Eustace emerged from the stockroom, toting a crate of eggs. He set it down by the refrigerator case and straightened, groaning, to massage the small of his back. “Must be going to snow,” he said, “achy as my bones has been.”
“Yup, my hip says the same,” Michael told him.
“You got them items ready for Miz Pozniak?”
“They’re over by the register.”
Eustace went to check. The groceries were in a canvas sack of the sort that newsboys carried, with a strap that crossed the chest bandolier-fashion. (Eustace was too old, he claimed, to learn to ride the delivery bike with its oversized wire basket that Michael had used as a boy.) He heaved the sack onto his shoulder and approached the door just as Mrs. Serge walked in. “Morning, Eustace! Morning, Michael!” she said, stepping to one side so Eustace could pass.
“Good morning, Mrs. Serge,” Michael said. He rose from the carton of peaches and reached for his cane. “Cold enough for you?”
“Oh, yes. My, yes,” she said, and she clutched her coat collar more tightly around her throat. In fact, coming from just next door she must have barely had time to feel the cold. But people seemed to expect this kind of small talk, Michael had found. “How’s your mama?” she asked him. “How’s Pauline? How’s that darlin’ Lindy?”
“They’re all fine. What do you hear from Joey?”
“He’s coming home on leave tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, so I’ll need some tinned milk, because I want to fix him some ice cream.”
“Tinned milk,” Michael said, and he turned back to the shelves. “One can, or two?”
“Better make it two. You must think I’m crazy, doing this in January.”
“No, ma’am,” Michael said. “I know how Joey loves ice cream.” He set the cans on the counter. “Anything else?”
“Well, let’s see. A box of gelatin, and I might as well get some vanilla extract just to play it safe . . . Did Pauline try that ginger tea I was telling her about?”
“I’m not sure,” Michael said.
“A quarter-teaspoon of powdered ginger in half a cup of hot water, I told her. Sip it real slow before breakfast. I did that every morning back when I was expecting Joey and it worked just like a charm.”
“I’ll make her some tomorrow,” Michael said.
“Poor thing. Skinny as she is, she can’t afford to stop eating.”
“No, it’s been hard on her,” Michael agreed.
Although later, when Mrs. Serge had left, he added to himself, “And she’s not the only one it’s been hard on.”
Well, he knew he shouldn’t complain. How would he behave, if he couldn’t keep a morsel of food down? Plus pregnancy in general, all those female troubles.
He wasn’t certain, though, how much of Pauline’s moodiness was due to pregnancy and how much just, well, things going wrong between the two of them. Oh, women were so mystifying! And he was so inexperienced! “What did I say? What did I do? What was it?” he always seemed to be asking. Did other men have this problem? Was there anyone he could discuss this with? If he somehow had the right words—the right touch, the proper instincts—would his wife be a happier person?
She’d been a constitutionally happy person when they met, he believed. Pauline with her soft dimples and her liquid, chuckly laugh! She had slipped her hand into his so trustfully the first time they went on a date—her slim fingers, impossibly smooth, nestling into the cup of his palm when he had assumed it would be weeks before he could hope they would get so familiar. He had felt himself expanding with the sense of responsibility. He had wished for something dangerous—a bully, a runaway car—so that he could protect her.
But then he’d made some mistakes. He was willing to admit that. The time he asked her to meet him at the Kowalskis’ party, for instance, instead of calling for her and escorting her, just to spare his mother’s feelings. That was wrong, wrong, wrong, and Pauline had been perfectly right not to show up. He’d realized that almost at once—had had a sudden, disturbing view of himself as a mama’s boy, a coward, and run all the way to her house and rung her doorbell and begged Mr. Barclay to fetch her so that he could apologize and persuade her to come back with him. But then later that same evening, when his mother had crumpled up in a faint—well, what was he to do? He couldn’t just ignore her! So Pauline had disappeared, vanished into the night, and he’d had to go to her house all over again and bother Mr. Barclay again (now in bathrobe and pajamas) only to be turned away. “Sorry, son, afraid she’s not accepting visitors at the moment.” Not at that moment and not the next day, when Mrs. Barclay had stepped in to offer one excuse after the other. Pauline was still asleep; then she was indisposed; then, “I guess it’s best to stop calling, dear,” or something of the sort, some statement to that effect. With all the many times since that he’d stood on the Barclays’ front porch, these scenes tended to blur together in his mind.
