got married, were you positive that you loved him and you couldn’t ever really love anybody else?”
I put down my plates and sat on the floor with Kay and Stamp. I tried to think back, not to remember the funny story we told but to try to remember the day itself, who I actually was then when Tomsat in the lobby of my dormitory and asked me to marry him. My parents still sent me spending money every month. I had a picture of Anthony Perkins pinned up inside my closet door and liked nothing better than to stare at his sad, delicate face. I had never voted. My concept of time was divided into semesters. Was I sure about love, that this was the person I would be eating my meals with and raising children with and making love to for so many years? I had no idea. I wanted to tell my daughter that I had been absolutely certain, but I think what I had been is absolutely lucky. I don’t think that I knew Tom’s middle name when I married him. It didn’t matter. We had been full of a dreamy sort of romance then. Maybe we had excellent intuition about each other, but the real love came later. I think, probably, the real love always comes later.
“It was such a long time ago,” I said. A truly feeble answer, but what was I supposed to say? That marriage is a cliff dive? That you can do all the research you want, but you’re never really going to know if it’s going to work or not until you jump? That hardly smacked of sound maternal advice. Instead I said what a mother should say: “But if you aren’t sure, you don’t have to make the decision now. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Kay shook her head. “I’m thirty years old. I want to have children. There’s a wonderful guy in the living room who wants to marry me and who I am almost entirely sure I love. I don’t think it’s going to get much better than that.”
“Thirty is nothing,” I said. “It’s just the start.”
“That’s not what you would have said when you were thirty.” Kay mopped up the last of her tears and combed out her hair with her fingers. “I’m going in there,” she said. “Do I look all right?”
T HAT NIGHT WHEN Tom and I went to bed I asked him, “When you asked me to marry you, were you sure about it?”
“Sure, I was sure about it. Why? Did Kay say she wasn’t sure?”
The room was dark. I propped up on one elbow and looked at what little I could see of my husband’s head on his pillow. I had been looking at him for more than two-thirds of my life. In the bad light, with my glasses off, he was exactly the boy I had married. Tom at twenty-three was in bed next to me, wanting to get some sleep. “Let’s forget about Kay for one minute.”
“I can do that.”
“When you asked me to marry you, was it because you were sure I was the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?”
“I guess I must have been if I asked you.”
I had lived too long with lawyers to accept that as an answer. “Come on now and think about this for a minute. I’m serious. Why did you ask me to marry you?”
Tom sighed and closed his eyes. I knew exactly what he was thinking: His daughter was getting married, his sister-in-law had moved in, his house was falling down, he’d been bitten by a dog, and now his wife wanted to know why they had gotten married. It was too much for a Wednesday. “We had had that fight.”
“The fight no one can remember.”
Tom was quiet for a minute. “I remember it.”
“Are you serious? All these years we’ve told the kids we couldn’t remember and you knew? What was the fight about?”
“Basketball.”
“We broke up over basketball?”
“I had promised to take you out to dinner for your birthday, but then at the last minute I got tickets to the Duke-Alabama game and so I told you I was sick.”
And there it was, the missing piece of the story, the least important element: the fight that had been obliterated by its own outcome. Once prompted, I could half remember it: I had made some
I put down my plates and sat on the floor with Kay and Stamp. I tried to think back, not to remember the funny story we told but to try to remember the day itself, who I actually was then when Tomsat in the lobby of my dormitory and asked me to marry him. My parents still sent me spending money every month. I had a picture of Anthony Perkins pinned up inside my closet door and liked nothing better than to stare at his sad, delicate face. I had never voted. My concept of time was divided into semesters. Was I sure about love, that this was the person I would be eating my meals with and raising children with and making love to for so many years? I had no idea. I wanted to tell my daughter that I had been absolutely certain, but I think what I had been is absolutely lucky. I don’t think that I knew Tom’s middle name when I married him. It didn’t matter. We had been full of a dreamy sort of romance then. Maybe we had excellent intuition about each other, but the real love came later. I think, probably, the real love always comes later.
“It was such a long time ago,” I said. A truly feeble answer, but what was I supposed to say? That marriage is a cliff dive? That you can do all the research you want, but you’re never really going to know if it’s going to work or not until you jump? That hardly smacked of sound maternal advice. Instead I said what a mother should say: “But if you aren’t sure, you don’t have to make the decision now. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Kay shook her head. “I’m thirty years old. I want to have children. There’s a wonderful guy in the living room who wants to marry me and who I am almost entirely sure I love. I don’t think it’s going to get much better than that.”
“Thirty is nothing,” I said. “It’s just the start.”
“That’s not what you would have said when you were thirty.” Kay mopped up the last of her tears and combed out her hair with her fingers. “I’m going in there,” she said. “Do I look all right?”
T HAT NIGHT WHEN Tom and I went to bed I asked him, “When you asked me to marry you, were you sure about it?”
“Sure, I was sure about it. Why? Did Kay say she wasn’t sure?”
The room was dark. I propped up on one elbow and looked at what little I could see of my husband’s head on his pillow. I had been looking at him for more than two-thirds of my life. In the bad light, with my glasses off, he was exactly the boy I had married. Tom at twenty-three was in bed next to me, wanting to get some sleep. “Let’s forget about Kay for one minute.”
“I can do that.”
“When you asked me to marry you, was it because you were sure I was the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?”
“I guess I must have been if I asked you.”
I had lived too long with lawyers to accept that as an answer. “Come on now and think about this for a minute. I’m serious. Why did you ask me to marry you?”
Tom sighed and closed his eyes. I knew exactly what he was thinking: His daughter was getting married, his sister-in-law had moved in, his house was falling down, he’d been bitten by a dog, and now his wife wanted to know why they had gotten married. It was too much for a Wednesday. “We had had that fight.”
“The fight no one can remember.”
Tom was quiet for a minute. “I remember it.”
“Are you serious? All these years we’ve told the kids we couldn’t remember and you knew? What was the fight about?”
“Basketball.”
“We broke up over basketball?”
“I had promised to take you out to dinner for your birthday, but then at the last minute I got tickets to the Duke-Alabama game and so I told you I was sick.”
And there it was, the missing piece of the story, the least important element: the fight that had been obliterated by its own outcome. Once prompted, I could half remember it: I had made some
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