The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (74 page)

He says, “Well, you don't see
me
doing it, do you?”

I had to laugh at him; I says, “Listen, brother, don't kid yourself.” I says, “You'd do it quick enough, if you had the money.”

“
ONE THING YOU
might do while I'm gone,” Jean said, “is rinse out those new teacups. Did you hear me, Bill?”

Her husband looked up from a magazine. “Sure I heard you. Wash the teacups.” And he could tell by the shape of her shoulders and back as she bent to zip up little Mike's jacket that this was one of her days for feeling overworked and unappreciated. “Anything else you want me to do?” he asked.

She straightened up and turned around, sweeping back her hair with a tired hand. “Oh, no, I don't think so, Bill. You just—rest, or whatever it is you're doing.”

“Park!” Mike demanded. “Park, park!”

“Yes darling, we're
going
to the park. Now, let's see,” she said vaguely, “have I got everything? Keys, money, grocery list . . . yes. All right, then, come on, Mike. Say ‘Bye-bye Daddy.'”

“Bye-bye Daddy,” the little boy said, and she led him out of the apartment and slammed the door.

Bill settled back on the couch and picked up the magazine again, but the rankling memory of her words made it impossible to read. “Rest, or whatever it is you're doing.” And just what did she
expect
him to be doing, two weeks out of the hospital? He was on doctor's
orders
to rest, wasn't he? Angrily he shut the magazine and flipped it toward the coffee table. It missed and splayed out on the rug, calling his attention to a number of cigarette ashes—his—that had fallen there too. Well, maybe she
was
overworked, but what did she expect? She was pretty lucky not to be a widow, wasn't she, after an operation like that? Using the magazine as a dustpan he scraped up most of the ashes and dropped them in an ashtray, and then rubbed the remnants into the carpet with his slipper. It wasn't until he went to the kitchen for a glass of milk (he was on doctor's orders to drink a lot of milk too) that he remembered about the teacups. She had lined them up on the side of the sink for washing—four plain little cups and saucers that she'd brought home the night before. “I couldn't resist them, Bill,” she'd said, “and we do
need
new cups. You don't think it was terribly extravagant, do you?” He smiled as he lathered up the sink brush. This was her idea of a big extravagance now—four cups—when last year she'd have put them on the charge account without even thinking about it. A long illness certainly did change your attitude about money. But in another month he'd be on his feet again, bringing home a man-sized check every payday, and
then
she could begin to relax. They could do the kind of things they'd almost forgotten about—buy clothes they didn't need and go to the theater and throw parties and stay up late when they felt like it. Then maybe she'd get over this dreary business of watching every nickel. Then maybe she'd— Suddenly there was a sharp noise and a little mess of broken china in the sink. It was all over so fast that it took him a full minute, standing there with trembling hands, to figure out what had happened. The porcelain soap dish had given way under his brush, dropped from the wall and smashed, breaking the cup and saucer he'd just washed. He picked up the broken soap dish and scrutinized the place on the wall from which it had fallen, and his first consecutive thought was, Well it certainly wasn't
my
fault. The stupid thing had been hanging there by two little rusty hooks—almost any pressure would have broken it, and the remarkable thing was that it hadn't broken long ago. It certainly wasn't
my
fault, he told himself again. He gathered all the pieces and put them in the garbage. Then very carefully he washed the other cups and saucers, dried them and put them away. But his hands were still trembling as he hung up the dish towel, and his knees were weak when he went back into the living room. He sat down and lit a cigarette, turning the defiant little phrase over and over in his mind—wasn't
my
fault, wasn't
my
fault—with less and less conviction. Things like this had been happening nearly every day since he came home from the hospital. First there had been the discovery that he'd left his silver fountain pen behind, in the locker beside his hospital bed, and Jean had to make a special trip back to get it from the nurses. Then on the second or third day, when he'd insisted on helping with the housework, he had shaken the dust mop out the window so hard that the head of the thing fell off, five stories down into the courtyard, and left him absurdly shaking the naked stick over the windowsill. And there was the time he'd let the bathroom sink overflow, and the time he'd split the side of Mike's wagon wide open trying to nail the wheel back in place, and the terrible morning when he'd not only cut his thumb on the unwinding strip of a coffee can but spilled the coffee all over the floor. At first Jean had laughed about it (“Poor darling, you're just out of
touch
with things, aren't you?”) but lately her reactions had alternated between elaborate kindliness and tight-lipped silence, and he didn't know which was worse. How, exactly, could he tell her about this? A pleasant little apology was out of the question; he absolutely could not say “Sorry, darling, I broke one of the cups,” and expect to retain a shred of dignity. But what else was there to say?

