on when I fell asleep.
The next time Roger invited us, I thought we’d just make up some excuse. But when I told Tammi, she suddenly decided she was all for it. And she really got into the spirit of things, too. Instead of the little black cocktail dress she had worn the first time, she put on a pair of jeans—the kind the kids wear, cut way too low—and a little T-shirt that showed her navel. And, once we got there, she had a few things to say, too. Nothing I’d call profound, but she
was
participating.
Since then, it’s become kind of a regular thing. By now, so many people come that we tend to break up into groups. Some of the men play cards—nothing radical, not for big stakes—nobody ever gets upset if they lose. Roger has a beautiful billiard room, too, and that always gets some action. Some even use the swimming pool; although not too often, unless it’s the middle of summer.
But even with a dozen things going on at once, Roger never leaves his spot in front of the fireplace. It takes up a whole wall of what he calls the “great room.” Anyone who wants to talk to Roger has to come in there to do it.
2
Usually, Tammi just leaves me alone after supper. So when she came into my study one evening, I knew there was going to be some kind of argument.
“Do you have to spend so much time building those stupid models of yours?” was the first thing out of her mouth.
“They’re not models,” I told her, patiently. “They’re miniatures.”
“What’s the difference?” she said. I recognized the signs: her jaw was set and her voice was already edgy.
“Models are prefabricated. All you have to do is put them together, whereas—”
“Paul! I
meant
, what’s the difference
what
you putter around with? I was talking about all the time you spend at it.”
“Well, you’re always on the computer and I just—”
“You’re pathetic,” she said. She turned and walked out of my study, wiggling her bottom extra hard to make sure I knew it was meant to be taunting, not tempting.
3
Tammi doesn’t work, but that’s not her fault. The way we planned it, she would be staying at home with our kids. But kids never came. Every time I mentioned maybe seeing a fertility specialist, Tammi gave me one of her looks—the kind I didn’t even know she had until we had been married for over a year.
So I went on my own, without saying anything to her. “I can’t tell you more without examining your wife and running additional tests,” the doctor told me, “but we can definitely rule out any … impediment at your end. Both motility and viability are more than adequate for.…”
I’m not one of those men who doesn’t want his wife to work. But Tammi never found anything she really likes to do. She’s not stupid; in fact, she taught herself a wide variety of computer skills.And she’s certainly not lazy; her exercise regimen would exhaust a professional athlete. She once told me that keeping a small waist is the key to a woman’s shape. “If you’ve got it down, it makes everything else kind of stick out, see, Paul?” she said, turning so her body was in profile.
I suggested she might want to go back to school. That’s where I met her, in college: she was a freshman and I was a grad student. But Tammi wasn’t interested in formal education, except when she got excited about some new thing. Then she would take all kinds of classes—yoga, tai chi, photography, things like that. She’s always wildly enthusiastic at first, but then it just goes flat for her, somehow.
Like we had.
4
“Do you think Roger was really a mercenary in the Congo?” Tammi said to me one night, as we were getting ready for bed.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, Carla’s husband, Larry—he was in the army, himself—told her. And she told me.”
“In the Congo? When would that have been?”
“What difference does that make?” she said, sharply. “That’s just like you, Paul. Always nitpicking, checking
The next time Roger invited us, I thought we’d just make up some excuse. But when I told Tammi, she suddenly decided she was all for it. And she really got into the spirit of things, too. Instead of the little black cocktail dress she had worn the first time, she put on a pair of jeans—the kind the kids wear, cut way too low—and a little T-shirt that showed her navel. And, once we got there, she had a few things to say, too. Nothing I’d call profound, but she
was
participating.
Since then, it’s become kind of a regular thing. By now, so many people come that we tend to break up into groups. Some of the men play cards—nothing radical, not for big stakes—nobody ever gets upset if they lose. Roger has a beautiful billiard room, too, and that always gets some action. Some even use the swimming pool; although not too often, unless it’s the middle of summer.
But even with a dozen things going on at once, Roger never leaves his spot in front of the fireplace. It takes up a whole wall of what he calls the “great room.” Anyone who wants to talk to Roger has to come in there to do it.
2
Usually, Tammi just leaves me alone after supper. So when she came into my study one evening, I knew there was going to be some kind of argument.
“Do you have to spend so much time building those stupid models of yours?” was the first thing out of her mouth.
“They’re not models,” I told her, patiently. “They’re miniatures.”
“What’s the difference?” she said. I recognized the signs: her jaw was set and her voice was already edgy.
“Models are prefabricated. All you have to do is put them together, whereas—”
“Paul! I
meant
, what’s the difference
what
you putter around with? I was talking about all the time you spend at it.”
“Well, you’re always on the computer and I just—”
“You’re pathetic,” she said. She turned and walked out of my study, wiggling her bottom extra hard to make sure I knew it was meant to be taunting, not tempting.
3
Tammi doesn’t work, but that’s not her fault. The way we planned it, she would be staying at home with our kids. But kids never came. Every time I mentioned maybe seeing a fertility specialist, Tammi gave me one of her looks—the kind I didn’t even know she had until we had been married for over a year.
So I went on my own, without saying anything to her. “I can’t tell you more without examining your wife and running additional tests,” the doctor told me, “but we can definitely rule out any … impediment at your end. Both motility and viability are more than adequate for.…”
I’m not one of those men who doesn’t want his wife to work. But Tammi never found anything she really likes to do. She’s not stupid; in fact, she taught herself a wide variety of computer skills.And she’s certainly not lazy; her exercise regimen would exhaust a professional athlete. She once told me that keeping a small waist is the key to a woman’s shape. “If you’ve got it down, it makes everything else kind of stick out, see, Paul?” she said, turning so her body was in profile.
I suggested she might want to go back to school. That’s where I met her, in college: she was a freshman and I was a grad student. But Tammi wasn’t interested in formal education, except when she got excited about some new thing. Then she would take all kinds of classes—yoga, tai chi, photography, things like that. She’s always wildly enthusiastic at first, but then it just goes flat for her, somehow.
Like we had.
4
“Do you think Roger was really a mercenary in the Congo?” Tammi said to me one night, as we were getting ready for bed.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, Carla’s husband, Larry—he was in the army, himself—told her. And she told me.”
“In the Congo? When would that have been?”
“What difference does that make?” she said, sharply. “That’s just like you, Paul. Always nitpicking, checking
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