a need.”
“For Christ’s sake, a need for what? For Carl Bauer?”
“Not only for Carl Bauer. There’s a part of me that’s never come to life, that I need to give a chance. At least that’s how I feel …”
Peterson appeared puzzled, frustrated, the look of a man in a maze. “What could you possibly want within reason that you don’t have or can’t get?”
Cheryl shook her head with a serene sadness that infuriated him. “It’s nothing material. I feel I have a potential for life that I’ll never realize the way things are now.”
“Potential that needs to be realized? … What do you mean—artistic?”
“Maybe … I don’t know.”
“For Christ’s sake, you take ceramics!”
Cheryl began to laugh then. The bitter laughter came bubbling up from dark unexpected depths within her, and she could no more stop it than she could stop water bubbling from a deep well. It was subterranean laughter, alien, and it scared her.
Peterson stared at his wife, his face reddening, a faint tremor in his hands that gripped the arms of the vinyl recliner. Then he saw the expression on Cheryl’s face, the tears tracking down her cheeks, and he didn’t know if she was laughing or crying. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what he should feel.
“Think of Melanie,” he said.
The muted, broken sounds gradually stopped bursting from Cheryl, and she was calm again, wiping her cheeks with stiffened yet graceful long fingers. Her knuckles were gnarled, the tendons on the backs of her hands prominent. Her hands had aged before the rest of her. There was a soft sadness in her eyes, as if she realized what the hands foretold.
“Think of Melanie,” he repeated
“I am … I have.”
“You can’t do this to her on some whim, some illogical, transitory crush that will soon pass.”
“You could see her anytime you wanted, Bill, you know that.”
“Don’t you care what you’d be doing to her?”
“She was the thing I cared about most, thought about most, before I made my decision.”
He hadn’t wanted to hear that, another cold penetration to the heart. “Have you talked to her yet?” he asked.
“No, I thought we should do that together. I thought that’s how you’d want it.”
Peterson pressed his head against the soft back of the chair, closed his eyes. His face was pale. “I don’t want it at all. Eventually you’ll realize the mistake you’ve made, but by then the damage will have been done.”
“Something like this happens,” Cheryl said, “you do the best you can. That’s what I’m trying to do.” Her voice was controlled now; she’d slipped back behind her mask.
“When do you plan to leave?” Peterson asked.
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“Don’t go,” Peterson said, “please.”
“We’ve been through that.”
The flesh around his closed eyes danced as if he were in pain. “But I’m begging you now. Really begging you.”
She was surprised that he’d beg at this point, surprised also that she was embarrassed for him. “Don’t, Bill …” She recognized her growing pity for him as a weakness, fought it.
“A week,” he implored. “Give it a week before you do anything else, say anything to Melanie.”
“It won’t make any difference, Bill; we both know it won’t.”
“It might. A week … You owe us that.”
She did owe him something; at least she thought she did. “All right,” she agreed, “but I don’t see what difference seven days will make.”
“The earth was created in seven days.”
Cheryl smiled at him, sighed. “It was at that. But not by you and me.”
Melanie came into the house the back way, through the garage, slamming the door hard enough for china in the kitchen to rattle.
“A towel, Mom!”
But Cheryl was already on her way to get it.
“Nice swim?” Peterson called to his daughter.
“The water was cold, and I scraped my chin on the bottom.” Her speech came haltingly from the cool kitchen, through chattering teeth
“For Christ’s sake, a need for what? For Carl Bauer?”
“Not only for Carl Bauer. There’s a part of me that’s never come to life, that I need to give a chance. At least that’s how I feel …”
Peterson appeared puzzled, frustrated, the look of a man in a maze. “What could you possibly want within reason that you don’t have or can’t get?”
Cheryl shook her head with a serene sadness that infuriated him. “It’s nothing material. I feel I have a potential for life that I’ll never realize the way things are now.”
“Potential that needs to be realized? … What do you mean—artistic?”
“Maybe … I don’t know.”
“For Christ’s sake, you take ceramics!”
Cheryl began to laugh then. The bitter laughter came bubbling up from dark unexpected depths within her, and she could no more stop it than she could stop water bubbling from a deep well. It was subterranean laughter, alien, and it scared her.
Peterson stared at his wife, his face reddening, a faint tremor in his hands that gripped the arms of the vinyl recliner. Then he saw the expression on Cheryl’s face, the tears tracking down her cheeks, and he didn’t know if she was laughing or crying. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what he should feel.
“Think of Melanie,” he said.
The muted, broken sounds gradually stopped bursting from Cheryl, and she was calm again, wiping her cheeks with stiffened yet graceful long fingers. Her knuckles were gnarled, the tendons on the backs of her hands prominent. Her hands had aged before the rest of her. There was a soft sadness in her eyes, as if she realized what the hands foretold.
“Think of Melanie,” he repeated
“I am … I have.”
“You can’t do this to her on some whim, some illogical, transitory crush that will soon pass.”
“You could see her anytime you wanted, Bill, you know that.”
“Don’t you care what you’d be doing to her?”
“She was the thing I cared about most, thought about most, before I made my decision.”
He hadn’t wanted to hear that, another cold penetration to the heart. “Have you talked to her yet?” he asked.
“No, I thought we should do that together. I thought that’s how you’d want it.”
Peterson pressed his head against the soft back of the chair, closed his eyes. His face was pale. “I don’t want it at all. Eventually you’ll realize the mistake you’ve made, but by then the damage will have been done.”
“Something like this happens,” Cheryl said, “you do the best you can. That’s what I’m trying to do.” Her voice was controlled now; she’d slipped back behind her mask.
“When do you plan to leave?” Peterson asked.
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“Don’t go,” Peterson said, “please.”
“We’ve been through that.”
The flesh around his closed eyes danced as if he were in pain. “But I’m begging you now. Really begging you.”
She was surprised that he’d beg at this point, surprised also that she was embarrassed for him. “Don’t, Bill …” She recognized her growing pity for him as a weakness, fought it.
“A week,” he implored. “Give it a week before you do anything else, say anything to Melanie.”
“It won’t make any difference, Bill; we both know it won’t.”
“It might. A week … You owe us that.”
She did owe him something; at least she thought she did. “All right,” she agreed, “but I don’t see what difference seven days will make.”
“The earth was created in seven days.”
Cheryl smiled at him, sighed. “It was at that. But not by you and me.”
Melanie came into the house the back way, through the garage, slamming the door hard enough for china in the kitchen to rattle.
“A towel, Mom!”
But Cheryl was already on her way to get it.
“Nice swim?” Peterson called to his daughter.
“The water was cold, and I scraped my chin on the bottom.” Her speech came haltingly from the cool kitchen, through chattering teeth
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