it a white horse?”
“Very light dappled gray, yes. Ed used to laugh at everything I said. He would stop, and I would stop what I was doing, and we would talk. Then we talked longer. His eyes were a strange color, kind of a Federal blue. He’d been everywhere, even though he was still in his twenties. His wife had left him, so I think we made a lovely picture for him, twins, remodeling, lawns and gardens, dinner at seven, very Kennedyesque. He made a lovely picture, too. Austere, solitary, artistic. He’d worked for some of Kennedy’s speech writers, and now he was working on some sort of White House book. I couldn’t stay away from him.”
At this, there is an assortment of little noises—a laugh from Michael, a grunt from Joe. From Ellen, a little exhalation, sharp but nearly inaudible. As I speak, I remember more. Nothing can stop me now.
“All he ever had in the house was coffee. I didn’t drink coffee before or after that, but I always did with him. He made it for me, very creamy and sweet.”
“Where were we?” says Michael.
“At first you were always with me, but then the summer came, and your father put the older kids in day camp and you into nursery school three mornings a week. I was never really sure he would be glad to see me if I came without you, so, even when we were sleeping together and our meetings were regular, I would make up some little excuse for coming down the lane. That part was crazy.”
“That part?” says Ellen.
“Well, yes. I mean, I knew I was expected, but even so I always had to bring something, some flowers or a loaf of bread, like a hostess gift, and then, when we began to undress one another, I always had to pretend to myself that I hadn’t been thinking of that, or that this body that was appearing out of my clothes was a big surprise to me.”
“Sounds like love, Ma,” says Michael.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t excitement like that. It felt most like some fixed, inconsolable longing. It was constant, even when I was at his place. I would go over there, and it would stop the moment I saw him, but only that moment. After that there was so much that he was holding back from me that I was as filled with longing when I was with him as when I wasn’t. After we made love, he would sleep and I would lie there wondering what you kids were doing at camp and nursery school.”
Joe says, “Sounds upbeat, Ma. Sounds life-affirming.” His voice is subdued.
“Did Daddy have the place under surveillance?” says Ellen. “Were you being followed by two German men in a black van?”
“He didn’t suspect until I told him. Maybe that was the most important thing about it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was seeing Ed and I didn’t want to stop. But I did stop. The relationship didn’t outlast the marriage.”
Michael says, “Why did you tell him?”
“Well, the whole affair was a terrible strain, for one thing.” They are staring at me, which makes this explanation seem trivial. I suppose all the explanations I’ve considered over the past twenty years seem trivial, in light of the consequences. I begin the self-justification—“I didn’t know what—I thought—” but I can’t bear it. I look from one to another.
Finally, I say, “I wanted him to know I wasn’t his.” Such a little thing, with them looking at me like this.
After a moment Jerry says, “So this Ed, what happened to him?”
“About a week after Pat took everyone to England, he said he wouldn’t see me or speak to me again. He was a very absolute sort of person. Sometimes I saw him around, but he kept to his word. He never spoke to me again.”
“Why?”
“I wrote and asked him that a couple of times. He didn’t answer. I thought then that he was just cruel, or that he hated me. I couldn’t explain it any other way. After that I thought that he must have been afraid of me and of what he’d done.”
Michael says, “How long did it take you to get over it?”
“I
“Very light dappled gray, yes. Ed used to laugh at everything I said. He would stop, and I would stop what I was doing, and we would talk. Then we talked longer. His eyes were a strange color, kind of a Federal blue. He’d been everywhere, even though he was still in his twenties. His wife had left him, so I think we made a lovely picture for him, twins, remodeling, lawns and gardens, dinner at seven, very Kennedyesque. He made a lovely picture, too. Austere, solitary, artistic. He’d worked for some of Kennedy’s speech writers, and now he was working on some sort of White House book. I couldn’t stay away from him.”
At this, there is an assortment of little noises—a laugh from Michael, a grunt from Joe. From Ellen, a little exhalation, sharp but nearly inaudible. As I speak, I remember more. Nothing can stop me now.
“All he ever had in the house was coffee. I didn’t drink coffee before or after that, but I always did with him. He made it for me, very creamy and sweet.”
“Where were we?” says Michael.
“At first you were always with me, but then the summer came, and your father put the older kids in day camp and you into nursery school three mornings a week. I was never really sure he would be glad to see me if I came without you, so, even when we were sleeping together and our meetings were regular, I would make up some little excuse for coming down the lane. That part was crazy.”
“That part?” says Ellen.
“Well, yes. I mean, I knew I was expected, but even so I always had to bring something, some flowers or a loaf of bread, like a hostess gift, and then, when we began to undress one another, I always had to pretend to myself that I hadn’t been thinking of that, or that this body that was appearing out of my clothes was a big surprise to me.”
“Sounds like love, Ma,” says Michael.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t excitement like that. It felt most like some fixed, inconsolable longing. It was constant, even when I was at his place. I would go over there, and it would stop the moment I saw him, but only that moment. After that there was so much that he was holding back from me that I was as filled with longing when I was with him as when I wasn’t. After we made love, he would sleep and I would lie there wondering what you kids were doing at camp and nursery school.”
Joe says, “Sounds upbeat, Ma. Sounds life-affirming.” His voice is subdued.
“Did Daddy have the place under surveillance?” says Ellen. “Were you being followed by two German men in a black van?”
“He didn’t suspect until I told him. Maybe that was the most important thing about it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was seeing Ed and I didn’t want to stop. But I did stop. The relationship didn’t outlast the marriage.”
Michael says, “Why did you tell him?”
“Well, the whole affair was a terrible strain, for one thing.” They are staring at me, which makes this explanation seem trivial. I suppose all the explanations I’ve considered over the past twenty years seem trivial, in light of the consequences. I begin the self-justification—“I didn’t know what—I thought—” but I can’t bear it. I look from one to another.
Finally, I say, “I wanted him to know I wasn’t his.” Such a little thing, with them looking at me like this.
After a moment Jerry says, “So this Ed, what happened to him?”
“About a week after Pat took everyone to England, he said he wouldn’t see me or speak to me again. He was a very absolute sort of person. Sometimes I saw him around, but he kept to his word. He never spoke to me again.”
“Why?”
“I wrote and asked him that a couple of times. He didn’t answer. I thought then that he was just cruel, or that he hated me. I couldn’t explain it any other way. After that I thought that he must have been afraid of me and of what he’d done.”
Michael says, “How long did it take you to get over it?”
“I
Similar Books
