chilis, and an end of pain.”
“Pain never ends,” said Richard.
“Oh, Richard,” I said, “no wonder you’re the King of the Southeast Division.”
“Look,” he said, “I’m trying to put four kids through college and one wife through graduate school. I’m starting five investment plans now so when our kids get married no one has to wait twenty-five years to finish a dissertation on George Eliot like you did. Really, am I such a bad guy? I don’t remember forcing you into any of this. And your goddamn stomach has to quit digesting itself. I want you to see a psychiatrist.”
“Richard,” I said, “if our daughters have five children in eight years—which most of them won’t, being members of Zero Population Growth who quote
Diet for a Small Planet
every Thanksgiving—they may still be slow with Ph.D.s despite your investment plans.”
Richard untied his tie and tied it again. “Listen,” he said. “Plenty of women with five children have Ph.Ds.”
“Really,” I said. “I’d like to see those statistics.”
“I suppose you resent your children’s births,” he said,straightening his collar. “Well, just remember, the last one was your miscalculation.”
“And the first one was yours,” I said.
It’s true. We got pregnant, as Richard affectionately referred to it, in a borrowed bunk bed on Fire Island. It was the eighth time we’d slept together. Richard gasped that of course he’d take care of things, had he ever failed me? But I had my first orgasm and no one remembered anything.
After the fourth pregnancy and first son, Richard was satisfied. Angela, you were born in a bad year. You were expensive, your father was starting in insurance after five years as a high school principal. He wanted the rock, all of it. I had a rock in my belly we thought three times was dead. So he swore his love to you, with that ring he thee guiltily wed. Sweet Sixteen, does she remember? She never forgets.
Angela pasted sugar cubes to pink ribbons for a week, Sweet Sixteen party favors she read about in
Seventeen
, while the older girls shook their sad heads. Home from colleges in Ann Arbor, Boston, Berkeley, they stared aghast at their golden-haired baby sister, her Villager suits, the ladybug stickpin in her blouses. Angela owned no blue jeans; her boyfriend opened the car door for her and carried her books home. They weren’t heavy, he was a halfback. Older sister no. 3: “Don’t you have arms?” Older sister no. 2: “He’ll take it out of your hide, wait and see.” Older sister no. 1: “The nuclear family lives off women’s guts. Your mother has ulcers, Angela, she can’t eat gravy with your daddy.”
At which point Richard slapped oldest sister, his miscalculation, and she flew back to Berkeley, having cried in my hands and begged me to come with her. She missed the Sweet Sixteen party. She missed Thanksgiving and Christmas for the next two years.
Angela’s jaw set hard. I saw her reject politics, feminism, and everyone’s miscalculations. I hung sugar cubes from the ceiling for her party until the room looked like the picture in the magazine. I ironed sixteen pink satin ribbons she twistedin her hair. I applauded with everyone else, including the smiling halfback, when her father slipped the diamond on her finger. Then I filed for divorce.
The day Richard moved out of the house, my son switched his major to pre-med at NYU. He said it was the only way to get out of selling insurance. The last sound of the marriage was Richard being nervously sick in the kitchen sink. Angela gave him a cold washcloth and took me out to dinner at Señor Miguel’s while he stacked up his boxes and drove them away. I ate chilis rellenos, guacamole chips in sour cream, cheese enchiladas, Mexican fried bread and three green chili burritos. Then I ate tranquilizers and bouillon for two weeks.
Angela was frightened.
“Mother,” she said, “I wish you could be happy.”
“Angela,” I answered,
“Pain never ends,” said Richard.
“Oh, Richard,” I said, “no wonder you’re the King of the Southeast Division.”
“Look,” he said, “I’m trying to put four kids through college and one wife through graduate school. I’m starting five investment plans now so when our kids get married no one has to wait twenty-five years to finish a dissertation on George Eliot like you did. Really, am I such a bad guy? I don’t remember forcing you into any of this. And your goddamn stomach has to quit digesting itself. I want you to see a psychiatrist.”
“Richard,” I said, “if our daughters have five children in eight years—which most of them won’t, being members of Zero Population Growth who quote
Diet for a Small Planet
every Thanksgiving—they may still be slow with Ph.D.s despite your investment plans.”
Richard untied his tie and tied it again. “Listen,” he said. “Plenty of women with five children have Ph.Ds.”
“Really,” I said. “I’d like to see those statistics.”
“I suppose you resent your children’s births,” he said,straightening his collar. “Well, just remember, the last one was your miscalculation.”
“And the first one was yours,” I said.
It’s true. We got pregnant, as Richard affectionately referred to it, in a borrowed bunk bed on Fire Island. It was the eighth time we’d slept together. Richard gasped that of course he’d take care of things, had he ever failed me? But I had my first orgasm and no one remembered anything.
After the fourth pregnancy and first son, Richard was satisfied. Angela, you were born in a bad year. You were expensive, your father was starting in insurance after five years as a high school principal. He wanted the rock, all of it. I had a rock in my belly we thought three times was dead. So he swore his love to you, with that ring he thee guiltily wed. Sweet Sixteen, does she remember? She never forgets.
Angela pasted sugar cubes to pink ribbons for a week, Sweet Sixteen party favors she read about in
Seventeen
, while the older girls shook their sad heads. Home from colleges in Ann Arbor, Boston, Berkeley, they stared aghast at their golden-haired baby sister, her Villager suits, the ladybug stickpin in her blouses. Angela owned no blue jeans; her boyfriend opened the car door for her and carried her books home. They weren’t heavy, he was a halfback. Older sister no. 3: “Don’t you have arms?” Older sister no. 2: “He’ll take it out of your hide, wait and see.” Older sister no. 1: “The nuclear family lives off women’s guts. Your mother has ulcers, Angela, she can’t eat gravy with your daddy.”
At which point Richard slapped oldest sister, his miscalculation, and she flew back to Berkeley, having cried in my hands and begged me to come with her. She missed the Sweet Sixteen party. She missed Thanksgiving and Christmas for the next two years.
Angela’s jaw set hard. I saw her reject politics, feminism, and everyone’s miscalculations. I hung sugar cubes from the ceiling for her party until the room looked like the picture in the magazine. I ironed sixteen pink satin ribbons she twistedin her hair. I applauded with everyone else, including the smiling halfback, when her father slipped the diamond on her finger. Then I filed for divorce.
The day Richard moved out of the house, my son switched his major to pre-med at NYU. He said it was the only way to get out of selling insurance. The last sound of the marriage was Richard being nervously sick in the kitchen sink. Angela gave him a cold washcloth and took me out to dinner at Señor Miguel’s while he stacked up his boxes and drove them away. I ate chilis rellenos, guacamole chips in sour cream, cheese enchiladas, Mexican fried bread and three green chili burritos. Then I ate tranquilizers and bouillon for two weeks.
Angela was frightened.
“Mother,” she said, “I wish you could be happy.”
“Angela,” I answered,
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