Sweat prickled his scalp, and his fingers drummed convulsively on the table. He stamped out his cigarette decisively, smoothed his hair and forced himself to sit back and relax. You could drive yourself crazy taking little things so hard; he would have to pull himself together. The soap dish hadn't been fastened securely, it could have happened to anybody, and there was nothing to apologize for. And there was certainly no point in trying to tell her about it all at once, the minute she came in. Obviously, the only way was to let her discover it herself, and then give her the explanation sensibly and calmly, when she asked for it. He pictured the scene.

She would come in with her load of groceries, and Mike would probably be whimpering. He'd get up from the couch to take the bundles from her, of course, but she'd say, “No, that's all right, Bill. You sit still. Mike, stop that, now.” He would try to take the bundles anyway, and she'd say, “No, Bill, don't be silly. Do you want to get sick again?” So he would sit down and watch her go into the kitchen with Mike tagging along. She might discover it right away, but more likely she'd be too busy at first. It wouldn't happen until after she'd gotten the food put away and Mike attended to, perhaps not until she'd started to make lunch. Then there would be an abrupt silence from the kitchen, and he would hear her polite, questioning voice: “Bill?”

“Yes, honey?”

“What happened to the soap dish?”

“It wasn't put up properly.”

“It wasn't
what
?”

“Well, I can't shout,” he would say, with dignity. “You'll have to come in if you want to hear me.” And when she came to the kitchen door, with her expression of sorely tried patience, he would say, judiciously, “The soap dish wasn't put up properly, Jean. Didn't you ever notice that before? I don't see how you could've
helped
noticing it. There were only these two little rusty hooks, and—”

“You mean you broke it?”

“
No
, I didn't break it. I mean it wasn't my
fault.
Now look, do you want to hear what happened or don't you?”

She would sigh, perhaps even roll her eyes and then sit down with a great display of attention. “Well,” he would begin, “I was washing the cups, you see, and when I lathered up the brush—just using the soap dish the way it's intended to be used—these two little rusty hooks gave way and the whole thing fell into the sink. And there was this cup and saucer that I'd just finished washing, you see, and—”

“Oh, no,” she would say, closing her eyes. “Bill, did you break one of the new cups too?”

“
I
didn't break it! It was an accident, don't you understand? I didn't break it any more than you did!”

“Don't shout!”

“I'm
not
shouting!” And by that time Mike would probably be in tears again.

Bill sprang from the couch and stalked the floor, wrenching the sash of his bathrobe into angry knots. That would be exactly the
wrong
way to go about it. Why did he always play the fool? Why should he always set himself up for little humiliations like this? Oh, and she'd love every minute of it, wouldn't she, with that endless act she put on about bearing her burden with a smile. He'd had just about as much of that as he could take—that and all her little wisecracks about “resting.” It was time she found out once and for all who
did
wear the pants in this family, bathrobe or no bathrobe.

