Long Made Short (6 page)

He goes over to his wife. She’s reading and correcting manuscripts from her class.
He puts his hand on top of her head. First he stood there thinking “Should I stay
here till she notices me and looks up or should I put my hand on her head? On her
head. Just standing here might seem peculiar to her. I’m sure if I was able to stand
back and see myself standing here like this, it would seem peculiar.” Now with his
hand on her head he thinks “Actually, standing here with my hand on top of her head
must also seem peculiar to her.” Just as he’s about to take his hand off, she looks
up and grabs his hand with the one holding the pen. “Hello,” she says. “Hello.” “What’s
up?” she says. “Just admiring you.” “You’re a dear,” she says. “You’re the dear, a
big one. I love you.” “And I love you, my dearest.” “And I love you very much,” he
says. “Very very.” “Same with me, my dearest,” she says. “Is that all? I mean, it’s
a lot and I like your hand here and holding it,” and she squeezes it, “but may I return
to my schoolwork unless you have anything further to say?” “Return, return,” he says,
and she pulls her hand away and holds the other side of the manuscripts with it. “Oh,
Daddy and Mommy said they love each other,” the boy says. “That’s right, we did,”
he says. “We said it and we do.” “Are you just saying that to me?” the boy says. “Ask
your mother.” “Well, Mom?” “Well, what?” she says, looking up from her manuscripts.
“Do you really love Daddy or are you—” “Yes, of course, such a question, what do you
think? Now may I return to my work? Eight more essays to grade in a little bit under
an hour. That’s when I think I’ll be too sleepy for anything but sleep.” “Oh yes?”
he says. “Leave your mother then to her readings.” “Not before you both kiss on the
lips.” “You ask for so much,” he says. “All right with you, ma’am?” he says to her.
“Come ahither and adither,” she says and moves her head up, he bends over and puts
his lips on hers. He sticks the tip of his tongue in in a way that he’s sure the boy
won’t be able to see. Their tongues touch, eyes close. His does he knows—the eyes.
He opens his and sees hers are closed. Closes his and opens them quickly: still closed.
“Okay, you proved it,” the boy says. “You can stop now.”

They move into the dining room. About an hour earlier, two. The three of them. They’re
seated, eating. He avoids looking at her, she him. He doesn’t want to talk. When he
wants something near her he nudges his son and points to it and his son gives it to
him or he just reaches over, sometimes even has to stand up, and gets it himself.
When she wants something near him she asks their son, though he always puts the thing
he took back in the spot it was on. He’s angry at her and doesn’t want to just talk
to his son and ignore her. Something she said. That he doesn’t do enough of the housework.
“Hell I don’t,” he said. “I do at least half or most of the work most of the time.”
That wasn’t it. He and she didn’t say that. What then? Said to her “You know, I hate
saying this, but the house could be neater. You going to take umbrage, take.” Said
this to her about an hour before dinner. Soon after he came home from work. She’d
got home from work a couple of hours earlier. The boy was in his room doing homework.
Or that’s what she said he was supposed to be there for. “You know I like order. That
the chaos you prefer, or simply don’t mind living with, gets to me viscerally sometimes.
Forget the ‘viscerally.’ I can’t stand chaos, it makes me nervous, temperamental,
like cigarette smoke does. Forget the cigarette smoke. I just can’t stand it.” “Then
tidy up the place,” she said. “It’s not just tidying up that’s needed; it’s also the
dirt and dust.” “Then clean up the place too.” “I don’t clean up enough? I do most
of the cleaning, it seems, plus most of the clothes washing and shopping and making
the beds and fixing up the boy’s room and cleaning the bird’s cage and feeding it
every night and our cooking and dishwashing and all that crap, and I just think it’s
your turn. The food I see you’ve done, though I made the salad before I left. But
the rest.” “Okay, I’ll clean up,” she said. “I’ve been busy, I am busy, I did the
dinner except the salad, set the table, it’s been a rough day at school, I’ve helped
our son with his long division for an hour and still have a mess of essays to grade,
but if you think the distribution of housework’s been unequal, I’ll do what you say.
I wanted to say ‘what the boss said,’ but you might take umbrage. Umbrage; what a
word.” She cleaned up the living room and dining room. When she started to he said
“I didn’t mean now.” Tidied up, swept the floors and rugs, dusted and polished the
furniture, straightened the many books on the shelves, rubbed some stains on the wooden
floor with a solution till she got them out. It looks and smells a lot better, he
thought, place isn’t a complete jumble, but she’s making me feel guilty and she knows
it. Why doesn’t she do it periodically, as I do, and then it wouldn’t come to this?
