by Peggy Webb
“Elizabeth?” Howard lifts on his elbows and looks down at me. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“Think about it.”
He starts grinning, and all of a sudden we’re sitting on the side of the bed, laughing so hard we’re both crying.
“Why don’t I get out of these pants and we’ll start over?”
Recapturing the mood proves to be more than we can handle. He can’t get it up and I can’t get it on.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I just don’t know…”
“We’ve both had too much sun. Why don’t we get something cool from the drink machine and sit on the patio?”
In side-by-side plastic chairs, we keep giving each other self-conscious looks. I can tell he’s embarrassed that he couldn’t perform, and truth be known, I’m a bit chagrined because I couldn’t turn him on again.
In addition, I don’t know what to say to him. Clearly we need to discuss marital issues, but shouldn’t we have done that before our pell-mell rush to the bed? Of course, sex is a lovely Band-Aid to plaster over problems, but once you get in that cozy, just-you-and-me-babe mood, it’s hard to regain the cool perspective you need to work through the issues.
Finally Howard says, “We can leave tonight.”
I guess the surprise shows on my face because he clears his throat and then looks at me with those big brown puppy-dog eyes that I used to find irresistible. It’s moments like this that make me wish I had a crystal ball. If I knew what the future held for us, I could move boldly in one direction or the other, but life’s a guessing game. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hoping you don’t stumble into too many sinkholes and bear traps.
“Or…if you want to, we’ll wait till morning.”
“Let me think a minute, Howard.”
Now what? After dragging him to my bed like some horny teenager, how can I say I’m not sure I want to go?
Howard’s never done anything as impulsive as dash off to Pensacola to retrieve a wayward wife. And the Hawaiian shirt…goodness gracious. I feel wonderful and a bit powerful that I’m still capable of provoking my usually stodgy husband to these radical (for Howard) actions.
Besides, hadn’t I already halfway decided to go home anyway to work out my issues?
Still, I have to know that I’m not stepping backward, just going back to the same old life.
“Howard, why did you come here?”
My question takes him aback. He hates introspection more than any man I’ve ever known. I don’t know how he ended up in psychiatry.
“It was your letter. I didn’t know how you felt until I read it, and I’m going to try to pay more attention.”
His answer isn’t the grand passion of Ken and Irma, but at least it’s a start.
I gaze across the palms trying to visualize my future, but all I can see is a wasteland of cars baking in the heat on an acre of concrete in front of that icon of commercialism. All of a sudden I don’t want to spend another day waking up to a view of Wal-Mart.
Howard takes my silence for hesitation.
“Elizabeth, why don’t we go to a nice restaurant tonight and just relax? Maybe that Japanese restaurant you liked so much the last time we were here. Or we’ll get seafood, if that’s what you prefer. Just tell me what you want.”
How can I tell Howard what I want when I don’t even know myself? Choosing a restaurant is not a problem, but choosing a life is daunting.
“Japanese is fine.”
“Great! Then, after a good night’s rest, we can leave for home.”
“Okay,” I say.
Sometimes you get swept along by events, and the best you can do is just breathe and try to float.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 11
“What lunatic said just kiss and make up?”
—Beth
“If you could elaborate on the problem, Elizabeth, I’ll try to fix it.”
“Why don’t we just relax a bit and build on what we started in Pensacola?”
Howard’s face flushes, and I know what he’s thinking. He couldn’t start anything, and I didn’t prove to be the great seductress who could make it happen.
Surrounded by our vast collection of books, the last rays of sunset slanting through French doors, glasses of Chardonnay in our hands, we look like a couple settling in for a quiet evening of holding hands and cozy conversation instead of two people facing each other across a marital battlefield. Howard calls it a summit conference and I call it torture. Instead of constantly analyzing, why can’t we just be?
I take a fortifying sip of wine. We just got home an hour ago and now I know how the prodigal son must have felt when he returned home. Grateful and guilty at the same time.
“There’s no time like the present,” Howard said.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Speak in platitudes.”
“Is that one of the reasons you ran away? Because you don’t like the way I talk?”
“Please, Howard. Give me more credit than that. And I didn’t run away. I just left, that’s all.”
“That’s all? Leaving me stranded without a clue is no small thing, Elizabeth.”
We’ve only been in the library (as Howard calls it) less than five minutes, and already I’m on the defensive.
“I hate it that you call this the library,” I tell him. “Why can’t you just call it the den, like ordinary people?”
“That’s the second time you’ve used the word hate. And both in reference to the way I speak.”
When he goes the desk, gets a pad and pencil, and starts jotting notes, I want to scream. He’s always done this—made lists and notes and itineraries. Why did I ever think his meticulous ways were endearing?
“This is not simply about you, Howard. It’s about us. And stop analyzing everything I say. I feel like one of your patients.”
Wine sloshes over the rim of my glass as I huff toward the French doors. I try to find hope in the view, but all I can feel at the moment is frustration. Even Aunt Bonnie Kathleen’s favorite platitude—Rome wasn’t built in a day—doesn’t help.
