s all over but the paperwork.”
“That’s heartbreaking. I’m so sorry. Whatever are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Everything’s up in the air.” Or flat on the ground, she thought, as after a violent windstorm.
“If there’s anything I can do, Daria, let me know.”
“I’d love to see you. If you still want me to come Saturday …”
“I know how awkward that would be for you. We’ll get together, the two of us, some morning.” Annette and Pierre, like every other couple on the block where everybody came in couples, were not about to invite a separated woman to supper unless they had an extra man. “Er, Daria, what are you going to ask for the house? I’ve always adored your house.”
“I don’t think I’ll sell it,” she said quickly. “I adore it too.”
She built a fire laboriously but this time remembered to open the flue first. She had fed the cats and walked Torte, and now she tried to talk herself into rising and cooking herself supper. She felt too listless. Her loneliness appeared to her visible, a wilderness spread around her trackless and howling. A Lake Superior in the winter of the spirit. She would be alone forever. The rest of her life would be like this evening, a treeless plain of solitude with a cold wind cutting her to the bone.
She wanted to call Annette back and berate her. What would it cost them to have one unattached woman to supper? A beggar at the banquet? Did they think she would crawl into the laps of her neighbors’ husbands? They were always afraid of the damaged marriages. Avoiding the plague.
The doorbell rang. Instead of being glad, she felt like snarling. Who indeed did she want to see? Torte was already barking. She felt like ignoring the summons. Good old Ross dropping back to pick up some papers he had forgotten to remove from her scrutiny? Annette bringing over a covered dish as alms? The newsboy demanding to be paid? She feared it was Bud, the local real estate agent, and that Ross had put the house on the market without her consent. The bell rang again. She would not let the people in. Invaders!
She stood just inside, afraid. Torte was yapping fiercely. “Who is it?”
“Tom Silver.”
She opened the door, blinking at him with surprise. As usual he seemed enormous, bearlike. He asked, “Did I startle you?”
“I gather Fay didn’t reach you, and you came here expecting to picket.”
“So I rang the bell? Fay reached me.” He took off his pea coat, walking past her and unwinding his red wool mummy-wrapping of a muffler, and dumped those with his oversized fur-lined gloves on a chair. “A fire. Perfect.” He waved her toward the other chair in front of the fire.
“I thank you for inviting me to sit in my own living room. Have you come to gloat? Or to check that Ross isn’t hiding in a closet?”
“No. I called the number you gave Fay.”
“Oh. Did you have a nice chat?”
“I got his answering machine.”
“That’s new. Probably so he won’t miss his calls while he’s at his girlfriend’s.”
“Fay will try to find that number. Her pleasure.” He gave the fire a poke. “Have you found a lawyer? Or are you just waiting to see if he comes back, wagging his tail behind him?” He squatted easily, staring into the fire.
“I went to one.” She winced. “Divorce is disgusting. Plus I felt like an idiot.” As he turned, she waved at the forms still spread out on the coffee table. “Just the way you like to make me feel.”
“It’s your bloody burbling innocent act.” He sauntered to the table, contemplating the forms. “I remember that, long as a book. All the lawyers who do divorce in Massachusetts hand them out to you.”
“That’s right, you went through it.… Did you leave her?”
“I’m still in the same house. Obviously not.”
“She left you?”
He glared. Then perhaps deciding that after all she had a right to ask him questions back he fitted himself into the rocking chair. “I wasn’t ambitious enough. I understand it. I’m a carpenter. She’s a professor in political science. Teaches at Santa Cruz now. Fancy school, fancy town. I make as much money as she does, but it’s not as respectable. Not much to say at faculty parties. What department are you in, Mr. Silver? Oh, er, I built a fence myself last summer.”
Surprising herself, she laughed. “Why did you come here?”
“Impulse.” His eyes seemed to close as he sank way back in his chair, but she could feel him watching her. “Nosiness. Call it a long shot.”
“What kind of a long shot?”
“It explains a lot, him leaving.”
“To you, maybe. It’s a thing I don’t understand. But I will.”
“Think you ever really understand why somebody else acts? Why people decide they love you or decide suddenly they don’t?”
“I can come to understand how he’s changed. How I was wrong about him and who he is now.” And who this woman is he loves, she added mentally, what she has that I lack.
“Only if you take the trouble to learn the facts.” He could not maintain that sleepy facade he liked to hide behind. He was sitting forward, intent, almost passionate in his argument. “Listen, Daria, you can sit around from now to next Christmas making up theories. That isn’t understanding. It’s just creative storytelling.
“Facts.” She stared into the fire. “Are you so sure they’re what’s real? I should put another log on.”
“What are we going to do about supper? If you haven’t started anything, want to go out for a pizza?”
She laughed again. “Sure.”
“Then let’s go. I’ll put out the fire. I’m hungry. I eat on the early s
ide because most days I’m at work already by eight A.M.”
“Can we use my car instead of your van? Mine’s more comfortable.”
“Shu-wah.” He imitated her pronunciation. “Get your stuff.”
As she backed the car out of the drive, she asked, “Where shall we go? There’s a place not far from here that’s okay.”
“We’re going to what I consider one of the best pizza places in all of Boston—Santarpio’s. I’ll give you directions.”
“I know how to get to East Boston, pal. I grew up there.”
“You know Santarpio’s?” He sounded deflated.’
“Of course. My steady boyfriend in high school used to take me there Saturday night after the movies.”
“That’s a whole other side of you.” He stared at her speculatively. “Born in East Boston.”
“I lived on Havre Street right near Central Square till I was twenty-one. My sister Gussie still lives on Wordsworth.”
“I thought you grew up in one of the genteel suburbs.”
“You like to label people. You put people in little boxes and nail the lids shut.”
“Hey, I’m a carpenter, not an undertaker. Do you think marriage is a kind of box?”
“If it is, mine lost its bottom and I’m spilled out, right?”
“You married security, huh?”
“I married an idealistic law student who was going into the government and make the system work for the disadvantaged.”
He whistled. “What happened?”
“That’s my question of the year.” Driving against the fading stream of rush hour traffic, she knew the fastest routes between Lexington and East Boston from the years she had driven it twice a week. It made her feel less terminated to be out of the house, even with this man with whom she had little in common and more friction than good communication. He believed that she could provide him with information. That was not a bad basis for their evening, because information was what she too needed. Even going out for pizza was a rare treat these days.