Ezra pursued his point with mounting pathos; now pacing heavily, now standing still so as not to distract from a rhetorical flight, or to anchor a dramatic pause. Sophie watched his index finger: it was tracing circles or stirring some mysterious brew. It launched on a vertical course to the sublime. Loopdiving into the horizontal it stood pointed at her. The index finger started wagging at her increasingly menacingly as if it didn’t know what to do with itself. At this point she took a deep breath, either to come back at him or storm out of the room.
Sophie hated arguments. Mostly she kept her grievances to herself. Or it burst out of her suddenly. She would be undecided whether to bring up the matter, or the best way to go about it, and while she was still debating with herself, how and whether at all, it burst out of her, surprising both of them—probably surprising Sophie more than Ezra, who was used to being screamed at by his family, while Sophie was not used to hearing herself scream.
Ezra listened attentively in a reclining position, very calm. Did he take advantage of a moment when Sophie was too caught in her passion to notice, to sink down on the sofa or slide into bed—or is that how their quarrel started? With Ezra lying in bed when Sophie was up and about and things wanting to be done, more than she alone could cope with, and Sophie’s instant realization that her life reduced to the hopelessness of ever getting anything done. The vision of Ezra reclining, sprawling, yawning—this may have been the true beginning of her rage.
Sophie Blind didn’t believe the devastating words that erupted from her mouth, or that she was saying them. Besides, Ezra did not register dismay, disbelief, or shock. She saw a pleased expression: sitting upright now, looking at her wide-eyed, he nodded, approving woman raging as woman should, suppressing a smile not too successfully, his face definitely softening, assuming a mask of sternness or simply fright, then vanishing under the blanket when her lunging arms, hands clawing, threatened to bear out the intent of her words on his tender skin, and hiding, he waited for the storm to spend itself. He had little to fear under cover, this was only a woman, throwing her weight on him, fists pounding mostly wall, air, mattress; at worst a jab in the ribs, her fist passing through the barricade of arms and knees. Just a woman, and now increasingly molten, pliable, fluid with rage; his own beloved wife, he knew what to do with her, and in nine months there was a baby.
Or if she did not leap on him, he would wait till the storm exhausted itself, as it was bound to eventually. Wait till the furious lashing rain thinned into a mere dribble, to take upon himself the last soft droplet of Sophie Blind weakly repeating, “...always have to do everything myself...” Then Ezra, wounded to the soul by the mere implication of a reproach, would begin to recount, remind her of the instances where he had helped her, done things for her, lifted burdens from her shoulders, bought her gifts; one after another all his good deeds toward her in general, only a few of the inexhaustible store, as long as she could hold her head up, till she was quite overwhelmed by all his good deeds so lengthily and feelingfully listed. The weight of so much consideration, devotion, service of so many years made Sophie quite faint and numb. She wasn’t sure whether she was standing, sitting, or lying. She was asphyxiating. When she finally felt his body surround her and felt crushed under his weight, it was a relief. And in nine months there was a baby.
When Sophie was growing a baby she was happy; nothing bothered her then. She slept and walked and ate when she pleased. When Ezra asked her to do something, she mostly didn’t hear. She was pregnant. My wife is pregnant, Ezra said significantly, when people noted her absence or commented on her absent air at parties. Sophie couldn’t be bothered with social twaddle when she was growing a baby, and even less so when she was nursing and raising. She couldn’t be bothered with shoes that pinched or arguments for or against. She stayed home and oiled her belly or her baby, or both.
Ezra saw how happy Sophie was when she was pregnant and gave her another baby. She soaked in the bathtub. When there was a baby she took it in the tub with her as many as there were and they played with all the faucets and the shower, or just splashed water at each other. When they were older, she gave them paint and clay and beads and old clothes to play with and make things.
Ezra complained; Ezra was appalled by beads and clay and stuff and rags and paint, especially by children painting on the wall. It washes off, his wife assured him, and proved it with a sponge. But Ezra was appalled by the idea of children painting on the wall. It was the end. It was sinful. Ezra proclaimed he wanted order in the house. Sophie watched his index finger wag menacingly and his mouth tighten into a thin line. For a long time she refused to believe in Ezra’s transformation. Was this Ezra talking through his nose like his father? He grew a belly, developed strange ailments, he screamed at the sight of a crack