“Do” meaning the cleaning; “this” being the disorder, dirty house, argument. The food
was cooking, dinner was. He didn’t want to eat with the two of them feeling about
each other like this, but what could he say: “I don’t want to eat right now, you go
ahead without me,” after she’d cooked it and just cleaned part of the house, and he’d,
so to speak, started the argument? He’d come home mad because of something that happened
at the office—more pettiness there, nothing that should have upset him. He took it
out on her—might have taken it out on the boy if he’d been around—which isn’t to say
the place wasn’t a visual assault when he got there, but it certainly wasn’t enough
of one to start an argument over, especially when he knew she’d taught most of the
day and he could see she’d done some work at home: dinner, scrap paper scattered about
showing she’d helped the boy with his long division. Besides, it just wasn’t something
that warranted arguing over anytime. He’d gone to work mad because this morning in
bed—it all could have stemmed from this—he’d wanted to make love. One of those mornings:
dreamt of lovemaking, woke up thinking of lovemaking, wanted very much to do it. She
mumbled “Too tired, sweetie,” and moved her neck away from his lips. He persisted.
“I said I’m tired, too much so, don’t want to, please let me sleep, I need it.” Usually
she gave in, even when she didn’t feel like it. She knew it’d only take him a few
minutes when he was like this and she could take the easiest and least involved position
and wouldn’t even have to move to it since she was in it now—on her side with her
back to him—and that he’d want to get out of bed right after to wash up, exercise,
have coffee and read the paper, and prepare the breakfast table for their son and
her. He pressed into her, put a hand on her breast through the nightgown, other hand
between her legs. She had panties on. He hadn’t known. He started to pull them down.
“What, huh?” she said, as if startled awake. “Don’t, dammit. I said I didn’t want
to and I certainly feel less like it now. Do it to yourself if you’re so horny, but
with me it’d be like with a corpse.” “A corpse isn’t warm.” “Please?” “And I’m not
horny; I just want you.” “Sure,” she said. “Oh yeah, you bet, oh boy,” and moved a
few inches away from him. “Bloody Christ,” he said and got out of bed. “Bitch,” he
said softly but he thought loud enough for her to hear. She didn’t respond, eyes were
closed, she looked asleep. Faking it maybe, but who cares? They didn’t talk at breakfast,
which he ate standing up at the stove, she at the table he’d set. And he didn’t look
at her when he left for work. Put on his coat, got his briefcase, kissed his son,
left. The previous day during dinner they’d had an argument. Her mother had said to
him on the phone “Are you treating my daughter nicely? Remember, she’s our only child,
one in a zillion, and I always want her treated well because nobody in the world deserves
it better.” “Have you asked either of us if she’s been treating me nicely?” he said.
“What a question,” she said. Then “Let me talk to her if she’s there—it’s why I called.”
His wife later asked him what he’d said that made her mother so mad, and it started.
“She’s too nosy sometimes and she expects sensible gentle answers to these impossible,
often hostile questions, and then she dismisses me as if I’m her houseboy-idiot.”
“You don’t know how to talk to her and you never liked her and you don’t know how
to act civilly to anyone you don’t like.” “Is that right,” he said, and so on. That
morning he’d wanted to make love and they did. After, she said “Nothing really gets
started with me when we make it lately, and I end up so frustrated. You—do you mind
my saying this?—for the most part do it too quickly. You have to warm me up more and
concentrate on the right spots, especially if you suddenly come on me unprepared,
like when I’m asleep.” “Listen, we’re all responsible for our own orgasms,” he said.
“The hell we are.” “I didn’t mean it the way it might have come out, but we are to
a certain degree, don’t you think?” “You meant it and you show it,” she said. “Just
get yours, buster, and let whoever it is burn.” “What ‘whoever it is’?” he said. “It’s
only you.” “Don’t bullshit you don’t know what I mean,” she said, and so on. The previous
day they fought about something, he forgets what: that she’s been letting the gas
gauge go almost to empty, that she took his stapler the other day and now he can’t
find it, that her personal trash in the bathroom wastebasket is starting to stink
and it’s her responsibility to dump it in the can outside or at least tie it up and
stick it in the kitchen garbage bag. “So I forgot.” “So from now on remember.” “Don’t
fight,” their son said, “please don’t shout, please don’t yell.” They stopped but
didn’t talk to each other for a few hours. The previous night, when he was reading
and at the same time falling asleep, she got into bed naked and said “You don’t have
to if you don’t want to—no obligation,” and he said “No no, I can probably do it,”
and they made love and went to sleep holding each other, she kissing his hand, he
the back of her head. Further back. The boy’s born, and he drops to his knees in the
birthing room he’s so excited. Further. They’re getting married and they both break
down during the ceremony and cry. Further. They meet. Sees her at a cocktail party,
introduces himself: “You probably have better things to do than talk to me,” and she
says “What a line—no, why?” His first wife, girlfriends, first he was smitten with
in grade school. He’s a boy, and his parents are arguing bitterly at the dinner table.
He puts his hands over his ears and yells “Stop, can’t you ever stop screaming at
yourselves?” “Don’t do that,” his father says, pulling his hands off his ears. “What
are you, crazy?” And he says “Yes,” or “You made me,” or “Why shouldn’t I be?” and
runs out of the room. “Go after the maniac,” and his brother goes after him and says
“It’s no good for me either when they’re like that, so come on back.” Hears further
back. From his mother’s stomach. “Filthy rotten bitch.” “And you. Stupid, cheap, pigheaded,
a pill. Get lost. I hate your guts.” “Not as much as I hate yours. Here.” “And what’s
that?” “What you wanted so much. Your allowance. Take it and stick it up your ass,”
and so on. “Why’d I marry you?” and so on. “You don’t think I ask that question too?
