Then he went into the dining room, consulting his watch. It was ten thirty already. More than half the morning was gone.
More than half the time for sitting and trying to write the prose that would make people sit up and gasp.
It happened that way more often now than he would even admit to himself. Sleeping late, making up errands, doing anything to forestall the terrible moment when he must sit down before his typewriter and try to wrench some harvest from the growing desert of his mind.
It was harder every time. And he grew more angry every time; and hated more. And never noticed until now, when it was too late, that Sally had grown desperate and could no longer stand his temper or his hate.
She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking dark coffee. She too drank more than she once had. Like him, she drank it black, without sugar. It jangled her nerves too. And she smoked now although she’d never smoked until a year before. She got no pleasure from it. She drew the fumes deep down into her lungs and then blew them out quickly. And her hands shook almost as badly as his did.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. She started to get up.
“What’s the matter? Can’t you stand the sight of me?”
She sat back and took a deep pull on the cigarette in her hand. Then she stamped it out on the saucer.
He felt sick. He wanted to get out of the house suddenly. It felt alien and strange to him. He had the feeling that she had renounced all claim to it, that she had retreated from it. The touch of her fingers and the loving indulgences she had bestowed on every room; all these things were taken back. They had lost tangibility because she was leaving. She was deserting it and it was not their home anymore. He felt it strongly.
Sinking back against the chair he pushed away his cup and stared at the yellow oilcloth on the table. He felt as if he and Sally were frozen in time; that seconds were drawn out like some fantastic taffy until each one seemed an eternity. The clock ticked slower. And the house was a different house.
“What train are you getting?” he asked, knowing before he spoke that there was only one morning train.
“Eleven forty-seven,” she said.
When she said it, he felt as if his stomach were pulled back hard against his backbone. He gasped, so actual was the physical pain. She glanced up at him.
“Burned myself,” he said hastily, and she got up and put her cup and saucer in the sink.
Why did I say that?—he thought. Why couldn’t I say that I gasped because I was filled with terror at the thought of her leaving me? Why do I always say the things I don’t mean to say? I’m not bad. But every time I speak I build higher the walls of hatred and bitterness around me until I cannot escape from them.
With words I have knit my shroud and will bury myself therein.
He looked at her back and a sad smile raised his lips. I can think of words when my wife is leaving me. It is very sad.
Sally had walked out of the kitchen. His mind reverted to its sullen attitude. This is a game we’re playing. Follow the leader. You walk in one room, head high, the justified spouse, the injured party. I am supposed to follow, slope shouldered and contrite, pouring out apologetic hecatombs.
Once more conscious of himself, he sat tensely at the table, rage making his body tremble. Consciously he relaxed and pressed his left hand over his eyes. He sat there trying to lose his misery in silence and blackness.
It wouldn’t work.
And then his cigarette really burned him and he sat erect. The cigarette hit the floor scattering ashes. He bent over and picked it up. He threw it at the waste can and missed. To hell with it, he thought. He got up and dumped his cup and saucer in the sink. The saucer broke in half and nicked his right thumb. He let it bleed. He didn’t care.
She was in the extra room finishing her packing.
The extra room. The words tortured him now. When had they stopped calling it “the nursery”? When had it begun to eat her insides out because she was so full of love and wanted children badly? When had he begun to replace this loss with nothing better than volcanic temper and days and nights of sheath-scraped nerves?
He stood in the doorway and watched her. He wanted to get out the typewriter and sit down and write reams of words. He wanted to glory in his coming freedom. Think of all the money he could save. Think of how soon he could go away and write all the things he’d always meant to write.
He stood in the doorway, sick.
Is all this possible?—his mind asked, incredulous. Possible that she was leaving? But she and he were man and wife. They had lived and loved in this house for more than eighteen years. Now she was leaving. Putting articles of clothing in her old black suitcase and leaving. He couldn’t reconcile himself to that. He couldn’t understand it or ally it with the functions of the day. Where did it fit into the pattern?—the pattern that was Sally right there cleaning and cooking and trying to make their home happy and warm.
He shivered and, turning abruptly, went back into the bedroom.
He slumped on the bed and stared at the delicately whirring electric clock on their bedside table.
Past eleven, he saw. In less than an hour I have to hold class for a group of idiot freshmen. And, on the desk in the living room, is a mountain of mid-term examinations with essays that I must suffer through, feeling my stomach turn at their paucity of intelligence, their adolescent phraseology.
And all that tripe, all those miles of hideous prose, had been wound into an eternal skein in his head. And there it sat unravelling into his own writing until he wondered if he could stand the thought of living anymore. I have digested the worst, he thought. Is it any wonder that I exude it piecemeal?
Temper began again, a low banking fire in him, gradually fanned by further thinking. I’ve done no writing this morning. Like every morning after every other morning as time passes. I do less and less. I write nothing. Or I write worthless material. I could write better when I was twenty than I can now.
I’ll
He jolted to his feet and his head snapped around as he looked for something to strike at, something to break, something to hate with such hate that it would wither in the blast.
It seemed as though the room clouded. He felt a throbbing. His left leg banged against a corner of the bed.
He gasped in fury. He wept. Tears of hate and repentance and self commiseration. I’m lost, he thought. Lost. There is nothing.
He became very calm, icy calm. Drained of pity, of emotion. He put on his suit coat. He put on his hat and got his briefcase off the dresser.
He stopped before the door to the room where she still fussed with her bag. So she will have something to occupy herself with now, he thought, so she won’t have to look at me. He felt his heart thudding like a heavy drum beat.
“Have a nice time at your mother’s,” he said dispassionately.
She looked up and saw the expression on his face. She turned away and put a hand to her eyes. He felt a sudden need to run to her and beg her forgiveness. Make everything right again.
Then he thought again of papers and years of writing undone. He turned away and walked across the living room. The small rug slipped a little and it helped to focus the strength of anger he needed. He kicked it aside and it fluttered against the wall in a rumpled heap.
He slammed the door behind him.
His mind gibbered. Now, soap opera like, she has thrown herself on the coverlet and is weeping tears of martyr-tinged sorrow. Now she is digging nails into the pillow and moaning my name and wishing she were dead.
His shoes clicked rapidly on the sidewalk. God help me, he thought. God help all us poor wretches who would create and find that we must lose our hearts for it because we cannot afford to spend our time at it.
It was a beautiful day. His eyes saw that but his mind would not attest to it. The trees were thick with green and the air warm and fresh. Spring breezes flooded down the streets. He felt them brush over him as he walked down the block, crossed Main Street to the bus stop.
He stood there on the corner looking back at the house.
She is in there, his mind persisted in analysis. In there, the house in which we’ve lived for more than eight years. She is packing or crying or doing something. And soon she will call the Campus Cab Company. A cab will come driving out. The driver will honk the horn, Sally will put on her light spring coat and take her suitcase out on the porch. She will lock the door behind her for the last time.
