suddenly begin talking like this at odd moments, heâd never gotten used to it. Usually she didnât talk like that. Strangers talked like that, but not his wife. He just couldnât understand it. Sometimes he caught her bullying the butcher or fighting with the vegetable
man, and he couldnât understand that, either. It was as though another person inhabited a little room in his wifeâs mind, the Hyde lurking in the Jekyll, marching forth at certain moments to take command of the situation. It always made him worry. Sometimes he felt that he didnât know his wife at all, or at least not much of her. Sometimes he had the feeling that the person he knew and loved in the evenings and on weekends was nothing but a cunning impersonation, speaking in his dialect, acting out a charade of mildness and happy marriage, and that the occasionally glimpsed person with the news vendorâs voice was the real one. It bothered him how easy it would be to manage itâthey were together for only a few hours of their lives, not counting the times one or the other of them was asleep. Was she somebody else the rest of the time, punching computer keys and chewing gum and winking at the office boy with her legs crossed? What really disturbed him more than anything was the feeling he had that the personality he imagined for her, though crude and devious to an incredible degree, was in a strange way more complex and plausible than the one she really seemed to have, at least most of the time.
Actually, Lowell knew that all of this was pretty paranoid and ridiculous, and normally he didnât give it a second thought once the bad moment was over. Their days went on, one piece of string tied to another, and until Lowell woke up that horrible morning soon after his birthday, it seldom crossed his mind that his little fantasies might be trying to tell him something, and not necessarily about his wife. If it did chance to cross his mind, that is exactly what it did: it came in one side and went out the other, leaving a chill little wake that was soon covered over.
Lowell tried hard to be a dutiful son-in-law, and his mother-in-law tried equally hard never to speak a word to him. If he happened to answer the phone when she called, she asked him if her daughter was there; if she was, she said, âPut her on,â and if she wasnât, she said, âIâll call back,â and hung up. Lowell was always very civil to her.
Part of being civilâthe major and most difficult part, rather like eating a boiled sheepâs eye with good grace and a tactful smileâconsisted of twice-yearly appearances in his in-lawsâ living room, although never close to mealtime. He had the idea that he wasnât kosher or something, and exactly what purpose these dinnerless, tense, and arid visits accomplished was vague. It seemed that once every six months his mother-in-law wanted to look at his fingernails and his father-in-law wanted to talk to him about Negroes, and he dutifully trundled himself out to Flatbush so that they could do it.
Everything in their apartment seemed to be either made of plastic or covered with plastic. Even some of the things that were made of plastic were covered with plastic, such as the vases of plastic flowers that were encased in polyethylene bags and tied with big faded ribbons. There was actually very little furniture, and it was arranged like a kind of exhibit: everything faced in the direction of an imaginary observer and had been placed far apart for better viewing, which made conversation difficult without a lot of swiveling around and loud talking. The transparent plastic slipcovers made this exceedingly difficult to do. They also made it exceedingly difficult to sit still. They were cold in the winter and clammy in the summer and hard to get a purchase on no matter what the weather was like, so that some part of you always felt like it was about to slither off onto the floor, even
man, and he couldnât understand that, either. It was as though another person inhabited a little room in his wifeâs mind, the Hyde lurking in the Jekyll, marching forth at certain moments to take command of the situation. It always made him worry. Sometimes he felt that he didnât know his wife at all, or at least not much of her. Sometimes he had the feeling that the person he knew and loved in the evenings and on weekends was nothing but a cunning impersonation, speaking in his dialect, acting out a charade of mildness and happy marriage, and that the occasionally glimpsed person with the news vendorâs voice was the real one. It bothered him how easy it would be to manage itâthey were together for only a few hours of their lives, not counting the times one or the other of them was asleep. Was she somebody else the rest of the time, punching computer keys and chewing gum and winking at the office boy with her legs crossed? What really disturbed him more than anything was the feeling he had that the personality he imagined for her, though crude and devious to an incredible degree, was in a strange way more complex and plausible than the one she really seemed to have, at least most of the time.
Actually, Lowell knew that all of this was pretty paranoid and ridiculous, and normally he didnât give it a second thought once the bad moment was over. Their days went on, one piece of string tied to another, and until Lowell woke up that horrible morning soon after his birthday, it seldom crossed his mind that his little fantasies might be trying to tell him something, and not necessarily about his wife. If it did chance to cross his mind, that is exactly what it did: it came in one side and went out the other, leaving a chill little wake that was soon covered over.
Lowell tried hard to be a dutiful son-in-law, and his mother-in-law tried equally hard never to speak a word to him. If he happened to answer the phone when she called, she asked him if her daughter was there; if she was, she said, âPut her on,â and if she wasnât, she said, âIâll call back,â and hung up. Lowell was always very civil to her.
Part of being civilâthe major and most difficult part, rather like eating a boiled sheepâs eye with good grace and a tactful smileâconsisted of twice-yearly appearances in his in-lawsâ living room, although never close to mealtime. He had the idea that he wasnât kosher or something, and exactly what purpose these dinnerless, tense, and arid visits accomplished was vague. It seemed that once every six months his mother-in-law wanted to look at his fingernails and his father-in-law wanted to talk to him about Negroes, and he dutifully trundled himself out to Flatbush so that they could do it.
Everything in their apartment seemed to be either made of plastic or covered with plastic. Even some of the things that were made of plastic were covered with plastic, such as the vases of plastic flowers that were encased in polyethylene bags and tied with big faded ribbons. There was actually very little furniture, and it was arranged like a kind of exhibit: everything faced in the direction of an imaginary observer and had been placed far apart for better viewing, which made conversation difficult without a lot of swiveling around and loud talking. The transparent plastic slipcovers made this exceedingly difficult to do. They also made it exceedingly difficult to sit still. They were cold in the winter and clammy in the summer and hard to get a purchase on no matter what the weather was like, so that some part of you always felt like it was about to slither off onto the floor, even
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