problem?”
“Well,” said Ruth, sliding back into a prone position. Ben could feel her agitation diminishing. “Well, there
is
a little bit of sexual jealousy, but it's not really personal. I'm sorry.” She rested a hand on Ben's chest. He took it and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she said again.
She went on. “It's a whole swirl of things. It's more envy than jealousy. It's her youth and her fame and my age and my non-fame. But even that's not quite it. It's that thing of the world being divided …”
Ben knew this theory well. Ruth divided the world into those able to work their will on others and those on whom the will of others was worked. She placed herself in the second group and moved Ben from one to the other depending on her mood. He had repeatedly pointed out to her that these categories were both overly broad and needlessly restrictive, that this distinction lacked explanatory usefulness and served only to justify her fatalistic passivity. Tonight it seemed best to let it go.
“And I can't help resenting how far she's gotten on how little actual talent. If you saw her books you'd be amazed. They're artful, in their own way, but they're so arch and so manipulative—
“Have you read them? I haven't seen them around.”
“I've seen them. I've looked through them in bookstores.”
“You know what you need to do, Ruth.”
“I know. Get back to writing.” Her intonation was singsong. This was not the first time they'd had this conversation.
Ben drew a deep breath. He'd memorized this litany. “You're a writer, Ruth. Isaac's gone. You gave the faculty-wife busywork thing a try. You need to be writing. There's nothing stopping you. There's been nothing to stop you for years.”
His exhortation was having no effect, he could see, or rather it was having only a soothing effect. She had heard it so many times that now she found it reassuring; she engineered their conversations to solicit it. That was all to the good, he supposed. Twenty years ago, the arrival of Ricia Spottiswoode and Charles Johnswould have been the occasion of a giant fight, one of those ruinous all-nighters that woke Isaac and continued even when they heard him shrieking in his crib. As their marriage aged, the spiky line of argument running through it had become an undulating path of theme. They had simply moved beyond the possibility of resolution to find that their marriage had endured.
“Oh,” said Ruth, “I almost forgot. There was a message from Martinez on the machine.” Eusebio Martinez was Isaac's therapist.
Ben made an acknowledging noise. Ruth was lying on her back, one hand resting on his upturned wrist. Her breathing had grown regular and his own brain waves were beginning to relax into swells and troughs. In a moment they would simultaneously flip onto their sides, each to begin the solitary descent into sleep.
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“You treasure me, right?”
“Yes,” said Ben. After a moment he added, “I do.”
CHAPTER THREE
A t four forty-five on the morning of the day she was to host the welcome back potluck dinner, Ruth rolled out of the cocoon of sleep and fell awake. She eased slowly out of bed—Ben was jealous of his rest—and padded downstairs to the kitchen and started the coffee.
It was too early for her walk. Turning on a light seemed rash, so she sat at the kitchen table in the dark until the coffeemaker had ceased its gurgling. She felt around in the cabinet for the round-bottomed mug she liked to use—the shape mattered to her—and poured coffee and carried it out onto the renovated screened-in porch. Then she stretched out on the wicker chaise where she did most of her reading, turned on the TV, and groggily watched the weather report. A blender-blade symbol representing Tropical Storm Denise was whirring across a stretch of flat blue representing the Atlantic, followed at a distance by a smaller blender bladenamed Gary. Too early, the local-color weatherman was saying, to know yet
“Well,” said Ruth, sliding back into a prone position. Ben could feel her agitation diminishing. “Well, there
is
a little bit of sexual jealousy, but it's not really personal. I'm sorry.” She rested a hand on Ben's chest. He took it and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she said again.
She went on. “It's a whole swirl of things. It's more envy than jealousy. It's her youth and her fame and my age and my non-fame. But even that's not quite it. It's that thing of the world being divided …”
Ben knew this theory well. Ruth divided the world into those able to work their will on others and those on whom the will of others was worked. She placed herself in the second group and moved Ben from one to the other depending on her mood. He had repeatedly pointed out to her that these categories were both overly broad and needlessly restrictive, that this distinction lacked explanatory usefulness and served only to justify her fatalistic passivity. Tonight it seemed best to let it go.
“And I can't help resenting how far she's gotten on how little actual talent. If you saw her books you'd be amazed. They're artful, in their own way, but they're so arch and so manipulative—
“Have you read them? I haven't seen them around.”
“I've seen them. I've looked through them in bookstores.”
“You know what you need to do, Ruth.”
“I know. Get back to writing.” Her intonation was singsong. This was not the first time they'd had this conversation.
Ben drew a deep breath. He'd memorized this litany. “You're a writer, Ruth. Isaac's gone. You gave the faculty-wife busywork thing a try. You need to be writing. There's nothing stopping you. There's been nothing to stop you for years.”
His exhortation was having no effect, he could see, or rather it was having only a soothing effect. She had heard it so many times that now she found it reassuring; she engineered their conversations to solicit it. That was all to the good, he supposed. Twenty years ago, the arrival of Ricia Spottiswoode and Charles Johnswould have been the occasion of a giant fight, one of those ruinous all-nighters that woke Isaac and continued even when they heard him shrieking in his crib. As their marriage aged, the spiky line of argument running through it had become an undulating path of theme. They had simply moved beyond the possibility of resolution to find that their marriage had endured.
“Oh,” said Ruth, “I almost forgot. There was a message from Martinez on the machine.” Eusebio Martinez was Isaac's therapist.
Ben made an acknowledging noise. Ruth was lying on her back, one hand resting on his upturned wrist. Her breathing had grown regular and his own brain waves were beginning to relax into swells and troughs. In a moment they would simultaneously flip onto their sides, each to begin the solitary descent into sleep.
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“You treasure me, right?”
“Yes,” said Ben. After a moment he added, “I do.”
CHAPTER THREE
A t four forty-five on the morning of the day she was to host the welcome back potluck dinner, Ruth rolled out of the cocoon of sleep and fell awake. She eased slowly out of bed—Ben was jealous of his rest—and padded downstairs to the kitchen and started the coffee.
It was too early for her walk. Turning on a light seemed rash, so she sat at the kitchen table in the dark until the coffeemaker had ceased its gurgling. She felt around in the cabinet for the round-bottomed mug she liked to use—the shape mattered to her—and poured coffee and carried it out onto the renovated screened-in porch. Then she stretched out on the wicker chaise where she did most of her reading, turned on the TV, and groggily watched the weather report. A blender-blade symbol representing Tropical Storm Denise was whirring across a stretch of flat blue representing the Atlantic, followed at a distance by a smaller blender bladenamed Gary. Too early, the local-color weatherman was saying, to know yet
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