‘Okay?’ He gave her hers.
She looked at it. ‘Fine.’
‘Dinner?’ He eyed her coldly, over his drink.
‘Steak.’
‘Hash browns?’ His lips were a thin line.
‘Right.’
‘Good girl.’ He laughed a little, bleakly, tossing the drink into his hard mouth, eyes closed.
She lifted her drink. ‘Luck.’
‘You said it.’ He thought it over slyly, eyes moving about the room. ‘Another?’
‘Don’t mind,’ she said.
‘Atta girl,’ he said. ‘Atta baby.’
He shot soda into her glass. It sounded like a fire hose let loose in the silence. He walked back to lose himself like a little boy in the immense library chair. Just before sinking behind a copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon, he drawled, ‘Call me.’
She turned her glass slowly in her hand that was like a white tarantula.
‘Check,’ she said.
She watched him for another week. She found herself frowning most of the time. Several times she felt like screaming.
As she watched, one evening, he seated himself at dinner and said:
‘Madame, you look absolutely exquisite tonight.’
‘Thank you.’ She passed the corn.
‘A most extraordinary circumstance occurred at the office today,’ he said. ‘A gentleman called to ascertain my health. “Sir,” I said politely. “I am in excellent equilibrium, and am in no need of your services.” “Oh, but, sir,” he said, “I am representative of such-and-so’s insurance company, and I wish only to give into your hands this splendid and absolutely irreproachable policy.” Well, we conversed pleasantly enough, and, resultantly, this evening, I am the proud possessor of a new life insurance, double indemnity and all, which protects you under all circumstances, dear kind lady love of my life.’
‘How nice,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you will also be pleased to learn,’ he said, ‘that for the last few days, beginning on the night of Thursday last, I became acquainted and charmed with the intelligent and certain prose of one Samuel Johnson. I am now amidst his Life of Alexander Pope.’
‘So much I assumed,’ she said, ‘from your demeanor.’
‘Eh?’ He held his knife and fork politely before him.
‘Charlie,’ she said wistfully. ‘Could you do me a big favor?’
‘Anything.’
‘Charlie, do you remember when we married a year ago?’
‘But yes; every sweet, singular instant of our courtship!’
‘Well, Charlie, do you remember what books you were reading during our courtship?’
‘Is it of importance, my darling?’
‘Very.’
He put himself to it with a scowl. ‘I cannot remember,’ he admitted finally. ‘But I shall attempt to recall during the evening.’
‘I wish you would,’ she urged. ‘Because, well, because I’d like you to start reading those books again, those books, whatever they were, which you read when first we met. You swept me from my feet with your demeanor then. But since, you’ve–changed.’
‘Changed? I?’ He drew back as from a cold draft.
‘I wish you’d start reading those same books again,’ she repeated.
‘But why do you desire this?’
‘Oh, because.’
‘Truly a woman’s reason.’ He slapped his knees. ‘But I shall try to please. As soon as I recall, I shall read those books once more.’
‘And, Charlie, one more thing, promise to read them every day for the rest of your life?’
‘Your wish, dear lady, my command. Please pass the salt.’
But he did not remember the names of the books. The long evening passed and she looked at her hands, biting her lips.
Promptly at eight o’clock, she jumped up, crying out, ‘I remember!’
In a matter of instants she was in their car, driving down the dark streets to town, into a bookstore where, laughing, she bought ten books.
‘Thank you!’ said the book dealer. ‘Good night!’
The door slammed with a tinkle of bells.
Charlie read late at night, sometimes fumbling to bed, blind with literature, at three in the morning.
Now, at ten o’clock, before retiring, Marie slipped into the library, laid the ten books quietly next to Charlie, and tiptoed out.
She watched through the library keyhole, her heart beating loudly in her. She was in a perfect fever.
After a time, Charlie glanced up at the desk. He blinked at the new books. Hesitantly, he closed his copy of Samuel Johnson, and sat there.
‘Go on,’ whispered Marie through the keyhole. ‘Go on!’ Her breath came and went in her mouth.
Charlie licked his lips thoughtfully and then, slowly, he put out his hand. Taking one of the new books, he opened it, settled down, and began reading.
Singing softly, Marie walked off to bed.
He bounded into the kitchen the next morning with a glad cry. ‘Hello, beautiful woman! Hello, lovely, wonderful, kind, understanding creature, living in this great wide sweet world!’
She looked at him happily. ‘Saroyan?’ she said.
‘Saroyan!’ he cried, and they had breakfast.
America
We are the dream that other people dream.
The land where other people land.
When late at night
They think on flight
And, flying, here arrive
Where we fools dumbly thrive ourselves.
Refuse to see
We be what all the world would like to be.
Because we hive within this scheme
The obvious dream is blind to us.
We do not mind the miracle we are,
So stop our mouths with curses.
While all the world rehearses
Coming here to stay.
We busily make plans to go away.
How dumb! newcomers cry, arrived from Chad.
You’re mad! Iraqis shout.
We’d sell our souls if we could be you.
How come you cannot see the way we see you?
You tread a freedom forest as you please.
But, damn! You miss the forest for the trees.
Ten thousand wanderers a week
Engulf your shore,
You wonder what their shouting’s for,
And why so glad?
Run warm those souls: America is bad?
Sit down, stare in their faces, see!
You be the hoped-for thing a hopeless world would be.
In tides of immigrants that this year flow
You still remain the beckoning hearth they’d know.
In midnight beds with blueprint, plan and scheme
You are the dream that other people dream.
The end
