to her collating of notes.
He returned with one cup of coffee, sat across the room, and sulked.
She stopped working and looked at him. “Victor, what would you say if I asked you to take a couple of days off from work so we could go to Aldeburgh for a long weekend?”
“Where?”
“Aldeburgh. Anyplace!”
“I’d say I’d see. I’d try.”
“Well, that’s what I’m saying to you.”
“Okay.” Gloomily.
“What do you want from me?” Exasperated.
“Nothing. Nothing.” A little martyred?
“You’re used to women dropping everything at your call, aren’t you. Do you own a whistle?” Vicious.
He glared at her. “I never needed one.” Vicious back.
But she laughed, and he laughed too, wryly, abashed.
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll try. How about next Tuesday and Wednesday. I have to go to Birmingham.”
“I’ll see where I get to. I’ll try.”
Tight-lipped. “And just when do you think you can let me know? Because if you’re not going to come, I’ll fly. It’s faster. And I have to make arrangements, reservations, rent a car.”
“I’ll know by this Friday. I’ll see how far I get, how much collating there is to do.”
“That’s a bit late.”
“Make both—plane and car reservations. Then cancel the one you don’t need.”
“I don’t need your help in working this out, thanks.”
Impatiently, she turned back to her work. He sat drinking coffee, his own papers spread out on the floor beside his chair, his briefcase on the footstool. He kicked the footstool.
She looked at him. Really this was too childish.
“I know, I know! I understand. But I’m not used to it. It’s going to take some time for me to get used to it”
“Get used to what?”
“Oh, you! Your orneriness.”
“Orneriness!” Having your own work to do was orneriness ?
He smiled nastily. “Cussedness?”
She smiled nastily back. “All you have to get used to is being a little flexible.”
“Okay, okay!” He kicked the footstool over. “I’m sick of this damned stuff. Let’s get out of here, go for a walk.”
Her back stiffened. She was in the middle of something and wanted to finish it “Okay,” she said.
They stood up, Victor walked toward her and put his hand on her back. “Honestly, Lorie, I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass.”
“I thought you weren’t going to call me that.”
“I like it. Can’t you be a little flexible too?”
“About my name?” Men seem to think they can name women as they please, just because Adam did. That way they give women the shape and function they want them to have. “All the years I was married, my husband never called me by name.”
“What did he call you?”
“Depended. Honey and sweetie. Or slut, bitch, whore.”
He laughed. “ One sin I haven’t committed!”
“But you have! You are! Lorie. It’s so diminishing.”
“It’s loving.”
“Lorie. Judy. Jill. Pansy. Little girl names. We give women names they can’t grow old with. Can you picture a ninety-year-old Judy? Jill with a bald spot and a walker? Dawn taking out her false teeth?”
“You can call me any name you like and I’ll still come,” he grinned in mock lechery, and walked to the hall for their jackets.
“How about Anthony?” she smiled wickedly.
“What was that?” Muffled among the coats. In the doorway: “What? Oh, your husband’s name?” Looking at her grin, he began to laugh and went for her, wrestled her down, and that was the end of that walk.
3
I N THE END, SHE went to Birmingham with him. They drove along the motorways through rolling green English farmland. Cows rested on meadows velvety green, while in the distance white funnels rose—parts of electric generators?—and nearer, huge electric towers bore thick swaying wires.
“They do this better than we do,” she said, nodding toward the scene. “Combine industry and farmland.” “In places they do. But their rate of production is nowhere near ours.”
“It’s easy to be
He returned with one cup of coffee, sat across the room, and sulked.
She stopped working and looked at him. “Victor, what would you say if I asked you to take a couple of days off from work so we could go to Aldeburgh for a long weekend?”
“Where?”
“Aldeburgh. Anyplace!”
“I’d say I’d see. I’d try.”
“Well, that’s what I’m saying to you.”
“Okay.” Gloomily.
“What do you want from me?” Exasperated.
“Nothing. Nothing.” A little martyred?
“You’re used to women dropping everything at your call, aren’t you. Do you own a whistle?” Vicious.
He glared at her. “I never needed one.” Vicious back.
But she laughed, and he laughed too, wryly, abashed.
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll try. How about next Tuesday and Wednesday. I have to go to Birmingham.”
“I’ll see where I get to. I’ll try.”
Tight-lipped. “And just when do you think you can let me know? Because if you’re not going to come, I’ll fly. It’s faster. And I have to make arrangements, reservations, rent a car.”
“I’ll know by this Friday. I’ll see how far I get, how much collating there is to do.”
“That’s a bit late.”
“Make both—plane and car reservations. Then cancel the one you don’t need.”
“I don’t need your help in working this out, thanks.”
Impatiently, she turned back to her work. He sat drinking coffee, his own papers spread out on the floor beside his chair, his briefcase on the footstool. He kicked the footstool.
She looked at him. Really this was too childish.
“I know, I know! I understand. But I’m not used to it. It’s going to take some time for me to get used to it”
“Get used to what?”
“Oh, you! Your orneriness.”
“Orneriness!” Having your own work to do was orneriness ?
He smiled nastily. “Cussedness?”
She smiled nastily back. “All you have to get used to is being a little flexible.”
“Okay, okay!” He kicked the footstool over. “I’m sick of this damned stuff. Let’s get out of here, go for a walk.”
Her back stiffened. She was in the middle of something and wanted to finish it “Okay,” she said.
They stood up, Victor walked toward her and put his hand on her back. “Honestly, Lorie, I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass.”
“I thought you weren’t going to call me that.”
“I like it. Can’t you be a little flexible too?”
“About my name?” Men seem to think they can name women as they please, just because Adam did. That way they give women the shape and function they want them to have. “All the years I was married, my husband never called me by name.”
“What did he call you?”
“Depended. Honey and sweetie. Or slut, bitch, whore.”
He laughed. “ One sin I haven’t committed!”
“But you have! You are! Lorie. It’s so diminishing.”
“It’s loving.”
“Lorie. Judy. Jill. Pansy. Little girl names. We give women names they can’t grow old with. Can you picture a ninety-year-old Judy? Jill with a bald spot and a walker? Dawn taking out her false teeth?”
“You can call me any name you like and I’ll still come,” he grinned in mock lechery, and walked to the hall for their jackets.
“How about Anthony?” she smiled wickedly.
“What was that?” Muffled among the coats. In the doorway: “What? Oh, your husband’s name?” Looking at her grin, he began to laugh and went for her, wrestled her down, and that was the end of that walk.
3
I N THE END, SHE went to Birmingham with him. They drove along the motorways through rolling green English farmland. Cows rested on meadows velvety green, while in the distance white funnels rose—parts of electric generators?—and nearer, huge electric towers bore thick swaying wires.
“They do this better than we do,” she said, nodding toward the scene. “Combine industry and farmland.” “In places they do. But their rate of production is nowhere near ours.”
“It’s easy to be
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