Elizabeth McCracken - The Giant's House - A Romance

I’d kept it unlatched for this reason, so that if he knocked I could say, “Come in.” I’d expected — if I expected anything — that the knock would come in the morning, when he was ready for the day, or after we’d come home, one last thought before sleep. But except for that first night five days ago, after our meal in the hotel dining room, he’d never used it. Instead he phoned, and we met outside our rooms in the hallway, like any neighbors who went to work together.

Now he stepped in. One small lamp in his suite was on; for a second I could see his outline. Then the first door closed behind him and my room was dark again.

“James?” I said.

He said, “Peggy.” His voice was tense, nervous. I sat up a little in bed, my brain still not up to full speed. Slowly my eyes got used to the dark. He was wearing an undershirt and shorts, which were what he’d brought to sleep in — I’d been there when he packed. At home he had pajamas, which Caroline sewed for him, but he’d decided that they’d take up too much room in his suitcase. His shorts just looked like any man’s underwear, baggy and a little comic.

“What is it?” I asked.

He sat down on the edge of my bed. “Peggy,” he asked. “Do you want to get married?”

It was not a proposal. I’d never heard one before, but I knew that much — not the way he stressed want , not the way he closed his eyes, confused, when he said want , not the way the whole statement leaned on that word instead of married . It was just a question: did I, or didn’t I, and my answer would be only information, not the start of anything.

“I don’t know,” I said. My bed was usual-sized, but still he seemed far away from me. He rested a hand on one of the short posts of the footboard. “Who to?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He rubbed the knob of the post. Finally he said, “Me,” and that word, in the dark, sounded like it might have been a proposal.

But I wasn’t sure. Something in my heart turned, like the latch in the catch of the adjoining door, not open but ready. It might have been a proposal. I didn’t know how to answer. Why do you want to know? What took you so long? Do you think that’s a good idea? Yes. Yes, that’s what I want .

I could hear him breathing, could see his sloping shoulders.

“Oh, James,” I said.

“I just—” He rearranged himself on the bed. “It just occurred to me you might want to. Get married. I mean, to someone.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because you’re a girl,” he said matter-of-factly, and O girls, what is said passionately evaporates, it’s what’s said as a matter of fact that is precious and damaging and lasting as a brand. “Don’t all girls want to?”

“I don’t know,” I said. The neck of his undershirt was frayed, that’s how good my eyes were getting in the dark.

“Stella did. Not to me, but even before she was engaged, she had her whole wedding planned. She knew exactly the music, the kind of cake.”

“Sounds like planning your funeral,” I said. “Not too useful.” I thought about sitting up, taking his hand. I didn’t know if he wanted me to, and I couldn’t think about what I wanted. Not right at that moment. I waited for all those hackneyed bodily responses to good news — for my stomach to drop, my heart to leap, my lungs to empty, as if every part of me were a spectator readying to catch a pop fly. But every part of me was still, and cruelly rational. Every part of me was waiting.

“Do you want to get married, Peggy,” he said. “We could, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t be a good husband— ”

Then I was sitting up, I did take his hand. “Yes—” I said.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he answered. “I mean, not like a real husband. But we still could. If you wanted.”

What I wanted was to drag him into bed with me — not for the sex he was delicately reminding me he was incapable of, not even for kissing. Just so we could be closer. Just so I could explain how little I needed. It’s hard, I thought, to have a conversation like this without lying down.

“I wouldn’t mind,” James said.

I wanted noise, so I didn’t have to answer. This was all a dream, I thought, and anything I said would be a bomb thrown in to explode it. I wanted some New York clamor outside the window — a siren, an anonymous scream, someone else’s emergency — but this was a fancy hotel and the walls were thick and we were protected from any middle-of-the-night disturbance. All I could hear was the agitated ticking of my travel alarm clock, and I had to stop myself from picking it up to wind it, from the delusion I could calm it down.

I asked, “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it seems like I should get married before I die. Which means the sooner the better.”

“You don’t know—”

“Like planning your own funeral? I mean, Peggy, I have. I have planned it. And I know what my tombstone will say — just my name, nobody else’s, just the dates of my life. And people will walk through the cemetery, making up stories the way they do, and mine will be one of the graves they think is saddest. They’ll add up the dates, and then they’ll say, so sad.”

I lay back down, still holding his hand. “Is that a good reason to get married?”

“It’s the best one I have. And to make you happy, if it would.”

“Oh, James Sweatt,” I said. I couldn’t think of what to say. Then I tried, “I can’t marry you.”

“Okay.” He started to move his weight to stand up.

“Stop. Hold still. Don’t you want to know why?”

“I don’t think so. You don’t want to, that’s all I need to know.”

“I do want to,” I said. “But, James, I can’t marry you if you’re doing it just to make me happy.”

“Why not?”

“Because. No matter what Leila says, getting married is a big deal, not a weekend trip. And because doing things to make someone else happy won’t guarantee your own happiness.”

“But, Peggy, that’s what you do. That’s just what you’ve always done. Aren’t you happy?”

I began to cry, a little. It surprised me.

“I guess that’s my answer,” he said.

“My answer is,” I said, “yes.”

“What are you answering?”

“Yes,” I said, crying a little harder, “I am happy.”

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s not like I’m doing you a favor. Peggy, I’m doing everything I never wanted to do. I’m making a spectacle of myself. In the realest way. I’m standing in front of people and telling them to gawk at me and making money off it. That was one thing, truly, I never wanted to do.”

“They’d gawk anyhow,” I said quietly. “You know that.”

“Yeah. And the worst thing is, it’s not so bad. I mean, it’s bearable. I feel like my life is turning out to be just this: every day I learn I have a little less dignity than I thought. So maybe I should change my life. Get married.” He took his hand from mine, then reached back to put it on my blanketed foot. “I want you to think about it,” he said. “About getting married, I mean. If you want to, we should do it. I feel like an idiot I didn’t think about it before. I should have asked you years ago.”

I laughed. “What, when you were twelve?”

“If you needed that much time to make up your mind, from then till now, then yes: I should have asked you when I was twelve. Now you don’t have so much time to mull it over. But you promise you’ll think about it, and tell me. Take it seriously. We won’t talk about it until you’re sure, one way or the other.” He squeezed my foot. “I’m tired,” he said.

“Yes. You should get some sleep.”

“I will.” He sighed.