“That woman from Yugoslavia spoke about something similar. But in the end it broke her. She was left unfulfilled and disappointed.”
“It happened because her expectations were quiet unreasonable and poorly understood.” She stopped talking while looking for her cigarettes. Lena wanted to say how harmful nicotine is, but thought the better of it. Nobody ever stopped a passion, just because an outsider reminded him of the ill effects. Change is only possible if it comes from personal convictions. Adrienne leaned back visibly enjoying her smoke, or the relaxation it offered and continued her monologue. “All living things have an overwhelming need to keep the species alive and safe. Mother-love is in reality a manifestations of this powerful need. This unconditional, self-sacrificing love is Nature’s way of ensuring that the young of the species, needing absolute care and protection, would not die of neglect.”
“I agree, yet it seems so animalistic, so instinctive as if we just got off the tree. Nothing spiritual, just the ingrained, universal desire to survive.”
“It is not. You only see it that way because you are an incorrigible romantic and reject everything that has a down-to-earth explanation. No matter what label you affix to it, it is still love, and a very powerful emotion at that. But there is a dark side to this love, namely that it is more or less unilateral.” Adrienne warmed to her subject and talked about it in great detail. She expounded that children are not really selfish monsters, and that eventually they too will develop this awesome love which they enjoyed from birth on, but it won’t be for the parents. They will always give this love to their own children. It is the unalterable law of Nature. “Unless you, as a mother, can accept this fact without a grudge in your heart, you are in for a lot of pain. Did you ever consider why a mother’s love is more enduring, more self-sacrificing than the child’s love to its parents? If I am mistaken in this, then sure as hell I don’t understand why diapered babies may stay at home, while diapered parents end up in homes. Bingo! To reinforce my argument let me quote the fourth of the Ten Commandments, which makes it a law to honor thy parents. You do not find a parallel commandment for parents regarding their kids. Discounting some totally depraved individuals, parents do not need to be reminded on a stone tablet to take care of their children. However, children apparently do need such a law. I rest my case.”
“According to you, the world is so arranged that the expectations of this woman from Yugoslavia and of Rapunzel’s mother were unrealistic and impossible.”
“So it is. Their expectations were unreasonable, and in case you think like they do, then so are yours. “
“You don’t believe that there is reciprocal love between grown children and their parents?”
“Of course I do, and of course there is, but it is never paid in the same coin. Parents, who crave or even demand the same love they expended on their children, are in for a big disappointment, because it won’t happen.”
In the cozy semidarkness, surrounded by luxury, they tried to discuss and to understand a mystery neither experienced as yet. All their words, all their arguments could not solve the essential issue, the cornerstone of the problem. They had no idea how to integrate motherhood, wifely duties, a career and very likely also the caring for elderly parents. Somehow all of this should be accomplished with divine ease without being overwhelmed by the task, or be crushed by guilt at the inevitable failure at some level. They were smart enough to know that no matter how they tried, one aspect of their life would forever be shortchanged. They were like the legendary blind men, who touched different parts of an elephant and after sharing their impressions with the others, tried to form a concept of the entire animal. No wonder that the elephant they imagined was nothing like the real thing.
“Do you suppose that we are overcomplicating a thing which is basically natural and as simple as taking a breath of air?”
As she answered Adrienne was less assured as she was when she delivered her little emancipated speech.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. We are overeducated and trained for the professions, but somehow we also need to fit children into our life. It is not easy. Perhaps our generation is no longer as natural and as simple as our ancestors have been. We are forced to face such issues which were not part of their life. Nowadays a woman is split in her strivings. She wants children, but also desires a professional life and self-actualization.”
“In all this, I feel extravagantly cheated, as I have no children and no professional life either. Heaven knows, I tried to write, but some unknown literary deities proved that I have no talent for it. I tried to argue for motherhood. I failed in that too.”
“Motherhood still might happen. The door hasn’t closed yet. And perish the thought about lack of talent. Your story is as far from mediocre as the cellar is from the attic. I told you that your story is good and that the judges either never read it, or are all hopeless blockheads. Jobbernowls. You should believe me, but unfortunately you did not ask for my opinion. Why? Did you not trust my judgment and therefore turned to others? Of course, it has already been written in the Good Book that you cannot be a prophet in your own neighborhood. Or something like that.”
“It was not mistrust, Adrienne, please believe me. I was just afraid that you would be biased.”
“Oh, then you don’t know me, my friend! I never hesitate to swing my hatchet, if necessary.”
Adrienne fell silent but her hand was restlessly tracing the pattern on the beige and rust colored pillow. Finally, she spoke haltingly, carefully. “Lena, what is wrong? I sense a change in you. I don’t feel that robust energy with which you used to tackle problems small and large. Nobody could stop you. Recently you seem unsure and hesitant. It is time to shake off this distressing blue funk, before it destroys you. The tone of hopelessness and desolation keeps echoing in whatever you say nowadays. It is not like you. Lately you even doubt the existence of love.”
