Read Online Short Cuts by Raymond Carver - Free Book Online Page B

then and rubbing his shoulders. He came at last to his house, porch light on, windows dark. He crossed the lawn and went around to the back. He turned the knob, and the door opened quietly and the house was quiet. There was the tall stool beside the draining board. There was the table where they had sat. He had gotten up from the couch, come into the kitchen, sat down. What more had he done? He had done nothing more. He looked at the clock over the stove. He could see into the dining room, the table with the lace cloth, the heavy glass centerpiece of red flamingos, their wings opened, the draperies beyond the table open. Had she stood at that window watching for him? He stepped onto the living-room carpet. Her coat was thrown over the couch, and in the pale light he could make out a large ashtray full of her cork cigarette ends. He noticed the phone directory open on the coffee table as he went by. He stopped at the partially open door to their bedroom. Everything seemed to him open. For an instant he resisted the wish to look in at her, and then with his finger he pushed the door open a little bit more. She was sleeping, her head off the pillow, turnedtoward the wall, her hair black against the sheet, the covers bunched around her shoulders, covers pulled up from the foot of the bed. She was on her side, her secret body angled at the hips. He stared. What, after all, should he do? Take his things and leave? Go to a hotel? Make certain arrangements? How should a man act, given these circumstances? He understood things had been done. He did not understand what things now were to be done. The house was very quiet.
    In the kitchen he let his head down onto his arms as he sat at the table. He did not know what to do. Not just now, he thought, not just in this, not just about this, today and tomorrow, but every day on earth. Then he heard the children stirring. He sat up and tried to smile as they came into the kitchen.
    “Daddy, Daddy,” they said, running to him with their little bodies.
    “Tell us a story, Daddy,” his son said, getting onto his lap.
    “He can’t tell us a story,” his daughter said. “It’s too early for a story. Isn’t it, Daddy?”
    “What’s that on your face, Daddy?” his son said, pointing.
    “Let me see!” his daughter said. “Let me see, Daddy.”
    “Poor Daddy,” his son said.
    “What did you do to your face, Daddy?” his daughter said.
    “It’s nothing,” Ralph said. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Now get down now, Robert, I hear your mother.”
    Ralph stepped quickly into the bathroom and locked the door.
    “Is your father here?” he heard Marian calling. “Where is he, in the bathroom? Ralph?”
    “Mama, Mama!” his daughter cried. “Daddy’s face is hurt!”
    “Ralph!” She turned the knob. “Ralph, let me in, please, darling. Ralph? Please let me in, darling. I want to see you. Ralph? Please!”
    He said, “Go away, Marian.”
    She said, “I can’t go away. Please, Ralph, open the door for a minute, darling. I just want to see you. Ralph. Ralph? The children said you were hurt. What’s wrong, darling? Ralph?”
    He said, “Go away.”
    She said, “Ralph, open up, please.”
    He said, “Will you please be quiet, please?”
    He heard her waiting at the door, he saw the knob turn again, and then he could hear her moving around the kitchen, getting the children breakfast, trying to answer their questions. He looked at himself in the mirror a long time. He made faces at himself. He tried many expressions. Then he gave it up. He turned away from the mirror and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, began unlacing his shoes. He sat there with a shoe in his hand and looked at the clipper ships making their way across the wide blue sea of the plastic shower curtain. He thought of the little black coaches in the tablecloth and almost cried out
Stop!
He unbuttoned his shirt, leaned over the bathtub with a sigh, and pressed the plug into the drain. He ran hot water, and