Ruth was lying on the couch, one-third-friendly with a bottle of Scotch. Gene Pitney was on the record player, set to repeat. She couldn’t bear silence anymore. She sang along softly as she filled her glass, raised her head and swallowed, filled it again.
She was drinking to get drunk. It was almost the end of October, and the kids’ birthdays were behind her. She had planned to pretend the seventeenth and the twenty-fourth were just regular days, and to fill them with bars and bourbon and men and not a single minute spent thinking about the dates. Then her mother had called and insisted they observe them together. That’s what she said: observe. Like these were religious holidays for worship or devotion.
Ruth had given in, but she never wanted to spend another week like that. Just the two of them and the ticking clock. Daily visits to church, overcooked meals that no one wanted to eat, and everything unsaid heavy as lead in the overheated room.
Never again.
The phone rang, and she held her full glass out in front of her and reached back over her head to answer it. Knocked the whole thing onto the floor and rolled off the couch, spilling her drink on her shirt.
Frank’s voice came faintly from the floor, “Ruth? You there, honey?”
He sounded so funny. Like he was a long way away. Ruth fumbled for the receiver. But as soon as she heard his voice clearly, heard the nervous edge to his tone, she knew why he was calling and she sobered up fast.
She’d thought about it, of course she had. Not so much that side of it—Frank was nothing special in the bedroom, but he was considerate and . . . well, she was comfortable with him and that counted for something—but more the rest of it. Eating dinner together every evening before Frank went off to his shift or out for a few beers with the boys. Saturday nights on the couch, smoking, watching TV. Or seats at the Trylon, and a hot dog apiece if it was after payday.
At one time, the thought of those routines, Frank’s habits—his way of folding his pants before piling his change in neat stacks on the bureau, his way of turning to her in the night and saying real low, “Hey there, baby”—all of that had pushed her back and back against a wall until she felt trapped.
Now, though, since the kids were gone, things were different. Everything had changed. Including her. Maybe a little routine, a little kindness, was what she needed.
So when Frank suggested dinner the following evening, she said yes. And when he pulled up outside the apartment afterward and turned to her, his face backlit by the amber glow of the streetlight, she felt the reciprocal glow of the wine and the brandy she’d had with dinner, and she touched his face lightly and invited him in. She even played along with the fantasy of the demure wife, the one he’d made it clear he wanted: she sat with her legs crossed, back straight, eyes wide rather than heavy-lidded, lips in a sweet smile rather than pouting, inviting.
She knew Frank: she was still his wife in every way that mattered. She would always be his wife and she didn’t need to invite him.
And so she looked into his eyes for half a second longer than was necessary, and he leaned toward her. And she felt the familiar texture of his mouth, smelled his cigarettes and the soap he used, felt the familiar strength of his arms around her, and felt something like relief as he picked her up and carried her to bed.
He was as gentle as he’d always been, and she clutched him to her and made the breathy moans that worked for him, and afterward they slept.
After Frank had left the next morning, she dozed a little longer and then lay on the couch. This is what he wanted. What her mother wanted. This is what Frankie and Cindy would have wanted: Mommy and Daddy together again. She tried to think about what she wanted, but it made tears come and her head ache, so she lit another cigarette and picked up a magazine and stopped thinking.
Later, the sky quickening toward dusk, she heard kids yelling in the street. She opened a bottle and drank four glasses in quick succession until she didn’t notice the noise outside anymore, then she turned the radio on. Two more drinks and she turned the music up and began to dance.
She threw her head back and watched herself in the darkening window: slim shoulders, white arms, long fingers like grass under water, her hair a flying wind of red and gold. She spun and stretched and moved her hips and ignored the banging on the door, the ringing telephone. Drank harder and danced until the world was a glorious blur of color dancing with her. The colors and the light and the narrow band of sky above the dark buildings whirled faster and faster until Ruth fell, exhausted, across the back of the sofa and lay there laughing, legs in the air, while the beat played on through her whole body.