Saul and Patsy by Charles Baxter Page B

She did want a better job, and, in some sense, a different life. Early in the summer he stole glances at her as she turned the pansies over in their pots, tamping them out and planting them in the flower beds near the front walk. Blue sky, aggressive sun. She was squatting down in her shorts, wearing one of Saul’s old flannel shirts flecked with dirt and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Her hair fell backward down her shoulders. From the front window he watched her and studied her hands, those slender fingers doing their work. Helplessly, his eyes took in the clothed outlines of his wife. He was hers. That was that. She liked being a woman. She liked it in a way that, Saul now knew, he himself did not like being a man. There was the guilt, for one thing, for the manly hobbies of war and the thoroughgoing destruction of the earth. Patriarchy, carnage, rape, pleasurable bloodletting, fanatic greed, and bloodsport: Saul would admit a gender responsibility for all these if anyone asked him to acknowledge it, though no one ever did.
    Patsy wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, saw Saul, and waved at him, turning her head slightly, tilting it, as she did whenever she caught sight of him. She smiled, a smile he had gladly given his life away for, a look of radiant intelligence. She was into the real, too; she didn’t ponder it, she just planted flowers, if that was what she wanted to do. Beyond her was the driveway and their Chevrolet with its bashed-in roof. Her smile faded. It always did when she noticed him studying her.
    Saul turned from the window—it was Saturday morning—and tried to think for a moment of what to do next. Taking a Detroit Tigers cap off the front-hall hat rack, he went outside and with great care put it, from behind and unannounced, on Patsy’s head. “Save you from sunburn,” he said when she turned around and looked at him. “Save you from heat-stroke.”
    “I want a motorcycle,” Patsy said. “I’ve been thinking about it. We don’t need another car, but I do want a motorcycle. I always have. Women can ride motorcycles, Saul, don’t deny it. Oh, and another thing.” She dropped one hand into the dirt and balanced herself on it. “This morning I was trying to think of where the Cayuse Indians lived, and I couldn’t remember, and we don’t have an encyclopedia to check. We need that.” She put her hand over her eyes, to shade them. “Saul, why are you looking like that? Are you in a state?”
    “No, I’m not in a state.”
    “Yes, you are. Damn it, I have to break out sometimes. I’ve just
got
to. I’ll die here otherwise. A motorcycle would do wonders for
both
of us, Saul. A small one, not one of those hogs. Do you like my petunias? Should I have some purple over there? Maybe this is too much red and white. What would you think of some dianthus right there?” She pointed with her trowel. “Or maybe some sweet william?”
    “Sure, sure.” He didn’t know what either variety looked like. Flowers seemed so irrelevant to everything.
    “Where
did
the Cayuse Indians live, Saul?”
    “Oregon, I think.”
    “What do you think about a motorcycle? For little trips into town. For those small occasions when I have to get away from you.”
    “Sounds okay to me. But they aren’t exactly safe, you know. People get killed on motorcycles.”
    “Those people aren’t careful. I’ll be careful. I’ll wear a helmet. I just want to do it. Imagine a girl—me—on one of those machines. Makes you feel good, doesn’t it? A motorcycle girl in Michigan. The car’s silly for small trips. Besides, I want to visit my friends in town.”
    It was true: Patsy already had many friends around Five Oaks, friends that Saul didn’t have. She could be vain about it, her ability to adapt to anything—after all, she was married to
him.
Now she stood up, dropped her trowel, and put her weight on Saul’s shoes and leaned herself into him. The visor of her cap bumped into his forehead. But she