“I do not doubt love, only my capacity for it,” she answered quietly. “At times I think I am like a black hole in the Universe. I absorb the light coming to me, but never give any of it back.”
“This is a new one. What is wrong with your capacity? Is marital bliss getting stale on you? Do you ever have any sexual fantasies to resuscitate it?”
“I am not sure about the ‘bliss’ part, but I do have my fantasies, like having sex under the bushes on the wide and grassy median strip of a six-lane highway.”
“Wow! With Clyde in his custom-made three piece suit? And how would you reach the verdant strip without splattering your brain all over the asphalt? And the things people throw out of their cars! Besides I am sure that it is illegal. You can’t be serious.”
“I am not. Just wanted to check your shock-absorbing capacity. Actually the idea did not even originate with me. I read it ages ago in a bestseller, the kind I cannot write. I forgot the story, but for some reason this weird scene stuck in my mind. Of course, you are right on all counts, even if you are a bit finicky. But have it your way: herewith I eliminate the fantasy and make my mind chaste once again. But you must admit that it is hugely funny to picture Clyde in that bizarre scene!”
“Poor Clyde! His fastidiousness is his virtue and it is not fair to make fun it! I’ll bring us some tea and then you can tell all about your loveless heart.” At this Lena laughed again and remarked,
“Who are you really? I’d guess you to be a fourth or fifth generation descendant from British ancestors, if indeed they did not arrive on the Mayflower, but you still believe in the true British superstition that everything can be remedied with a cup of tea. If an asteroid the size of half the moon would be expected presently to crash into the Earth, you would use the last minutes left to brew a cup of tea before meeting your Maker. Sort of one for the road.”
“Nothing wrong with that. It is a civilized custom, as long as you use the right tea leaves, prepare it correctly, and pour it with grace. Be back in a wink.”
Adrienne left the room and Lena was staring into the fire try
ing to form into words what she felt. When she was young and lived at home, she never had any doubts about her personality or her role in life. Hers was a happy family and she lived in closeness, trust, camaraderie and enjoyed the mutual support family members gave to each other. The sensation of emptiness came later, after she married Clyde. It was accompanied by disturbing doubts. She usually pushed the dark thoughts from her mind because she considered them disloyal. Clyde was a good man, she told herself over and over again, and they had a good life. Her constant sensation of neediness and that gnawing pain of missing something essential were unwarranted. Knowing that she was mostly unfair made her even more wretched. She also felt that to talk about this behind his back would be a base betrayal, no matter how close a friend Adrienne was. She decided not to tell the full truth, but more or less sidestep the issue. Adrienne came back and poured the tea, and once again they settled comfortably.
“Well, tell it all to mother,” she said looking at Lena with her dark, impressive eyes. She was a generous listener and kindness radiated from her.
“I am not sure how to tell you about this and I do not think you could absolve me of the sin. Perhaps lacking the capacity to love is not even a sin, just a missing element in my emotional make-up. It is possibly about a cat in a round-about way.”
“We all know you hate cats. Is that your problem?”
“Not quite. I know about a woman, an old lady. She lives in Canada, in Alberta. Her cat at the age of seventeen years passed away. The lady, understandably, was heartbroken. If you ever lost a pet, you would know how she felt. She called a friend of hers in Texas to tell about her grief, and this friend in Texas hopped on a plane and flew to Alberta to support her friend. I could never do that. I don’t have that sort of limitless love and empathy.”
“Because you hate cats. And because the old lady was not a friend or kin. You do not even know her. It is only a second-hand, recycled story about people, who are no more than two names to you. It would be pathological if you too would jump on a plane to offer support to a complete stranger in a feline drama. For the sake of clarity, forget the demise of the aged cat, and suppose that some horrible thing happened to me. Would you not want to hop on a plane and stand by me?”
Lena raised her hand in protest, almost spilling her tea.
“Yes, of course. How could you suppose, even for the sake of argument that I would not stand by you! As long as I have a pulse and a blood pressure nothing and nobody could keep me from being with you in your trouble.”
“There you go. Problem of inadequate love-capacity solved. Now it is time for us to do something to that powder room.”
“Let’s tackle it. Perhaps we’ll have more luck with it than with solving the problems of motherhood, or writing a successful short story.”
FIVE
The end of March showed its worst face. Historically, it is the month that usually tries the nerves. It is much too long, and other than St. Patrick’s Day, there are no real holidays in it. The snow is dirty, the wind is still very cold and everybody is tired of winter, but stubborn March will not budge. It just stays put for all of its thirty-one, dirty bleak days, while everyone is convinced that time slowed down, or stopped altogether and spring would never come.
Lena was doing her volunteer work at the retirement home. Although the old people did not have to go outside and face the weather, they still suffered from the cold and the gloom. The wind and the chill seeped into their bones and a variety of pains kept them awake at night and unhappy during the day. What evil forces were there in the atmosphere that could make them suffer so? Nothing visible, nothing concrete, but the pain and malaise were real.