“Elizabeth?” Howard puts a hand on my shoulder, then pulls it back. “I’m sorry.”
Why didn’t he leave it there? Why does he back off from touching me?
“Me, too,” I say, turning around to face him.
“I just want us to go back to what we had, Elizabeth.”
“I don’t want to go backward, Howard. I want to go forward to something more exciting and more wonderful. I want us to be like Ken and Irma.”
When I tell him about the Prices, he gets very quiet. Over the years Howard has developed this inscrutable face. I never can figure out what he’s thinking.
Finally he says, “I thought that’s what we had, Elizabeth.”
Lord, haul me off to the loony bin now. If he thinks this parched desert of a marriage is wonderful, then I don’t see how we’re ever going to find any middle ground. What else can I say to make him see?
When my old, faithful Lab Rufus wanders in and rubs against my legs to be patted, I get on my knees and greet him as if he’s a St. Bernard who has rescued me from a frozen mountain. Here’s something I can do that doesn’t involve a major, heart-wrenching decision.
“It’s too beautiful to stay inside,” I say. “Let’s take Rufus for a walk.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d rather be in the garden?”
“I just did.”
“If you’d said something earlier, maybe we could have avoided all this drama.”
This is the point where one of us always stomps off to pout, and the other waits a suitable cooling off period (generally an hour or two) before coming forth with a conciliatory gesture (usually a hug, sometimes a peck on the cheek). If we’re going to fall back into that pattern, I might as well have stayed in Florida.
“Listen, Howard. I don’t want to argue with you, and I don’t want to sit around performing a postmorte
m on our marriage.”
“Is that what you think this is? A postmortem?”
“That’s what it feels like.”
Stricken and genuinely puzzled, he rakes his hands through his thinning hair, and then picks up his notes and walks toward the door like a very old man. I want to pat him on the head and say, There, there.
“Howard. Wait.”
“If you have something to say, I’m listening.”
I start to yell, Why didn’t you just say I’m listening? but then realize that if he’d been the one to leave me I’d want answers, too.
Suddenly chilled by this too-cool house, this too-cool marriage, I wrap my arms around myself.
“I can’t identify exactly what’s wrong with us,” I add. “All I know is that I don’t feel connected to you anymore. It’s as if we came to a crossroads and you went right while I went left.”
“That doesn’t give me much to go on.”
I feel as if I’m banging my head against a wall. Howard wants to solve us the way he would a crossword puzzle. How can you fix a marriage with logic?
Of course, I’m the one who wants change. Am I expecting too much or is he expecting too little?
“Were you happy the way things were between us, Howard?”
“I never noticed anything wrong.” He paces to the bookshelves and back. “I don’t get it, Elizabeth. How do you expect me to fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong?”
“Don’t you see, Howard? It’s not up to you to fix it. It’s up to both of us to try to find a way back to each other.”
“I don’t know where to start. At least give me some idea of what you want, Elizabeth.”
“I want to walk in the sunset. Holding hands. We don’t do that anymore. Just touch each other.”
“Is that all?”
I have a hard time controlling a sigh. If I could type up a list of grievances, Howard would address them all within the next two days, then check them off, item by item.
“Why don’t we start there and try to build on it, Howard?”
It’s cool in the garden, and the air holds a hint of rain. I’ve always loved this time of year before the heat and humidity suck the life out of every living thing. This is the season of bloom and newness, lush green growth and promise.
While Rufus bounds joyfully along sniffing out fun, we walk side by side, hands linked, hips touching and I remember Ken and Irma, the beauty of their union, the passion always simmering just beneath the surface. I’m not sure Howard and I ever had what they do, and I certainly don’t know if we can find it. But this much I do know: I’m willing to try.
The New Dawn roses are spectacular, hanging in full pink bunches over the wrought-iron arbor in our backyard. I lean over to inhale the fragrance, then pluck one and tuck it behind my ear.
Seized by an impulsive madness I arch my arms over my head, twirl around and shout, “Olé!”
Howard’s tight, almost-embarrassed smile stops me in my tracks.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“About last night, Elizabeth…”
“Let’s not talk it to death, Howard. Let’s just enjoy the roses.” Some things are best left unsaid until the trauma of the event wears off.
We continue our stroll of the garden, but we’re no longer holding hands. So much for our great start. Of course, things might have been different between us if last night at the Palm Breeze had turned out differently.
After our failed attempt at madcap romance in the heat of afternoon, we had a pleasant enough meal at Iamato’s restaurant, not discussing anything more significant than the dance class Kate found for Bonnie.
When we got back to the Palm Breeze, Howard and I watched the ten o’clock news then attempted to recapture an amorous mood, but nothing happened down south. For either of us.
“Maybe if we put on some romantic music…” I said.
I found a station on the radio that played classic romantic ballads, and then crawled back under the covers while Peggy Lee crooned “That Old Black Magic.” After fifteen minutes we were both covered in sweat, but not the magic kind—the nervous kind. Nothing kills passion more than trying too hard.
