When Mary ran out of things to say, the dining room assumed a stiff, stifling pall. Mary took her plate in hand and ate the last bite of her second piece of cake. “So dang delicious!”
Ursula had returned to the table in the middle of Mary’s prattle. She had nothing to add to the conversation but a blank-faced witness. Polly Jean twitched in her sleep like dogs do when they dream. Mary hummed to herself and licked the icing from her fork. Anna could hear the program Victor was watching in the other room. Anna looked to Mary, to Ursula, to Polly Jean and Bruno both, to the ceiling, and then to the floor, and then to her own hands, which she had begun unconsciously to wring. The mistakes I’ve made, I can’t unmake. She’d had a simple evening’s reprieve from tears. But they’d returned. They fell straight and fast from her eyes. Cold, slick round tears that were large enough to bounce on the table. Mary reached to stroke Anna on the shoulder but Anna dodged her touch.
Polly doesn’t look like Bruno. Who cares? It had never been an issue before. Why tonight? Anna couldn’t think while being watched. She squeezed her eyes closed and searched the darkness for the answer. She couldn’t find it.
But then she did.
It was a name she’d never heard before. But Bruno spoke it easily, immediately, plainly. Without hesitation. Rolf. It was a ready reply. As if he’d rehearsed it. As if he’d thought it through.
Jesus Christ, he’s thought it through.
Anna stood quickly enough to dizzy herself. She stepped back from the table and stumbled over her own feet. Mary caught her.
“Oh, Anna. You don’t have to go. It’s okay to cry in front of us.” Mary took her hand. “Do you want me to—”
“No.” Anna cut her off. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. “I need … alone.” She couldn’t even form a full sentence. Bruno’s stare was unreadable. “I’m sorry.” The apology was compulsive and redundant. Anna backed out of the room, then left the house, then ran all the way back to Rosenweg.
22
ANNA STOOD BY THE STAIRS IN THE ENTRYWAY FOR SEVERAL seconds before she remembered how to remove her coat. When she finally recalled the process of letting her arms slip from their sleeves, she let the coat fall to the floor, not bothering to pick it up or hang it on its hook. Bruno hated that sort of carelessness. It sets a bad example for the boys, he’d say. But he can’t say that anymore, Anna thought. We only have one. She stood in the entry a few seconds longer and then went into the kitchen in the hopes that she hadn’t forgotten how to make tea.
She turned the radiator to its highest setting and then filled the kettle with water, put it on the stove, and then fished around in an open cabinet for a mug. Yes. Anna felt a little better. I remember how to do this. The tears had stopped but her face flushed with embarrassment. It shriveled her, breaking apart like that. Should I go back to the party? She decided against it. Surely they understood that her heart was bruised and tender and it pained when pressed on and was hideous to see. Of course they do. She made a silent wish that Bruno and Polly Jean and Victor would stay at Ursula’s a little while longer. She wanted to be alone with her devastation. Mary would understand, too, why Anna deserted them. I’ll call her tomorrow, Anna thought, though she knew that Mary would likely telephone her first.
“Anna.”
She hadn’t heard Bruno come into the kitchen. She hadn’t even heard him come into the house. His voice startled her; she dropped the mug. It broke into two large pieces and several smaller ones. “Jesus Christ, Bruno.” Her heart throbbed a dozen times at once. “You scared me.” Anna never had any great tolerance for surprises, and now, every ambush was mantled with an overlay of terror. She bent to pick the larger pieces up. The bending took the last of Anna’s energy. “The kids?”
“Grosi’s.”
“Oh.” Victor had spent more nights at Ursula’s in the last month than he had the entire year before. Of course he had. Half of his own room belonged to a ghost. They hadn’t taken out Charles’s bed. They hadn’t given away his clothes. They couldn’t bring themselves to. Victor wasn’t ready either. Mornings, when Bruno went to wake him, he would find Victor asleep atop Charles’s mattress, his head upon Charles’s pillow and his body underneath Charles’s blankets and sheets. This was how Victor consoled himself. Bruno’s plan was to swap the boys’ bedroom with Polly Jean’s, but he hadn’t done it yet. It was a good idea, Anna agreed. Victor had nightmares in that room. He slept better at Ursula’s. And he needed the sleep so deeply. And the nights he spent away from home relieved Anna from the trauma of watching him grieve. It was a selfish relief that Anna knew better than to share.
