Sherman Alexie - War Dances

“How can you say this shit to me?” she asked. “We’ve been separated for almost two years. You keep telling me you don’t want a divorce. You keep begging me for another chance. For months, you have begged me. So here we are, Paul, this is your chance. And all you can say is that you don’t desire me? What are you talking about?”

“I remember when we used to have sex all day and night,” he said. “I remember we used to count your orgasms.”

It was true. On a cool Saturday in early April, in the first year of their marriage, Paul had orgasmed six times while his wife had come eleven times. What had happened to those Olympian days?

“Is that the only way you can think about a marriage?” she asked. “Jesus, Paul, we were young. Our marriage was young. Everything is easier when you’re young.”

Paul didn’t think that was true. His life had steadily improved over the years and, even in the middle of a marital blowup, Paul was still pleased with his progress and place in the world.

“I don’t know why I feel the way I do,” Paul said. “I just feel that way. I feel like we have gone cold to each other.”

“I haven’t gone cold,” she said. “I’m burning, okay? You know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex? It’s been almost four years. Four years! And you know what? I’m ashamed to say that aloud. Listen to me. I’m ashamed that I’m still married to the man who has not fucked me in four years.”

Paul looked to the marriage counselor for help. He felt lost in the ocean of his wife’s rage and needed a friggin’ lifeguard. But the counselor sat in silence. In learned silence, the bastard.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked Paul. “I’m your wife. I’m the mother of your children. I deserve some respect. No, I demand it. I demand your respect.”

He wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to tell himself the truth, really. But was he capable of such a thing? Could he tell her what he suspected? Could he share his theory about the loss of desire? If he sang to her, would that make it easier? Is honesty easier in four/four time?

“Are you just going to sit there?” she asked. “Is this what it comes down to, you sitting there?”

My love, he wanted to say to her, I began to lose my desire for you during the birth of our first child, and it was gone by the birth of our third. Something happened to me in those delivery rooms. I saw too much. I saw your body do things — I saw it change — and I have not been able to look at you, to see you naked, without remembering all the blood and pain and fear. All the changes. I was terrified. I thought you were dying. I felt like I was in the triage room of a wartime hospital, and there was nothing I could do. I felt so powerless. I felt like I was failing you. I know it’s irrational. Jesus, I know it’s immature and ignorant and completely irrational. I know it’s wrong. I should have told you that I didn’t want to be in the delivery room for the first birth. And I should have never been in the delivery room during the second and third. Maybe my desire would have survived, would have recovered, if I had not seen the second and third births. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a failure. But how was I supposed to admit to these things? In the twenty-first-century United States, what kind of father and husband chooses not to be in the delivery room?

My love, Paul wanted to say, I am a small and lonely man made smaller and lonelier by my unspoken fears.

“Paul!” his wife screamed. “Talk to me!”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I don’t know why I feel this way. I just do.”

“Paul.” The counselor finally spoke, finally had an opinion. “Have you considered that your lack of desire might be a physical issue? Have you consulted a doctor about this? There are—”

“He has no problem fucking other women,” she said. “He’s fucked plenty of other women. He just has a problem fucking me.”

She was right. Even now, as they fought to save their marriage, Paul was thinking of the woman in the airport. He was thinking about all other women and not the woman in his life.

That night, on eBay, Paul bid on a suit once worn by Sean Connery during the publicity tour for Thunderball. It would be too big for Paul; Connery is a big man. But Paul still wanted it. Maybe he’d frame it and put it on the wall of his apartment. Maybe he’d drink martinis and stare at it. Maybe he’d imagine that a crisp white pocket square made all the difference in the world. But he lost track of the auction and lost the suit to somebody whose screen name was Shaken, Not Stirred.

Jesus, Paul thought, I’m wasting my life.

After the divorce, Paul’s daughters spent every other weekend with him. It was not enough time. It would never be enough. And he rarely saw them during his weekends anyway because they were teenagers. Everywhere he looked, he saw happy men — good and present fathers — and he was not one of them. A wealthy man, an educated man, a privileged man, he had failed his family — his children — as easily and brutally as the poorest, most illiterate, and helpless man in the country. And didn’t that prove the greatness of the United States? All of us wealthy and imperial Americans are the children of bad fathers! Ha! thought Paul. Each of us — rich and poor, gay and straight, black and white — we are fragile and finite. We all go through this glorious life without guarantees, without promise of rescue or redemption. We have freedom of speech and religion, and the absolute freedom to leave behind our loved ones, to force them to unhappily pursue us. How can I possibly protect my daughters from their nightmares, from their waking fears, Paul thought, if I am not sleeping in the room next door? Oh, God, he missed them! Pure and simple, he ached. But who has sympathy for the failed father? Who sings honor songs for the monster?

And what could he do for his daughters? He could outfit them in gorgeous vintage clothing. So he gave them dresses and shoes and pants that were worn by Doris Day, Marilyn Monroe, and Audrey Hepburn.

“Who is Audrey Hepburn?” his youngest daughter had asked.

“She was perfect,” Paul said.

“But who is she?”

“An actress. A movie star.”

“What movies has she been in?”

“I don’t think you’ve seen any of them.”

“If I don’t know who she is, why did you buy me her dress?”

It was a good question. Paul didn’t have an answer. He just looked at this young woman in front of him — his daughter — and felt powerless.

“I thought maybe if you wore different clothes at school,” Paul said, “maybe you could start a trend. You’d be original.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “It’s high school, Dad. People get beat up for being original.”

Jesus, Paul had thought he was giving her social capital. He thought he could be a microlender of art — the art of the pop song. So he gave music to his daughters. Yes, he’d once romanced their mother with mix tapes, dozens of mix tapes, so he’d romance his daughters — in an entirely different way — with iPods. So Paul bought three iPods and loaded them with a thousand songs each. Three iPods, three thousand songs. Instead of just a few songs on a CD or a cassette tape, Paul had made epic mixes. Paul had given each daughter a third of his musical history. And, oh, they were delighted — were ecstatic — when they opened their gifts and saw new iPods, but, oh, how disappointed — how disgusted — they were when they discovered that their new iPods were already filled with songs, songs chosen by their father. By their sad and desperate father.

“Daddy,” his eldest daughter said. “Why did you put all your music on here?”