Duet for Three

by Joan Barfoot

  “Good thing they did.”

  After the meal, when she’d washed up, she paused in the doorway to the front room. He was kneeling, boxes of books around him, putting volumes on the shelves. These must be books he’d had in storage and had delivered here. Like the furniture: just here when she arrived.

  “I think I’ll go up now,” she said shyly.

  “That’s fine,” he said, not looking up.

  She might not have known much, but she knew this was not how bridegrooms behaved. Respect for a new wife and her sensibilities might be one thing; lack of interest quite another. There was an impasse of some kind here. Maybe she only had to apologize, although hard to say for what. She was still awake, wondering, when he appeared.

  Frances jokes about “getting laid” — that’s one expression for it these days — but perfectly descriptive, Aggie thinks, of his technique, laying her like a plank, hammering her efficiently into place, flattening her down properly.

  Then, “Is the bed made up in the other room?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because I thought I’d sleep there. I have to get a good rest, and I’m used to being on my own. Besides, you know, you snore.” She would have laughed, except it didn’t sound as if he meant it to be funny. “I’m sure we’ll both sleep better that way.”

  She wasn’t the only one who snored; she could hear him through the walls. The house, for all its solid appearance, was deceptive that way.

  She might be puzzled and unhappy and a little angry, but she got out of bed the next morning and faced the day with a sense of purpose, rolling up the sleeves of her housedress.

  Even in daylight, the place was depressing. “Did the furniture come with the house, then?” she asked him at breakfast. He looked surprised, and once more offended.

  “Of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess because it doesn’t look like my idea of new furniture. I’d thought maybe something bright. The place is like a dungeon.”

  “It just needs a good cleaning. That’s what you’ll be doing today, I suppose?”

  “Well, that’s the first thing.”

  From room to room she moved, scrubbing and polishing and waxing and dusting. The place got cleaner, if no lighter, as she got dirtier.

  Something was odd about the shelves in the front room. So many books: had he read them all? If so, what did he know? Her fault, perhaps, was contained in one of them. She might be guilty of something she was too ignorant to understand. Little packages of knowledge — like buying a bag of sugar or a pound of shortening, each one containing a certain amount of nutrition or taste or learning. Hungry, she made herself a sandwich in the kitchen and wondered what had struck her as odd. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she thought, and went to check. Something had been strange, all right: all in alphabetical order.

  (“He’d get so angry if I put one back in the wrong place,” she told Frances.)

  The downstairs, at least, was clean when he got home. Her hair, however, was hanging in strings, her dress had ripped beneath one arm, and she had lost track of time, so that she was just bringing in a pail of water to wash herself when he arrived. He didn’t say anything, although his nose wrinkled. He might at least have mentioned all her work.

  (“Your grandfather,” June told Frances, “was a fastidious man.”

  (“Fastidious nothing,” Aggie snorted. “He was antiseptic.”)

  He didn’t appear in her room that night, but went right by to his. She thought of this one now as her room, and that one as his. She was a little surprised at how easily and quickly a person could get used to things. Still. Here she was, in her house, her territory, and her new life. She could hear her mother: “You make your bed and you lie in it.”

  “It’s still very dark, don’t you think?” she suggested in the morning, tentatively. “It might be brightened up a little.”

  “Do you think so? I think it’s fine.” Head down, staring into his tea as if that were the end of it.

  Well, she certainly wasn’t going to spend another day sweating away at the place when she would only be shining up the gloom.

  It was only a few blocks to the main street. Closer to downtown, if that’s what they called it, more houses were frame than brick or stone, and they were smaller and closer together. But there were huge maples lining the streets, and a little cool breeze, and quite a lot of people compared with what she was accustomed to. She couldn’t distinguish faces properly, with no names for any of them. She could see, however, that they dressed for shopping, and that she might have worn a hat, at least; it seemed to be the custom.

  The grocery store was small and jammed with goods. “Ames Groceteria” said the sign. The plump little woman behind the counter watched as Aggie regarded the shelves. “Is there something I can get you today?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to think a minute. Almost everything, I expect. Do you deliver?”

  “Certainly. We’ll have it to you this afternoon. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Mrs. Ames.”

  “I’m Mrs. Hendricks.” That sounded ridiculous, someone else entirely. “Aggie,” she amended firmly.

  “Of course, you’ll be the new teacher’s wife.”

  “That’s right.” Was that what she was to be here? She felt the weight of it. How odd, to have position but not a name; anonymous. Still, she could see what he meant when he’d warned her she’d have a position to maintain here. Different from merely being old Will MacDonald’s middle daughter, which she was used to being. And after all, that was just as anonymous.

  “So you’ll have moved into the old Campbell place,” this Mrs. Ames was saying. She did not offer her own first name, and Aggie wondered if there was a time and place, a length of acquaintanceship, required before real names were given. If so, she had already blundered, giving hers. She could see a day of errors as she fumbled her way into place in this town.

  “Is that what it’s called?” Would it be the Hendricks place at some point, and how long would it take to make it that?

