Tales Of Wedded Bliss
He went over to the sink and stood next to her. His older son had the interior light on in the car, probably to read by. At any rate, his head was bent down, and he sat motionless in the little yellow world. Jody was watching Alan's face, he could tell, and when he looked at her, she shrugged and grinned, as though embarrassed.
"Yeah. So all we need is Andrea," Steve said. He went out into the hall and up the stairs, calling for her.
"Why is he like that?" Alan said, gesturing out the window with his wineglass.
"There's nothing wrong with being like that," she said. "I used to be like that when I was a kid too." She was bent over the sink again, rinsing the lettuce. It was escarole, and the frilled green edges made it look as if she were working with some delicate fabric. "I just couldn't stand the amount of fussing it took to get us all aimed in one direction, so I'd go sit by the front door till everyone was ready." Jody was one of four sisters, daughters of an Episcopal priest. Alan had actually dated another one of them, Christine, before he'd met Jody. She was tall and stately, beautiful. But tomboyish Jody, who then still chain-smoked Camels and had a reputation for being wild, was the one Alan felt relaxed with and finally chose. Christine had married a clergyman and moved to Minnesota.
Jody set more lettuce on the cloth and tore off several paper towels to pat it dry with. "It's like on an airplane," she said. "You can rush and get all your stuff together and fuss around, and then stand in the aisles for ten minutes. Or you can just sit and read in comfort until the door is open and the aisle is clear."
"You're so smart," he said.
She grinned at him. "Me and David," she said. "It's amazing, the persistence of family characteristics."
"Since you're so smart," he said, "why don't you get one of those twirling baskets that dry the lettuce off in a second, instead of using up all these paper towels?"
She looked at him a long moment. "I don't know what I'm supposed to hear," she said. "Is this the story of your concern about my finances? Or is this the story of how in later life you've become domestic, of how someone else has managed to do what I couldn't?"
"Oh, Jody," he said wearily. "You're not supposed to hear anything."
After a minute she said, "I'm sorry. It's just that there was a time when you wouldn't have noticed what I was doing with the goddamned lettuce. It's just so odd to me that now you do."
They could hear Steve and Andrea on the stairs.
"It's easier to notice everything now," he said. "Now that I don't live here anymore."
Steve was in the doorway. "We're ready. I think we're ready. I think we're really really ready."
"Let me come out and say good-bye," Jody said.
He felt an odd sinking, a sense of apprehension at leaving. He'd felt it before. Somehow, when he had the children, he didn't see them as clearly as he did when he was with Jody. It seemed that she knew them in a way he couldn't by himself, hadn't been able to since the divorce. Or maybe it was the house, their own house, and something about the way they felt free to move around in it, to yell up and down the stairs, to walk around carrying plates of food. They didn't do that in the house he lived in with Claudia and her children, the expensive, carpeted house that was hers from her first marriage. When he had been married to Jody, he had been made miserable by the confusion, the lack of grace in his family life. But that disarray seemed elemental to his kids, and Alan had found nothing to offer them as a substitute.
He followed Jody into the hall, pulling his coat on. Andrea was cool to her, let Jody kiss her on the cheek. But Steve made noise the whole time--thank God for Steve!--and so it felt like a cheerful good-bye.
After Alan tied his boots, he turned to Jody. Steve and Andrea were outside. They could hear Steve singing a Christmas carol. "And David?" he asked. "Did you say good-bye to him?"
She nodded. "He did everything absolutely correctly. A kiss, a Christmas present, the works."
"Well, then, Merry Christmas," he said.
"To you, too," she said. "I hope it's great fun."
"Thanks," he called back, already walking to the car.
He got in and started the engine. Andrea and Steve had gotten into the back seat, their bags between them. As he turned out of the driveway, Andrea rolled down her window and called, "Bye, Mom! Bye, Mommy!"
He looked back. Jody was silhouetted in the doorway, and her hand came up to wave.
There was silence in the dark car. He said, "I feel a little bad for Mom, taking all you kids away from her for the holiday."
"I wouldn't," Steve said. "She'll have a great time."
"What do you mean?"
Andrea piped up, "She gets to go to the Caribbean with that guy, and we all have to stay around here!"
"It's Caribbean," David said in his flat voice, without turning.
"Who cares?" Andrea said. "I don't care."
"I think you can pronounce it either way, Dave," Steve said.
David shrugged. "Either way," he said.
"Wait a minute. She's going away?" Alan felt a sense of indignation rising.
