How to Make an American Quilt (6 page)

“Honey,” says Arthur, extending his hand, which repulses Glady Joe, causes her to react as if it were some sort of danger to her, some sort of weapon—“it’s not,” he says—but Glady Joe raises her own hand and cries, “Shut up—not a word—not if you care for me at all,” and leaves the room, only later that night recalling the last thing she saw before she left was Hy’s hand at her throat and her odd look of satisfaction and regret.

I
MMEDIATELY
after Glady Joe’s realization in the living room, she found she could not tolerate being near Arthur; it was as if no amount of scrubbing could wrest Hy’s musky odor from his skin. At first, Glady Joe thought it must be because he was still seeing her sister and the smell was being renewed regularly, but when he demanded that she “stop punishing” him, she knew that it was a onetime thing. Still, Glady Joe’s head was full of it.

Oh, Arthur was brimming over with remorse that night—not actually denying what had happened—it would be too insulting to her if he had—but sidestepping the encounter entirely. It is so difficult to make apologies and promises (“I swear, this will never happen again”) when the act itself—the transgression—cannot even be broached.

“Can’t I come in? Can’t we work this out?” he said as he stood in her bedroom doorway that night.

“Don’t come in here, Arthur. I’m afraid of what I might do.” And when he did not leave, but remained there, silent, she said, “Are you stupid? Can’t you see that I don’t want you here?” She said “I don’t want you here” slowly, carefully, as if she were talking to a lesser or very young person.

“Glady—” he began, which caused her to turn and hurl a heavy silver-backed hand mirror at him.

“Whore!” she screamed. “Slut!” She cleared her vanity table of atomizer bottles, makeup jars, an inlaid rosewood box he had given her for their second Christmas. He dodged the beautiful box, which broke its spine against the wall behind him.

“Have you gone crazy?” he demanded as she circled the room, searching for more missiles to launch. She would not be quieted; her only answer to any of his questions, genuine or rhetorical, was the sailing through the air of some object. “Do you want to kill me?” he hissed, as if he did not want to disturb Anna sleeping downstairs. Glady Joe, amused by this silly notion of silence, dropped her hand, which held a small porcelain bowl, ready to hurl, and said, “Yes, actually, I do.” Then threw the dish at him anyway.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he began to repeat. “I don’t know…I can’t say…,” speaking in phrases and not sentences, and, as he began to cry, his shoulders heaving, standing still in the doorway, she said, “I hate you.”

A
FEW DAYS LATER
he took a new tack, appealing to her sense of reason. “Our marriage,” he said. “You know how it’s been with us.” And used words like “lonely” or “a man’s needs” and “be fair.”

To which Glady Joe shot back, “I thought we were friends.”

“We
are
friends.”

“
Friends
don’t betray each other,” she screamed, scanning the living room for something to throw.

A
FTER REMORSE AND REASON
came pragmatism, mentioning their long marriage and what it meant.

“You have changed what it meant. You promised, you promised to cherish me.” She turned from him, her hip pressed against the kitchen sink, watching out the window, and said quietly, “Fuck what it meant.”

He brought her flowers, armloads of gladiolus, which she left to dry out on the dining-room table saying, “These aren’t my favorite flowers.” And when he looked confused, she reminded him, “These are
your
favorite flowers. We are not the same person. Don’t mix me up with you.”

O
NCE HE TOOK THE OFFENSIVE
, accusing Glady Joe of “denying him,” forcing him toward “another woman,” which made her squeeze her eyes shut, the red rising to her face, saying, “Hy is not another woman—she is my sister.”

“Don’t you see?” he asked.

“See what?”

“It was the closest I could get to you.”

Which registered somehow with Glady Joe, quieted her. Made her so silent it was frightening.