But he knew that on his deathbed, the last, best memory he would cling to would be the sight of Pauline in her red coat, flying down Aliceanna Street to see him off to war. Wasn’t that worth all the rest? Every other edgy, imperfect, exasperating moment of their marriage?
Mrs. Piazy came in wanting Spam and a box of elbow macaroni. “I’m serving this new recipe for supper,” she told Michael. “I cut it out of a magazine. How’s Pauline feeling today?”
“Still not so good,” he said.
“Has she tried saltine crackers? That’s what I used to do. She should eat six or eight as soon as she wakes up, and more any time she feels queasy.”
“I’ll tell her, Mrs. Piazy. Thanks.”
“And stop that worrying, Michael. You can’t fool me! I see that long face! I know how you fret about her! But take my word, she’ll be fine. Just fine.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Piazy.”
“You two are so precious together,” she said.
And she gave a fond, indulgent smile as she dug in her bag for her change purse.
At noon he went looking for Eustace, who had finished all his deliveries and was hidden away in the dimness of the stockroom. “Eustace?” he called. “You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Guess I’ll be going to lunch now.”
“Okay, then,” Eustace said, and he struggled up from behind a pickle barrel, a half-eaten sandwich of homemade bread clutched in one gnarled hand.
Michael said, “Oh. You want me to wait till you finish that?”
“No, sir. You just go on now.”
What Michael had meant to say was that he preferred for Eustace not to eat in front of customers—something he himself wouldn’t do. But he wasn’t sure how to put it. The fact was, he felt uncomfortable bossing around an employee. Before the war they’d never had an employee. But first with his enlisting, and then his mother’s health, and Pauline so tied up with the baby . . .
He continued through the stockroom and climbed the stairs at the rear, relying on the handrail instead of his cane for support. Not that he needed much support anymore. His limp had become just a hitch in his step, a side-to-side motion as he swung the one leg forward, and he was sheepishly aware that he used the cane primarily to fend off strangers’ questions about why he wasn’t in uniform.
Pauline said that was silly of him. “What do you care what people think?” she would ask. “You and I know the truth of the matter.”
In many ways, Pauline was a much stronger person than he was.
His mother was already seated at the kitchen table while Pauline stood at the stove, the baby astride her waist, and stirred a saucepan of soup. “Hi, there,” Michael said, and his mother said, “Hello, dear,” but Pauline was silent. He pretended not to notice. He said, “Lindy-Lou!” and reached for the baby, and Pauline let go of her so carelessly and abruptly that Michael almost dropped her. He sank into a chair with her, holding her compact little body close against his rib cage. “Daddy’s here,” he told her. “Say, ‘Daddy! Welcome
home! I’ve been pining for you all morning!’”
Lindy studied his lips intently. She was a solemn, focused sort of baby, with Michael’s black hair and straight features. Her eyes were a shade of slate that would probably turn brown like his as she grew older, and already she had his thin hands and long, thin fingers. Was it only her resemblance to him that made him feel so connected to her? He had always just assumed that he would have children, the way he’d assumed he would have a wife and maybe someday an automobile, but he had never imagined that a child could tug on his heart so.
His mother was relating a recent run-in with Leo Kazmerow. “He takes his duties too seriously,” she said. “An air raid warden’s not God. Leave one little light on during a drill and ‘Mrs. Anton,’ he says, ‘how would you feel if Baltimore got bombed clear off the map and you were the household responsible?’”
“It’s all because he’s 4-F,” Pauline told her. “He thinks he has to make up for it.”
