William Maxwell: So Long, See You Tomorrow

Without the heavyset aristocratic man snoring away on his side of the bed, without the fresh-eyed child whose hair ribbon needs retying; without the conversation at meals and the hearty appetites and getting dressed for church on time; without the tears of laughter and the worry about making both ends meet, the unpaid bills, the layoffs, both seasonal and unexpected; without the toys that have to be picked up lest somebody trip over them, and the seven shirts that have to be washed and ironed, one for every day in the week; without the scraped knee and the hurt feelings, the misunderstandings that need to be cleared up, the voices calling for her so that she is perpetually having to stop what she is doing and go see what they want — without all this, what have you? A mystery: How is it that she didn't realize it was going to last such a short time?

When Lloyd Wilson got upset at the thought of the money that used to be in his savings account in the Lincoln National Bank and wasn't there any longer, he reminded himself that he had a chance to object to the amount of the settlement and just said, "Where do I sign?" She had cleaned him out, but he owed her something, and he couldn't let his children starve. It didn't occur to him, though, that she would turn the little girls against him. They sat with their mother in church, all in a row, and if he tried to catch their eye or smiled at them they looked straight ahead at nothing.

When they were older they would feel different, maybe, but all the same, it hurt his feelings. He changed his life insurance policies so that the boys were the sole beneficiaries.

Mrs. Stroud drove out to her farm earlier in the day to avoid the heat. While, they were inspecting the corncribs she said crossly, "Your marital difficulties do not interest me but I don't like to see this place going to wrack and ruin because of them. The woman you have hired to keep house for you is old and half blind, and the house is by no means the way your wife kept it."

"I know," he said, for once neither evasive nor verging on insolence.

"My house in town is always clean and I see no reason why this house, which, after all, is mine too, shouldn't be the same way."

"I'll speak to her," he said soberly, but he didn't. As though he were gifted with second sight, he regarded the arrangement as temporary.

As Cletus walked into the cool shade of the house he heard voices. His mother's voice. And then Aunt Jenny's. He knew the cookie jar was empty but he put his hand in it anyway, hoping to be surprised, and as he felt around inside, his mother said, "That was last Saturday. Naturally 1 was nervous but it turned out there was no cause to be." She waited until he had gone upstairs to his room before she continued: "When I got home I said to you know who, I said, 'It may interest you to know that I've consulted a lawyer.' I decided the time had come to tell him."

"I don't know as I'd have done that," Aunt Jenny said. "That is, not if you're meaning to avoid trouble."

Fern Smith wasn't meaning to avoid trouble; she was bent on making it. It was her only hope.

"It set him back on his heels. I knew it would."

Aunt Jenny raised her eyes to indicate the ventilator in the ceiling.

"If we don't mention any names, how can Cletus tell who we're talking about? And I haven't mentioned any."

"What did he say?"

"Clarence?"

"No, the man in town."

"He listened, and asked questions, and finally he said, 'Airs. Smith, I think we can safely say we have a case.' "

A case of what, Cletus wondered.

With Lloyd Wilson's wife gone, what prevented her from throwing a shawl over her shoulders and running across the fields to his house? The whole community. It was one thing to behave in such a way as to provoke gossip and quite another for them to live in open immorality. They had talked about it often. She didn't care if every woman she knew stopped speaking to her, but they wouldn't let their husbands have anything to do with him, and that might make it very difficult. There wasn't a man for miles around who wasn't indebted to him for something, but the only one who ever seemed to feel this was Clarence.

And Mrs. Stroud?

He didn't know. With her, anything was possible. When she came out to the farm these days she had a cat-and- mouse expression on her face that was new — as if she was enjoying the situation he had got himself into and was watching with amusement to see what he would do next.

People will stand only so much. And there is a line that you can't cross over, no matter how much you would like to. If he did cross over it and he got a letter informing him that after the first of March Mrs. Stroud had no further need for his services, where would they go then? Who would take him on as a tenant when they found out that he was living with a woman who was not his wife? Their courage failed them.

Clarence believed Fern when she said that she had neither seen Lloyd nor talked to him, but he knew in his bones that they communicated with each other somehow. He questioned the boys and searched in odd corners about the farm — a hollow tree, an abandoned chicken house, a shed that was far enough from the house so that Lloyd could have gone there at night without the risk of being seen. But the dog would have barked, and the boys clearly knew nothing. About that, anyway. How much else they knew he didn't like to think. One minute she was careful and talked in a low voice, or she would get up and shut the door. And then suddenly it didn't matter to her any more what she said or who heard her. Standing at the head of the stairs in her nightgown, she shouted down at him, "You treat the horses better than you treat me!" It wasn't true, and she knew it.

She said she had been in love with somebody else when she married him. He didn't know whether to believe her or not; it might be something she made up on the spur of the moment, to knock the wind out of him.

He drove in to town and got drunk and came home and climbed on top of her. It didn't work. She fought like a wildcat, and he fell off the bed and lay tangled up in the bedclothes. In a sudden weariness of soul he dropped off to sleep and woke in broad daylight, with a hangover and a foul taste in his mouth. The bed was empty.

He went to see the Baptist minister and they had a long talk. In the minister's study, with the door closed. Some things he could hardly bring himself to say, but he felt better after he had said them. And the expression on the minister's face was sympathetic when he said, "Why don't we kneel down right now and ask for God's help." So they did. And he wasn't embarrassed. At that point he would have done anything.

Standing by the front door, with the rain blowing in their faces, the minister said, "Tell her to come and see me. It may be that I can show her where the path of duty lies."

Fern Smith didn't go to see him. Instead she went to town, to the little house across from the fairgrounds. When Aunt Jenny's opinion didn't conform to hers it could be brushed aside.

The widow could not let a farm wagon pass by without running to the front window to see who was in the wagon. It wasn't likely, therefore, that she would fail to notice that her employer had something on his mind. Poor man, he missed his family and was regretting the way he had behaved. She intended to try and make him understand — she was just waiting for the auspicious moment — that he mustn't be afraid his wife wouldn't forgive him. If he went to her in the right spirit and told her how sorry he was, things were bound to work out the way he wanted them to. And when his wife did forgive him and came home, then she might be glad of a little help with the housework.

And if not?…

Bravely, Mrs. B. decided she was not going to let selfish considerations stand in the way of Lloyd's happiness.