hands on her body, and he never pressed them too far. She thought she was in love. After a time, she began to invite him into the house. He took it as a further invitation, which it probably was, but she would allow herself to get just so passionate before she pulled away.
They talked about it, he all reassurance, she all doubt. But she could not move. She wanted him: her body wanted his, and her mind wanted the experience. But her mother’s dire message about sex was engraved on her brain. It had nothing to do with dirt and sin: it was far more potent. Sex, Mrs Ward said, led to pregnancy no matter what boys said, there was no sure way to avoid it. And pregnancy led to marriage, to a marriage enforced on both, which meant poverty, resentment, an immediate baby, and ‘a life like mine,’ Mrs Ward ended, her face alone testimony to what that was like. Mira had long noticed, and resented her father’s adoration of her mother, her mother’s disdain of him. The turned cheek when Mr Ward tried to kiss his wife hello in the evenings, the bitter grimaces at his statements, the arguments fiercely whispered in the dark at night when Mira was supposed to be sleeping, the grinding poverty of their life that was only now beginning to abate: all represented a life no one would choose who had a choice.She told Lanny some of this, told him of her fear of pregnancy. He said he would ‘use something.’ She told him of her mother’s warning that nothing was safe: he said that if she got pregnant, they’d get married. He even offered, finally, to marry her first.
Looking back, Mira could imagine some of what he felt. He had come, it must have seemed to him, more than halfway, and she had not budged. That made her a flirt, a prick tease. He had offered her marriage: what more could any woman want?
But the very qualities Mira loved in Lanny made her dread him as a husband. Mira understood – what young woman does not? – that to choose a husband is to choose a life. She had not needed Jane Austen to teach her that. It is, in a sense, a woman’s first, last, and only choice. Marriage and a child make her totally dependent on the man, on whether he is rich or poor, responsible or not, where he chooses to live, what work he chooses to do. I guess this is still true; I don’t know, I’m a bit out of touch, but sometimes on my car radio I hear a song that seems to be popular now. It’s pretty, but its lyrics go something like this: ‘If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady, would you still love me, would you have my baby?’ It asks the woman to ‘follow’ her man, in whatever condition he chooses to live, as if a man alone could be a substitute for a life. Anyway, I understand Mira’s hesitations. What she discovered suddenly was that she wanted to pick her own life. It was a breathtaking revelation to her, and it terrified her, for she didn’t know how she was going to be able to do that. She recognized it for the shocking, divisive, arrogant rending of the social fabric that it was. Even convincing her parents, for instance, that she would like to live away from home would be a terrible feat. And what would she do then? She had some idea of what kinds of jobs she wanted, but she never heard of women getting them. She knew she wanted to be sexual in a free way: how could she manage that?
Whenever she thought of marriage to Lanny, the picture that presented itself was of herself on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, a baby crying in the next room, while Lanny was out carousing with the boys. Life was about joy, he would insist, and if she asked for responsibility, she would become the oppressive, demanding wife – the ball and chain, the grim-faced haggard who did not understand that boys would be boys. She saw herself weepily complaining to him, him stalking out of the house to go find solace with his mates. Her film would not run any other way; she could not come up with a sweeter picture. The role he
They talked about it, he all reassurance, she all doubt. But she could not move. She wanted him: her body wanted his, and her mind wanted the experience. But her mother’s dire message about sex was engraved on her brain. It had nothing to do with dirt and sin: it was far more potent. Sex, Mrs Ward said, led to pregnancy no matter what boys said, there was no sure way to avoid it. And pregnancy led to marriage, to a marriage enforced on both, which meant poverty, resentment, an immediate baby, and ‘a life like mine,’ Mrs Ward ended, her face alone testimony to what that was like. Mira had long noticed, and resented her father’s adoration of her mother, her mother’s disdain of him. The turned cheek when Mr Ward tried to kiss his wife hello in the evenings, the bitter grimaces at his statements, the arguments fiercely whispered in the dark at night when Mira was supposed to be sleeping, the grinding poverty of their life that was only now beginning to abate: all represented a life no one would choose who had a choice.She told Lanny some of this, told him of her fear of pregnancy. He said he would ‘use something.’ She told him of her mother’s warning that nothing was safe: he said that if she got pregnant, they’d get married. He even offered, finally, to marry her first.
Looking back, Mira could imagine some of what he felt. He had come, it must have seemed to him, more than halfway, and she had not budged. That made her a flirt, a prick tease. He had offered her marriage: what more could any woman want?
But the very qualities Mira loved in Lanny made her dread him as a husband. Mira understood – what young woman does not? – that to choose a husband is to choose a life. She had not needed Jane Austen to teach her that. It is, in a sense, a woman’s first, last, and only choice. Marriage and a child make her totally dependent on the man, on whether he is rich or poor, responsible or not, where he chooses to live, what work he chooses to do. I guess this is still true; I don’t know, I’m a bit out of touch, but sometimes on my car radio I hear a song that seems to be popular now. It’s pretty, but its lyrics go something like this: ‘If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady, would you still love me, would you have my baby?’ It asks the woman to ‘follow’ her man, in whatever condition he chooses to live, as if a man alone could be a substitute for a life. Anyway, I understand Mira’s hesitations. What she discovered suddenly was that she wanted to pick her own life. It was a breathtaking revelation to her, and it terrified her, for she didn’t know how she was going to be able to do that. She recognized it for the shocking, divisive, arrogant rending of the social fabric that it was. Even convincing her parents, for instance, that she would like to live away from home would be a terrible feat. And what would she do then? She had some idea of what kinds of jobs she wanted, but she never heard of women getting them. She knew she wanted to be sexual in a free way: how could she manage that?
Whenever she thought of marriage to Lanny, the picture that presented itself was of herself on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, a baby crying in the next room, while Lanny was out carousing with the boys. Life was about joy, he would insist, and if she asked for responsibility, she would become the oppressive, demanding wife – the ball and chain, the grim-faced haggard who did not understand that boys would be boys. She saw herself weepily complaining to him, him stalking out of the house to go find solace with his mates. Her film would not run any other way; she could not come up with a sweeter picture. The role he
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