First Love and Other Sorrows: Stories
Page 14
“You don’t like Cousin Eleanor,” Martin pointed out. He restored the ice tray to the icebox. “You do like Aunt Dorothy. I don’t think that’s so awful.” He was careful to sound rational and friendly, but not too sympathetic, because he was afraid of what emotions sympathy might release.
“Yes, of course,” Laura said, laying her hand to her cheek. “I forgot that. Sometimes I get myself all upset over nothing.” She felt disappointment washing back and forth in her chest, like waves. “I think I won’t take Faith, anyhow. All those diseases…”
“Then don’t take her,” Martin said. He added water to the Scotch he had already poured.
“But Aunt Dorothy will be so disappointed.” Laura wrung her hands, hoping that now she was on the trail of her real unhappiness, that her quarry wasn’t far ahead.
“Laura,” Martin said. “Aunt Dorothy can live without Faith. So can practically everyone, except us.”
Laura interrupted. “You’re jealous of her,” Laura said. “Oh!” she added inanely and went out the back door, across the lawn, toward the wonderful, comfortable hammock, suspended in the darkness. Martin walked behind her, and as Laura started to climb into the hammock, she felt him holding it steady for her. She sank down on the cloth and lay with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she saw Martin looking down at her. “What’s wrong, lovebug?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Laura said. “That’s it. I just don’t know. Everything seems so awful, so sad—especially me. I—I’ve done something awful, I suppose. I suppose it’s my subconscious or something getting back at me, but I don’t know why. I don’t know why at all. I don’t understand one thing I do.”
“But you must have some idea,” Martin said. “Please tell me. I promise not to get angry. Please tell me, Laura dearest. Let me help. I can’t stand it when you’re like this.”
“Oh, it’s the most dreadful feeling…dreadful.”
Somebody in the row of garden apartments was playing the radio loudly, and the music of a string quartet swam on the heated, motionless air. Someone else had hung a Japanese Lantern in another back yard, and it glowed like a frail moon among the dark leaves of the bushes and trees. And in the middle of this whole scene, Martin bent over the hammock, peering helplessly at the strange, distorted figure of his wife wrapped in that absurd maternity outfit.
“Martin, I’m no good,” Laura said. “I’m a terrible person.” She paused but she wasn’t getting any nearer to what she felt. “I’m growing older,” she whispered, “but I don’t act older, and I’m ashamed.” But that had nothing to do with anything, and in the darkness Laura sighed and folded her arms over her forehead, hiding her eyes. “Martin, I really don’t know what’s wrong. Isn’t that silly.”
Martin was bent over, his arms around the entire hammock, holding Laura to his chest. He looked very uncomfortable bent over like that, and Laura suddenly embraced his head, pressing it tight against her breast.
“You mustn’t talk,” Martin whispered. “If you say things, Laura, you’ll start to believe them. I know you. Just don’t say anything. Just lie here and relax. In the morning this feeling will go away, I promise. But I can’t stand to hear you talk like this. It kills me, Laura. It really does. I think the heat’s just got you down. God, I’m all distraught!” He moved his head out of her embrace and kissed her sticky cheeks. “If you knew what it does to me to hear you talk like this, you wouldn’t do it.”
Laura turned away; the last thing in the world she wanted was to talk about Martin.
“Listen,” he said, “I have to go inside a minute. I’ll be right back, and I don’t want you to be upset while I’m gone.”
“All right,” Laura said. She smiled at him, but it was a sickly smile, and she was grateful it was dark and he couldn’t see her too clearly.
Lying in the hammock, she covered her eyes with her arm and listened to Martin’s footsteps moving rapidly toward the house. Then the screen door slammed and the sound died slowly on the night air.
Oh, why can’t I feel better? Laura thought. Why am I unconsoled?
And quickly her mind poured forth accusations, reminding her of her temper, her foolishnesses, her selfishness. She stifled a groan and stirred on the hammock. She was low, she was terrible, she would never be able to show Martin she really loved him and wanted to be good, because her wicked nature got in the way. And she was punished for this because when he tried to console her, she didn’t feel consoled. “I’ll never really know how much he loves me,” she thought. “There’s no way I’ll know. I can only suspect it.” At that her tears started to flow, and it seemed to her that she had found one of the secret springs of sadness that water the whole world. She wasn’t a fool to feel sad at all.
She cried mostly for Martin’s sake. “Poor Martin!” she thought. “Poor Faith!” She couldn’t cry for herself because she disapproved of herself so severely. “They’re saddled with the most awful woman, and we’ll never know how much we love each other, never, never, never.” And each time she thought this, her tears flowed faster.
Martin came out of the house. He saw that the hammock was swinging gently back and forth, and he smiled. He knew at once that Laura felt better, and he was serious and proud because he had consoled her. Not that he knew what he had done; in fact, as he walked across the grass, he felt small, and awed by the mysteries of what went on between a husband and wife.
“You all right?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Laura whispered tearfully.
“You want to cry on my shoulder or do you want to cry alone?”
“Alone,” said Laura. “But don’t go too far away.” Oh, the world was sad, she thought. Oh, the separateness of people. Oh, the clumsiness of being a woman.
Martin sat in the lawn chair and drank his highball. His heart was full. And, smiling peacefully in the darkness, Laura cried.
About the Author
Harold Brodkey (1930–1996) was born Aaron Roy Weintrub into a Midwestern Jewish family. Both of his parents were recent immigrants from Russia, and after the death of his mother when he was not yet two years old, he was adopted by the Brodkeys, who were cousins on his father’s side. After graduating from Harvard in 1952, he moved to New York and came to prominence as a writer in the early 1950s, publishing collections such as Stories in an Almost Classical Mode and novels including Profane Friendship. Widely acknowledged as a modern master of short fiction, and the winner of two PEN/O. Henry Awards, Brodkey contributed regularly to the New Yorker and other publications. A long-time resident of New York City, Brodkey was married to novelist Ellen Schwamm. He announced in 1993 that he had contracted AIDS, and he died of complications from the virus in 1996.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1954, 1955, 1957 by Harold Brodkey
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4804-2802-7
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