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I faked a yawn and said, “Well, good night, Howard.”
“Wait, Elizabeth…” He fumbled around between us some more. “Let me just…”
I felt like a cantaloupe in the produce section of the supermarket. You know those women who come along and thump every one of the melons trying to find the ripest? Well, let me tell you, there wasn’t an inch of my body that Howard didn’t thump.
Mercifully, he gave up after another ten minutes of embarrassment. Now, I’m not one of those shallow women who judge a husband based merely on sex, but I do happen to believe it’s the glue that holds everything else in the marriage together. When you’ve got that just-loved feeling, it’s easy to overlook small irritations and take major problems in stride. But everything around you can get tinged gray and ugly if you’re constantly frustrated and deprived.
The last rays are fading from the garden, and by the time we finish our stroll I’m already dreading tonight. Not a good sign. Egos are fragile things. I don’t know if Howard’s can survive another debacle…or mine either, for that matter.
Every woman wants to think of herself as the kind of femme fatale who can drive a man to his knees with desire. Shoot, I’d settle for being a moderately appealing woman who rouses a man to action even if the equipment is half-cocked.
Inside, Howard heads for his favorite chair and flicks on the six o’clock news while I hover in the doorway.
Belatedly he turns off the television and says, “We can eat out if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll cook.”
It’s a small way of showing my commitment to making our marriage work. Besides, I enjoy the kitchen, love the scent of spices and the look and feel of shiny copper pots. Jane’s the same way. I subscribe to Gourmet, she subscribes to Southern Living, and we meet over morning coffee to exchange recipes. Old-fashioned, I know. Still, there’s an art to cooking if you do it right.
The downsides of cooking are the constancy and the expectations of those waiting to be fed.
I flip through my back issues of Gourmet looking for Howard’s favorites, chicken cordon bleu and pear pie. I’ll do both if I have the right cheeses. Who knows what my refrigerator holds after my extended absence?
More than cheese, I can guarantee you that. The shelves are groaning with leftovers, every casserole in Kate’s culinary repertoire artfully displayed in the rainbow-colored plastic storage containers she got at a wedding shower. There’s enough food in here to feed a small third-world country for three days.
Kate made certain her father didn’t miss me at all.
Knee-jerk anger propels me to the phone, but by the time I’ve dialed her prefix, my anger has fizzled. If I’d had a father under similar circumstances, wouldn’t I have done the same thing? And besides, at least I know that Howard didn’t drive all the way to the coast because he missed my cooking.
I put the receiver back in its cradle and the chicken in the oven. By the time I’m wrist deep in pastry, the phone rings. I give it three rings to see if Howard is going to answer, and when he doesn’t, I pick up and say hello.
Dead silence. “Hello,” I say again.
“I was expecting Daddy.”
“He’s watching TV. How are you, Kate?”
Standing in a kitchen cozy with colored light from a Tiffany shade and heat from the oven, I feel the chill of not knowing how to bridge the gap between us.
“Are you home to stay, Mom?”
“I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but I honestly don’t know. It depends.”
“If it depends on Daddy, he wants you to stay.”
“Oh, Katie…I’ve missed you, and I want to stay, really I do. But it’s not that simple.”
“Mom…please…I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Can you put D
addy on?”
Feeling as if I’m suddenly an outsider in my own family, I deliver the message to Howard.
“Telephone.”
“Who is it?”
“Kate.”
When he picks up the phone I’m tempted to eavesdrop, but pride won’t let me. All I hear as I walk back toward the kitchen is my husband explaining to my daughter that “the trip went as well as could be expected for a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
As if I’m an afterthought. As if he has to consult Kate on whether I’m worth the drive to Pensacola. As if she’s the one who has the say in our marriage.
I slam my fists into the dough as if it’s my worst enemy. Not until I shove the pear pie into the oven do I realize I’m crying. Silently.
Well, I have news for my daughter. I have no intention of letting her or anybody else make the decisions around this household. The last time I looked I was still Howard’s wife, and by George, that’s the way it’s going to stay until one of us decides to change it.
Furthermore, it’s nobody’s business but ours what goes on between us. Marriage is private. Even from children.
Finally, I sag onto the kitchen stool, felled by the realization that I’ve come home to an unholy mess. And not just with my older daughter, either. Not a thing has changed between Howard and me. He’s watching TV and I’m making dinner, and neither of us has a clue what the other really wants or needs. After all these years!
I fish around in my purse for my cell phone.
“Jane, I’m home.”
“I saw your car come in. I would have come right over, but I figured you and Howard had things to discuss.”
“Can I come over in the morning and talk?”
“I’ll have a coffee cake hot.”
Women would kill for a best friend like Jane. Feeling better already, I set the dining room table with my best china and silver, then light candles and select Mozart and Beethoven and Debussy, music guaranteed to soothe jangled nerves.
If Howard’s as uptight as I am, this evening does not look promising.
CHAPTER 12
“How can you be a hero if your white stallion is a jackass?”