Anna turned to the trash bin with the pieces of mug in her hand but stopped to wonder whether ceramic was recyclable. Then she wondered why she didn’t know. Then she decided she didn’t care and simply threw the pieces in the garbage can. “Mary leave?” Anna filled the air with words, dodging silence. Bruno came all the way into the kitchen and stood between Anna and the stove with his arms folded across his chest and gave a strangely civil nod. Anna was exasperated. “You’re in my way.”
Bruno didn’t move. “How long?” The inquiry was blunt.
“For the tea? How long does it usually take? Two minutes?”
Bruno ticked his head once to the right, once to the left, then centered it again. “How long?” Bruno’s speech was metered. Anna responded by not responding. “Who is it, Anna?”
“Who is what?”
The kitchen grew nervous. “I want to know his name.”
Anna wasn’t ready for this. “No, Bruno. Just … no.” Anna had a headache. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her hands and tried to figure out whose name Bruno wanted to know. There were several to choose from.
It’s an otherworldly moment when the curtains behind which a lie has been hiding are pulled apart. When the slats on the blinds are forced open and a flash of truth explodes into the room. You can feel the crazing of the air. Light shatters every lie’s glass. You have no choice but to confess.
“Yes. Now. Was it Archie?”
Anna did what she could to maintain herself. “This is getting old.” Anna’s voice sharpened. “I haven’t—”
Bruno cut her off. His drill-bit stare bored through her. “You’re lying to me. Who? Tell me a name. Now.” Anna couldn’t summon a reaction. For two years she’d been afraid of getting caught. And now he’d caught her. Sort of. How much does he know? She wasn’t sure. How does he know it? She wasn’t going to ask. What happens now? This, she would have to wait to find out. Anna separated herself from her situation by throwing down questions like sandbags and hiding behind them. What’s he going to say next? What should I say back to him? Are we breaking up? What will he do?
What Bruno did next was repeat himself, but in a louder voice. He wasn’t yelling, but he didn’t need to. Even calm, Bruno’s voice sustained an underlying boom. When angry, it shook with a tense, hateful rattle. He stopped to breathe after each word: You. Are. Lying. Anna. A corset of fear cinched her body into smallness. She didn’t know what had tipped her hand.
Everyone has a tell.
“Stop it. You’re scaring me.” Anna took a step back. One step farther and she would have nowhere else to move. “Let’s just please talk about this tomorrow. I feel sick.” It was a plea Anna knew he wouldn’t hear. Bruno stepped into the space where Anna had just been standing. And then he took another step, forcing Anna to the wall. He spoke directly into her face. “When did it start? How far back does it go? Is Victor a little bastard too?” Anna replied with silence. The sum of her efforts went into trying not to tremble.
Bruno grabbed for her hand but she pulled it away. They repeated that process until he caught it. He isolated the finger on which she wore her mother’s ring and tried to wrench it off. Anna yelped. “What about Charles? Who’s his fucking father?”
Stop please stop it please please stop! Anna tried but couldn’t speak so she thought as loudly as she could. You’re hurting me, Bruno! Don’t! Please do
n’t!
Bruno moved in close enough to kiss her. His hazel eyes were brown that night, his pupils so black they almost glowed. Anna’s own eyes, flush with tears, asked How? and Who else knows? and, once more, How? Bruno offered little in the way of explanation. “You are a terrible liar and I know everything about you.” Bruno pulled once again on the ring. It caught on Anna’s knuckle. On the third attempt he yanked and twisted hard and then the ring was in his hand. Anna howled and tried a hopeless moment to pull free. She caught the comedy in her attempt. Bruno’s strength and size had always overpowered her. This was partly why she fell in love with him. A version of love for him. A version of love for a version of him. Bruno held the ring very close to her face. Anna’s eyes were infantile; they couldn’t find a focus. The three pretty stones blurred into one. He shook the ring before her. “This is trash.”