"She's going to the Caribbean with this guy she's been dating," Andrea said. She pulled herself forward behind him, and he could feel her damp breath on his neck. "She's going to be all warm and come back tanned and . . ."
"But she didn't tell me," he said. "I mean, what if something happened? If we needed to get in touch with her?"
"We've got her address, Dad," David said. "In fact, she gave each one of us the name of the hotel and the telephone number, in case one of us lost it."
Alan looked over at David, who stared levelly back.
"She's going with a guy named Fred Hutchinson," David said. "He's a developer. Big bucks." David was watching him, he could tell.
His voice was casual. "Nice guy?" he asked.
"Who cares?" Andrea said. "She's going to be warm, and we have to stay here in this crummy winter and freeze for ten days."
In his mind's eye Jody washed the pale green escarole, sometimes pausing to hook her falling hair back over one ear. He should have thought. You didn't make fancy salads just for yourself. Jody didn't, anyway. Sometimes during their marriage he had accused her of having forgotten how to cook altogether. Often, if she was engrossed in a book, she'd just open a few cans of soup for dinner and tell the children they could read at the table too. Alan had hated that, those silent meals with bread and sandwich fixings not so much arranged as tossed onto the table, and the intermittent sibilant flip of someone's page the one human noise besides chewing, swallowing.
He had wanted the divorce. Jody had argued against it, but most of her arguments had to do with the children. He had pointed this out to her, told her it was part of the problem as far as he was concerned. She had conceded, finally, that she didn't have much energy for him. "But it's not all meant to be fun," she had said. "There's got to be some pain, too, if it's real. I saw this as part of the long haul." Tears were running down her face. Several times he'd had to get her to lower her voice so that she wouldn't wake the children, who were sleeping upstairs. "For this bunch of years it's the kids, the jobs. Later I thought maybe we'd be sexy again."
Later was too late, he told her. And then he told her about Claudia.
She was angry. She threw a salt shaker at him. She called him a bastard, an idiot. She predicted that the same thing would happen to him and Claudia as soon as they were living together with her children. "You wait," she'd said. "Pretty soon all you'll be talking about is money and the kids' grades. And they won't even be your kids."
She started to cry again, her voice loud, edging toward hysteria. He tried to touch her, but she pulled away and stood panting by herself next to the refrigerator. Suddenly David was in the doorway. He looked at his mother, tears coursing down her face, her hair disheveled. He was sixteen.
"Yeah. So all we need is Andrea," Steve said. He went out into the hall and up the stairs, calling for her.
"Why is he like that?" Alan said, gesturing out the window with his wineglass.
"There's nothing wrong with being like that," she said. "I used to be like that when I was a kid too." She was bent over the sink again, rinsing the lettuce. It was escarole, and the frilled green edges made it look as if she were working with some delicate fabric. "I just couldn't stand the amount of fussing it took to get us all aimed in one direction, so I'd go sit by the front door till everyone was ready." Jody was one of four sisters, daughters of an Episcopal priest. Alan had actually dated another one of them, Christine, before he'd met Jody. She was tall and stately, beautiful. But tomboyish Jody, who then still chain-smoked Camels and had a reputation for being wild, was the one Alan felt relaxed with and finally chose. Christine had married a clergyman and moved to Minnesota.
Jody set more lettuce on the cloth and tore off several paper towels to pat it dry with. "It's like on an airplane," she said. "You can rush and get all your stuff together and fuss around, and then stand in the aisles for ten minutes. Or you can just sit and read in comfort until the door is open and the aisle is clear."
"You're so smart," he said.
She grinned at him. "Me and David," she said. "It's amazing, the persistence of family characteristics."
"Since you're so smart," he said, "why don't you get one of those twirling baskets that dry the lettuce off in a second, instead of using up all these paper towels?"
She looked at him a long moment. "I don't know what I'm supposed to hear," she said. "Is this the story of your concern about my finances? Or is this the story of how in later life you've become domestic, of how someone else has managed to do what I couldn't?"
"Oh, Jody," he said wearily. "You're not supposed to hear anything."
After a minute she said, "I'm sorry. It's just that there was a time when you wouldn't have noticed what I was doing with the goddamned lettuce. It's just so odd to me that now you do."
They could hear Steve and Andrea on the stairs.
"It's easier to notice everything now," he said. "Now that I don't live here anymore."
Steve was in the doorway. "We're ready. I think we're ready. I think we're really really ready."
"Let me come out and say good-bye," Jody said.
