He left the house singing in the morning. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watched me wash the “#1 Husband” and “#1 Wife” mugs we used every morning for breakfast, and he sang to me. It was a stupid old rock song about feeling like making love. It made me laugh. I did not even think it was funny, but there was something about Thomas Madison. The way he did everything with such extreme feeling, held his hands out so high, his body swung with the sound of his voice, like one of those crazy southern preachers giving a sermon. It caused these little ripples in me, and then all of a sudden I was snorting, and then there was a noise coming from my throat, and I was laughing at him, with him, whatever. He swaggered toward me and swept me up in his arms, he spun me around. He dipped me. I laughed again.
“Moonie, you and I are going to make sweet, sweet love tonight,” he said, and then he kissed me. It was a delicious kiss, full of tongue and moisture, and we sucked on each other’s lips afterward. “Don’t get me too excited,” he said. He lifted me up. “I need the doc to check me out first, make sure I’m GTG.” He backed away from me. “Good.” He punched the air like a fighter. “To.” He punched again with the other. “Go.” Punch.
And then he left me there, all alone, and I wished he had not. I was not at ease by myself in that moment, and I felt the stir of something dark in me. It felt like those cramps I get early in the morning sometimes a few weeks before I get my period. They’re called mittelschmerz, my mother told me once. There’s no reason for the pain, but it’s part of being a woman, she told me. No reason for it all.
I went to the living room and turned on the television set. One minute I was watching the TV, and the next I was on my knees praying. I needed the comfort. I was allowed to pray even if I did not go to church. I turned on the news, I remember that. I was taking a break from celebrities and their glamorous lives I would never have. Even if you had money, that did not mean you got to live that kind of life.
At first I heard everything the newscaster said. He was talking about one of the wars. There was one starting, another one ending. I guess it was just time for our government to win something. There was a picture of a map on the screen. I stared at the border between two countries. I thought about what divided my husband, my love, the man of my dreams, and myself. It was something so small to me, but so big to him. I could not convince him otherwise.
I was angry with him suddenly. He had left me alone for hours. I had been filled up with him for a week, and then when he left it was like someone had stuck a needle in me and drained out all the love. And all that was left behind was frustration. I guess I was addicted to that man, but he had made me that way. I tried not to be angry. I tried to love him because I knew when he returned he would want to go to bed. I could not do that angry. I could not let him in when I felt that way. I tried not to think of anything. The words coming out of the newscaster’s mouth turned to one long noise. They were not separate anymore, just a jumble of sounds. I turned up the volume louder, but still I could not hear anything right. I tried to make my mind work, but the words would not form into anything. The noise sounded like a truck hurtling by me. I could almost feel the hot rush of dirty air against me. I started to shake, just my hands at first, but then there was a rumble through me. I tried so hard to focus. I let the noise wash over me. I stared at the screen. And then I was there on my knees praying, the soft thrush of carpet gliding against my knees and calves. I felt like I was sinking into a joyous sea of words. At last, they were my words. At last, I could be heard.
I prayed for my sister, Jenny, first, because I thought she needed the most help. I prayed she would not get pregnant, and I prayed she would learn to accept our mother as I had. To not take it all so personal, those things my mother said. Because it was not personal. It was all about our mother, and nobody else. And I prayed for her to get her act together and get the hell out of town. Even going to school in Lincoln would be better than the life that awaited her if she stayed put. I was living proof of that, almost-finished outdoor pools and everything. My life was not the kind of life she needed.