Telling the truth felt like the moment’s worst plan. You’re wrong! Anna cried. What are you talking about?! Who’s a bastard?! Polly’s your daughter! Such poorly chosen words. They pushed Bruno to his edge. He cut her off again. Bruno was Swiss. Bruno was self-contained. Bruno was cranky and gruff and distant and precise but he’d never, never been truly violent. In jealousy he could be bitter and cold. In anger he was rough. Rough, yes. He’d been rough before. In the kitchen Bruno was beyond anger. “Who is it? How many? Tell me their names.” Anna shook her head: No, no!
It happened very fast. Bruno grabbed Anna by whole handfuls of her hair. She struggled but her effort was awkward. He pulled her toward him and then just as quickly shoved her away, then slammed her head against the kitchen’s wall behind her. Once, twice, she struck the stone. Bruno yelled unintelligibly—he’d finally raised his voice. Anna couldn’t understand a word. He was speaking Swiss and English simultaneously. He pulled her back toward him one final time, shook her, slapped her face, and then threw her to the floor as if she were something vile in his hands. As she fell, Anna caught her chin and cheek on the corner of the new dishwasher and hit the ground nose first. Bruno watched her fall, sniffing back tears. The kitchen was nothing but tears. Bruno muttered a curse that came out as a sob and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. As he left the kitchen, he tossed the ring at Anna’s head. It landed near Anna’s face with a cheery, casual cling.
Anna reached for her nose. It was bloody. Possibly broken. It hurt too much to palpate for the break. She moved her hands to the back of her head, which was also bleeding and the ache of it pounded, threatening the blindness of pain. She considered an attempt to stand but discarded it. She reached for her ring and tried to push it back onto her swollen, abraded finger. She couldn’t get it past the knuckle so she let it drop back to the floor.
She didn’t know how to get up. Her muscles had forgotten movement in the way that earlier her mind had forgotten the steps required to remove her coat. She resigned herself to the floor until both strength and a clear plan of action presented themselves. Two, three, five minutes passed. So Bruno knew. Huh, she thought. Then nothing more. The water roiled. The kettle whistled. She let it. With nothing else she could have done, Anna fell into a version of sleep on the kitchen floor.
TWO WEEKS AFTER CHARLES’S death, Edith arrived in Dietlikon unannounced with a small pot of violets, a bottle of wine, and a box of chocolate candy. It was a shallow combination of gifts. Like she’s picking me up for a date, Anna thought.
“You’re not dressed? Anna! It’s nearly one o’clock!” No, Anna wasn’t dressed. It hurt her skin to wear clothes. It hurt her head to pick them out of the closet. It hurt her heart to move through the world of the living as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had fundamentally changed. Edith followed Anna into the living room and Anna returned to the same corner of the couch she’d spent two weeks attempting to hide inside of. She picked a blanket off the floor and pulled it up to her chin. It was stained. With what, Anna did not know. Edith played at being wounded. “Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?”
Anna pointed to the kitchen. “Help yourself.” Edith set the chocolate and the flowers on the coffee table and took both the bottle of wine and her blasé attitude into the kitchen. Anna tried to be offended. Being offended would distract her. But Anna wasn’t ready to be distracted yet. There were pains she still needed to feel.
Edith returned with a single glass of wine. “Oh, did you want one?” Anna shook her head no as Edith plopped down on the couch’s opposite end and let out a protracted sigh. As if she’d just done something difficult. As if being in Anna’s presence was almost too demanding to bear. She made the worst small talk. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by.” Anna told her it was fine. “The girls. I took them to Paris. We’d planned it months ago.” Edith trailed off.
“I know,” Anna said, her voice empty of affect.
Edith nipped at her wine. “So. I’m still seeing Niklas.”
“Are you.” It wasn’t a question.
Edith cleared her throat. “Yes. Thrilling as ever.” Anna returned an odd, inquiring series of blinks and wondered why if it was so thrilling did Edith speak of the affair so parenthetically. “The whole ruse of it, Anna. Ha! I feel like a spy! So scheming! I love it! And it’s not just about the sex. It’s not even mostly about the sex.” Edith bit her bottom lip. “How about that?” The realization surprised her.
It hadn’t been just about the sex with Anna either. “Where do you go?” Anna didn’t really care. They were words to decorate the air. That was all.