He felt an odd sinking, a sense of apprehension at leaving. He'd felt it before. Somehow, when he had the children, he didn't see them as clearly as he did when he was with Jody. It seemed that she knew them in a way he couldn't by himself, hadn't been able to since the divorce. Or maybe it was the house, their own house, and something about the way they felt free to move around in it, to yell up and down the stairs, to walk around carrying plates of food. They didn't do that in the house he lived in with Claudia and her children, the expensive, carpeted house that was hers from her first marriage. When he had been married to Jody, he had been made miserable by the confusion, the lack of grace in his family life. But that disarray seemed elemental to his kids, and Alan had found nothing to offer them as a substitute.
He followed Jody into the hall, pulling his coat on. Andrea was cool to her, let Jody kiss her on the cheek. But Steve made noise the whole time--thank God for Steve!--and so it felt like a cheerful good-bye.
After Alan tied his boots, he turned to Jody. Steve and Andrea were outside. They could hear Steve singing a Christmas carol. "And David?" he asked. "Did you say good-bye to him?"
She nodded. "He did everything absolutely correctly. A kiss, a Christmas present, the works."
"Well, then, Merry Christmas," he said.
"To you, too," she said. "I hope it's great fun."
"Thanks," he called back, already walking to the car.
He got in and started the engine. Andrea and Steve had gotten into the back seat, their bags between them. As he turned out of the driveway, Andrea rolled down her window and called, "Bye, Mom! Bye, Mommy!"
He looked back. Jody was silhouetted in the doorway, and her hand came up to wave.
There was silence in the dark car. He said, "I feel a little bad for Mom, taking all you kids away from her for the holiday."
"I wouldn't," Steve said. "She'll have a great time."
"What do you mean?"
Andrea piped up, "She gets to go to the Caribbean with that guy, and we all have to stay around here!"
"It's Caribbean," David said in his flat voice, without turning.
"Who cares?" Andrea said. "I don't care."
"I think you can pronounce it either way, Dave," Steve said.
David shrugged. "Either way," he said.
"Wait a minute. She's going away?" Alan felt a sense of indignation rising.
"She's going to the Caribbean with this guy she's been dating," Andrea said. She pulled herself forward behind him, and he could feel her damp breath on his neck. "She's going to be all warm and come back tanned and . . ."
"But she didn't tell me," he said. "I mean, what if something happened? If we needed to get in touch with her?"
"We've got her address, Dad," David said. "In fact, she gave each one of us the name of the hotel and the telephone number, in case one of us lost it."
Alan looked over at David, who stared levelly back.
"She's going with a guy named Fred Hutchinson," David said. "He's a developer. Big bucks." David was watching him, he could tell.
His voice was casual. "Nice guy?" he asked.
"Who cares?" Andrea said. "She's going to be warm, and we have to stay here in this crummy winter and freeze for ten days."
In his mind's eye Jody washed the pale green escarole, sometimes pausing to hook her falling hair back over one ear. He should have thought. You didn't make fancy salads just for yourself. Jody didn't, anyway. Sometimes during their marriage he had accused her of having forgotten how to cook altogether. Often, if she was engrossed in a book, she'd just open a few cans of soup for dinner and tell the children they could read at the table too. Alan had hated that, those silent meals with bread and sandwich fixings not so much arranged as tossed onto the table, and the intermittent sibilant flip of someone's page the one human noise besides chewing, swallowing.
He had wanted the divorce. Jody had argued against it, but most of her arguments had to do with the children. He had pointed this out to her, told her it was part of the problem as far as he was concerned. She had conceded, finally, that she didn't have much energy for him. "But it's not all meant to be fun," she had said. "There's got to be some pain, too, if it's real. I saw this as part of the long haul." Tears were running down her face. Several times he'd had to get her to lower her voice so that she wouldn't wake the children, who were sleeping upstairs. "For this bunch of years it's the kids, the jobs. Later I thought maybe we'd be sexy again."
Later was too late, he told her. And then he told her about Claudia.
She was angry. She threw a salt shaker at him. She called him a bastard, an idiot. She predicted that the same thing would happen to him and Claudia as soon as they were living together with her children. "You wait," she'd said. "Pretty soon all you'll be talking about is money and the kids' grades. And they won't even be your kids."
She started to cry again, her voice loud, edging toward hysteria. He tried to touch her, but she pulled away and stood panting by herself next to the refrigerator. Suddenly David was in the doorway. He looked at his mother, tears coursing down her face, her hair disheveled. He was sixteen.
