part of the evening with her and then go to spend the rest of the night with Paul. Always Peggy and I quarreled before we parted, but we knew we would speak to or see each other the next day. The night was cold; there was a wind. Roland lived on the opposite side of town from Paul, so I took a taxi; it was a half hour’s ride away, enough time to bury a secret. At the door I planted a kiss on Paul’s mouth with an uncontrollable ardor that I actually did feel—a kiss of treachery, for I could still taste the other man in my mouth. The cold wind had left my lips the texture of stale toast, but he ate me up as if I were a freshly baked cake. He was glad to see me and said, “I love you,” and I thought, So that’s what that sounds like when someone really means it. I kissed him doubly hard, and instantly I knew it was a mistake, for he mistook my enthusiasm for his love returned. In the morning, he said that Peggy had called me in the early part of the evening, wanting to know if I was with him. His voice was without suspicion. I said, “She’s such a nuisance,” and flew into an attack on her character, as if that were the point. He did not know that what he wanted was an answer to the question, Where had I been if I had not been with Peggy or at home?
* * *
The children and I had gone for a walk in the park, and we returned to the apartment with the usual sounds of torment and pleasure. Lewis and Mariah were sitting in their living room, and the children ran in to greet them. I followed, carrying my camera, which I now took with me everywhere, and when I saw them, apart yet closely together, Mariah’s eyes red from tears, a crooked smile on her face as if she were a child trying to put up a brave front, I knew that the end was here, the ruin was in front of me. For a reason that will never be known to me, I said, “Say ‘cheese’” and took a picture. Lewis said, “Jesus Christ,” and he left our company in anger. Mariah held out her arms and hugged all four of her children together in a big embrace and said to me, “I’m sorry.”
I thought, Why apologize for a swine. And then I wondered when had I come to think of Lewis as a swine: I had always liked him; he had always been kind to me. And then I knew: he made Mariah cry, and I had taken her side; that was something I would always do. And I could see the manner in which Lewis had left her. It was he who was really leaving, but he would never come right out and tell her so. He was the sort of person—a cultivated man, usually—who cannot speak his mind. It wasn’t that speaking frankly had been bred out of him; it was just that a man in his position always knew exactly what he wanted, and so everything was done for him. Sometimes he and I would play a game of checkers. I was pretty good at this game, but I could never beat him. His strategy was to attack in an underhanded way; and, no matter what, I would oblige him by blundering into defeat. Afterward he was kind enough to show me where I had gone wrong. “Sorry,” he would say, “next time”; but next time was just the same. He was too clever, that man, and too used to getting his way. He would leave her, but he would make her think that it was she who was leaving him. The children were no longer in the room. Her mouth opened. I knew what she would say before she said it. She said, “I am going to ask Lewis to leave.” She looked at me with concern on her face; she put out a hand to me, offering me support. But I was fine. I would not have married a man like Lewis.
I was lying in bed one night. The children were already asleep. The house was quiet. I had draped a small square of false silk over my bedside lamp, and it made the room into a mingling of early dusk and the last remains of a faraway sunset. This reminded me of home, and a peculiar feeling came over me, a combination of happy excitement, expectation, and dread. All around me on the walls of my room were photographs I had
* * *
The children and I had gone for a walk in the park, and we returned to the apartment with the usual sounds of torment and pleasure. Lewis and Mariah were sitting in their living room, and the children ran in to greet them. I followed, carrying my camera, which I now took with me everywhere, and when I saw them, apart yet closely together, Mariah’s eyes red from tears, a crooked smile on her face as if she were a child trying to put up a brave front, I knew that the end was here, the ruin was in front of me. For a reason that will never be known to me, I said, “Say ‘cheese’” and took a picture. Lewis said, “Jesus Christ,” and he left our company in anger. Mariah held out her arms and hugged all four of her children together in a big embrace and said to me, “I’m sorry.”
I thought, Why apologize for a swine. And then I wondered when had I come to think of Lewis as a swine: I had always liked him; he had always been kind to me. And then I knew: he made Mariah cry, and I had taken her side; that was something I would always do. And I could see the manner in which Lewis had left her. It was he who was really leaving, but he would never come right out and tell her so. He was the sort of person—a cultivated man, usually—who cannot speak his mind. It wasn’t that speaking frankly had been bred out of him; it was just that a man in his position always knew exactly what he wanted, and so everything was done for him. Sometimes he and I would play a game of checkers. I was pretty good at this game, but I could never beat him. His strategy was to attack in an underhanded way; and, no matter what, I would oblige him by blundering into defeat. Afterward he was kind enough to show me where I had gone wrong. “Sorry,” he would say, “next time”; but next time was just the same. He was too clever, that man, and too used to getting his way. He would leave her, but he would make her think that it was she who was leaving him. The children were no longer in the room. Her mouth opened. I knew what she would say before she said it. She said, “I am going to ask Lewis to leave.” She looked at me with concern on her face; she put out a hand to me, offering me support. But I was fine. I would not have married a man like Lewis.
I was lying in bed one night. The children were already asleep. The house was quiet. I had draped a small square of false silk over my bedside lamp, and it made the room into a mingling of early dusk and the last remains of a faraway sunset. This reminded me of home, and a peculiar feeling came over me, a combination of happy excitement, expectation, and dread. All around me on the walls of my room were photographs I had
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