She went over to explain, as she knew she’d have to.
“Are you saying I cheated you out of a week’s worth of groceries?”
The way he twisted things exhausted her. She couldn’t figure out if his negative interpretations of any exchange were severe paranoia that needed treatment or attempts to evade reality. The same irritating tone entered her voice, as though speaking to a deaf child. “I don’t think you are cheating me, but there is no food in the house and I need to go shopping. There will be no food again in a few days, and I would like next week’s money in addition to what you are going to give me today.”
“I never get any peace in this house. It’s like a fucking hotel,” he thundered.
Madelyn jumped and screamed at him in retreat, “I can’t stand your shouting! I wasn’t brought up to this.” She began to close the door behind her, but he yanked it open and threw some bills down on the floor. “When I come out of my study I want you to be in bed.”
Madelyn picked up the cash, smiling to herself because it was a little triumph and she had not expected it. She gave Gabriel a bath and read him some stories before kissing him good-night. Then she came downstairs and began to potter around the kitchen, tidying up and looking through their Jewish cookbook for a possible meal tomorrow. Perhaps she would make it a nice one to emphasize the advantages life could offer when there was enough money for good food.
She heard the study door opening and glanced at the clock in surprise. It was nine o’clock.
“I thought I’d told you to be in bed,” he said.
“You’re a bully just like your mother.”
He ran across the kitchen and hit her twice in the face, sending her glasses skidding across the room. She rushed towards the phone to dial the police, and he wrested the phone from her grasp and yanked it out of the wall, stalking back to his study with the phone in his hand.
Madelyn went to bed.
“Your eye is black,” Gabriel informed her when she lifted him out of bed the next morning. She brought him back to the warmth of her own bed. Sam’s side was empty.
“Yes, I fell down last night,” she explained. Later, she called up Ruth and asked if she could come and have a chat. She had never talked about her problems with anybody, but she wanted to know if an objective person would think this was as serious as it seemed to be, and Ruth was the only person in Canada whose advice she trusted. Ruth also had several children of her own and an entire playground in her backyard, complete with swings and slide. Gabriel wouldn’t bother her for hours.
On the way they met several university people whom Madelyn knew.
“How did you get that shiner?” they asked jovially. It looked like they were almost shaking their heads in admiration at its size and hue. Madelyn was astounded. Surely when a woman sported a black eye, it was obvious where it came from?
“I fell down,” she said.
“Ouch,” they replied, wincing.
She smiled and passed on, wanting to scream at them, ‘I didn’t fall down you idiot. Have you ever given yourself a black eye from falling? It’s physically impossible.’
She tried her pathetic little excuse on Ruth, who reacted in just as clueless a fashion, bustling about getting tea and cookies, not looking at her eye. The reason for her disinterest soon became apparent, as she sat down clutching her tea in one hand and both a cookie and a cigarette in the other.
“I think Mark is cheating on me.”
Madelyn’s heart sank.
“I’ve suspected for a while, but today I had a sudden urge to tell somebody, because of what happened last night. I found a little love note, stuck in the pocket of his suit. Carelessness denotes indifference, and I can’t bear that.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Do you know how lucky you are to have Sam? Everybody thinks you’re such a wonderful couple — an example for marriages everywhere.”
A ridiculous sense of pleasure enveloped Madelyn. “Why would they think that? I mean, what looks so good to them?”
“I think it’s the way you interact. You just kind of complement each other. He is an exceptional young guy, though obviously a bit of a handful. You handle him so well. He depends on you so much and adores you.”
“You get the impression he depends on me and adores me?”
“Honey, I know he does. He looks to you for guidance all the time, he watches you with love.” Ruth leaned closer, and tapped Madelyn on the arm. “Come on, a woman knows. Do you think Sam would ever look at another woman?”
Madelyn shook her head. She didn’t even have to think about it, it was so obvious that Sam would never cheat on her.
“You’re such a striking couple. Physically, I mean. He’s tall and brilliant and you’re so beautiful.”
Somehow, despite the outrageous evidence of her black eye, Ruth’s words felt true. There was something special about their relationship, a realness that didn’t exist in the fake, superficial relationships around them. Communication was so difficult, it was true, but at least their efforts to communicate were real, steeped in emotion which was anything but indifferent. Facing Ruth and her marriage to the depraved Mark, who was no more capable of loving somebody than an animal, she was suddenly seized with a conviction that her marriage was genuine, with all its problems.
There didn’t seem any point in involving Ruth in an unpleasant marital argument. Besides, it was impossible to smash that image.
Sam does love me. He possesses overwhelming emotions, both love and anger, and in his anger he lashes out. I thought I wanted to tell Ruth, but I really don’t know her well enough. In any case, every marriage seems to have its demons. I like people thinking we are a good couple. The other is too shameful.
Sam did not retreat to his study after lectures that day. He came and sat down at the table as docile as a lamb, pulling Gabriel onto his knee and singing to him. Gabriel crowed in delight and warbled along with his father.