With all I had and never any lip from anyone, what’d I need it for?” and so on.

He’s in his chair, the man, wishing he’d made himself coffee or tea. Something hot
to drink. He can think better with it. Son plays, wife reads. They’ll probably make
love tonight, he thinks. He’s been nice all day, no arguments, she’s smiled lovingly
at him several times the last few hours. Kissed her when he got home, and she said
“Ooh, that’s some kiss; I love it.” He can’t wait. He’s sure she’ll come to bed ready.
If she doesn’t—well, how will he know? He can go to the bathroom and shake the case.
Sometimes he can smell it on her too. The cream. Anyway, he can say—he’s usually first
in bed, usually reading—“I hope you’re ready, I know I am.” “Sure,” she’ll say if
she isn’t ready and go back to the bathroom. He loves her. They have their fights
and disputes and sometimes he tells himself he hates her and doesn’t want to live
another second with her, but he really loves her. He should remember that. So beautiful.
Still a very beautiful face. Her body still excites him. She’s so smart, so good.
He’s lucky, particularly when he’s so often a son of a bitch and fool. He should remember
all that. He should call his mother now. Doesn’t want to budge. Just wants to sit
here remembering, digesting—something—the thoughts he just had about her. That he
loves her. That no matter what, he loves her. “Time for bed,” she says to their son.
“Oh, I don’t want to go yet,” the boy says. “Do what your mother tells you,” he says.
“Okay,” the boy says, “okay, but you don’t have to talk rough.” “I wasn’t. And please
clean up your puzzle. Nah, just forget it, it’s late and you’re going to bed; I’ll
do it.” He looks at her. She’s standing, her manuscripts are on the couch. Smiles
at her. She smiles at him, he smiles back. The boy gets up and heads for the stairs.
“Look,” he says to her, “he’s really going to bed without a fuss. What a kid.” “I’ll
run his bath,” she says, “you’ll tell him a story after?” “I don’t need anyone for
that,” the boy says. “I can fill my own tub—I know how much to—and I want to read
by myself before I go to sleep.” “You read?” the man says. “He reads?” to her. “Since
when? I don’t want him to. Soon I won’t be able to do anything for him. He’ll be brushing
his own hair, combing his own teeth.” “Daddy, you got those wrong. And I’ve been doing
them a long time.” “That’s what I’m saying,” he says. “Next you’ll be cooking your
own shoelaces, tying your own food. Go, go, don’t let me stop you, big man,” and blows
a kiss at him. He didn’t mean those first two to be switched around, but it turned
out to be a good joke.

The boy runs upstairs. He gets on the floor, puts the—what do you call them? isolated,
or incomplete, or unassembled or just-not-put-in-the-puzzle-yet—pieces in their box,
doesn’t know what to do with the partly completed puzzle, carefully slides it against
the wall. Hears water running in the tub, lots of padding back and forth on the ceiling.
“He’s growing up so much,” he says. “You haven’t noticed before?” she says. “Of course,
but the way he phrases things, and just now—no remonstrating.” He sits beside her.
“Mind?” “Go on.” Puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her to him. She looks at
him. “Yes?” “This is the life,” he says, “everything but the kid asleep.” “Yes, it’s
very nice,” and kisses his lips and goes back to reading. He continues looking at
her. Wants to say “You’re beautiful, you know; beautiful.” Takes his arm away, for
he feels it might be bothering her. She wants to concentrate. Good, she should. He
leans his head back on the couch, looks at the ceiling. I go upstairs, he thinks.
My son’s in bed reading. He smells washed, his room’s neat, he tidied it up without
anyone asking. “All done for now?” I say. He puts the book on the floor and says “Forty-six;
please remember the page for me?” “Will do. Goodnight, my sweet wonderful child,”
I say and kiss his lips, make sure the covers are over his shoulders. “Pillows all
comfortable?” and he says “You could get them right, I don’t mind.” I fix the pillows,
rest his head on them, turn the light off and go downstairs. “Like a beer or glass
of wine?” I say. “If you’ll share a bottle of beer with me,” she says. We do. “I’m
tired,” I say. “Let’s go to bed then,” she says. We do. I’m in bed, naked, clothes
piled beside me on the floor, glasses and book on my night table. She’s still in—she’s
sitting on the other side of the bed, taking her clothes off. She was just in the
bathroom a few minutes. “Dear,” I say. “Not to worry,” she says, “it’s all taken care
of. What’s on your mind’s on mine.” All her clothes are off. I breathe deeply to see
if I can smell her. I can: a little fresh cologne, cream she put in, something from
her underarms. Or mine. I smell one when she’s looking away. Nothing. “Can I shut
off the light?” I say. “Please, I’m finished.” I shut it off. She gets under the covers
with me. We hug, kiss, rub each other very hard. She grabs me and I grab her. Something
tells me it’s going to be one of the best for me.