While the meteorologists were still bending over their charts and were thoughtfully analyzing incoming data, the old folks could already tell accurately what was coming, when, and how severe it would be. They were cranky and wandered in their soft slippers in the halls and then returned listlessly into the common living room, peering moodily through the windows, but there was no improvement in the darkening skies. Their general physical unease persisted.
By mid-afternoon the wind increased to near hurricane force and it roared among the buildings, rattling windows, overturning garbage cans, twisting umbrellas out of shape, tearing branches off mature trees. Thunder followed lightning almost instantly; the storm was raging directly overhead. The rain came down as a gray sheet and the elemental fury soon emptied the streets. The light flickered on and off and the old people stopped wandering around and like frightened children huddled in the living room seeking security and reassurance in each other’s company.
Old Mrs. Singer was especially unhappy and complained to anyone, who would listen how frightening this was, how it looked like Judgment Day, and how difficult it was to be old and helpless.
“I am already dependent on others now, but what will become of me when I’ll be bedridden? The very thought scares me. I’ll kill myself before that happens,” she whimpered.
“Quit complaining,” snapped a caretaker, herself nervous and tired. “When you’ll be bedridden, then you’ll be bedridden, like everybody else in that condition. When you are old, frail or sick, you will just have to stay in bed and somebody will take care of you. This is the way it is. Nobody ever walked on his own two feet to the cemetery to get buried. You have to be bedridden first.”
Mrs. Singer did not respond, but Lena saw that she had tears in her eyes as she left the group and turned quietly into her room with the sparse furniture, blank walls and the gray hopelessness of life’s final stage. Later she visited the old lady, but could not find the right words of comfort. She had a less than noble desire to strangle the insensitive caretaker.
When she left the Home the storm had settled somewhat, but it was still raining heavily. She removed the leaves and branches from the hood and the roof and was glad to slip into the comfort of her car. She loved its interior. As she turned on the ignition the curved panel lit up with lights; there were almost as many there as in a midsize airplane. Surrounded by the benevolent lights she felt reassured. The lights offered companionship, if only of a mechanical kind. Clyde teased her that she did not know the function of half the lights, but of course, that was not the point. The point was that when she drove alone at night, she did not sit in a dark place as in a coffin; the soft lights made the interior into a safe and friendly refuge. She did not try to explain this to him.
Clyde was not yet home when she arrived, but there was a message from Adrienne on the answering machine. Lena called back immediately.
“Lena dear, I just wanted to know that you arrived safely in this horrible storm. Let me tell you, I learned to fear Mother Nature’s fury during the last hours and hated to know that you were on the road.”
“I am fine and you are a dear for calling and worrying about me. Everything seems all right around here, just masses of branches around the house and the lawn is soaked. I am more worried about my little cottage at the lake. On the way home I heard on the news that the area there was badly hit. I ought to go out and check on it, but there is no way I can fit it into my schedule any time soon”
“Would you like me to do it for you? It would not be a problem. I can easily arrange to take off an afternoon from work.”
“Don’t ever say that, when others can hear you! People might get the false message that you are not important enough to stay at work.”
“Or they might think the opposite,” Adrienne answered. “They might get the impression that I am so important that I can do with my time as I please. Really, I would not mind doing it at all. It is not even an hour and a half to the lake. If I leave afternoon, I’ll be home by suppertime with time to spare.”
“Would you really do that for me?”
“Yes, of course, as soon as the storm moves on. Give me a day or two.” There was a pause on the other end of the line and Lena was not sure what it was. Did the storm break the connection, or was Adrienne reconsidering her hasty offer? Finally, very much out of cha
racter, Adrienne spoke haltingly and in obvious agitation.
“It is not a favor Lena; don’t thank me. I am the one who wants a favor from you. I wanted to ask for your cottage for days now, but did not have the courage to speak about it. Now I can ask for it under the pretense of helping you.”
“Is it about Steve? Adrienne, you are playing with fire!”
“No Lena, don’t worry. It is about Steve, but I am not playing with fire. As a matter of fact, I am about to put it out, before it engulfs us. It is not what you think, whatever you are thinking. I am not about to use your place for a passionate clandestine rendezvous. You know that I would never do that. Your friendship is much too valuable for me to use you in such a way.” There was a pause while they waited for a belated thunder to roll away. “It is hardly a secret that I carried on a harmless fling with Steve. We did not hurt anybody, and we did not take it seriously. It was fun. More than fun. It was precious and sweet. But the time has come to put an end to it.”
“In the summer house on the lake. At the end of winter. If you say so. But why?”
“Because I discovered that I love him. This is the imperative reason to put a stop to it. It was OK while it was just an amusing flirtation. Until recently it was no more than adults playing a happy game and having a good time. But suddenly, or perhaps not all that suddenly, it stopped being a game.”
“You fell in love with the object of your flirtation.”
“Yes, very much so. I agonized with the best and the worst side of me, until finally I decided that I would never leave my husband. I cannot and I will not. My husband is too good for that, and I owe him respect. He does not deserve the agony of a divorce, or the role of the cheated husband.”
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 7