Her tone was relaxed and pleasant. She and Michael’s mother were cozy friends, and Michael was the outsider pressing his nose to the window glass. He sighed and offered Lindy a spoon. “Don’t you plan to dine with us?” he asked when she didn’t take it. As if he had convinced her, she reached out and grasped the spoon and pulled it from his hand with surprising strength. He lowered his face to the top of her head and breathed in the scent of her hair. Underneath the talcum he caught a hint of fresh sweat, which he found endearing and faintly comical.
Pauline ladled out the soup—cream of tomato. She sat down and unfolded her napkin. Michael wrested his spoon from Lindy’s fist and started eating, and his mother picked up her own spoon, but Pauline just sat there, staring into her bowl.
“Hon?” Michael said finally. “Can’t you manage even a little?”
“Not unless I want it all to come back up again,” she said.
“Mrs. Piazy says to try saltine crackers.”
There was a box of saltines on the table, but she didn’t reach for it. Instead she said, “Will you all please excuse me?” and she laid her napkin next to her bowl and stood up and left the kitchen.
Michael and his mother looked at each other. The bedroom door closed quietly.
“She’s going to waste away to nothing,” his mother said after a moment.
Perversely, Michael felt a pang of almost brotherly jealousy. Didn’t he deserve a little sympathy too? This wasn’t much fun for him!
When they had finished eating (the clinks of their spoons too loud, guiltily healthy-sounding, and their remarks to the baby too chirpy), Michael told his mother that he thought he’d go check on Pauline. “Yes, why don’t you do that,” she said. “I’ll see to the dishes.” He hoisted Lindy out of her high chair and took her with him.
Playing it extra safe, he knocked on the bedroom door first. Nobody said, “Come in,” but after a brief pause, he went in anyway.
Pauline was not lying in bed, as he had expected, but standing near the window at the foot of Lindy’s crib. She had lifted one lace panel to gaze out, and she didn’t look around when Michael entered. “Pauline,” he said.
“What.”
“I wish you’d try and eat a little something.”
She went on staring out the window, although the view was just the flat faces of the houses across the side street.
This room, which had once belonged to Michael’s parents, had developed a kind of dual personality since his marriage. His parents’ white iron bed and glass-knobbed mahogany nightstand kept company now with Pauline’s autograph quilt from her girlhood, and her senior-prom corsage all faded and hardened on the bureau, and snapshots of her high-school friends tucked in the frame of the mirror. Her decorating style was so personal. Even the few pieces of furniture that she’d introduced—a child’s rocker, a hope chest—had their intimate associations, their long-winded, confidential histories.
He went over to stand next to her. “See Mommy?” he asked Lindy. “Poor Mommy. She’s not feeling well.”
Sadly, Pauline said, “You don’t even know what’s wrong, do you.”
“Actually, I believe I do know,” Michael said. He kept his voice very even, so as not to upset her further. “Or I know what you think is wrong. You think I should have made more of a fuss about your birthday.”
Pauline started to say something, but he held up the flat of his free hand. “Now, I’m sorry that you feel that way,” he said. “I certainly never meant to disappoint you. But what I suspect is that you’re under a little strain these days. You’re pregnant, you’re morning sick, and you’re none too pleased anyhow—neither one of us is—about having a second baby so soon. That’s what’s really bothering you.”
“How do you know what’s bothering me?” Pauline asked, wheeling around.
Lindy whimpered, and Michael patted the small of her back. He said, “Now, Pauline. Now, hon. Calm yourself, hon.”
“Don’t you ‘hon’ me! Don’t you tell me to calm myself! So all-knowing and superior. I’m the only one who can say what bothers me and what doesn’t!”
Anyone could have heard her—his mother, for sure, and maybe even Eustace and whatever customers might be down in the store. Her voice had risen at least an octave and turned thin and wiry, nothing like her usual appealing croak. And she was so physical in her fury, putting her whole body into emphasizing each word, that her curls stood out from her head in an electric, exaggerated way. (Like a dandelion clock, Michael suddenly fancied.) When things reached this state, he felt helpless. He had no means of controlling her. However he tried to quiet her only made her louder. “Sweetheart,” he tried, and “Poll, hon,” and “Be reasonable, Pauline.” But she advanced, both fists clenched tight. She grabbed the baby, who was crying now, and she hugged her to her breast and shouted, “Go away! Just go! Just take your stuffy pompous boring self-righteous self away and leave us in peace!”