Madelyn put a steaming plate of shepherd’s pie in front of him and removed Gabriel to his own seat in silence.
“Wot dis?” Gabriel said with deep suspicion.
“Hamburger and potato and peas. Everything you like.” She hoped Gabriel would relapse into silence. How many times had Madelyn sat at a silent repast and longed to chat, but didn’t dare? Now she wanted silence, sensing that Sam felt more uncomfortable than she did.
Gabriel lifted a pea to his mouth with misgiving, testing it with his tongue before popping it in.
“Ooh, it’s delishus!” he cried, and started to shovel it in as though he were starving.
Madelyn smiled and wondered why she spent her time worrying whether violence and shouts would influence Gabriel, instead of appreciating the fact that he had inherited his father’s overt passion for food, life and enjoyment.
“It is very nice Mummy,” Sam said. “Did you put some different herbs in it?”
“No.”
“I wrote you a poem. Shall I recite it to you?”
“I think I’m going to see a lawyer about separation papers.” Madelyn didn’t know what prompted her to say that. She hadn’t thought about it, but his mood was compliant, and she felt that it was important to make him realize how awful his behaviour was. It must not happen again. If she was unable to discuss it with him (since any attempt to explain her point of view invoked violent verbal attacks) then she would frighten him into behaving well. Ruth was right. He did love her, and he would be forced by fear into behaving in a reasonable way.
“If you do I’ll leave my job and you’ll have no money to support yourself and Gabriel.”
She could almost see his mind working, weighing the pros and cons. He hated his job and the awful responsibility of his family, which prevented him from leaving. Her mind also dipped and swerved. She could not work as a midwife in this country. Maybe she could get a job as an RN and
support herself and Gabriel. But a woman and child without a husband…
‘I will be silent and hide my intentions. We’ll see what happens next,’ she thought.
A few days later, one of the faculty threw a summer party. Despite the fact that Sam’s wit was no longer considered so funny — especially by those who had been insulted by him — he still had a small entourage, attracted by his high energy and enjoyment of life.
He escorted Madelyn (with her yellow eye) around by the arm, stopping to chat to various people and knocking back both drink and snacks with delicate speed.
They joined a group of professors discussing the merits of one of the brighter students. This student also attended Sam’s classes, and Madelyn could see Sam lean forward, desperate for the older professor to finish his ponderous opinion so he could vouch his own.
“I’m not in agreement with you,” he broke in as the professor stopped to inhale. “I’ve received several papers from Matthews, and, while his ideas are sound, and sometimes even original, his structure is appalling. It is almost impossible to follow the thread of his argument throughout the paper.”
“Now Golden,” intoned the professor in that indulgent, patronizing way with which they often attempted to crush Sam’s little outbursts, “I think highly of Matthews. Very highly indeed. I have been teaching composition for forty years, you know.”
“Perhaps you should think about teaching decomposition,” Sam answered.
There was a short silence. Several of the other gentlemen smiled behind their drinks and one even tried to give Sam a wink. Madelyn pulled at his arm, still entwined through hers.
“I’ve finished my G and T, Sam.”
He wheeled about obediently and approached the drinks table, finishing off his own beer in one large swallow. He smiled down at her, “Wasn’t that a rather clever thing to say, Mummy?”
She shook her head. “You must try not to antagonize the older professors all the time. They’ll find a way to get rid of you.”
“It’s not so easy to get rid of professors once you’ve hired them. Besides, Matthews writes pathetic papers. His work just happens to be a notch better than the unbelievable crap we get from most students — i.e., he can spell. I don’t think that’s a reason to make him a topic of conversation at a party!”
“I haven’t the slightest doubt that you’re right, but the point is you can’t afford to offend these people.”
Sam threw his head back and guffawed, “‘Perhaps you should think about teaching decomposition’ — priceless, priceless!”
Madelyn recalled Ruth’s certainty that Sam both relied on and was guided by her. She dropped his arm. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you that you will be even more miserable if you put everybody’s back up. Stop being clever at other people’s expense, no matter how tempting it is.”
“Yes of course, you’re quite right,” Sam answered soberly, without the slightest intention of curbing himself in any way whatsoever.
Madelyn sighed with pleasure. How nice it was to have her husband so compliant.
A few weeks later she discovered a gold bead necklace under her pillow. She had seen this necklace several months earlier in a store and had exclaimed “Oh, it’s so pretty!” She had no idea that Sam even heard what she said, still less that he had returned to the store to buy it. Tucked under the box was a sheet of paper, containing the poem she had not allowed him to read.
When I perceive through your clear eye
My ugliness, I want to die.
And tho’ your heart doth me forgive,
Even then I cannot want to live.
My sins, I know you will forgive,
But still I cannot want to live.
But when in spirit I behold
My body lying dead and cold
Unwanted by my poor soul,
In haste I do my sins forgive,
And graciously consent to live.
