Ordinary Life (9 page)

“You know what they say about women who look down when they talk about their marriage, don’t you?”

I looked up.

“You know what’s funny, Abby? I think you’re the one who needs refuge. Do you have a lover?”

“No.”

“You’ve never cheated on your husband?”

“
No!
”

“Ah. So you’ve thought about it.”

I said nothing.

He shook his head. “Too bad.”

“What about you, Richard? Do you think you had a perfect relationship?”

“You mean,
have
?”

I flushed, looked down again.

One day, talking about Laura, he said, “We do have a good thing. But I never tell her, ‘I love you.’ She always wants me to say it, but I don’t. He picked up her hairbrush, stroked the back of it. “I’ve never told that to any woman.”

“It’s not too late, you know,” I said.

He snorted.

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

He picked up his guitar, strummed it, then handed it to me. “You know how to play one of these?”

I nodded. “I used to love folk songs, I played all the time in college.”

“Do one for me.”

“Oh, God. I don’t know if I remember.”

“You will.”

He was right. The music came back to me. I sang him a couple of songs: “Great Silkie,” “Maid of Constant Sorrow.”

“My God,” he said. “You have a beautiful voice.”

I smiled, embarrassed.

“I mean it. I wish, when it was time, you’d sing to me.”

“Oh, well …”

“What’s the matter? Too tall an order?”

I shrugged. “No, it’s … I don’t know. What are you asking me, Richard?”

“I’m asking you to be here when I die.”

I said nothing.

“Can I call you?” He laughed. “I mean, can I have Laura call you?”

I saw the scene. Four-thirty
A.M
. The phone would ring. I would speak very quietly. Then I would get up, get dressed, drive over to stand beside Laura.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll come.”

“Okay.” He leaned back, smiled. “Aw, don’t worry about it. I won’t really tell her to call you. What good would
you
do?”

Sometimes he still did things like that.

On Sunday, Laura opened the door in a towel. “Excuse me,” she said, and vanished into the bathroom. Richard was lying naked in the bed, calm and satisfied looking. I couldn’t believe that the reason for it was what seemed to be the obvious, but it apparently was. But there was something else, too. I could feel him holding it in, waiting to tell me.

I looked at him, raised my eyebrows. “Well?”

“I feel so much better.”

I looked toward the bathroom, where I could hear Laura humming. “Good.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “That was nice, but it’s something else. I feel really good!”

I waited.

“I mean, nothing hurts. I think I feel like I used to.”

I cast about for what to say. I had no idea why this was happening, what it meant. Finally, I said, “That’s wonderful, Richard.”

“Do you think this means something?”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, impatient. “Does it
mean
something? Could I be getting better?” He chewed at his lip, his face full of hope.

“You mean, like, something reversing?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at him for a long moment. I heard the ticking of his bedside clock. It was heart shaped, pink, covered with rhinestones. A joke, of course. And yet it lived beside his bed.

“I don’t know, Richard,” I finally said.

He leaned back. “I’m going to a Red Sox game this afternoon. I swear to God, I really am. Laura got us tickets. I’m going to sit out there in the bleachers with everybody else.” I saw him there, and then I saw an airplane passing over the stadium, all the passengers looking down and assuming that in the mass of humanity below them, everyone was fine. Everyone was only sitting in the sunshine, watching the ball game.

The next morning, I went out early for groceries. When I got home, the message light was blinking. It was Laura, her voice cold. “I think this is it. I wonder if you could come over as soon as you get this.”

I took off my coat, sat at my desk, and called her. When she answered, I said, “What’s going on?”

“He’s dying.”

“How do you know?”

She laughed.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“She came over. Richard was in a whole lot of pain. It started after we got home from the ball game. He did okay while we were there—he even ate a hot dog. But when we got home, all hell broke loose. He cranked up that pump and it didn’t help at all. So we called his doctor and she came over and gave him something else. He asked her to get it over with, to give him enough to kill him. She said she couldn’t do that, but that she could give him something that would put him to sleep, and he probably wouldn’t wake up. He took those pills, and he told me good-bye, but then he woke up again. And you know what he said? He said, “How come I’m not dead?” She sighed, and in it I heard her ironic smile. “I guess it wasn’t enough.” I heard Richard’s voice in the background, and Laura said, “The doctor had to leave—she said she’d put Richard in the hospital, but he wouldn’t go. I’m scared. Can you come?”

He was in the bedroom. The shades were pulled, the lamp lit. He was feverish, his lips dried and cracked. As soon as I came into the room, Laura left. “I’ll be back,” she said, but I wondered.

I sat at the edge of the bed. “Hey.”

He shrugged. “What the hell. I think I’m going to go to sleep for this. I’ve got some more pills. Maybe these will do it.”

I nodded. My throat ached.

“I did it.”

“What?”

“I told her. Laura.”

“Good.”

“Abby. I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you … I’d like you to take your hair down.”

I smiled. “Why?”

“I’d just like to see you with your hair down. I’ve had some thoughts. About you.”

“I know.”

“So … would you?”

I looked into his eyes. He reached out toward the clip that held my hair up and his hand brushed against my breast. I stood up, startled, then stepped back.

He looked away, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I—”

He held up his hand to stop me. “How long will this take? I’m so hot. It hurts so goddamn much. If I take some more of those sleeping pills, if I take what’s left, will I wake up?”

“I don’t think so.”

He nodded, his face calm and unlined. “I will, then. Go and get Laura, will you?”

