How to Make an American Quilt (17 page)

C
ONSTANCE AND
H
OWELL
lived in a number of places for brief periods of time. Near Barstow, down to San Bernardino, Glendale, Visalia, a little past Lompoc, Buttonwillow, Los Banos—as far north as Crescent City, even into Medford, Oregon, for one dull two-month period. But never Nevada. And through it all Constance packed their few and functional belongings, since she could not tolerate the weight of so many material things, which only serve to slow your progress; sometimes she left things behind in some small bungalow or house or apartment in which they lived. Sometimes Howell traveled on ahead of her, searching for a new bungalow or small house or apartment. They saw the inside of so many homes, lived in so
many different places, that their hunt occasionally recalled their courtship travels.

Since they did not live anyplace long enough to form deep friendships or attach themselves to any house or location, Constance felt no regret at moving on. Nor did she experience a profound searching inside herself, as if the next place would yield something better than the last; she simply packed up and moved, and was often glad to do so.

During these years Constance forgot how to say good-bye or bid farewell since she rarely left anyone or anything of any significance. This suited her: all that temporary living combined with periods of solitude. Her parents wanted to know if she was happy. (“Yes, I am happy.”) Did she need money? Want a permanent home of her own? And her reply was always “I have what I need. I lack for nothing.”

And Howell and Constance grew closer during his time spent home between trips, being each other’s only friend.
Funny
, thinks Constance,
that I should so like being married. I never expected to like it this much
.

H
OWELL RETURNED FROM
a business trip and said, “Constance, I miss you.” Then told her how he found a small house in Atwater with French doors and roses outside the window. (Years later Constance will say to the women in the quilting circle, “The garden was a mess—overgrown, dried-out, unpruned, in places overwatered by someone who did not understand the lives of roses—but it was a real rose garden. And we had a dog, a peach-colored poodle mix named Chickie. Our Chickie was the best dog—not one of those spoiled yappers that can drive a person crazy.”)

And so began a life where Howell left and returned each day like a regular husband, kissing Constance at the door, dropping on
all fours to play with Chickie. Children were not a consideration for them—now, of course, it was simply too late—but even in the beginning they each thought that, at thirty-three, Constance was truly past her childbearing years. Or perhaps it was something else; an excuse. Regardless, she did not conceive.

The children of the neighborhood adopted Constance and Howell, often bringing treats to Chickie. Constance greeted the children by saying, “Well,
hello
, and how are you? Have you grown since you were last here? No? Maybe you only
seem
bigger because you act so grown up.” The children would clamor for Chickie, who raced out to see them. Sometimes they brought Chickie bones; if they brought the “wrong” kind of bones (the sort that splinter), Constance put them in her pocket, promising to give them to Chickie later, after dinner, “for dessert.”

When Chickie died—an early dog death, actually—Howell and Constance buried her in the rose garden beneath an antique yellow rosebush. After that, yellow roses were always referred to as “Chickie’s flowers.”

(Constance will tell Marianna, years later, as they are gardening in Glady Joe’s yard, “After Chickie’s death it was so hard to leave that little house. Every place changes when you bury someone you love there. That is how it was for me, after Chickie.”)

H
OWELL QUIT
his stationary Atwater job and hit the road again. They moved and resided in a succession of apartments, trailers, and two-bedroom homes that sat behind larger, nicer homes. Constance missed her prize roses, left in Atwater with her most beautiful bush sheltering Chickie’s grave. Sometimes they lived someplace long enough for her to plant and care for a garden, but that was rare. Then, one day, Howell said, “No more, Constance—life’s too short and I’ve had enough. Baby, I’m home for good.” Constance was
sitting at the kitchen table in the late-morning sun when Howell came to the door, stood within its frame, and said, Baby, I’m home for good.

At first, she looked up from her book but said nothing, did nothing; after all, she had already kissed him good-bye this morning when he had gone to work, and seeing him standing there, unexpectedly, made her wonder if she was only imagining his ghost, that if she so desired she could stand and walk right through his outline.

Then she laid the book down (carelessly closing it without marking her place) and pushed her chair from the table, and with slow, deliberate steps, walked in his direction, sliding her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his coat.

He held her so tightly it was hard to fill her lungs with air, and thinking back on that moment, she could’ve sworn she felt his chest heave in a small sob.

C
ONSTANCE AND
H
OWELL
got on each other’s nerves. His being retired and always around caused Constance to blurt out, “Don’t you have somewhere to go?” And he looked at her, saying, “Don’t you?” There were days when she felt hemmed in, crowded in her own house, as if Howell were not one person but a small group that made continuous, inconsequential demands of her time and patience, which, taken together, resulted in an enormous demand that she could never satisfy. She tried to explain this to him, but he only looked at her and said, “What exactly are you saying?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” she answered in an irritated tone of voice. “I mean, I feel like…”

Howell looked at her patiently, as if trying to divine her true desires. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “No. I want you to, well, go out sometimes.
Without me. More often than you do.” How could she say, You’ve made me grow accustomed to a life without you around all the time. Seeing you occasionally seemed less like a marriage and more like an extended courtship or love affair, with the time spent together so rich and brief that we could not spend it arguing or in silent discord. Instead we chose to use the time with our best courtship personas: lying in the garden in the dirt and grass, staining and muddying our clothes but not caring; watching the clouds or talking about your travels or my books or what so-and-so is up to or rehashing the time we met and fell in love; or cooking and taking our meals to bed, feeding each other and laughing about the way some couples Simply Despise It when the other spouse eats off their plate, as you licked spilt cake crumbs from my body.

A next-door neighbor once said to Constance after she said good-bye to Howell before one of his road trips, “How long have you two been married?”

When Constance said, “Fifteen years,” the neighbor replied, “You’d never know it from the way you two act.”

“How’s that?” asked Constance.

“You act as if you like each other.”

Constance started to say, That’s awfully cynical, don’t you think? but the neighbor headed her off, as she turned to walk back to her house, by saying, “I meant
exactly
what I said.”

But now that Howell was retired, Constance yearned for the vast, empty hours that had stretched before her when he was away on business, the sheer pleasure of anticipating his return. Even in Atwater, he worked eight hours a day, which was enough solitude for her. But this constant state of togetherness was wearing on her. What did this say about the nature of their marriage? About her nature? That she was not cut out to be a wife, only to be a girlfriend? After all, Howell did not seem to be experiencing the deep irritation at her daily company that she felt for his.

Then, just as suddenly, the feeling fled. Inexplicably, strangely, quickly—it just left her, and for the first time in her life she thought,
How truly happy I am!
She marveled at the feeling, luxuriated in it, wondered how she could have thought she was happy all those previous years, then decided that she had not been profoundly happy, only content. It was as if something inside herself gave way, softened, relaxed its hold. She gave in to the luxury of having him around always and basked in his company. Now she felt just the smallest bit of sadness when he ran errands or took drives without her.