Steven Millhauser - Voices in the Night - Stories

Here, then, are my wives.

1

Absolute equals, heart-sharers, partners in love — that’s how we think of each other, my first wife and I. If, on a Sunday morning, I wake up late to find she’s made me a plate of big blueberry pancakes, just the way I liked them as a boy, with a square of butter melting its way in, then the next Sunday I’ll serve her a two-egg omelet with green peppers and chopped onions, exactly the kind she remembers from summers at the cabin on the island when she was a girl. I remind her of her appointment with the hairdresser for Tuesday at one, she makes sure I don’t miss my dentist’s appointment on Thursday at four; I drive with her to her mother’s house in Vermont on the third weekend in July, she comes with me to my father’s house on the Cape for the second week of August; I praise the trim lines of her new yellow sundress, she’s pleased by the crisp look of my new light-weave button-down. These arrangements are perhaps known to every marriage, but ours has developed more intimate refinements. If my first wife catches her hand in a door, I howl with sudden pain; when I’m thirsty, she gulps down a glass of iced limeade; if I knock into a table edge, a purple bruise shows on her leg; if she trips on the edge of the rug, I fall to the floor. One evening I thought of the answer to a crossword clue we’d both been stuck on the day before; when I entered her room, I found her sitting up in bed, folded newspaper in hand, filling in the answer with a yellow No. 2 pencil. Another time, when things weren’t going well with me, I woke in the night and feared she might be suicidally depressed; when I rushed into the hall, I nearly collided with her, hurrying toward me with arms held wide and a look of rescue in her eyes. Sometimes, it’s true, I grow bored, deeply bored, with our system of finely measured equivalences. Then I long for an imbalance, a sharp exception, a fierce eruption. Unhappy that I’ve had such thoughts, and uncertain what to do, I seek out the one person who’s sure to understand; when I seize her arms and look into her eyes, I see the same melancholy, the same longing for something unknown; and as I burst into a dark, uneasy laugh, I hear, all over the room, like the cries of many animals, the sound of her own troubling laughter.

2

When I am feeling hopeless about my life, when my hands hang from my sleeves like dead men dangling, when, catching sight of myself in a plate-glass window, I turn violently away, but not before I’ve seen myself turn violently away, then I know it’s time for me to be in the company of my second wife, who knows how to comfort me. Even as I arrive at the front door, holding my leather laptop case in one hand and reaching for my key with the other, she’s looking at me anxiously and asking about my day, she’s helping me out of my belted trench coat and hanging up my hat, she’s placing my case by the umbrella stand. Already she is leading me to an armchair — my favorite one, with the thick armrests — where she places a pillow behind my head and touches my forehead with her hand, while at the same time she’s lifting my feet onto the hassock, she’s removing my shoes and pressing her cheek against my leg. “Are you all right?” she asks, looking at me with tender concern. And gazing at me earnestly she asks, “Have you had a hard day?” Later, when she has undressed me, and bathed me, and laid me on the bed, she bends over me and says, “Do you like this?” and “Do you like this?” Still later, waking beside her, I feel a sudden doubt. Roughly I shake her awake. Staring into her sleepy eyes, I tell her that I could never endure a rival, that I’ll leave her instantly if she ever tries a trick like that, she can’t take advantage of me, I wasn’t born yesterday. During my outburst her large, startled eyes fill with tears. Gradually a relief comes over me, I grow calm, I glance at the clock and see that it’s getting late, a yawn shudders through me, and as I close my eyes and begin to drift toward deep, soothing sleep I feel her lying awake beside me, searching for the cause of my distress, rehearsing the events of the past few hours, reproaching herself for not loving me enough, her eyes wide, her heart racing, her cheek resting tensely against my shoulder.

3

At other times, in a more robust mood, the sort of mood in which life’s little disappointments no longer seem evidences of failure but welcome challenges to the all-conquering spirit, I seek the company of my third wife, who never spoils me. When I enter her room I find her lying on the bed, reading a book with a frown of concentration. Without looking up, she raises a rigid finger as a sign that she’s not to be disturbed; her whole body tightens with attention as she continues reading. After a long while she lays the book on her chest and lifts her eyes to me, with the same frown. At once she reproaches me with having neglected her. As I begin to defend myself, she tells me that the new cleaning lady has broken one of the blue wineglasses; there’s no more sliced turkey in the refrigerator, only sliced ham; the door of the linen closet doesn’t close properly. I assure her that I’ll take care of everything soon, right away, at this very moment if necessary; in response she rolls her eyes in a slow, exaggerated manner. Suddenly she looks at my shirt and asks whether I went to work with my collar like that. Have I checked my hair in the mirror lately? Her head hurts; her allergies are killing her; she’s sure she has a sinus infection; there’s no air in the room; the window is stuck again. I step over and raise the window easily. She asks whether it gives me pleasure to score a cheap victory at her expense. She’s short of cash; her blow-dryer is broken; something’s wrong with the switch on the coffeemaker. As I lie down cautiously beside her, she sits up and says it’s getting late; besides, she isn’t feeling well; she can’t breathe; there’s no air in the room, even with the window open; what she needs is a dehumidifier; why doesn’t she have a dehumidifier; a dehumidifier would make all the difference. I reach out and touch her arm. She stares at my hand and remarks that she hates her blouse — everything sticks in this weather. Slowly, watching her carefully, I begin to undo my shirt. She’s not in the mood, she says; besides, I don’t care about her; all I care about is myself; she can’t even remember the last time I told her I loved her. “I love you,” I say at once. She looks at her fingers and asks whether I really believe that I can make our problems go away just by uttering a few words that cost me nothing; but that’s just like me. As she removes her blouse she notices her upper arm; look how the flesh jiggles; she’s turning into a tub of lard. I assure her that her arm is fine, very fine, even somewhat on the thin side. She’s curious to know when it was that I became the world’s leading expert on the diet and fitness of American women. As we continue undressing, she complains about the mattress, which is supposed to be a medium but is actually much softer than advertised; it’s bad for her back; we ought to return it and get a good one, unless of course I think this is the sort of mattress she deserves; as we make love, she notes the squeaking springs and reports that the cleaning lady arrived fifteen minutes late and neglected to dust the base of the table lamp beside the couch. When we’re done she says, “You never take me anywhere.” Before I can answer, she asks how I can expect her to sleep through the night with a windowpane that rattles in the slightest breeze. I never pay attention to her; I don’t listen; I talk, but I don’t listen; she can’t breathe in this room; there’s nothing to eat in the house; her neck hurts; she doesn’t like the way the new cleaning lady looks at her. Her eyes are slowly closing; she glares at me sleepily. After a while I rise with caution, slip into my clothes, and take my leave, feeling refreshed and invigorated after such exercise.