part in their lives, naturally, but it was not a compulsion. Carl wasn’t a man to insist on his connubial rights, he had never asked for submission. But as a doctor he regarded sex as not only pleasurable but therapeutic as well, essential for one’s well-being, the best exercise there was, and fine for the plumbing, not to mention its salutary effect on soma and psyche.
It was not passion, it was exercise. No matter. His body was dear to her, a familiar body that was always a comfort, that was there, together with hers and had been together in good times and bad. One of her aunts had said once, shortly after her husband died, “I loved going to bed with your uncle. I don’t mean for sex. Chrissie. That is, not just sex and certainly not always sex. Just having him lie close to me. I don’t know. I felt, somehow, like a pioneer wife. As if we had crossed the plains, under great duress and with terrible hardships, and had conquered the hardships. It seems so wrong that he should have been taken from me. I feel, you know, as if a terrible mistake had been made. As if it weren’t supposed to be that way, that there was a grievous error of some kind, and now it can’t be undone.”
Of course her aunt and uncle, like her own mother and father, had slept in a double bed, whereas she and Carl had single beds. It must be so sad and wrenching to reach out to the other pillow and find it empty.
But then, she reflected, it must be just as hard to turn over and see that empty, single bed beside your own.
Why was she thinking about death?
Why not, it would happen some time.
Upset with her train of thought, she got up and went to the kitchen, made some coffee. She now wished that the others would come home, wished that laughing voices would conquer the quietness, vanquish the somnolence of the hours that were passing without event.
When she went inside again with the tray with coffee urn and mugs Carl was asleep, his head back against the chair and his mouth slightly open. Soon he would start to snore.
She wasn’t annoyed. Why shouldn’t he be fagged out? He worked his butt off and he merited a weekend’s relaxation. She was, however, unwilling to drowse along with him, the two of them sitting there together, like Buddhas in their chairs, Darby and Joan. She felt like doing something and she did. She scanned the theater section, found an Italian flick playing at the Plaza. She left a note: she would be back at around five.
Then she left the house, flagged down a taxi on the street and got to the Plaza in plenty of time to catch the next showing. It was an engaging little film, with a charmingly aging Marcello Mastroianni. She enjoyed it very much and wished, when she left the theater, that she could go to some simple place for dinner and a drink, which she would very much like to do.
She thought of Clover, who could do things like that. No dependents. A man she loved but not someone she was conventionally yoked to. And no children for whom she was responsible. With a kind of startled astonishment, Christine Jennings thought — and truly for the very first time — I should never have married. I should never have had children. They ate you. Little bites over the years, like predators, or parasites, feeding on a host.
But when she let herself into the house she was heralded with welcoming cries. Carl had made a pitcher of drinks, Old Fashioneds. Nancy had prepared a tray of hors d’oeuvres. They sat her down and waited on her. Carl looked refreshed after his nap. Nancy and Bruce plopped down on the sofa beside her, Rodney sprawled on the floor at her feet. The sun, the late day sun, made a glory of the room. They asked about the film she had seen, and said they themselves had walked their feet off.
“We’re going to the Copenhagen for dinner,” Nancy said, glowing. “No cooking, no cleaning up. Isn’t that nice?”
Okay, so they took something away from you, children always did, it was more or less nature’s
It was not passion, it was exercise. No matter. His body was dear to her, a familiar body that was always a comfort, that was there, together with hers and had been together in good times and bad. One of her aunts had said once, shortly after her husband died, “I loved going to bed with your uncle. I don’t mean for sex. Chrissie. That is, not just sex and certainly not always sex. Just having him lie close to me. I don’t know. I felt, somehow, like a pioneer wife. As if we had crossed the plains, under great duress and with terrible hardships, and had conquered the hardships. It seems so wrong that he should have been taken from me. I feel, you know, as if a terrible mistake had been made. As if it weren’t supposed to be that way, that there was a grievous error of some kind, and now it can’t be undone.”
Of course her aunt and uncle, like her own mother and father, had slept in a double bed, whereas she and Carl had single beds. It must be so sad and wrenching to reach out to the other pillow and find it empty.
But then, she reflected, it must be just as hard to turn over and see that empty, single bed beside your own.
Why was she thinking about death?
Why not, it would happen some time.
Upset with her train of thought, she got up and went to the kitchen, made some coffee. She now wished that the others would come home, wished that laughing voices would conquer the quietness, vanquish the somnolence of the hours that were passing without event.
When she went inside again with the tray with coffee urn and mugs Carl was asleep, his head back against the chair and his mouth slightly open. Soon he would start to snore.
She wasn’t annoyed. Why shouldn’t he be fagged out? He worked his butt off and he merited a weekend’s relaxation. She was, however, unwilling to drowse along with him, the two of them sitting there together, like Buddhas in their chairs, Darby and Joan. She felt like doing something and she did. She scanned the theater section, found an Italian flick playing at the Plaza. She left a note: she would be back at around five.
Then she left the house, flagged down a taxi on the street and got to the Plaza in plenty of time to catch the next showing. It was an engaging little film, with a charmingly aging Marcello Mastroianni. She enjoyed it very much and wished, when she left the theater, that she could go to some simple place for dinner and a drink, which she would very much like to do.
She thought of Clover, who could do things like that. No dependents. A man she loved but not someone she was conventionally yoked to. And no children for whom she was responsible. With a kind of startled astonishment, Christine Jennings thought — and truly for the very first time — I should never have married. I should never have had children. They ate you. Little bites over the years, like predators, or parasites, feeding on a host.
But when she let herself into the house she was heralded with welcoming cries. Carl had made a pitcher of drinks, Old Fashioneds. Nancy had prepared a tray of hors d’oeuvres. They sat her down and waited on her. Carl looked refreshed after his nap. Nancy and Bruce plopped down on the sofa beside her, Rodney sprawled on the floor at her feet. The sun, the late day sun, made a glory of the room. They asked about the film she had seen, and said they themselves had walked their feet off.
“We’re going to the Copenhagen for dinner,” Nancy said, glowing. “No cooking, no cleaning up. Isn’t that nice?”
Okay, so they took something away from you, children always did, it was more or less nature’s
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