“What is it?” he asked her. He swallowed.
“The way you look at me now. I will remember it forever,” she replied.
AFTERWARD, SHE LAY beside him and he held her.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
She nodded and smiled. “We should not have done that.”
“We should do that, and only that, for the rest of our lives,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her. She heard herself choke and laid her head back.
IT CAME TO a head on a Sunday evening, as things usually do. Jane went quiet for a time.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
She insisted she felt fine, never better.
“That’s the third time you’ve said that,” Fred replied. “Tell me what’s wrong.” She walked away from him with a smile, not wanting to delve into it. This tug-of-war had persisted for several days already, her insisting her felicity and calmness, him asking with increasing worry toward his suspicions of the opposite. Finally, she served him a lunch of roast beef and potatoes, which she had burnt a little, and her placing of the plate in front of him may have been more of a drop than a place, for the dish fell and cracked as it hit the table.
“Enough,” he said, sweeping up the food that had spilled onto the tablecloth. “What’s the matter, Jane? I’m not leaving the room until you tell me.”
“I don’t want to make your meals!” she cried. “Why are you laughing?”
“I don’t want it, either,” he replied. “You’re a terrible cook.” He laughed again.
“All my books disappeared,” she said glumly, without looking at him.
“Oh, Jane.” He took her hand and nodded, as though it all made sense to him now. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled up a chair. She sat on it. He knelt down in front of her. “Jane. I’ve been making my own food, washing my own clothes, for about twenty years now. You don’t need to do anything around this house.”
“What shall I do then?”
“Write,” he said. “Write new stories.”
She laughed and admitted she had never considered such a thing. “Yes. Why couldn’t I?” she said. “I could write here.” They embraced again and a warm feeling radiated through her.
Fred provided her with some paper and a self-inking quill. “Or will you prefer my laptop?” he asked her.
She scowled at him and he explained to her what it was. She inhaled with wonder at his description, but then shook her head, thanking him. “Clean white paper and a pen will suffice as more than enough modern tools at this point,” she said. She would try the other object later.
“When shall you return?” she asked him as he headed out the door.
“I won’t be back for hours,” he said. She thanked him and he left. She felt a little leap of pride. Her turn now. She would show him how one did it.
Jane sat forward in her chair and perched the pen over the paper. She smiled. What new things could she write about? The possibilities remained endless. She laughed. She looked up into her head and found it empty of ideas. No matter. Inspiration took time. She sat until she thought of something.
An hour later, she remained perched in the same position as before. The blank page of pristine white mocked her. What occurred? New words always came slowly, but after an hour she had usually written at least something. She could not even think of a line, a droll thing to say.
Another hour passed, and she confirmed the new truth. The buzzing ideas that once filled her mind had departed. No stories remained.
She heard Fred’s footsteps approaching the front door. She panicked; hours had passed, and she had written nothing. She had admonished him heartily for the same crime. She felt wrapped in a ball of agitation. Fred opened the door and she plastered a smile onto her face.
He looked at her hopefully. “How did you go?” he asked her. He removed his coat and hung it on the hook.
“Very well,” she said. She found the lie easier to say than the truth. “Thank you, Fred,” she added, in genuine appreciation. Guilt gripped her at not having made use of the time. She felt lazy and horrid, but she embraced him. He excused himself and told her to keep writing, promising he would not disturb her for the rest of the afternoon. She thanked him and watched him go.
The fact that he struggled to write was bad enough. But the fact that she could not write was intolerable. When she had lain with him, she recalled having felt given over to two opposites of feeling. The first was warmth, the greatest relief and calm. The second was a random terror she could not put away. The act had failed to still a growing demon inside her; rather, it performed the opposite. It created a new yearning within her, another hunger to compete with all the others. The act did nothing to inspire her either, she had noted with curiosity and horror at the time. Now afterward, she could confirm this fact. Her head remained empty. Her communion with the dream of the world had ended. In this condition, she was no writer. Would it always be like this? Would she never be able to write? Surely things would change.
The realization crept inward as the memory now returned. The concern that had gathered in recent days, the small wave of confusing dread that built, in the dress shop, at the christening, and in his bed, now became realized. She had brushed aside the warning Mrs. Sinclair gave her in Cheapside. She wrote off those words as theater, a portentous statement the woman made to make things seem deep. Now it hit Jane: the deal she had signed, the bargain she had struck. The fate she had sealed for herself. You cannot have both. Jane comprehended now the choice those words
