Chapter 8 - Charlie and Katrina
An early evening in February has darkened the sky over Madison, Wisconsin. Silhouetted against the closed curtains of a second floor apartment near the college, the shadow of a small shapely young woman raises both arms in a helpless gesture, leaning forward, head bobbing slightly, saying something. Her arms fall to her sides. Her young man gestures quickly in angry frustration at nothing, swinging out his right arm in an all-encompassing gesture. Then he turns away and shrugs, thrusting his hands stiffly into his pockets, body still rigid with tension.
It's a small argument, a lover's quarrel some might say; but to Charlie and Katrina it seems almost catastrophic. They've never had a quarrel as bad as this one before. They've been together almost a year. Until recently it had seemed as if they would never fight at all. As science graduate students they've always had a copious supply of intellectual discipline and rationality, which they've brought to bear on the tricky problem of making a relationship work.
"You've changed, Charlie," the girl is saying. "You're spouting illogical nonsense like Marie Mallon and Nicky B. Wright."
"Like my mother, you mean?" he responds, this time flailing both arms, falling further into the unfamiliar throes of emotional reaction to a remark. "You've never liked my mother. I get that. She isn't intellectual enough for you. Nobody's intellectual enough for you, are they?" he continues, letting himself get worked up in reaction to the imagined slight. He starts to slam his right fist against a wall, but stops himself.
She resists the urge to snap, "No, I mean Merry Melonhead and Nicht Be Right."
Instead she asks him plaintively, "Charlie, what are you thinking?"
She says it almost desperately, her voice heavy with a suggestion of suppressed tears.
"Reason it out, Charlie. We can't just take off from school and go work for the campaign in the middle of the school year. We're involved in projects that have already been funded. You have qualifying exams coming up. It would put us back an entire school year. And we still have those undergraduate student loans to consider." She pauses, trying to think of some argument that might reach him. "It would be different if it were summer," she suggests.
"Summer will be too late," he answers flatly, eyes staring into a distance not actually visible in the small room, as if seeing something she can't see.
"The election isn't until this coming November," she tries to move back to a reasonable position, "and it's only February now. We could take off this summer and work for them for three months."
"For them? It's THEM now, is it? It used to be us," he answers cuttingly. "This is for us, Katrina. It's for all Americans. We have to work for the values we believe in, the values that made this country great."
"Where did your scientific detachment go?" she wonders in response.
He refuses to discuss it further, turning his back on her.
She begins to cry softly.
He throws himself into his desk chair with unnecessary force, pulls his legs in under the desk, and picks up a book, giving the appearance of studying for the upcoming exam he wants to skip out on. His gaze is fixed on a random mark on the wall, not on the pages. His breathing is shallow and angry, the veins in his neck and temples pounding with elevated blood pressure.
She picks up her own books and papers and sits at a table, turning on a small table lamp with an old yellow tungsten bulb. She opens a journal to an article she's been researching. The tears rise in her eyes despite her efforts to concentrate on the article. She turns a page, wipes her eyes, and continues to cry silently, softly, trying to study through the tears.
A few hours pass. She has made a few notes, done a little work on her research. She has found references to several more articles she needs that aren't available online. It's getting late. She stands and stretches.
"You want a drink or anything? I'm about ready to go to bed," she announces, not sure if he hears. She sees that his book is still open to the same page as it had been when he first sat down. "I think I need to go to the library in the morning." She walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water for herself, and one for her partner. Walking back, she sets it down on his desk. "Charlie? Are you coming to bed now?"
"In a little while," he says, shaking his head as if waking up, taking the glass of water. "Thanks for the water."
She brushes her hand affectionately across the top of his head and goes into the bathroom to wash up and change clothes for bed. As long as they've been together, they still don't change clothes in front of each other if there's a choice. She leaves the door open as a concession to their intimacy, but he doesn't look. He has gone back to staring at the wall, or beyond the wall into whatever model of the world has gripped his imagination. At another time, under different conditions, she might think he was lost in thought about some elusive scientific problem or difficult theory. This time she finds it worrying, even frightening.
She wants to ask him to get medical attention, but how can she say that after a fight? What do you say? Clearly not: Darling, you're going nuts, please see a doctor. Maybe: Honey, you've been under a lot of stress studying for your qualifying exams, have you thought about asking a doctor for something to help you with the stress? She could envision how that would turn out. It would start another fight.
The fights seem to happen almost every night now, over anything, over nothing, and they're worse each time. She shakes her head and goes to bed, pulling the blankets up around her, wishing for a warmth that doesn't come from blankets. If only she didn't care about him quite so deeply, she thinks as she falls asleep.
Let Them Eat Tea Page 8