Suddenly he stopped, breathless, poised on the brink of a new idea. With a grin he tore off the robe and strode into the bathroom to shave. At first, the idea was only a reckless blur in his mind, but in the slow process of shaving he developed it into an orderly, perfect plan of action. When he had finished shaving he would get fully dressed, in real clothes, and leave the apartment. She couldn't be back for another hour, and that gave him plenty of time. He'd take a taxi to the store where she'd bought the cups (luckily he knew which store it was) and buy a cup and saucer to replace the broken ones. Then he'd buy a soap dish with a decent, sturdy wall attachment, and on the way home he'd pick up a dozen long-stemmed roses—and a bottle of wine. He smiled as the extra idea of the wine leaped into his mind. That would be perfect—a bottle of really good wine, maybe even champagne, to celebrate. Then he would hurry home in time to get everything set, and this was how it would happen.

She would come in tired, loaded down with groceries, with Mike bawling and pulling at her skirt. “Mike,
stop
that!” she'd say, and as she bent to detach him from her legs a couple of grapefruit would probably topple from an overstuffed paper bag. “Oh—” she'd say, but before she could say anything else the load of bundles would be swept out of her arms, the rolling grapefruit snatched from the floor. “Bill!” she'd say, aghast, “what're you
doing
?”

“That should be obvious,” he would say smiling, perhaps even bowing, controlling all the bundles in one arm while he pulled Mike off her with the other. “Won't you come in?” Then he would turn to Mike. “Go to your room, son, and cut out that sniveling. I won't have it.” The boy's eyes would widen with respect as he sidled off toward his room. “Hurry up!” Bill would command, and Mike would disappear. “Now,” he would say to his wife, “will you excuse me a moment, darling? Just make yourself comfortable.”

“But Bill, you're
dressed
.”

He would stop on his way to the kitchen, turn, and make another little bow. “Obviously.” He'd stay in the kitchen only a second, just long enough to put the bundles down, and then he'd return, wheeling the tea cart on which he would have previously arranged the box of roses, the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket, two stemmed glasses and perhaps a little dish of salted nuts.

“Bill,” she would say, “have you gone out of your
mind
?”

“On the contrary, darling.” He would laugh softly. “One might almost say I've regained my sanity. Oh, here—these are for you.” And when he had her sitting on the couch with the roses in her lap and a glass in her hand, he would dry the bottle with a flourish, pop the cork and serve it up. “Now,” he would say. “May I propose a toast? To the noble memory of your courage and sacrifice throughout my illness; to the celebration of my complete recovery, which occurred today; and to the continuation of my excellent health”— here he would smile winningly— “and yours.”

But before she drank she would certainly say, with fear in her voice: “Bill, how much did all this
cost
?”

“Cost?” he'd say. “Cost? Don't be absurd, darling. All that's over now. Drink!”

Exultant, he gave the razor a final sweep across his cheek and cut himself badly, just above the lip. His thoughts were interrupted by the business of washing the soap away and fixing a piece of tissue on the wound, and by the time he returned to the plan it had lost much of its luster. He persisted doggedly anyway, like a man trying to return to sleep for the completion of a dream.

“I'll explain it all from the beginning,” he would tell her, “but not until you drink some of this.”

Stunned, suspicious, she would take a tiny sip.

“Now. When you left here this morning, darling, I became very fed up with this stupid convalescence of mine—this ‘resting,' as you chose so appropriately to call it. So fed up, in fact, that I got clumsy, and the very first thing I did was break one of your new cups. Yes! Smashed it to pieces, and I wouldn't blame you a bit if you're angry. But listen. Breaking that cup had a remarkable, therapeutic effect on me. Made me realize all at once that if I went on much longer that way I'd
really
be sick. Yes, and you'd be plenty sick too, of living with a man like that. So I decided to declare the whole thing over and done with, as of today. Go back to work and everything. And right away I began to feel like a million dollars. Never been so well in my life. Drink!”

“Now wait a minute,” she would say. “Just try to calm down and let me—”

“I
am
calmed down.”

“All right. Just let me get this straight. You broke a cup and so you steamed out of here and bought all these crazy things—spent more money than I've spent on food in the past two weeks. Right?”