  “Well, they built it, the old folks. They lost a son in the war, and their daughter moved away and now they’ve gone to live with her and her family and had to sell it up. But, of course, now,” and the woman smiled, “it’ll be your place.”

  “Yes, it will, won’t it?” and Aggie smiled back. It was friendly enough here, or could be; she’d just been frightened for a moment.

  “Mind you,” Aggie went on, “there’s a few things to be done.”

  “Yes, I imagine it would have got a bit run-down. Ab Campbell’s been sick the last few years and Beatrice pretty much spent her time looking after him.”

  “Oh, it’s not bad. Mostly just a matter of paint and wallpaper. Can you tell me where’s the best place to look?”

  Mrs. Ames laughed, all white teeth and dark curly hair. “The best place, I don’t know. The only place is Sinclair Hardware down on the next block. He’ll have what you need, and if he doesn’t you’re out of luck.” The bell over the door tinkled, and another customer came in. “You look around and see what you need,” and she moved away saying, “Good morning Mrs. Johnson, and what can we get for you today?” For an instant Aggie was lonely; as if she’d lost a friend.

  Starting from scratch to stock a house was quite a chore. They needed everything. It wasn’t like home, where you just went to the basement or the root cellar for whatever was required, or made it. She didn’t even have ingredients for baking.

  Mrs. Ames returned. “My gracious, it’ll take a while to fill all this.”

  “But you can send it this afternoon?”

  “Oh yes. I’ll just start an account for you, shall I? We do up the bills every two weeks.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  “Good luck at Sinclair’s. I hope you find what you want.”

  Oh, after
all it was an ordinary town, nothing so frightening. A friendly voice, a pleasant beginning. The little stores, all built together, followed each other plunkety-plunk along the street — a pharmacy, a milliner’s, a women’s dress shop, a tailor’s and a barber’s, a bank, a restaurant, and across the street, for heaven’s sake, a tavern of all things, right out in the open. The sun was warm. She suspected her walk had a jauntiness to it, and wondered if the teacher would find it lacking dignity. The idea made her smile.

  Still. She paused outside the hardware. She could not pretend he wasn’t going to be awfully upset. Certainly he’d made his meaning clear: he liked the rooms the way they were.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t there all day. His territory was the school, whatever went on when he went out the door. And had she not talked, for some years, about the home she would have? Much of this venture might not be working out precisely as foreseen, but surely this could.

  Had he not blamed her for the lack of food on their trip? Had he not considered it her responsibility? And if she was responsible for such homely things, surely she must be responsible for the walls and floors as well?

  The store smelled dry, with a touch of sharpness — sawdust, maybe, and bags and packages of powdered plaster, and liquids like shellac and paint. She might not necessarily buy anything today, but there was nothing wrong with looking.

  Except that almost right away she found the perfect paper: pale blue with small cream flowers in a pattern. She saw it immediately on three walls of the front room, with the fourth wall painted cream. The difference that would make! Perfect in another way, too; both light, for her taste, and surely also dignified, for his. “You’ve decided then?” asked a man who might be Mr. Sinclair or not, but who did not introduce himself.

  “Yes, please. I should have measured; I’m not sure how much I’ll need. At least a dozen rolls, I expect.”

  “Well, there’s always more. That’s not one of our more popular ones. Not,” he added quickly, “that there’s anything wrong with it, I like it myself. Just, people seem to be going more for bigger patterns these days.”

  “I’ll want paint to match, enough for a wall. But then, it’ll take several coats I expect,” she added doubtfully, recalling the nasty dark green.

  “No trouble. Do you want it delivered this afternoon?”

  What a luxury, these unexpected pleasures of living in a town: that one could walk down a street, go into stores and point at this or that, and go away and have things magically appear later on one’s doorstep.

  Not today, though. She had to do a little thinking about the teacher and how to approach this.

  “Tomorrow morning? Early?”

  “First thing, if you want. Eight-thirty, nine?”

  “Nine would be best.” Just to be sure he was gone. Just in case she didn’t mention it tonight.

  Back in the house she stood in the front room imagining it tomorrow. A day from now it would be entirely altered. Oh, but she would have to work fast to get so much done that it could not be undone. So, she realized, she wasn’t going to tell him. Never mind. She’d already seen him angry. There were no surprises in that direction.

  Still, she took special care with supper and was quietly polite and didn’t mind too much when he made another swift appearance in her room and vanished. “Well,” she thought, “if that’s all he wants.” It wasn’t much, and it also seemed not to have much to do with her. On the other hand, a day ahead spent accomplishing something was exciting. She pictured other things she might do, plans for other rooms.

  She began as soon as he was out of the house in the morning: moving furniture away from the walls, covering it with sheets, wrapping a scarf around her hair. When all the paint and wallpaper arrived, she had it piled in the front hall. There was so much. Where should she begin, to get the most accomplished? Paint the wall — easier than dealing with the paper, and faster, and by the end of the day it might be dry enough for the second coat. It took an hour, and while it now looked only peculiar, the green showing through like damp spots, the room had begun to grow and brighten.

