taking such risks in a dangerous job? That I don’t respect his physical strength and leadership skills? Of course I support him.
“Don’t you trust me?” Jack looks at me. He’s thrown a lot of questions around, but I can see that he’d like an answer to this one.
“Of course I trust you.” I blurt this out instead of saying it like I mean it. Do I mean it? Do I trust him?
“Do you think I’m going to get another job?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’m worried about my life too. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for something to happen. I’m out there making it happen.”
“I never said you wouldn’t.”
“You said
you’d
work extra hours. As if this were about money. Do you know how that made me feel?”
“It should make you feel like you’ve got a wife you can count on.”
“I know that. That’s not what I’m talking about. Ave, I have my pride. Okay? I thought we were partners. I thought that you understood me, that you knew that whatever comes, I would find a way for us to get through it. Instead, you make me feel like I’m expendable. You don’t need me around here if you’re gonna do everything yourself. Why are we married if you’re gonna handle everything alone?”
“I don’t want to handle everything alone!” I feel my marriage sliding off this mountain like a loose rock, with me flailing after, trying to catch it and make it secure.
“You aren’t the man in the family.” Jack Mac gets up to go back into the house. I grab his ankle, then pull myself up and put my arms around him.
“I’m sorry. These worries overtake me sometimes. I still think I have to do everything myself.” This revelation comes from the deepest part of me, and my husband knows it. He knows how hard it is for me to let go.
I
know how hard it is for me, but then why do I keep making the same mistakes? Why do I push him away when I need him? I feel my husband’s heartbeat slow from an angry pounding to a sweet, steady rhythm. His arms encircle me tenderly. His great shoulders protect me from the cold; I melt into him in a way that I haven’t in a very long time.
“I believe in you,” I tell my husband, meaning it with every cell in my body.
“I hope so, Ave.”
“No. No. I do. Here. Come on. Sit. Tell me your plans.” I pull Jack down onto the step and put my arms around him. My husband’s face is bathed in the golden haze of the lamplight from the living room window. I see the same expression I saw in the kitchen earlier. He is excited, hopeful, full of new ideas, solutions, even.
“Rick and Mousey want to start a construction company. The threeof us. We think there’s going to be a lot of development in the area. There’s talk of that prison being built, and that means a new highway coming through, and that’ll create a need for additional housing. We thought we’d be the first to get in on it.”
“Great idea. You’re terrific with woodworking.”
“Yeah, and Mousey knows electrics and plumbing.”
“Is Rick going to quit his job at the car dealership?”
“He thinks he can do both. Until we get busy enough that he can quit.”
“Okay. This is great! When do you start?”
My husband pulls me close and kisses me a hundred times, quickly and sweetly and gratefully. This is what I love the most about being married: sometimes, even after eight years, we feel new, like there’s a surprise in the familiar that I wasn’t counting on; the passion comes back, sneaks up on you. You gear yourself up for what might be a doozy of a fight and reach an understanding instead; instead of jabbing at each other, you kiss. And you learn to take advantage of a moment like this, because it comes and goes and may not return for a very long time.
The moonlight blankets the porch. We lean into the pale blue, and in it I see my husband’s face clearly. Every detail. The strong, straight nose, the perfectly matched lips, and the hazel eyes that can show hurt and love in the same moment. We
“Don’t you trust me?” Jack looks at me. He’s thrown a lot of questions around, but I can see that he’d like an answer to this one.
“Of course I trust you.” I blurt this out instead of saying it like I mean it. Do I mean it? Do I trust him?
“Do you think I’m going to get another job?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’m worried about my life too. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for something to happen. I’m out there making it happen.”
“I never said you wouldn’t.”
“You said
you’d
work extra hours. As if this were about money. Do you know how that made me feel?”
“It should make you feel like you’ve got a wife you can count on.”
“I know that. That’s not what I’m talking about. Ave, I have my pride. Okay? I thought we were partners. I thought that you understood me, that you knew that whatever comes, I would find a way for us to get through it. Instead, you make me feel like I’m expendable. You don’t need me around here if you’re gonna do everything yourself. Why are we married if you’re gonna handle everything alone?”
“I don’t want to handle everything alone!” I feel my marriage sliding off this mountain like a loose rock, with me flailing after, trying to catch it and make it secure.
“You aren’t the man in the family.” Jack Mac gets up to go back into the house. I grab his ankle, then pull myself up and put my arms around him.
“I’m sorry. These worries overtake me sometimes. I still think I have to do everything myself.” This revelation comes from the deepest part of me, and my husband knows it. He knows how hard it is for me to let go.
I
know how hard it is for me, but then why do I keep making the same mistakes? Why do I push him away when I need him? I feel my husband’s heartbeat slow from an angry pounding to a sweet, steady rhythm. His arms encircle me tenderly. His great shoulders protect me from the cold; I melt into him in a way that I haven’t in a very long time.
“I believe in you,” I tell my husband, meaning it with every cell in my body.
“I hope so, Ave.”
“No. No. I do. Here. Come on. Sit. Tell me your plans.” I pull Jack down onto the step and put my arms around him. My husband’s face is bathed in the golden haze of the lamplight from the living room window. I see the same expression I saw in the kitchen earlier. He is excited, hopeful, full of new ideas, solutions, even.
“Rick and Mousey want to start a construction company. The threeof us. We think there’s going to be a lot of development in the area. There’s talk of that prison being built, and that means a new highway coming through, and that’ll create a need for additional housing. We thought we’d be the first to get in on it.”
“Great idea. You’re terrific with woodworking.”
“Yeah, and Mousey knows electrics and plumbing.”
“Is Rick going to quit his job at the car dealership?”
“He thinks he can do both. Until we get busy enough that he can quit.”
“Okay. This is great! When do you start?”
My husband pulls me close and kisses me a hundred times, quickly and sweetly and gratefully. This is what I love the most about being married: sometimes, even after eight years, we feel new, like there’s a surprise in the familiar that I wasn’t counting on; the passion comes back, sneaks up on you. You gear yourself up for what might be a doozy of a fight and reach an understanding instead; instead of jabbing at each other, you kiss. And you learn to take advantage of a moment like this, because it comes and goes and may not return for a very long time.
The moonlight blankets the porch. We lean into the pale blue, and in it I see my husband’s face clearly. Every detail. The strong, straight nose, the perfectly matched lips, and the hazel eyes that can show hurt and love in the same moment. We
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