Lorrie Moore - 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

Before they had left for their six-week honeymoon, they had accepted teaching positions at a high school in Eureka, in the northern part of the state near the ocean. They waited a year to make certain that the school and the weather, and the people themselves were exactly what they wanted to settle down to, and then made a substantial down-payment on a house in the Fire Hill district. He felt, without really thinking about it, that they understood each other perfectly; as well, anyway, as any two people could understand one another. More, he understood himself; his capacities, his limitations. He knew where he was going and how to get there.

In eight years they had two children, Dorothea and Robert, who were now five and four years old. A few months after Robert, Marian had accepted at mid-term a part-time position as a French and English teacher at Harris Junior College, at the edge of town. The position had become full-time and permanent that next fall, and Ralph had stayed on, happily, at the high school. In the time they had been married, they had had only one serious disturbance, and that was long ago: two years ago that winter to be exact. It was something they had never talked about since it happened, but, try as he might, Ralph couldn’t help thinking about it sometimes. On occasion, and then when he was least prepared, the whole ghastly scene leaped into his mind. Looked at rationally and in its proper, historical perspective, it seemed impossible and monstrous; an event of such personal magnitude for Ralph that he still couldn’t entirely accept it as something that had once happened to Marian and himself: he had taken it into his head one night at a party that Marian had betrayed him with Mitchell Anderson, a friend. In a fit of uncontrollable rage, he had struck Marian with his fist, knocking her sideways against the kitchen table and onto the floor.

It was a Sunday night in November. The children were in bed. Ralph was sleepy, and he still had a dozen themes from his twelfth-grade class in accelerated English to correct before tomorrow morning. He sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward with his red pencil over a space he’d cleared on the coffee table. He had the papers separated into two stacks, and one of the papers folded open in front of him. He caught himself blinking his eyes, and again felt irritated with the Franklins. Harold and Sarah Franklin. They’d stopped over early in the afternoon for cocktails and stayed on into the evening. Otherwise, Ralph would have finished hours ago, as he’d planned. He’d been sleepy, too, he remembered, the whole time they were here. He’d sat in the big leather chair by the fireplace and once he recalled letting his head sink back against the warm leather of the chair and starting to close his eyes when Franklin had cleared his throat loudly. Too loudly. He didn’t feel comfortable with Franklin anymore. Harold Franklin was a big, forthright man with bushy eyebrows who caught you and held you with his eyes when he spoke. He looked like he never combed his hair, his suits were always baggy, and Ralph thought his ties hideous, but he was one of the few men on the staff at Harris Junior College who had his Ph.D. At 35 he was head of the combined History and Social Science Department. Two years ago he and Sarah had been witness to a large part of Ralph’s humiliation. That occasion had never later been brought up by any of them, of course, and in a few weeks, the next time they’d seen one another, it was as though nothing had happened. Still, since then, Ralph couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy when he was around them.

He could hear the radio playing softly in the kitchen, where Marian was ironing. He stared a while longer at the paper in front of him, then gathered up all of the papers, turned off the lamp, and walked out to the kitchen.

“Finished, love?” Marian said with a smile. She was sitting on a tall stool, ironing one of Robert’s shirts. She sat the iron up on its end as if she’d been waiting for him.

“Damn it, no,” he said with an exaggerated grimace, tossing the papers on the table. “What the hell the Franklins come by here for anyway?”

She laughed; bright, pleasant. It made him feel better. She held up her face to be kissed, and he gave her a little peck on the cheek. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, leaned back on the legs and looked at her. She smiled again, and then lowered her eyes.

“I’m already half-asleep,” he said.

“Coffee,” she said, reaching over and laying the back of her hand against the electric percolator.

He nodded.

She took a long drag from the cigarette she’d had burning in the ashtray, smoked it a minute while she stared at the floor, and then put it back in the ashtray. She looked up at him, and a smile started at the corners of her mouth. She was tall and limber, with a good bust, narrow hips, and wide, gleaming eyes.

“Ralph, do you remember that party?” she asked, still looking at him.

He shifted in the chair and said, “Which party? You mean that one two or three years ago?”

She nodded.

He waited a minute and asked, when she didn’t say anything else, “What about it? Now that you brought it up, honey, what about it?” Then: “He kissed you after all, that night, didn’t he?… Did he try to kiss you, or didn’t he?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “I was just thinking about it and I asked you; that’s all.”

“Well, he did, didn’t he? Come on, Marian, we’re just talking, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid it’d make you angry, Ralph.”

“It won’t make me angry, Marian. It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? I won’t be angry… Well?”

“Well, yes,” she said slowly, “he did kiss me a few times.” She smiled tentatively, gauging his reaction.

His first impulse was to return her smile, and then he felt himself blushing and said defensively, “You told me before he didn’t. You said he only put his arm around you while he was driving.”

He stared at her. It all came back to him again; the way she looked coming in the back door that night; eyes bright, trying to tell him… something, he didn’t hear. He hit her in the mouth, at the last instant pulling to avoid her nose, knocked her against the table where she sat down hard on the floor. “What did you do that for?” she’d asked dreamily, her eyes still bright, and her mouth dripping blood. “Where were you all night?” he’d yelled, teetering over her, his legs watery and trembling. He’d drawn back his fist again but already sorry for the first blow, the blood he’d caused. “I wasn’t gone all night,” she’d said, turning her head back and forth heavily. “I didn’t do anything. Why did you hit me?”

Ralph passed his open hand over his forehead, shut his eyes for a minute. “I guess I lost my head that night, all right. We were both in the wrong. You for leaving the party with Mitchell Anderson, and I for losing my head. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “Even so,” she grinned, “you didn’t have to knock hell out of me.”

“I don’t know — maybe I should’ve done more.” He looked at her, and then they both had to laugh.

“How did we ever get onto this?” she asked.

“You brought it up,” he said.

She shook her head. “The Franklins being here made me think of it, I guess.” She pulled in her upper lip and stared at the floor. In a minute she straightened her shoulders and looked up. “If you’ll move this ironing board for me, love, I’ll make us a hot drink. A buttered rum: now how does that sound?”

“Good.”

She went into the living room and turned on the lamp, bent to pick up a magazine by the endtable. He watched her hips under the plaid woolen skirt. She moved in front of the window by the large dining room table and stood looking out at the street light. She smoothed her palm down over her right hip, then began tucking in her blouse with the fingers of her right hand. He wondered what she was thinking. A car went by outside, and she continued to stand in front of the window.