Margaret Millar - Wives and Lovers

“I couldn’t do anything else.”

“It’s very nice of you not to be mad.”

“I am mad,” Mrs. Freeman said decisively. “I am mad. But I don’t know who at.”

She flung a look of disapproval at the sleeping Gordon, but Ruby stepped between her and the couch, as if to shield Gordon. “He wouldn’t put anyone out like this intentionally,” she said. “He never would. Something must have happened.”

“Something always does.” Mrs. Freeman pulled the chain hanging from the beaded chandelier. “Always. Well, no matter. There’s some coffee left, if you want some.”

“Yes, I would. Thanks very much.”

“We’ll have to drink it in the kitchen. We don’t want to wake him up. Who knows, he might come to life and want to dance and make whoopee. You can’t tell with drunks.”

“He’s not a drunk,” Ruby said stubbornly. “He hardly ever drinks. Something must have happened.”

The kitchen was cold and damp. Mrs. Freeman lit the gas oven and left the oven door open. Then she poured the coffee, and the two of them sat facing each other across the linoleum-covered table. The table had already been set for Mrs. Freeman’s solitary breakfast. None of the dishes matched — they were the surviving odds and ends of old sets, the remnants of the years. The salt shaker was shaped like an orange, the pepper shaker was silver plate, with some of the silver still clinging to its surface. Her cup was a shaving mug left behind by one of her tourists. Repeated washings in hot water had peeled away some of the lettering on it but it was still partly legible, Gr in s f El so, Texas. Her knife and fork belonged to her wedding present from her father, a set of silver, but the spoon didn’t match. It had been a gift from Robert several years ago. He had arrived home unexpectedly one morning, broke, without a suitcase, without anything: Carrie, it’s me. Now don’t be sore, Carrie, don’t be like that. Look, I brought you something, it’s a present, Carrie. He had wrapped the spoon up carefully in tissue paper and tied it with a broken shoelace. He watched her eagerly while she unwrapped it. I hope you like it, Carrie. You’re always saying we need some decent silver. The spoon bore the imprint “Hilton Hotels.” I knew you’d be pleased.

She picked up the spoon now and stirred some sugar in her coffee. She felt a savage anger welling in her stomach. It spread down her arm into her hand, making her stir the coffee violently.

“I don’t know who at,” she said, as if to herself. “In the daytime it’s all right. I write my letters and make the beds and do my work. I’m not bothered. It’s when the night comes on that I begin to worry. It’s funny out here — as soon as the sun goes down it gets cold. Not like back home where you could sit on the porch in the twilight and rock a bit. No, out here it gets cold right away, a kind of bleakness sets in. Such a change, all of a sudden, it makes you kind of scared that the sun’s not going to come out again the next day. I’m getting like all the other old fogies around here, I depend on the weather too much, like it’s a religion. It creeps up on you, gradual, and you get superstitious — like, if the sun shines, well, that’s good, there’s still plenty of life left in the old girl, that’s how you feel. Dying seems awfully far away when I go out into the back yard in the morning and the sun warms my head. I feel quite youthful and confident, like God was smiling at me.” She added curtly, “Downright heathenish. A graven image.”

She sipped her coffee, a cool and bitter syrup that soured at the base of her throat.

“So something must have happened,” she said. “Yes. It always does. Excuses, I know all the excuses there are in this world. He’s married, I suppose.”

Ruby said, “Yes.”

“And what’s to happen now?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to Gordon.” She traced the pattern of the linoleum with her forefinger. “He’s the one that has to figure things out. He’s got ties, other people to think about, and I haven’t.”

With an air of impatience Mrs. Freeman got up and rinsed out the coffee cups at the sink.

“Not anyone I care about,” Ruby said.

“And that nice Mr. Anderson—” She turned off the oven and banged the door shut. “Well, that’s the way it goes. You better set your alarm early. Miss Hodgins gets up at seven and I don’t want her to find him sleeping on the couch like that. It wouldn’t look right, him in costume and everything.”

“I’ll get up at six.”

“Well, good night then.”

“Mrs. Freeman — thanks for all your kindness.”

“Kindness,” Mrs. Freeman said. “You’re going to need more than kindness before you’re through. Well. I told you I get feeling blue at night like this, don’t pay any attention to me. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Ruby set her alarm for six. Then she took off her coat and hung it in the closet, moving slowly because she dreaded to go to bed and lie in the darkness, thinking. I get feeling blue at night like this. She would have liked to read for a while but there was no reading light in the room. The crudely painted Mexican pottery lamp on the bureau didn’t work, and the only other light in the room was the ceiling light with a chain suspended from it. The chain was too short to reach, so someone had tied a strip of pink cloth to the end of it. Ruby pulled the strip of cloth, then lay on the bed with her eyes open, wondering why Gordon had come and what he was going to do.

We’re a pair, both victims, can’t fight back. In the darkness she shook her head violently as if Gordon was there to witness her denial. In the same motion she denied Mrs. Freeman too: You’re going to need more than kindness.

No, no, her head rocked back and forth on the pillow. They don’t understand about me, I’m tough. I’m tough.

When she came downstairs in the morning Gordon was already awake. He was sitting on the couch holding his head in his hands. She came toward him, very shyly, as if she were half-afraid he wouldn’t remember who she was.

“Are you all right, Gordon?”

“I’m fine.”

She sat down beside him. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. The pulse in his temple was beating hard and fast.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here,” he said. “What time is it?”

“A little after six.”

“The beginning of a new day.” He turned to look at her, smiling. “You brushed your hair out. Last night you had a scarf around it, you looked very pretty.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I remember everything, I think. I’ve got to go out and buy some clothes.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I forgot. Well, I’ve got an old outfit at the office, I can wear that.”

“You have clothes at home.”

“I’m not going home. It’s too bad it’s Sunday. That’s going to make things harder, getting some money, etcetera.”

“Why do you need money today?”

“I told you, I’m not going home. I’m running away, I suppose you’d call it. I haven’t run away since I was seven and I’ve forgotten how you go about it, but I think money is pretty essential. I hope you’ll come with me, will you, Ruby?”

“Gordon — listen Gordon, you’re not still sort of half-drunk?”

“I’m sober.”

“What about Elaine? Did you talk to her?”

“Yes, we had quite a talk,” Gordon said dryly. “Last night.”

“Did you tell her you were going away? With me?”

“No, I’m going to let her be surprised.”

She looked at him anxiously for a moment. “Gordon, what is this? Are we just going on a little holiday, or are we going to stay together for good? I know, maybe I shouldn’t ask that—”