by Dean Hughes
But then, why not? What did she have to say? What new things ever happened to her now? And when she asked him about his day, Richard especially lost interest. “Just the usual things,” he would say. Or, “We’re behind schedule, and one of our trucks broke down. I hope it’ll be running in the morning.”
It was nothing that Bobbi could even think how to comment about.
And so the “how was your day?” talk ended quickly, usually soon after Richard came through the door, and the dinner talk seemed to fall into already familiar patterns: the weather, Bobbi’s sickness, Thomas family events. Bobbi could have taken all that, and maybe even could have concluded that this quiet little interlude in her life was rather pleasant after all the years of intensity in the navy, but she wondered whether this state of things wasn’t a taste of her life from now on. Maybe Richard was turning out to be the man she feared he might be: uncommunicative and eventually downright dull. Right now he seemed to show no passion for anything, even for her, and she was certainly less than exciting in her emotional state, her “illness.” Every now and then, though she tried not to do it, she found herself wondering about David—what life might have been like with him. She couldn’t imagine him ever reading all evening, as much as he loved books, without having something more fun, more interesting to say to her. She couldn’t imagine that he ever would have let life become bland. He would have thought of something, done something crazy, just to lighten things up. He had always been that way. And he would have had so many thoughts in his head, so many things he was wondering about, reading, teaching, that he surely would have talked to her about all of it.
Maybe. But she knew she shouldn’t think that way. Even if it was true, it wasn’t healthy to imagine. And it probably wasn’t true. David could be self-centered, and he might have expected her to satisfy his ego in too many ways. Maybe he would have stayed late at the office, devoted more to his books and his ideas—and to his young students—than to her. Maybe every woman became less exciting to a man once she became domesticated, once she lost her shape, once she was a mother. Maybe David would have dazzled his young students, thrived on the attention of pretty twenty-year old girls. Maybe he would have . . .
But none of that mattered. Bobbi had made a choice, even before she had known that David had died. Richard was a good man, and really sweet to her, except for his moodiness in the mornings. She had a nice home already, and Richard had a steady, good-paying job. She had what every girl dreamed of, and she wasn’t going to indulge herself in a lot of self-pity and regret. What she needed to do was think less of herself and concentrate on making Richard as happy as she could.
So when Richard returned to the bedroom and was slipping on his trousers, she whispered, “Richard, I love you.”
“I love you too, honey. Are you feeling any better?”
“A little.”
“Stay in bed for a while. You need some rest. I’ll make some toast and—”
“No. I’ll fry you some eggs. Once you’re gone, I won’t have anyone to talk to all day.” She sat up in bed and made sure she wasn’t dizzy. Then she stepped to him and pressed herself against him, so that he put his arms around her. “Don’t kiss me. My breath stinks,” she said, and they both laughed.
But he held her for a time, and then he said, more convincingly than the time before, “I do love you, Bobbi, and I’m sorry you have to be sick. If you want, I’ll have the next baby.”
“I wish you could.”
“It might be worth it if I could stay home and read.”
Bobbi was angry, in a flash. She pulled away and walked to the bathroom. She washed her face and hands, and then she brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair a few strokes and then came back and slipped on a robe. By then Richard was putting a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. What he didn’t seem to notice was that he had upset her.
“It’s not so great as you think,” she said, finally, with some tension in her voice.
“What?”
But she saw his look of recognition—that “Oh, no, I’ve made her mad again” look. It was almost like panic. “Honey, I know I wouldn’t really like it. I was just teasing.”
“I don’t see anyone, Richard. And I feel so terrible most of the time.” But Bobbi couldn’t believe she was doing this. Her emotions were all so strong these days. She cried about nothing at all. She was trying not to do that now, but tears were in her eyes, blurring her vision.
“Maybe I’ll take you out to dinner tonight, if you feel like it. We need to get out a little more.”
“Okay. That would be good. I’m sorry, Richard. I don’t know why I react that way. I hardly feel like myself these days.” She opened the refrigerator and got out a carton of eggs.
“You’re PG—that’s what’s going on. My mom told me that’s what happens to women.”
So he had been talking to his mother about her? Bobbi was suddenly angry all over again. “Okay, we’ve explained my problem,” she said. “Now, what’s yours?”
“What problem?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just that you’re miserable.”
“That’s not true, Bobbi. I’m fine.”
“If this is fine, I just hope you never get depressed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bobbi was going to shut up. She got a bowl down from her pretty birch cupboards and cracked an egg, dropped the insides into the bowl, then broke another one. “Do you want these scrambled?”
“Sure. It doesn’t matter. Bobbi, you know me. I don’t create a lot of excitement, I’m afraid. Maybe you’re just beginning to see how uninteresting I really am. But I’m doing fine. I don’t know why you always tell me that I’m not.”
