routine. How it will change. What that will be like.
CHAPTER 12
MIRIAM AWAKENED at the first sign of sunlight through the bedroom window and lay still next to her husband, Charlie. It was a dog’s name. Or an uncle’s, maybe. And that was exactly what he had become —an old dog, a ubiquitous uncle with a perpetually empty stomach. It had crossed her mind more than once that it would be to her advantage if she were to put him to sleep, just like an old dog, but the authorities didn’t look kindly on euthanizing a spouse and she probably would miss him. She needed someone to bring in the salt for the water softener.
They had moved from the north side of the city shortly after his retirement from Raytheon. Both had wanted to be closer to the country and have a little more privacy. They agreed on this but not much else.
Miriam made a mental list of what she needed to do before she left for the day, then a mental list of what Charlie would do. She would make the coffee and shower and get ready. He would awaken and pour the first cup and turn on Bloomberg in the kitchen to watch the futures crawl across the bottom of the screen. Other men watched football or NASCAR or were glued to the University of Arizona sports schedule. This time of year was high and holy because of college football and the end of thebaseball season. Other men followed batting averages and box scores. Charlie’s passion was the stock market, and he seemed to get a little depressed on the weekends or holidays when the market was closed. After the opening bell, as he sat studying his portfolio and opening e-mails from subscription services that told him what was going on behind the scenes and how he could take advantage of rising or falling gold or oil futures, he would turn on his conservative talk radio. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the mind-numbing cacophony of the stock market or the shrill, cutting voice of Rush Limbaugh. Charlie loved him, had even called in and spoken with him after the shooting in Tucson. Then it was Hannity, and the afternoon ended with a re-air of Glenn Beck. The conservative trinity.
She watched the rising and falling of his chest and listened to his slightly clogged nasal passages. What would life look like when she was home all day? He would retreat into his office, the third bedroom at the back of the house, and probably stay there. They would find some kind of rhythm; she was sure of that. They always had. There was a chance they would grow closer, that their relationship would deepen, but there was also a chance it would snow in September.
Miriam turned her head, scanning the nightstand and the half-finished mystery novel she was working through. It was a diversion that kept her mind from focusing on things she couldn’t change and might not want to.
Years ago she’d had a sit-down with Charlie, a confrontation. She told him this was not what she had signed up for, that marriage was meant to be more than what they had become. To her delight, Charlie had responded, had actually moved toward her. It was easy to accuse him of going through the motions, of just changing for selfish reasons, but the truth was, his movementhad forced her to respond, had forced her to look at herself. She thought of herself as the catalyst for good in their marriage. But his response had shown her own issues, her own retreat. She knew he liked her to do little things, like make him a sandwich. She had stopped that, mainly because she didn’t want to be his mother. Let him get his own food.
So she feigned contentment and they carried on with their lives, their careers, their home empty, void of children and any measured love. They were faithful to each other, and to outsiders, their relationship looked fine —close, even.
As she lay in bed, something in her heart stirred, but it was not hope. It was more a crushing reality pressing down. A feeling that as she looked at the mountain of happiness and contentment above them, this
CHAPTER 12
MIRIAM AWAKENED at the first sign of sunlight through the bedroom window and lay still next to her husband, Charlie. It was a dog’s name. Or an uncle’s, maybe. And that was exactly what he had become —an old dog, a ubiquitous uncle with a perpetually empty stomach. It had crossed her mind more than once that it would be to her advantage if she were to put him to sleep, just like an old dog, but the authorities didn’t look kindly on euthanizing a spouse and she probably would miss him. She needed someone to bring in the salt for the water softener.
They had moved from the north side of the city shortly after his retirement from Raytheon. Both had wanted to be closer to the country and have a little more privacy. They agreed on this but not much else.
Miriam made a mental list of what she needed to do before she left for the day, then a mental list of what Charlie would do. She would make the coffee and shower and get ready. He would awaken and pour the first cup and turn on Bloomberg in the kitchen to watch the futures crawl across the bottom of the screen. Other men watched football or NASCAR or were glued to the University of Arizona sports schedule. This time of year was high and holy because of college football and the end of thebaseball season. Other men followed batting averages and box scores. Charlie’s passion was the stock market, and he seemed to get a little depressed on the weekends or holidays when the market was closed. After the opening bell, as he sat studying his portfolio and opening e-mails from subscription services that told him what was going on behind the scenes and how he could take advantage of rising or falling gold or oil futures, he would turn on his conservative talk radio. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the mind-numbing cacophony of the stock market or the shrill, cutting voice of Rush Limbaugh. Charlie loved him, had even called in and spoken with him after the shooting in Tucson. Then it was Hannity, and the afternoon ended with a re-air of Glenn Beck. The conservative trinity.
She watched the rising and falling of his chest and listened to his slightly clogged nasal passages. What would life look like when she was home all day? He would retreat into his office, the third bedroom at the back of the house, and probably stay there. They would find some kind of rhythm; she was sure of that. They always had. There was a chance they would grow closer, that their relationship would deepen, but there was also a chance it would snow in September.
Miriam turned her head, scanning the nightstand and the half-finished mystery novel she was working through. It was a diversion that kept her mind from focusing on things she couldn’t change and might not want to.
Years ago she’d had a sit-down with Charlie, a confrontation. She told him this was not what she had signed up for, that marriage was meant to be more than what they had become. To her delight, Charlie had responded, had actually moved toward her. It was easy to accuse him of going through the motions, of just changing for selfish reasons, but the truth was, his movementhad forced her to respond, had forced her to look at herself. She thought of herself as the catalyst for good in their marriage. But his response had shown her own issues, her own retreat. She knew he liked her to do little things, like make him a sandwich. She had stopped that, mainly because she didn’t want to be his mother. Let him get his own food.
So she feigned contentment and they carried on with their lives, their careers, their home empty, void of children and any measured love. They were faithful to each other, and to outsiders, their relationship looked fine —close, even.
As she lay in bed, something in her heart stirred, but it was not hope. It was more a crushing reality pressing down. A feeling that as she looked at the mountain of happiness and contentment above them, this
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