Eddie. Marion doubted Ted had ever liked to be alone with his. “That’s why he keeps his stories so short, and they’re for children. That’s why he draws and draws and draws.”
Eddie, not realizing how sick he had become of hamburgers, ate an enormous meal.
“Not even love can daunt the appetite of a sixteen-year-old boy!” Marion observed. Eddie blushed; he wasn’t supposed to say how much he loved her. She hadn’t liked that.
And then she told him that when she’d displayed her pink cashmere cardigan on the bed for him, and especially as she’d chosen the accompanying bra and panties and was arranging these in their respective places—“for the imagined act,” as she put it—she had been aware that this was her first creative impulse since the death of her sons; it had also been her first and only moment of what she called “pure fun.” The alleged purity of such fun is debatable, but Eddie would never have questioned the sincerity of Marion’s intentions; it hurt his feelings only slightly that what was love to him was merely “fun” for her. Even at sixteen, he should have better understood the forewarning she was giving him.
When Marion had met Ted, Ted introduced himself as a “recent” Harvard dropout who was writing a novel; in truth, he’d been out of Harvard for four years. He was taking courses in a Boston art school. He’d always known how to draw—he called himself “self-taught.” (The courses at the art school were not as interesting to him as the models.)
In the first year they were married, Ted had gone to work for a lithographer; he’d instantly hated the job. “Ted would have hated any job,” Marion told Eddie. Ted had learned to hate lithography, too; nor was he interested in etching. (“I’m not a copper or stone sort of man,” he’d told Marion.)
Ted Cole published his first novel in 1937, when Thomas was a year old and Marion was not yet pregnant with Timothy. The reviews were mostly favorable, and the sales were well above average for a first novel. Ted and Marion decided to have a second child. The reviews of the next novel—in ’39, a year after Timothy was born—were neither favorable nor numerous; the second book sold only half as many copies as the first. Ted’s third novel, which was published in 1941—“a year before you were born,” Marion reminded Eddie—was hardly reviewed at all, and only un favorably. The sales were so low that Ted’s publisher refused to tell him the final figures. And then, in ’42—when Thomas and Timothy were six and four— The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls was published. The war would delay the numerous foreign translations, but even before them it was clear that Ted Cole never had to hate a job or write a novel again.
“Tell me,” Marion asked Eddie. “Does it give you the shivers to know that you and The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls were born in the same year?”
“It does,” Eddie admitted to her.
But why so many college towns? (The Coles had lived all over New England.)
Ted’s sexual pattern was behaviorally messy. Ted had told Marion that college and university towns were the best places to bring up children. The quality of the local schools was generally high; the community was stimulated by the cultural activities and the sporting events on campus. In addition, Marion could continue her education. And socially, Ted told her, the faculty families would be good company; at first Marion had not realized how many young mothers could be counted among those faculty wives.
Ted, who eschewed anything resembling a real job on the faculty— also, he wasn’t qualified for one—nevertheless gave a lecture every semester on the art of writing and drawing for children; often these lectures were sponsored jointly by the Department of Fine Arts and the English Department. Ted would always be the first to say that the process of creating a book for children was not an art, in his humble opinion; he
Eddie, not realizing how sick he had become of hamburgers, ate an enormous meal.
“Not even love can daunt the appetite of a sixteen-year-old boy!” Marion observed. Eddie blushed; he wasn’t supposed to say how much he loved her. She hadn’t liked that.
And then she told him that when she’d displayed her pink cashmere cardigan on the bed for him, and especially as she’d chosen the accompanying bra and panties and was arranging these in their respective places—“for the imagined act,” as she put it—she had been aware that this was her first creative impulse since the death of her sons; it had also been her first and only moment of what she called “pure fun.” The alleged purity of such fun is debatable, but Eddie would never have questioned the sincerity of Marion’s intentions; it hurt his feelings only slightly that what was love to him was merely “fun” for her. Even at sixteen, he should have better understood the forewarning she was giving him.
When Marion had met Ted, Ted introduced himself as a “recent” Harvard dropout who was writing a novel; in truth, he’d been out of Harvard for four years. He was taking courses in a Boston art school. He’d always known how to draw—he called himself “self-taught.” (The courses at the art school were not as interesting to him as the models.)
In the first year they were married, Ted had gone to work for a lithographer; he’d instantly hated the job. “Ted would have hated any job,” Marion told Eddie. Ted had learned to hate lithography, too; nor was he interested in etching. (“I’m not a copper or stone sort of man,” he’d told Marion.)
Ted Cole published his first novel in 1937, when Thomas was a year old and Marion was not yet pregnant with Timothy. The reviews were mostly favorable, and the sales were well above average for a first novel. Ted and Marion decided to have a second child. The reviews of the next novel—in ’39, a year after Timothy was born—were neither favorable nor numerous; the second book sold only half as many copies as the first. Ted’s third novel, which was published in 1941—“a year before you were born,” Marion reminded Eddie—was hardly reviewed at all, and only un favorably. The sales were so low that Ted’s publisher refused to tell him the final figures. And then, in ’42—when Thomas and Timothy were six and four— The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls was published. The war would delay the numerous foreign translations, but even before them it was clear that Ted Cole never had to hate a job or write a novel again.
“Tell me,” Marion asked Eddie. “Does it give you the shivers to know that you and The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls were born in the same year?”
“It does,” Eddie admitted to her.
But why so many college towns? (The Coles had lived all over New England.)
Ted’s sexual pattern was behaviorally messy. Ted had told Marion that college and university towns were the best places to bring up children. The quality of the local schools was generally high; the community was stimulated by the cultural activities and the sporting events on campus. In addition, Marion could continue her education. And socially, Ted told her, the faculty families would be good company; at first Marion had not realized how many young mothers could be counted among those faculty wives.
Ted, who eschewed anything resembling a real job on the faculty— also, he wasn’t qualified for one—nevertheless gave a lecture every semester on the art of writing and drawing for children; often these lectures were sponsored jointly by the Department of Fine Arts and the English Department. Ted would always be the first to say that the process of creating a book for children was not an art, in his humble opinion; he
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