“To fuck? I dunno. Lots of places. Many places. His apartment. A hotel. At the house—well, just once at the house—how forbidden! We had a weekend on the Bodensee three weeks ago.”
“What did you tell Otto?”
“I told him I was going away with Pauline.”
“Who’s Pauline?”
“Nobody. She’s imaginary. I invented her. But if it ever comes up—which it won’t—I know Pauline from one of the clubs I lie about belonging to.”
“Okay.” Anna chewed on a fingernail. “How do I know her?”
“Silly Anna,” Edith feigned exasperation. “You don’t. She’s one of my friends. You’ve just heard me talk about her. But only a little.” Anna nodded an assent.
The room was almost entirely quiet but for the sound of wine being swallowed, the whisper of twill rubbing against twill as Edith crossed then uncrossed then recrossed her legs, and the rustle of the blanket under which Anna shivered.
“What do you think would happen if Otto caught you?”
“If he caught me?” Edith repeated Anna’s question. “I haven’t thought about it. I don’t plan on getting caught.”
“Edith?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Edith telegraphed a waxing boredom. “What would you do if one of the twins died?”
“Jesus, Anna. Are you serious?” Anna shrugged. Edith sipped her wine once more and put on a cheeky face. “Good thing I have a spare, I guess.”
“Edith?”
“What is it now?”
“You really aren’t a very good friend.”
Edith looked into her wineglass. “I know,” she said. It was an admission without scruple or reproach.
SHORTLY AFTER BEGINNING THEIR affair, Stephen attempted to end it. “You’re surrendering to an attack of ethics now?” Anna asked. She was naked when she asked it.
Stephen hung his head and looked away from Anna as he buttoned his shirt, as if dressing himself was an act of contrition. “I’m just not sure this is a good idea.”
Of course it’s not, Anna thought, but said, “Of course it is!” Stephen squinted and tilted his head. He was waiting for an explication. She sighed. “Don’t you like me?” She had wanted to say “love.”
“Of course I like you.” He said it plainly. The way someone would announce his fondness for a sandwich or a pair of shoes. Yes, it tastes just fine. Most certainly they fit. Any other woman might have understood this as a signal. Anna took it as a challenge.
“It’s because I’m married?”
“Well, y
ou are. It’s adultery.”
“Well then it’s a good thing we’re adults,” Anna said. And then, “What’s that have to do with anything?” It had everything to do with everything, but Anna underplayed it. She didn’t care. Her marriage had stopped mattering. Well, it’s starting to not matter, that’s enough.
Anna found the loophole they were looking for. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Technically you’re not the adulterer. I am.” Anna eyed Stephen with a deliberately threadbare gaze. She waited, but he didn’t counter her argument. They sat together on the edge of his bed in a near reverential silence for almost a minute before Anna dressed and left.
On the train ride home, as Anna relived the day’s lovemaking in her mind, she realized, in retrospect, that it had been more tentative than usual.
“IN GERMAN, AN ACTION that is done by one’s own self to one’s own self requires a reflexive verb. A reflexive verb is always accompanied by an accusative personal pronoun. To get dressed. To shave. To bathe. To clear your throat. To catch cold. To lie down. To feel either well or poorly. To fall in love. To behave. You are the object as well as the instigator. You do these things to yourself.”
THE KETTLE HAD LONG since whistled itself empty when Bruno came back into the kitchen and took it off the burner. Anna opened her eyes and watched his boots shuffle around her head. Her own feet were hot in her shoes. They’d landed against the radiator when she fell. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep.
Anna tried to rearrange her feet and attempted to push herself up from the floor but she didn’t have the muscle for it. She made a noise that couldn’t be interpreted as words. Bruno stepped over her and moved to the sink. He turned on the water, then turned it off almost as quickly. Anna tried once more to rise. “Stop,” he said. It was an aggravated command. He crossed over her two, three more times, moving with purpose. Anna didn’t know what he was doing. She heard a drawer open and close and the faucet being turned on again, then off once more. Then Bruno knelt down by her head. Anna flinched against his approach. “Stop it,” he repeated, and reached his hand toward her trembling face and laid a wet, cool cloth to the bruised side of it. “Hold this.” Anna did as he told her. “Come on.”
Hausfrau: A Novel Page 22
