'It's your attitude,' he said. 'I don't understand it.' He deliberately moved so that he could see her face. It was composed. Her hazel eyes scrutinized him calmly. He detected no outward signs of insecurity or lack of self- confidence. There was no tension or anxiety. To him now, her persona seemed reconstructed, different.
'Maybe I'm suffering from the escape-in-the-nick-of-time blues.' He sighed, acknowledging to himself this gesture of surrender, certain that it was a lie. 'It's just that...' He began to grope for words, uncommon for him. 'When you're on the edge of the abyss, you think everyone is writing you off. It's a nasty feeling.'
'I think you're overreacting, Oliver.' She started to move, but his voice recalled her.
'I guess I just wanted reassurance.' He sighed, deliberately posturing. He was surprised that he knew this. What he needed now was to be held, caressed. Perhaps like a baby at his mother's breast. God damn it, he screamed within himself. I need you to love me, Barbara.
'Believe me, Oliver,' she began. 'If I'd thought it was something awful, I would have come. You know that.' What disturbed him now was he felt she was trying to convince herself. He forced himself to obliterate the suggestion, stood up, and draw her toward him again. She didn't glide, hesitating before she moved.
'You're fine,' she whispered, embracing him without conviction. 'That's the bottom line.'
It was an expression she had picked up from somewhere. Perhaps from him. It signaled an unrecognizable inner voice, warning him. Something in his world was awry, misplaced, out of focus. He wasn't sure.
'I'm sorry, Barbara. I don't understand.'
She watched him, shrugged, then smiled. That, too, seemed hollow. Perhaps, he thought, the drugs had interfered with his receiving apparatus and were working hell on the emotions as well. He was picking up indifference.
'You'll feel better after dinner, Oliver. I'm sure of that.'
'Why should you feel so sure? And me, so unsure?'
She shook her head and turned away, and he could hear her padding down the steps, going away. Was it for long? he wondered.
7
She was alone in the kitchen. Ann and the children were studying in their rooms. In the distance she heard Benny's persistent, grating bark. It was sure to prompt a neighbor's complaint. Mercedes lay asleep on one of the top kitchen shelves. Forcing her concentration, Barbara put the chicken flesh, neck, gizzard, hearts, livers, and bones into the large enamel stock pot already in place on the gas burner. She added water and salt and lit the burner, hearing the pop as the flame from the pilot light ignited the hissing gas from the burner ring.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she wandered into the dining room, touching the cool marble of the serving credenza. She saw her image in the silver punch bowl, studying its distortion, considering whether the reflection were really her. Perhaps, she wondered, she was merely an ornament, as static as the silver candelabrum beside her with nothing behind the facade but history. She remembered her mother's words suddenly, their tone of disappointment and rebuke when she had announced that she was quitting college to devote herself to Oliver. Ancient history, she thought with contempt.
'Loving someone doesn't mean you have to give up everything,' her mother had warned.
'It's just until he gets out of law school,' she had assured her.
'But you need something for yourself.'
She had been surprised at that, since she believed that her mother had worked out of financial necessity.
'You have to understand what it means to love someone as much as I love Oliver,' she had responded, as if that were all that needed to be said. Why hadn't they warned her of the transience of such emotions? Nothing lasts except things. Her fingers traced the curled design of the elaborate candelabrum.
Yet she was less angry with her mother for not pressing the point harder than she was with herself, deriding her stupid, utterly ignorant nineteen-year-old self.
Love, she thought, remembering it now only as something that had tricked her. Love lies.
Her earlier emotion returned, stronger than before. It was not as if she had wished that a healthy Oliver would die. Certainly not. That would be cruel, immoral, and unthinkable. But since, as the first call from the doctor had indicated, he was gravely ill anyway, the unthinkable became .. . well, thinkable.
With a thought like that, she asked, how could one live with oneself? And how could one live with Oliver?
It was not the first time she had contemplated a life without her husband. The idea had been smouldering inside her for a long time. Perhaps from the beginning. She could not, of course, pinpoint the moment, since they were always so busy planning ahead, building, growing children or plants, collecting antiques. Their life together seemed divided into projects. Supporting him through law school. Playing good wife to upwardly mobile public servant. Being especially nice to his senior law partners - the quintessential traditional spouse. Chunks of time devoted to being ingratiating. Making him a cozy oasis of a home, a place to restoke the fires. They had gone from tiny apartment to split level in the far-out suburbs. Then came car pools and dancing classes and more car pools and orthodontists. All that culminating in this . . . this giant, all-consuming, magnificent house project in which they had jointly poured every drop of their energy and fantasy. So what happens now that is finished? she asked herself, walking into the library, where he was reading the paper. It was a question that demanded an answer. And she had it ready.
'I didn't come rushing to New York to visit you in the hospital, Oliver, because I didn't care.' It was not precisely the answer to the question as posed. Yet it said it all. He looked up from
'Didn't care?'
He removed his glasses and balanced them on the Chesterfield's leather arm.
'I just didn't care,' she said clearly.
'You mean it didn't matter if I lived or died?' His fingers tapped a crossed thigh and his eyes had narrowed.