He turned without another word. Now was when he most hated limping, because instead of striding out he had to leave the room in a halting and victimlike manner. Still, he did his best. In the kitchen he passed his mother, who stared at him from the sink with a dish towel gripped in both hands.
“Guess I’ll get back to work,” he told her, and he smiled at her, or tried to smile, and lurched past her and out the door.
Was it possible to dislike your own wife?
Well, no, of course not. This was just one of those ups-and-downs that every couple experienced. He’d seen the topic referred to on the covers of those magazines that Pauline was always buying: “How to Stop Marital Fights Before They Start” and “Inside: ‘Why Do We Argue So Often?’”
But surely most other wives were not so baffling as Pauline. So changeable, so illogical.
He transferred three onions from the scale to a brown paper bag and set them on the counter for Mrs. Golka. She was considering a pound of sugar but she hated to use all her points up. The twins had a terrible sweet tooth, she said. Michael said, “Sweet tooth, yes . . .” and then fell to studying the scoop of the scale, which bore a dent from when Pauline had slung it down too hard during a quarrel.
Oh, there had been any number of quarrels. Quarrels about money: she spent money on what seemed to him unnecessary, household knickknacks and baby things and decorative objects of no earthly practical use, while Michael was more prudent. (Stingy, she called it.) Quarrels about the apartment: she swore that she was going mad, stuck in those airless, dark rooms cheek to jowl with his mother, and she wanted them to move to the county as soon as the war was over—someplace with yards and trees and side yards, too, not one of those row-house developments that were starting to sprout here and there. When Michael pointed out that they couldn’t afford the county, she said her father would help; he’d already offered. (Already offered! Michael had felt his face grow hot with shame.) When he said they would be too far from the store, she’d told him to move the store as well. “And what will St. Cassian people do for groceries, then?” he’d asked her, but she’d said, “S
t. Cassian people! Who cares? I’m tired to my bones of St. Cassian people! Everyone knowing everyone’s business from three generations back. It’s time we broadened our horizons!”
Even their sex life was grounds for dispute. Did he have to start out the same, exact way every single time? The same rote moves, the same one position? Michael had been dumbfounded. “Well, but, I mean, how else . . . ?” he had stammered, and she had said, “Oh, never mind. If I have to say it, forget it.” And then he had forgotten it, to all intents and purposes, for nowadays they didn’t have much of a sex life at all, though he supposed that was understandable in view of her condition.
But the worst quarrels, he reflected (fetching the sugar for Mrs. Golka, who had decided to go on and buy it) were the ones where he couldn’t pinpoint the cause. The ones that simply materialized, developing less from something they said than from who they were, by nature. By nature, Pauline tumbled through life helter-skelter while Michael proceeded deliberately. By nature, Pauline felt entitled to spill anything that came into her head while Michael measured out every word. She was brimming with energy—a floor pacer, a foot jiggler, a finger drummer—while he was slow and plodding and secretly somewhat lazy. Everything to her was all or nothing—every new friend her best friend, every minor disagreement an end to the friendship forever after—while to him the world was calibrated more incrementally and more fuzzily.
Pauline believed that marriage was an interweaving of souls, while Michael viewed it as two people traveling side by side but separately. “What are you thinking about?” she liked to say, and “Tell me what you honestly feel.” She customarily opened his mail. She never failed to ask whom he’d been talking to on the phone. Even her eternal guess-whats (“Guess what, Michael . . . No, seriously, guess . . . Come on. Just take a guess . . . Wrong. Guess again . . . Come on!”) seemed to him a form of intrusion.
How could two people so unlike ever hope to interweave? Which only proved, Michael felt, that his view of marriage was the right one.