“Richard, you’re not happy. You’re going through the motions, doing what you have to do, but you’re not happy. I don’t want to live with you a whole lifetime and watch you sleepwalk your way through it. You weren’t this way when I first met you. You weren’t this way even when you first came home from the war.”
“Bobbi, I’m doing what I need to do for our family. Apparently, I also need to improve my personality. Is there anything else you don’t like about me? I’ll work on that, too.”
“Don’t do that, Richard. It’s not fair. I watch you walk out of here every morning, and you look like you’re heading to the gallows to meet your death. I can’t stand to see you doing that to yourself. You know we have to do something about it.”
“I told you, I’m not going to have this conversation again.
I need to get to work.” He opened the toaster, grabbed the hot toast, and headed for the door, where he picked up his leather briefcase. And then he was gone, and Bobbi was left alone for another long day. She sat down at the kitchen table and thought about crying, but she was entirely too devastated. She had always assumed that she would have a good marriage, that she would find someone wonderful, and that she would be a good wife. And now what? Divorce? A standoff? A long life with someone she didn’t know how to talk to? Would she be one of those women who filled her life with her children and church work, PTA and all the rest—but shared next to nothing with the man she had married forever?
Other people’s lives turned into tragedies, long miserable acts of courage, but not hers—certainly not hers. The nausea was back, and Bobbi couldn’t stand to think of the eggs, not even toast. She went back to bed and lay there waiting for the sickness to pass, wondering whether it was possible that life was going to turn out as bad as it now looked.
Bobbi couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even vomit, and she couldn’t settle her mind enough to read. She stayed on the bed until she was too restless for that, and then she went back to the kitchen in her robe. She knew she needed to clean up, brighten up, get busy, and then life would start to feel normal. But she also knew she would be kidding herself. If Richard came home that night, apologized, and then simply went back to his routine, she couldn’t stand it. Somehow, she had to break through all this distance that was growin
g between them before it was too late. Maybe she could take a bus to the plant, walk into his office, and say, “We’re going to talk.” But she knew better. He would be upset and wouldn’t respond.
She walked to the phone, picked it up, and dialed her home phone. Her mother answered. “Hi, Mom,” Bobbi said, “I thought you might be gone by now.”
“Well, I am about ready to head out.”
“Are you planning to work all day?”
“Right now, I would say no, but I say that every morning, and then I usually end up staying around the place longer than I should. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought I’d come over for a few minutes, if you were going to be around.”
“Are you lonely, Bobbi?”
“Sure. A little.” But Bobbi was crying and fighting desperately to stifle the sound so her mother wouldn’t know.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you sick this morning?”
“Yes. A little.”
“What else is it?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t know if my marriage is going to work out.” And now she was crying hard.
“Oh, Bobbi, don’t say that. It seems that way sometimes, but every couple can work things out. Did you have a fight?”
Bobbi was sobbing. When she got herself under control a little, she said, “No, Mom. We don’t fight. That would be exciting. Richard just wanders around like all the life has drained from his heart, and then he tells me he’s not unhappy.”
“I know what you mean, Bobbi. I watch him sometimes. I’ll see him sitting in a meeting, and he’s really not listening to the conversation. His head isn’t really in the work, and I don’t think it ever will be.”
“So what do I do, Mom?”
“Get him away from the plant. He’s got to do something he cares about.”
“He thinks he has to work there for us—for me and the baby.”
“That’s good that he wants to do what he thinks is right. But it’s not going to work. You need to get this all out in the open, Bobbi.”
“He won’t talk, Mom.”
“Well, it’s time you have a really good fight. I didn’t fight with your dad for twenty-five years, and I was always proud of that. But I also let things keep going along in ways I really didn’t like. When I finally challenged him, he responded, and we’ve made some headway since then.”
“Have you, Mom? Can you work things out when they go wrong?”
“Oh, Bobbi, you’re just getting started. Marriage lasts a long time—sometimes it seems like an eternity.” She laughed. “Don’t be nasty and sarcastic, though, and don’t take pot shots at him. Come at him straight, tell him what you think, and don’t let him run from you. Have it out—find out what he’s really feeling.”
“I’ll try.”
“Remember, though, if you challenge him, be ready to listen. I’ve had to make some changes too. I feel better about your dad than I ever have, and I think he feels the same way about me. We’ve been going out lately, doing more together. He’s even remembered how to kiss.”
Bobbi certainly didn’t want to know about that part. But she was pretty sure her mother was right. It was time to force the issue.
When Richard got home that night, he seemed tentative. He wasn’t the sort to bring home flowers as a peace offering, but that was all right with Bobbi. She didn’t want a gift; she wanted a connection. She had taken a bath and washed her hair after the conversation with her mother that morning, and now she had slipped on a pretty dress and put on some lipstick. “Say, honey, I’m glad you dressed up a little,” Richard said. “It looks like you’re going to take me up on my offer. Shall we go out for dinner?”
