A Marriage Made at Woodstock by Cathie Pelletier

And then there was the night she’d not come home at all, calling instead to say that she and Cindy Huggins would be up until dawn designing a poster for the Planet Earth exhibit, so she might as well hole up in Cindy’s spare bedroom. Another time, she’d spent the night with Amy Lentz, when that quick, heavy snowfall had caught her unawares on the other side of town.
    â€œIn control, in control, in control,” Frederick repeated the mantra. But each time he was about to float off to sleep, that vague feeling overtook him, that voice from his subconscious, that finger poking out into his conscious world.
    It was just past midnight when he heard Chandra’s little Toyota rumble into the yard. He needed to take it to the local garage soon to get that muffler fixed. He listened as her car door slammed and then, silence. He knew she was out there in the driveway, staring up at the stars, looking for planets, as she always did on starry nights. And it was a starry night. Frederick had gone out to his own car at ten o’clock and sat in it for a few minutes. He’d planned to drive rapidly past Panama Red’s, hoping for a quick glimpse in the window, in among the Boston ferns and dimly lit bulbs. Feeling foolish, he’d gotten out of the car and stood for a few minutes looking up at Chandra’s stars. He would tell her about this, and they would share a laugh. And then, maybe then, he could sleep. The IRS demanded that those payroll taxes be deposited in the bank tomorrow, and Frederick didn’t relish facing the task with stinging eyes.
    â€œHey,” he shouted when he heard her coming up the stairs. “Is it a burglar? Or is it a reformed Joseph Peters bringing back my apple?”
    She stopped in the doorway, a silhouette there in the soft glow of the clock and the rosy blush from the night-light in the bathroom. “I’m exhausted,” she said.
    â€œBut the seminar went okay?”
    â€œFine.” He saw her lift up a hand and run it through her hair. Then she left the hand there, her arm arced, as though she carried a water pitcher on her head, something to be balanced. He remembered the first time he’d ever seen her do it, at Woodstock the night they’d met. There had been a fine drizzle coming down and her hair was sparkling with raindrops as she ran her fingers through it, then just let the hand rest there, as though she’d forgotten about it. It reminded him of an Ezra Pound poem he’d read in college, just a month earlier. Dark-eyed, O woman of my dreams, Ivory sandaled, There is none like thee among the dancers, None with swift feet. Those were the same feet that now had blisters from boycotting milk-fed veal. He felt a surge of love rise up in him.
    â€œYou know what?” he asked, and saw the silhouette of arm undo itself. She put a hand on her hip and waited.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI got jealous tonight for the first time in almost twenty years,” Frederick said. “Can you believe that?” Chandra said nothing. “I even went out to my car with the intentions of checking up on you,” he added. “Can you believe that?” He forced a laugh. He had always prided himself on his self-honesty. Still, she said nothing. The silence grew like a little pond between them, broken only by the bluish-green splash of the clock. He wished that he could see her face. He pulled himself up to a sitting position in the bed. “I even wondered if you and this Robbie, this surfer muscleman, had a little thing going. Can you imagine?” His laugh was now too nervous, too telling. He waited for a response, but none came. Chandra went on standing in the doorway, in the semidarkness, the outline of his wife, the woman he knew so well. Sure, they’d drifted apart somewhat and, yes, he did spend an inordinate amount of time with his computer. But twenty years means something. He and Chandra had this special relationship. At