100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Way It Is Now by Elaine Slater

When they were first married right after graduation from college, he had never been able to spend enough time with her. They bought a small cabin in the North Woods with no communication to the outside world, and spent every weekend there, walking hand in hand, sitting by a roaring fire, lost in each other — that is, when they weren’t chopping wood or hauling water from the brook, huffing and laughing at the unaccustomed exertion.

But lately things had changed. Business commitments kept him occupied on Saturdays. He could no longer find the time to escape to the cabin. When she spoke to him, he was never quite there. His reading moved gradually from the Partisan Review to the Wall Street Journal, and endless market reports. He still sat through the arty movies — Fellini, Truffaut — but when she tried to probe their murky depths, he never contributed a word.

“Where are you?” she would ask in exasperation. “Am I talking to a stone?”

“I heard you,” he would reply, jumping slightly as though she had caught him at the cookie jar. “Your last words were precisely ‘and the dog, of course, symbolizes the eternal evil in man.’ ”

She would sigh. He was listening evidently, but still... he wasn’t all there. His mind was on other things, and not all the newly acquired luxuries that his business success brought could compensate for the loss of her young, playful, loving husband. His sense of humor seemed now to be reserved for his business associates, who told her how he broke them up at the Board meetings. He worked several nights a week and came home bone-weary. How could a man that tired exercise a sense of humor, or talk, or, for that matter, make love?

Now they had a house in the suburbs and a housekeeper. She read the magazine advertisements and decided there was a ready remedy at hand. She bathed at twilight, perfumed herself, donned an expensive dressing gown, lit candles, and made a mixer of martinis. When he arrived home, his favorite Mozart concerto was playing. He looked mildly surprised at her outfit, commented that she smelled good, said he preferred a bourbon on the rocks to a martini which gave him indigestion, suggested more lighting over dinner because he couldn’t see what he was eating, picked up the latest Barrons Report, and fell asleep on the sofa. His own snoring woke him up and he stumbled up to the bedroom.

If she had suspected another woman, she would have had a better idea of how to fight back. But how does one fight the overwhelming commitment to Business? She read Betty Freidan and decided to get a job, but even that didn’t fill the gaping void in her life. She thought about taking a lover, and had lunch with one of the young men with whom she worked. He showed an extraordinary interest in her husband’s stock portfolio, and shuddering at the thought of a preoccupied lover, she decided she hated all men.

She began to brood. Her friends had children on whom they could vent their frustrations. She had no one. She mulled over the idea of suicide, but her other self kept calling out rebelliously.

“Why should I die? I’m perfectly capable of laughter, of life, of love! It’s he who is dead already and doesn’t know it. It’s not fair for you to kill me.”

The Evergreen Review slipped out of her lap, and she stared for a long time at her hands.

When he came home that night, she made no attempt to share with him the boring day’s activities. He didn’t seem to notice the deathly silence, although the housekeeper became so nervous that she broke a rare Minton plate. When the telephone rang just as they were having their coffee, he jumped up to answer it.

His suddenly animated voice was saying, “Harry! How did it go in Toronto? I’ve thought of nothing else all evening.” — as she walked thoughtfully upstairs.

When he came into their bedroom, he was jubilant. He caught her around the waist and shouted, “The Toronto deal is going through! Can you beat that? After two years of negotiating it’s finally going through. Bigness is the only thing that talks these days, and we’re going to be BIG! If only Harry was here right now, would I love to hear all the details. I’d—”

She interrupted him quietly. “Let’s celebrate. Let’s go to the cabin this weekend. We haven’t been there in months. The road will soon be impassable and we won’t be able to go again until spring.”

“This weekend?” He looked dubious.

“Yes — we’ll have a second honeymoon. We could find each other again.”

“Have you lost me? Or have I lost you?” he asked in his old teasing voice. “Okay, honey, if you want a second honeymoon you’ll have it. But I’ll have to cancel two meetings on Saturday. How about putting it off for a week or two?”

“No,” she said firmly.

He was too triumphant at the thought of the successful Toronto deal to argue; so on Friday they drove up to the cabin.

It was just as they had left it. No one ever came near the place. There was a pile of wood in the snow by the ax. The wood was not too wet and they quickly made a smoky fire to warm the little room.

She bounced on the squeaky brass bed a few times, and gazed about her happily. All the old warmth and affection began to return. Perhaps here they would find what they had lost. Perhaps here he would look at her again, not through her. Perhaps here he would once again be interested, if only for a weekend, in her, in her life, in her love — and forget the business world which consumed him. Yes, she was ready to settle for a weekend.

He gazed into the fireplace, at the crackling blue and orange flames. There was a distant, even wistful look on his face. She watched him tenderly, feeling the old love for that tired worn face. She sat opposite him in the shabby old chair that they had bought together in a country junk shop, and had loaded hysterically onto the pickup that he had driven in those days. The front seat was so loaded with their gear that she had ridden the whole day to the cabin seated on that chair in the back of the truck amid a clutter of second-hand household goods.

How funny that had been! Everyone on the road had turned to look, laugh, and wave. And when they arrived at the cabin after an unbelievably bumpy trip — over miles of isolated dirt roads with low overhanging branches that clawed at her face and battered the truck — she had jumped into his waiting arms. Happily he had carried her to the threshold, where he discovered he had to drop her unceremoniously in order to get at the key which was hanging on a rusty nail. They had laughed together until they couldn’t stand up, but they had clung to each other for support. Yes, clung to each other...

She was deep in nostalgia. He lifted his head and gazed at her. She gazed back into his eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. Were they as far away as hers? He started to speak, and she leaned forward, a slight smile on her lips.

“You know—” he began wistfully.

“What?” she interrupted flirtatiously.

“—Central American Tobacco has just merged with Amalgamated Biscuit.”

She buried the bloodstained ax in the snow and went back to sit by the fire — to lose herself in nostalgia before she had to go look for the shovel.