shout.”
“You never hear me unless I shout!”
“Mary, why do you want to argue?”
I don’t, she thought. Stop me. Hold me.
“
You
started this,” she said.
“I only asked you to consider an alternative to this business about possession. You’re overreacting.”
I know, she thought. I know I am. And I don’t know why. I don’t want to hurt you. I need you.
But all she said was, “Listening to you, I’d think I was never right about anything. I’m always overreacting or mistaken or misled or confused. You treat me as if I’m a child.”
“You’re treating
yourself
with condescension.”
“Just a silly little child.”
Hug me, kiss me, love me, she thought. Please make me stop this. I don’t want to argue. I’m scared.
He started toward the bedroom door. “This isn’t the time to talk. You’re not in the mood for constructive criticism.”
“Because I’m behaving like a child?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes you fucking piss me off.”
He stopped, turned back to her. “That’s like a child,” he said calmly. “Like a child who’s trying to shock a grown-up with a lot of dirty words.”
She opened her book to the page she had marked and, refusing to acknowledge him, she pretended to read.
* * *
She would rather have suffered disabling pain than even temporary estrangement from Max. When they argued, which was rarely, she felt miserable. The two or three hours of silence that invariably followed a disagreement, and which were usually her fault, were unbearable.
She spent the remainder of the evening in bed with a copy of
The Occult
by Colin Wilson. As she began each page, she could not remember what had been on the page before it.
Max stayed on his side of the bed, reading a novel and smoking his pipe. He might as well have been a thousand miles away.
The eleven o’clock television news, which she switched on by remote control, headlined a grisly story about slaughter in a Santa Ana beauty salon. There was film of the blood-smeared shop and interviews with police officials who had nothing to say.
“You see?” Mary said. “I was right about the nurses. I was right about the beauty salon. And, by God, I’m right about Richard Lingard, too.”
Even as she spoke, she regretted the words, and especially her tone of voice.
He looked at her but said nothing.
She looked away, down at her book. She hadn’t meant to revive the argument. Quite the opposite. She wanted to get him talking once more. She wanted to hear his voice.
Although she often started arguments, she had never been able to initiate the conclusion of one. Psychologically, she wasn’t capable of making the first gesture for peace. She left that move to the men. Always. She knew that wasn’t fair, but she could not change.
She supposed that this inadequacy dated back to her father’s violent death. He had left her so suddenly that she still sometimes felt abandoned. All of her adult life she had worried about men walking out on her before
she
was prepared to end the relationship.
And of course she wasn’t ever going to be ready to end her marriage; that was for keeps. Therefore, whenever she and Max argued, whenever she had reason to worry about his leaving, she forced him to pick up the olive branch. It was a test which he could pass only if he would sacrifice more pride than she; and when he had done that, he would have proved that he loved her and that he would never leave her as her father had done.
The death of her father
was
more important than whatever Berton Mitchell had done to her.
Why couldn’t Dr. Cauvel see that?
* * *
In the dark bedroom, when it became evident that neither of them could sleep, Max touched her. His hands affected her in the same way that the rapidly vibrating tines of a tuning fork would affect fine crystal. She trembled uncontrollably and shattered. She broke against him, weeping.
He didn’t speak. Words no longer mattered.
He held her for a few minutes, and then he
“You never hear me unless I shout!”
“Mary, why do you want to argue?”
I don’t, she thought. Stop me. Hold me.
“
You
started this,” she said.
“I only asked you to consider an alternative to this business about possession. You’re overreacting.”
I know, she thought. I know I am. And I don’t know why. I don’t want to hurt you. I need you.
But all she said was, “Listening to you, I’d think I was never right about anything. I’m always overreacting or mistaken or misled or confused. You treat me as if I’m a child.”
“You’re treating
yourself
with condescension.”
“Just a silly little child.”
Hug me, kiss me, love me, she thought. Please make me stop this. I don’t want to argue. I’m scared.
He started toward the bedroom door. “This isn’t the time to talk. You’re not in the mood for constructive criticism.”
“Because I’m behaving like a child?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes you fucking piss me off.”
He stopped, turned back to her. “That’s like a child,” he said calmly. “Like a child who’s trying to shock a grown-up with a lot of dirty words.”
She opened her book to the page she had marked and, refusing to acknowledge him, she pretended to read.
* * *
She would rather have suffered disabling pain than even temporary estrangement from Max. When they argued, which was rarely, she felt miserable. The two or three hours of silence that invariably followed a disagreement, and which were usually her fault, were unbearable.
She spent the remainder of the evening in bed with a copy of
The Occult
by Colin Wilson. As she began each page, she could not remember what had been on the page before it.
Max stayed on his side of the bed, reading a novel and smoking his pipe. He might as well have been a thousand miles away.
The eleven o’clock television news, which she switched on by remote control, headlined a grisly story about slaughter in a Santa Ana beauty salon. There was film of the blood-smeared shop and interviews with police officials who had nothing to say.
“You see?” Mary said. “I was right about the nurses. I was right about the beauty salon. And, by God, I’m right about Richard Lingard, too.”
Even as she spoke, she regretted the words, and especially her tone of voice.
He looked at her but said nothing.
She looked away, down at her book. She hadn’t meant to revive the argument. Quite the opposite. She wanted to get him talking once more. She wanted to hear his voice.
Although she often started arguments, she had never been able to initiate the conclusion of one. Psychologically, she wasn’t capable of making the first gesture for peace. She left that move to the men. Always. She knew that wasn’t fair, but she could not change.
She supposed that this inadequacy dated back to her father’s violent death. He had left her so suddenly that she still sometimes felt abandoned. All of her adult life she had worried about men walking out on her before
she
was prepared to end the relationship.
And of course she wasn’t ever going to be ready to end her marriage; that was for keeps. Therefore, whenever she and Max argued, whenever she had reason to worry about his leaving, she forced him to pick up the olive branch. It was a test which he could pass only if he would sacrifice more pride than she; and when he had done that, he would have proved that he loved her and that he would never leave her as her father had done.
The death of her father
was
more important than whatever Berton Mitchell had done to her.
Why couldn’t Dr. Cauvel see that?
* * *
In the dark bedroom, when it became evident that neither of them could sleep, Max touched her. His hands affected her in the same way that the rapidly vibrating tines of a tuning fork would affect fine crystal. She trembled uncontrollably and shattered. She broke against him, weeping.
He didn’t speak. Words no longer mattered.
He held her for a few minutes, and then he
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