TWENTY-FIVE
I look at my father and try to smile. “That’s a lovely poem.”
He grunts. “It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. Why don’t we have a little walk, sit on a bench somewhere and continue reading the manuscript outside? Make a change from this smoky little room where we’re always half drunk.”
“Mellowed perhaps, not drunk.” I smile again, striving to erase any hint of criticism from my voice. I am both horrified and fascinated by the story, and I don’t want to alienate my father before we finish it together. “My faculties are working fine. In this highly aware state, I did notice you made two marks beside a couple of points in the manuscript. When Madelyn mentions the separation papers … here it is: If she was unable to discuss it with him (since any attempt to explain her point of view invoked violent verbal attacks) then she would frighten him into behaving well. You’ve put a red mark beside that line.”
My father sighs in a depressed kind of way. “I disagree with so much of how everything is presented here that I hardly know where to make my red marks. I suppose this isn’t a big point, because it is true we didn’t talk very much. Probably our inability to talk about things was the root of our problems. But placing the whole blame for that on me isn’t reasonable. We were both inhibited about discussing emotions, feelings. We never talked about the violence, or sex for that matter. We were an inhibited generation, compared to today. But you’ve seen that in the aftermath of an ‘episode’ I was amenable to discussing anything she wanted. She never attempted to discuss our problems when I was in this frame of mind. She always chose inappropriate moments, like when I was angry and unable to listen. She got the reaction she deserved.”
I bite on my inside cheek for a moment, until the rage calms down. Until I can say in a normal tone: “Oh come on, Dad. Nobody deserves verbal abuse, or worse.”
“I’m not shirking my responsibility for the problems in our marriage. I am pointing out her inability to accept her part in the responsibility. There were long periods in our life when we were very happy together. It is true that I was unhappy at work, and that only got worse. However, later we’d often travel to England for the long summers, and we were so happy there among our old friends. Once every few years I’d have a sabbatical, and the whole year would be relaxed and pleasant. At any of those times she could have discussed our problems without fear of unpleasant reprisals. Why didn’t she? It was almost as if her mind was incapable of remembering anything unless it was happening at the time.”
“And your mind?”
“I was ashamed of my behaviour, and I did not want to discuss it. An alcoholic does not broach the subject of his alcoholism, if everybody else is studiously ignoring it.”
I finger the rest of the manuscript. It is too thin to contain years of trips to England, sabbaticals… “Aren’t we nearing the end?”
“Yes, it’s not complete. It ends abruptly, perhaps because she died suddenly from a heart attack. I have speculated endlessly about when she might have written it. Towards the end of her life? But then why is nothing written about the last fifteen years, when you were growing up?”
I am disappointed. I suppose I expected a year-by-year account of our lives together, going on for thousands of pages. “Am I to be deprived of a happy ending?”
“You can be sure your mother would have constructed a happy ending, if she had finished the manuscript. She was that sort of woman.”
“I assume that means the real ending wasn’t happy?”
My father gives me a puzzled look. “You were there, weren’t you? There were many good times, many fights. Episodes like … that … were very rare. We were both devastated when she died. She was the heart of the family, holding us all together. I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy since.”
My mother’s death is like a vague memory in my mind. I remember feeling rootless and how it frightened me. You just assume that home will always be home, but the definiti
on of home is where Mum is to a kid of eighteen. The rug had been pulled out from under my feet. My security blanket. I’d just finished school and the death seemed to destroy my ability to think about my own future. Then one of my friends told me he was going to Florida and he planned to fake a green card number and find work and would I like to come too. It was a lifeline. Dad didn’t say much when I told him. I didn’t think about his feelings at all.
I’ve been wracking my brains to remember the bad times, to understand the source of tension in our house, but maybe I should try to remember the good times. Tamp down the growing rage in my breast so it doesn’t detonate in front of him. Focus a little more on the positive while I sit here with this dying man. I can always indulge in rage later, alone in my room.
So. I remember trips to England, the long walks that both my parents loved over stiles and through cow fields, culminating inevitably at a rural pub for lunch. Both so happy, except during the dreaded visits to Grandma Golden. Everything’s comparative, and I guess the tension in our house paled in comparison to Grandma Golden’s house, where we all three sat perched at the edge of our seats like frightened rabbits. Good to know that unpleasantly dominating personalities weren’t restricted to the male sex, even in that generation.
Of course I remember the fights and retreating to my room to shut them out, but not during our trips to England or the camping weekends over the summer. I guess we were lucky my father was a professor, so we could count on those long holidays of peace.
He used to bring me sweets when I was sick — oh — that jogs my memory! He was incredibly solicitous of my mother during her illnesses. He tended her as though she was a baby, concocting chicken soups and reading to her. She loved being sick. This memory comforted me. Surely such care is a sign of real love and would have shown my mother that her marriage wasn’t a total write-off, after all?
“Shall we get on, or should we call it a night?”
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