  The wallpaper, though, was a chore; all the matching of delicate flowers really was a trick, and she wouldn’t have quite enough to finish. But to alter the spirit of the place in such a broad fashion, to stand back and see that she had made this change, that was really something. She didn’t even stop for lunch.

  It was almost done. She would do the last part, which would involve moving his precious books so that she could get behind the shelves, tomorrow. It would be nice to get the second coat of paint on, though; would give a much better idea of how the room would be.

  “Whatever,” she heard his astonished voice from the doorway, “do you think you’re doing?” For a man who put stock in words, and who had told her they should be used precisely and not wasted, that seemed a fairly unnecessary question. Any fool could see not only what she thought she was doing, but what she had in fact done.

  She stepped back from her work, turned and smiled brightly. There were streaks of paint across her forehead and one cheek, and her hands were sticky, and wallpaper paste had worked into her knuckles and beneath her fingernails. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Much more cheerful. Of course, it’s not quite finished.”

  “But I didn’t say you could do this.” Blank astonishment, followed by outrage. “This is my house. Who said you could change it?” His house, as if she had painted something that was really his, like decorating his body with stripes, or drawing daisies on his chest.

  “I live here too.”

  “I want it the way it was.”

  “Too late, I’m afraid.” How airily, how daringly she spoke. “Anyway, wait till you see it finished, you’ll see how much better it looks. It’s just a bit funny now with the green showing through on this wall. The paper’s nice, isn’t it? Pretty, but dignified.”

  “But how could you do this without my permission?” He still couldn’t seem to believe this.

  “Why would I need your permission?”

  “Because you’re my wife. You don’t just go ahead and do things without asking me.”

  So she was owned, like a house and some furniture and a bunch of books? “Oh, don’t be so silly,” she said, impatient now, stalking past him. “Watch out for wet paint. I’m going to get cleaned up for supper. Only soup and sandwiches, I’m afraid.”

  She could feel rage thundering into all the nooks and crannies of her body, making her tremble so that it was hard to do up the buttons of the dress she was changing into. She was no servant here. Who did he think she was?

  “And how,” he resumed over the soup, “were you going to pay for all this?”

  “I had Sinclair’s — that’s the hardware store — put it on a bill for you. We have an account there now and at the grocery.”

  “So I’m to pay for it. I don’t have a say in what my house looks like but I have to pay for whatever you choose to do to it?”

  She shrugged. It was a matter of tactics: what would irritate him most? As when she fell asleep smiling in the buggy, she chose to be calm. “It’s up to you, I suppose, whether you pay or not. But you probably should. I don’t expect it’s a good thing for a teacher to have bad debts.”

  So here were the newlyweds, together in their kitchen. Not quite as she had pictured it.

  (“It was like knitting a sweater,” she told Frances, “and having it get out of control, so you wind up with two necks and six arms and all the patterns muddled with flowers and stripes and diamonds — you could knit and knit and never make sense of it. But of course you couldn’t stop knitting, that wasn’t done, so you just had this — mess — you had to keep working at as best you could.”)

  There was no question of going back home. They would still love her in their way, as she loved them in her way; but she was supposed to be gone, taken care of. They were even proud of how she’d been taken care o
f, moving off to a new, foreign sort of life. It would hurt them, and certainly dismay them, if she returned. And she would be something even worse than a spinster: a no longer chaste woman without a husband. Unheard of; or, if heard of, a disgrace.

  She could see surviving here by caving in. She supposed that was an alternative. Or she could not give in, in which case either he would have to, or this house would be a battlefield. Well, it was early days. She smoothed her dress over her hips as if she were patting armor into place.

  “You’ll stop right where you are,” he commanded, regarding her sternly over his sandwich. “Whatever you’d planned, just don’t bother.”

  “I can hardly leave the front room the way it is, unless you like it streaked. That would really impress people, wouldn’t it?” Was she so daring? That’s what she remembers saying, anyway.

  She went upstairs as soon as she had done the dishes, while he did his schoolwork at the table in the dining room. She could feel the muscles in her arms, shoulders, back, and legs tightening. By morning they would be cramped. Tomorrow she would finish off the front room.

  Then what? Now that he had ordered her to stop, she could not. He would think, if she did, that she had learned obedience. Compromise, then. She could let him have the dining room, where he did his work, and his bedroom.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” he warned at breakfast. “Don’t you dare do anything else.” She sipped her tea, said nothing. “Did you hear me? Finish the front room, since you have to, but no more.”

  “Of course I heard you.”

  Animals marked their territory by peeing around the edges. She was marking hers with the smell of paint.

  She did her room a dusty pink, and liked it so well she did the third, still-unused bedroom with what was left. He could keep his military blue, if that was what he wanted. He came home sniffing at the fumes, but did not comment. Maybe he thought she had only finished the front room. He might never notice the change in hers, since he only saw it in the dark.

  That left the kitchen, now grey with brown trim (what sort of people were those Campbells, to have lived like this?). Especially now, with the rest lightened, it was heart-sinking to go into it. And, after all, the kitchen was clearly hers. He had no interest in it, did not have to spend hours in it every day. Not that that would make a difference. There was no getting around it; this would be mutiny.