stopped loving Ed about a year later. Really stopped. Didn’t even recognize him at Kroger’s. But I don’t think I ever got over it. Every time I ever got interested in anyone after that, I felt such conflicting feelings of desire and defeat that it was too frightening. Even with Simon. I could have gotten closer to Simon, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let go beyond a certain point without wanting to kill myself.”
“Wanting to kill yourself?” Michael seems to assert some kind of primacy here, as if all of this is more his business than the others’. We trade a glance, and I am not sure what I see there, but it isn’t surprise. I say, “It wasn’t sadness, actually. It was the sense of having been drawn in and drawn in, encouraged to have trust, to open up. Ed loved to talk, for me to talk. That’s mostly what we did. And then it was suddenly gone. It was unaccountable. It was the mystery that made me want to kill myself, not exactly loss. That feeling of opening up got awfully entwined with the feeling of mysterious danger. But look at it—I let myself go, and then I got punished for it. By Ed, and by your father, too.And I thought I deserved it. And I thought I might never see you all again. So, no, I never got over it. I never let go again, because I never wanted to want to kill myself again.” I look at Michael, but he is looking across the yard. I say, after a moment, “I don’t think I loved Ed the most. But it’s not necessarily the ones you love the most that have the most effect on you.”
“So,” says Ellen, “who did you love the most?”
“Oh, your father, I suppose.”
Now Ellen looks at me again, and says, “Come on, Mother, how could you?”
I say, “Well, it’s not because he was the first or anything, or even because I spent the most time with him. He was exciting. Besides, you’re not asking me to compare the feelings I have about him now with feelings I had about others then. You’re asking me to compare one delusion with another.” We all chuckle awkwardly. There is another long silence. I don’t know how the story has affected them, but having told it makes me hollow with fear. It is the way that I have contained it all these years that has given me strength, and now it seems to me that I have risked that. And then Ellen says, “I’ve got a story, too. You want to hear my story?”
Jerry, on the chaise longue, sits up and looks at us. He says, “Does this include a lover?”
“No,” says Ellen. “It includes Daddy, and you’ve heard it before, so why don’t you bring out some more beers?” Jerry gets up. Ellen is looking at me, and when Jerry turns on the kitchen light, I can see her face. Her look is neither confiding nor meditative, but calmly vengeful. Now it is my turn to think, Don’t, to realize that what she meant when she said, “How could you?” was how dare I say I loved Pat the most after all these years, after the abandonment, after the battles and the enmity. She meant, how couldI betray her loyalty to me at this late date. Something she is about to say will be my punishment, and I shrink from hearing it, but I am eager, too.
Michael says, “What’s your story?”
Ellen turns to him. “Do you remember Jenny? She was a Dutch girl, about twenty-five, that Daddy brought back with him to the States. She lived with us for about three months and then left?”
“Blonde?” says Michael.
“Yes. Very short. Not much taller than I was at eleven.”
Michael shrugs.
“Evil stepmother?” says Joe.
“Oh, no,” says Ellen. “She was nice enough. She was just a kid. She was always baking cookies and eating them. She couldn’t speak very good English, but she would bake these cookies, and then she and Daniel and I would sit at the kitchen table and just eat them and smile at one another. I think she felt sorry for us, because she knew she could leave Daddy but we couldn’t.”
“So?” says Joe.
Ellen sits back and looks out over the
“Wanting to kill yourself?” Michael seems to assert some kind of primacy here, as if all of this is more his business than the others’. We trade a glance, and I am not sure what I see there, but it isn’t surprise. I say, “It wasn’t sadness, actually. It was the sense of having been drawn in and drawn in, encouraged to have trust, to open up. Ed loved to talk, for me to talk. That’s mostly what we did. And then it was suddenly gone. It was unaccountable. It was the mystery that made me want to kill myself, not exactly loss. That feeling of opening up got awfully entwined with the feeling of mysterious danger. But look at it—I let myself go, and then I got punished for it. By Ed, and by your father, too.And I thought I deserved it. And I thought I might never see you all again. So, no, I never got over it. I never let go again, because I never wanted to want to kill myself again.” I look at Michael, but he is looking across the yard. I say, after a moment, “I don’t think I loved Ed the most. But it’s not necessarily the ones you love the most that have the most effect on you.”
“So,” says Ellen, “who did you love the most?”
“Oh, your father, I suppose.”
Now Ellen looks at me again, and says, “Come on, Mother, how could you?”
I say, “Well, it’s not because he was the first or anything, or even because I spent the most time with him. He was exciting. Besides, you’re not asking me to compare the feelings I have about him now with feelings I had about others then. You’re asking me to compare one delusion with another.” We all chuckle awkwardly. There is another long silence. I don’t know how the story has affected them, but having told it makes me hollow with fear. It is the way that I have contained it all these years that has given me strength, and now it seems to me that I have risked that. And then Ellen says, “I’ve got a story, too. You want to hear my story?”
Jerry, on the chaise longue, sits up and looks at us. He says, “Does this include a lover?”
“No,” says Ellen. “It includes Daddy, and you’ve heard it before, so why don’t you bring out some more beers?” Jerry gets up. Ellen is looking at me, and when Jerry turns on the kitchen light, I can see her face. Her look is neither confiding nor meditative, but calmly vengeful. Now it is my turn to think, Don’t, to realize that what she meant when she said, “How could you?” was how dare I say I loved Pat the most after all these years, after the abandonment, after the battles and the enmity. She meant, how couldI betray her loyalty to me at this late date. Something she is about to say will be my punishment, and I shrink from hearing it, but I am eager, too.
Michael says, “What’s your story?”
Ellen turns to him. “Do you remember Jenny? She was a Dutch girl, about twenty-five, that Daddy brought back with him to the States. She lived with us for about three months and then left?”
“Blonde?” says Michael.
“Yes. Very short. Not much taller than I was at eleven.”
Michael shrugs.
“Evil stepmother?” says Joe.
“Oh, no,” says Ellen. “She was nice enough. She was just a kid. She was always baking cookies and eating them. She couldn’t speak very good English, but she would bake these cookies, and then she and Daniel and I would sit at the kitchen table and just eat them and smile at one another. I think she felt sorry for us, because she knew she could leave Daddy but we couldn’t.”
“So?” says Joe.
Ellen sits back and looks out over the
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