and explode against the rocks. But Jenny was fussy and clingy, and breakfast had to be made. And then Paul moved out of the house.
He had told Daisy he would be leaving, that he was moving into Monica’s apartment to live until they could move to California. He had been going through the house for several days, gathering up books, record albums, papers, clothes, personal belongings, and sticking them into cardboard boxes he’d brought from the grocery store. On this day, he had satisfied himself that he had packed up everything that he wanted, and he began to carry it all out to his car, hurrying, anxious about it, afraid that it would begin to rain and ruin his possessions. Daisy kept out of Paul’s way—she did not like the way he looked at her, or avoided looking at her, when she was in the same room—and she alternated between tending to the children’s needs and staring out of the window at the lake. She couldn’t
think:
she was possessed by a demonic uneasiness, but she couldn’t think, she couldn’t get her mind to work. Her head kept filling up with absurd memories: of the first night she had spent with Paul, locked in his arms, her bare legs twisted with his, of their cozy smug meals together the first two years of their marriage when they would compare their working days and drink wine and talk about money, of the day she and Jenny came home from the hospital: she had sat in the backseat holding both her jealous two-year-old son and her tiny four-day-old daughter, and Paul had sat in the front seat, driving the car, and Daisy had been so perfectly content, thinking that now they were a family, rich and full, and Paul was at the front of their little group, steering their lives through the world, controlling them, protecting them, because they all belonged together. She had thought it would not end, that it would go on and on. She had assumed that her new life would be like her old life in Liberty; she had assumed that the life of this new family with her as the mother and Paul as the father would progress with the same gentle, orderly, harmonious, sensible unfolding that her life with her parents and Dale had done. She felt that they had become a unit, Daisy, Paul, Danny, Jenny, a real, interlocked, fused unit—as if they were a table, and each person were a leg. With Paul leaving, it was as if a leg of the table were being lopped off, and the rest of them all toppled over, smashed to the floor, and were suddenly without function or value. It hurt to think about it. It did not make sense. It did not seem real. She expected any moment that she would wake up from this unbelievable situation, or that Paul would laugh and say, “Oh, Daisy, I can’t leave you and the children!” She had not told her mother or her sister or any of her friends about the divorce, because she wanted to believe that Paul would suddenly announce that he had made a mistake, that he did not want to leave, and life would continue as it had before.
But now Paul was really leaving. Yet she could not see this clearly; she could not somehow receive the full impact of Paul’s act. She was distraught, befuddled. She kept giving her head little shakes, as if to clear it, but it did not clear.
She was up in Jenny’s bedroom, changing Jenny’s diaper, when she heard Paul call up the stairs, “Well, then, I guess that’s all. I’ll be going now. I’ll call you soon.”
Jenny’s bottom was gleaming red—she had diarrhea, and was screaming with rage. “What?” Daisy had yelled over Jenny’s screams, wondering if Jenny was sick. “Just a minute, Paul.”
But when she had finished smearing on the Vaseline and taping on a fresh paper diaper, when she had picked Jenny up in her arms and pressed her against her shoulder, soothing her, when she finally got out into the hall with Jenny whimpering against her, Paul had gone. The front door was shut.
Daisy stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the closed front door.
He had told Daisy he would be leaving, that he was moving into Monica’s apartment to live until they could move to California. He had been going through the house for several days, gathering up books, record albums, papers, clothes, personal belongings, and sticking them into cardboard boxes he’d brought from the grocery store. On this day, he had satisfied himself that he had packed up everything that he wanted, and he began to carry it all out to his car, hurrying, anxious about it, afraid that it would begin to rain and ruin his possessions. Daisy kept out of Paul’s way—she did not like the way he looked at her, or avoided looking at her, when she was in the same room—and she alternated between tending to the children’s needs and staring out of the window at the lake. She couldn’t
think:
she was possessed by a demonic uneasiness, but she couldn’t think, she couldn’t get her mind to work. Her head kept filling up with absurd memories: of the first night she had spent with Paul, locked in his arms, her bare legs twisted with his, of their cozy smug meals together the first two years of their marriage when they would compare their working days and drink wine and talk about money, of the day she and Jenny came home from the hospital: she had sat in the backseat holding both her jealous two-year-old son and her tiny four-day-old daughter, and Paul had sat in the front seat, driving the car, and Daisy had been so perfectly content, thinking that now they were a family, rich and full, and Paul was at the front of their little group, steering their lives through the world, controlling them, protecting them, because they all belonged together. She had thought it would not end, that it would go on and on. She had assumed that her new life would be like her old life in Liberty; she had assumed that the life of this new family with her as the mother and Paul as the father would progress with the same gentle, orderly, harmonious, sensible unfolding that her life with her parents and Dale had done. She felt that they had become a unit, Daisy, Paul, Danny, Jenny, a real, interlocked, fused unit—as if they were a table, and each person were a leg. With Paul leaving, it was as if a leg of the table were being lopped off, and the rest of them all toppled over, smashed to the floor, and were suddenly without function or value. It hurt to think about it. It did not make sense. It did not seem real. She expected any moment that she would wake up from this unbelievable situation, or that Paul would laugh and say, “Oh, Daisy, I can’t leave you and the children!” She had not told her mother or her sister or any of her friends about the divorce, because she wanted to believe that Paul would suddenly announce that he had made a mistake, that he did not want to leave, and life would continue as it had before.
But now Paul was really leaving. Yet she could not see this clearly; she could not somehow receive the full impact of Paul’s act. She was distraught, befuddled. She kept giving her head little shakes, as if to clear it, but it did not clear.
She was up in Jenny’s bedroom, changing Jenny’s diaper, when she heard Paul call up the stairs, “Well, then, I guess that’s all. I’ll be going now. I’ll call you soon.”
Jenny’s bottom was gleaming red—she had diarrhea, and was screaming with rage. “What?” Daisy had yelled over Jenny’s screams, wondering if Jenny was sick. “Just a minute, Paul.”
But when she had finished smearing on the Vaseline and taping on a fresh paper diaper, when she had picked Jenny up in her arms and pressed her against her shoulder, soothing her, when she finally got out into the hall with Jenny whimpering against her, Paul had gone. The front door was shut.
Daisy stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the closed front door.
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