father’s shoulders looking at the extraordinary, the magnificent, the gorgeous Gem of Egypt, dwarfing all of mankind.
Howard had come into the bathroom with a candle. He had turned off the light and undressed and climbed into the tub, displacing so much water it rose to my chin. It seemed, just then, like a summer to rejoice in the heat. It was so good of him to think that a rumpus in the bathtub would be fun, so good of him to walk straight in, with a candle, and without saying a word, put his hand on my head, stroke my hair. I moved up to make room for him. It had been a dry spell, as I had told Theresa recently, and who was to blame the hungry farmwife if one quiet night she had pulled a can of store-bought whipped cream out of her bathrobe pocket and squirted some froth on the dairy farmer’s privates? Theresa and I had howled out on the porch, trading the secrets of our marriage beds. I hadn’t taken into consideration how cold the whipped cream would feel, and so I had been surprised when Howard ran squealing like a pig into the hallway. He had tried to be good humored but he couldn’t stand the thought of my spending money on a dairy product when I could skim our own cream off the milk pail.
I had so often been in awe of the luck which had led me to him yearsbefore in Ann Arbor, Michigan. That night in the tub I was thankful for Howard, thankful for the prospect of renewal. Although it was cramped in the deep but short bathtub on claws, although I was in danger of being impaled on the faucet at several points in the tumult, I was grateful, all the same.
I was sitting with my eyes shut, in the hospital lounge, remembering that night in the bathtub, when the elevator bell rang and Howard stepped out onto the newly washed floor. “How is she?” he asked, sitting down, putting his arm around me. I could hear his heart beating. I tried resting my cheek on the metal snap of his shirt pocket. Howard was the most potent man in Wisconsin. I had smelled him in my stupor from the lounge on the third floor when he was out in the parking lot, I was sure of it now.
“Her eyelids fluttered this afternoon,” I said. I had been alert then, coming up for air after a strenuous supplication. Dan had come from room 309 shouting for Theresa. It was possible, I thought, that Howard would make the miracle take place. The power of smell would bring Lizzy back into herself.
“What does it mean?” Howard asked.
I shook my head. I wanted to wake up to find Emma and Claire in the next room. I would scream at them for pulling each other’s hair, and we would resume our happy life. I would have recklessly given away anything to find that I had only slipped into another dimension, like Scrooge did every Christmas Eve. I was in a preview of the possible future and when I got back to earth and turned over several new leaves, all would be well. The fluttering eyelids might or might not be meaningless, according to the rumors that had circulated in the lounge.
I had admired Howard from the start because of his beauty and the way he stood back quietly, both observing and not judging, a remarkable combination, I had thought. He was everything my father wasn’t. He wept at movies, he loved auctions and thrift stores for their antiques, and he occasionally made a comment out of the blue that was killingly funny, well worth the wait. He knew about things: He knew how matches were made, what to do if a swarm of bees landed in a tree, how to bandage a wound, start a fire, make a candle, kill something for dinner. If he said hedid something twenty times or twice, or one thousand times, it was accurate. He didn’t ever stretch the truth or embellish. It was his code, to be scrupulously honest. I had thought there was no occasion to which he could not rise.
“Howard,” I whispered into his shirt snap. “What am I going to do?”
He rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven chin. “What happened?”
I tried to swallow but my tongue felt
Howard had come into the bathroom with a candle. He had turned off the light and undressed and climbed into the tub, displacing so much water it rose to my chin. It seemed, just then, like a summer to rejoice in the heat. It was so good of him to think that a rumpus in the bathtub would be fun, so good of him to walk straight in, with a candle, and without saying a word, put his hand on my head, stroke my hair. I moved up to make room for him. It had been a dry spell, as I had told Theresa recently, and who was to blame the hungry farmwife if one quiet night she had pulled a can of store-bought whipped cream out of her bathrobe pocket and squirted some froth on the dairy farmer’s privates? Theresa and I had howled out on the porch, trading the secrets of our marriage beds. I hadn’t taken into consideration how cold the whipped cream would feel, and so I had been surprised when Howard ran squealing like a pig into the hallway. He had tried to be good humored but he couldn’t stand the thought of my spending money on a dairy product when I could skim our own cream off the milk pail.
I had so often been in awe of the luck which had led me to him yearsbefore in Ann Arbor, Michigan. That night in the tub I was thankful for Howard, thankful for the prospect of renewal. Although it was cramped in the deep but short bathtub on claws, although I was in danger of being impaled on the faucet at several points in the tumult, I was grateful, all the same.
I was sitting with my eyes shut, in the hospital lounge, remembering that night in the bathtub, when the elevator bell rang and Howard stepped out onto the newly washed floor. “How is she?” he asked, sitting down, putting his arm around me. I could hear his heart beating. I tried resting my cheek on the metal snap of his shirt pocket. Howard was the most potent man in Wisconsin. I had smelled him in my stupor from the lounge on the third floor when he was out in the parking lot, I was sure of it now.
“Her eyelids fluttered this afternoon,” I said. I had been alert then, coming up for air after a strenuous supplication. Dan had come from room 309 shouting for Theresa. It was possible, I thought, that Howard would make the miracle take place. The power of smell would bring Lizzy back into herself.
“What does it mean?” Howard asked.
I shook my head. I wanted to wake up to find Emma and Claire in the next room. I would scream at them for pulling each other’s hair, and we would resume our happy life. I would have recklessly given away anything to find that I had only slipped into another dimension, like Scrooge did every Christmas Eve. I was in a preview of the possible future and when I got back to earth and turned over several new leaves, all would be well. The fluttering eyelids might or might not be meaningless, according to the rumors that had circulated in the lounge.
I had admired Howard from the start because of his beauty and the way he stood back quietly, both observing and not judging, a remarkable combination, I had thought. He was everything my father wasn’t. He wept at movies, he loved auctions and thrift stores for their antiques, and he occasionally made a comment out of the blue that was killingly funny, well worth the wait. He knew about things: He knew how matches were made, what to do if a swarm of bees landed in a tree, how to bandage a wound, start a fire, make a candle, kill something for dinner. If he said hedid something twenty times or twice, or one thousand times, it was accurate. He didn’t ever stretch the truth or embellish. It was his code, to be scrupulously honest. I had thought there was no occasion to which he could not rise.
“Howard,” I whispered into his shirt snap. “What am I going to do?”
He rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven chin. “What happened?”
I tried to swallow but my tongue felt
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