“Yes. But not yet. We need to talk. Let’s sit down here at the table.”
“Why don’t we go into the living room?”
“No. I want to look you straight in the face.”
He smiled a little, but she could see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he refused to look at her directly. The two sat down opposite each other, and then Bobbi said what she had practiced all day. “Richard, you have to quit working for my dad. You know it as well as I do.”
He looked down at the table, at his hands, which were gripped together. “And how do you propose I would do that?” he asked. “How do we make house payments? How do we pay for our baby?”
“So what you’re telling me is that you plan to be unhappy all your life, do a job you hate, in order to create a happy family life. Is that the idea? Does that make even the slightest bit of sense?”
“Bobbi, you exaggerate everything. The job isn’t that bad.”
“Then what’s wrong? Does it have something to do with the war?”
“Bobbi, I’ve told you a thousand times, there are things I’m not going to talk to you about. I thought we had an understanding about that.”
“No. We never did. I always told you I wanted you to be open with me. And I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to do this for my entire life. Something is wrong, and you’re going to tell me what it is. That’s the only option.”
She saw a splotch of red forming on his throat. He held firm for a few seconds, swallowed, and then said in a rigid, governed voice, “Don’t start giving me ultimatums, Bobbi. You might not like the result.”
“What does that mean, Richard? What are you going to do?” She leaned across the table and grabbed his forearms, making him look back at her. “Are you talking about a divorce? Are you going to beat me up? Yell and scream at me? Go back to your silence? If you’re going to threaten me, at least be
specific.”
“Don’t do this, Bobbi. I love you, but I won’t let you browbeat me. I just won’t. There are some things I have to do my own way.”
“No!” Bobbi was standing up now, leaning over the table. “You don’t have that right,” she shouted into his face. “You can do things your own way when they don’t affect me. But when you make choices that are ruining our marriage, making us both miserable, you lose that right. I want to know, right now, what’s going on in your head.”
“You don’t know what you’re trying to get me to do, Bobbi. There’s no way you can. Can’t you just let me be the judge on this?”
“No. It can’t be that bad, if we just talk about it. It’s not talking about it that is so terrible.”
He was sitting still now, and she thought maybe she had won. But for the first time, she wondered whether she was wrong. What was it he didn’t want to tell her?
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and he sat that way for a long time. When he finally spoke, the anger was gone. “Bobbi, as you know, something did happen to me. I try to put it out of my mind, but it seems to have changed me. I can’t even say why. But I think it’s temporary. I feel like I can get over it.”
“Just tell me. Then we’ll go from there. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
He still didn’t speak. She didn’t know whether he was looking for the words to explain or the strength to tell her no one more time. But finally he said, “All right. Maybe I do need to tell you. I guess it is only fair.”
Bobbi waited, but Richard still wouldn’t look at her.
“As you know, a kamikaze hit our ship. I was trying to help the men get hoses over to the fire, and that’s when I got hit by a secondary explosion. When it went off, I threw my hands over my face, and I felt the flash at the same time. It knocked me down, knocked me out for a while—maybe a minute or two. That much I’ve told you before.”
“Sort of. But that’s more detail than you ever gave me.”
“When I woke up, people were dragging me, and I don’t remember much of what happened at first. Someone had apparently given me a shot of morphine before I even came around. The first thing I clearly remember is that some guys were handing me down into a rubber life raft. I was in pain, even with the morphine, and I was still pretty confused about what was happening.”
He paused, looking at the t
able. All his words had been in monotone, without emotion.
“I’ve tried to remember what happened after that, but I must have gone unconscious again for a while. At some point
I remember that I was across some guys’ laps, and they were hanging onto me. I could feel the raft roll in the waves, and the sun was in my eyes. I tried to turn, to avoid the sun, and men were yelling for me to hold still. But there was some sort of commotion going on, and I didn’t understand for a minute what was happening. Then I got a look at the water, and it was full of men from our ship—dozens of them out there in the water with life jackets on. The ones who were close to us were swimming toward the boat, or they were grabbing at us, reaching out for help.”
Richard put his hands over his face, covered his eyes the way he must have done during the explosion, and it struck Bobbi how rarely he showed the backs of his hands, even to her.
“The guys in the water were frantic. They were trying to get onto our boat. But the men in the boat wouldn’t let them on. They were swinging their oars at the ones in the water, knocking their hands away, even hitting them over the head, and they were screaming like crazy people. ‘Let go. Let go. There’s no room. You’ll sink us all.’”
Bobbi felt the sickness return to her stomach. “Oh, Richard,” she said. “What a terrible thing to witness. But they would have sunk the boat. And what good would that do? Then you’d all be in the water.”
“I know that.”
“Then no one did anything wrong.”
“It was wrong, Bobbi. Hitting those guys was wrong.”
“Did all the men in the water die?”