Laura sat beside him until he fell asleep, then joined me in the living room. “I’m supposed to call the coroner, after,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And for … Thank you.”

I nodded, squeezed her hand.

She went back into the bedroom, and the next time she came out, she said simply, “He’s gone.” She sat down, her back straight, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. “God, bodies get cold so fast.” Her eyes were clear and dry. As were mine. We weren’t either one of us going to cry. No. I waited with her for the coroner, and then I went home. I made dinner, and when I sat with my family at the table to eat, how I tasted every bite! In my mind, I told Richard about it, the sweet-sour taste of the sauce on the meat loaf, the buttery smoothness of the potatoes, the nutty green taste of the beans. And the pie. A symphony of apples and cinnamon.

I wanted a break after Richard died. I used some frequent-flyer miles and made arrangements for a weekend visit to a girlfriend who lived in New York City. I’d have some fun, forget about things. Richard’s death was a tragedy but these things happened. You move on, and that is all.

My seat mate was an older man, going to visit his grandchildren. He asked me what I did for a living and when I told him, he said he’d just spent a long time taking care of his dying wife. He nearly glowed, talking about her. He said, “It’s odd, I know, but caring for her like that? In some ways, it was the best time we ever had. We were really
with
each other. And I can say this honestly: I did everything she asked me to, and even some things she didn’t ask me to do but that I could tell she wanted. It brings me peace, that I can say that. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said, “I do know.” And I told him that I’d cared for many dying people, and that I found it deeply rewarding, even joyful.

Yes.

I ate the snack, read some from the book I’d brought along. My seat mate fell asleep. His mouth was open slightly, and I saw his fists slowly unclench. His magazine slid to the floor, and I leaned over to pick it up. I saw that he’d been reading an article about whales, about their mournful, singing sounds. I thought about them, deep in the ocean below me. I looked out the window, but I couldn’t see the ocean, or anything else. There was only blackness, my face looking back at itself. And then, as though it were a tangible thing I could hold in my hands, I saw my regret at not doing everything Richard asked me to do. I put myself back in our last day together, in that moment of refusal. But this time:

I put down my bag, step out of my shoes. I let down my hair, feel it fall soft and fragrant onto my shoulders. I unzip my jeans, slide them off, pull my sweater over my head. I remove my underwear. Then I lie down beside him. I feel the heat of his fever before I touch his skin. I know his pain, and so I move him very gently toward me. I sing softly to him, stroke his temple, ease it all, ease it, until it is over
.

I envisioned this, and I realized that love comes in all forms, and is always about more than we can know. I saw that there are exquisite acts of tenderness lying latent in all of us, waiting only for our permission to come into being. I put the magazine into the seat pocket of the man beside me, and I turned to look into his sleeping face. Then I made a movement in the air between us. I started with my hands together, pulled them apart, and down, and then slowly back together. I saw that I had made a circle. A whole other world in which to do things right.

After she is sure the children are asleep, Ursula joins her husband in the family room. Jack is watching
Motor Week
and absentmindedly eating potato chips. He is somewhat overweight: his shirt gaps between the bottom buttons. When Ursula comes into the room, he pats the sofa cushion beside him, gestures toward the television. “They’re showing how to clean out clogged fuel injectors.”

Ursula sighs, a small sound, and sits down beside him. “Does anyone know you watch this?”

He shrugs. “Who cares?”

She closes the chip bag, puts it aside. “Jack? Could we turn this off?”

He turns toward her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just want to talk to you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says, his gaze returning to the screen. “Just let me see them review the new Chrysler. Then we can talk.”

Ursula rolls her eyes, gets up to go and sort the laundry. When
she met Jack in college and learned he was a physics major, she imagined long, complex, romantic discussions wherein Jack would explain the workings of the universe to her. Now, fifteen years later, he is a motorhead who views intimate conversation as being roughly equivalent to hernia repair. She kicks at the pile of underwear, separates it from the towels.

When she returns to the family room, the television set is off. She finds this encouraging. She sits on the sofa next to Jack, draws her feet up under her. Jack kisses her neck, runs his hand across her breasts.

“Don’t,” she says, pulling away. His easy passion infuriates her. He doesn’t know how to work up to things properly. You don’t just leap
into
things, she has tried to tell him. You
think
about what you’re doing before you do it. Then things have more
mean
ing. But Jack goes for the easy, the superficial. She regrets this for him, despairs of him ever learning what life offers when you dig down deep. He really should make an effort to know himself, she thinks. She pulls a magazine off the coffee table. “There’s a quiz in here I’d like you to take with me.”

“A quiz? About what?”

“About whether you’re happy or not. I’d really like us to take it together.” She opens the magazine to a dog-eared page. “ARE YOU
REALLY
HAPPY?” is written in large, boldfaced print at the top of the page. Then, in smaller print, “
Answer these ten questions and learn the truth!
”

“What’s going on, Ursula?” Jack says. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”

“No!” she says. “I just wanted us to take a little quiz together. It might be interesting. It might
show
us something.” She crosses her arms petulantly. “I’ve watched
Gus’s Garage
with
you
!”

“Fine,” he sighs.

She tosses her hair back, wets her lips, and reads aloud. “Number one. ‘Does your romantic partner satisfy your needs?’ ”

From down the hall, they hear a faint “Can I have a drink of water?”

Jack jumps up. “I’ll go.”

“Wait a minute,” she says. “Sometimes he says that in his sleep.” But in a few moments, they hear, “I want a
driiiinnnnk
!”