Read Online The Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Tyler
Ads: Link
needed waiting just downstairs.”
Pauline gave her chuckly laugh. “Oh,” she said, “I’m lucky, all right!” and she cocked her head at Michael, waiting for him to laugh too.
He didn’t, though. He just stared at her stonily, till Wanda cleared her throat and announced she’d be running along.
Pauline must think words were like dust, or scuff marks, or spilled milk, easily wiped away and leaving no trace. She must think a mere apology—or not even that; just a change in her mood—could erase from a person’s mind the fact that she’d called him stuffy and pompous and boring and self-righteous. Watch how lightheartedly she moved around the kitchen table, humming “People Will Say We’re in Love” as she forked a pork chop onto each plate. She’d prepared the pork chops the way Michael liked them, a coating of nothing but flour, salt, and pepper and a quick, hard fry in bacon fat. (Ordinarily she had a weakness for experiment, mucking up good food with spices and runny sauces.) And the vegetable was his favorite, canned asparagus spears, and the potatoes were served plain with a pat of real butter. “Isn’t this nice?” his mother said happily, smoothing her napkin across her lap. Lindy crowed in her high chair and squeezed an asparagus spear until it oozed out either side of her fist. Michael said “Hmm” and reached for the salt.
During the course of the meal, Pauline reported all the news she had gathered while she was out shopping. Mr. Zynda’s daughter was visiting from Richmond. Henry Piazy had married an English girl, or maybe just gotten engaged to one. Little Tessie Dobek had been taken to the hospital last night with a burst appendix. “Oh, my land,” Michael’s mother said. “Poor Tom and Grace! First losing their only boy, and now this. They must be worried out of their minds.” Michael just went on eating. To hear Pauline talk, you would think she cared. You would think she actually felt some attachment to the neighborhood, instead of scorning it and maligning it and itching to leave it behind.
His mother said, “How old would Tessie be now, I’m wondering. Twelve? Thirteen? Michael, you must know”—trying to rope him into the conversation.
But Michael just said “Nope” and helped himself to another slice of bread.
“His hip has been acting up,” Pauline explained to his mother. “I’ll bet it’s going to snow. Did you notice how he’s been walking today? And he couldn’t finish his exercises this morning.” As if he weren’t in the room; as if his mother didn’t know the real cause of his behavior.
And his mother went along with it. “Oh,” she said, “I can feel the snow! Every joint in my body is giving me fits.”
“Did you take your pills?” Pauline asked her.
“I forgot! Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’ll fetch them. You sit still.”
“No, no! Stay where you are!”
Like partners in some elaborate dance, both women half-stood and appeared to curtsy to each other. Then Pauline sat back down and Michael’s mother rose all the way and shuffled out of the kitchen.
“I should have thought to remind her earlier,” Pauline told Michael. “It’s a whole lot easier to stave off pain than to cure it once it’s set in.”
Michael said nothing. He tore a bite-size piece from his slice of bread and set it on Lindy’s high-chair tray.
“But of course, you’d know that better than I would,” Pauline said. “Accustomed as you are to living with your hip.”
He was silent.
“Michael?”
“Try some bread, Lindy. It’s delicious,” Michael said.
“Michael, aren’t you going to talk to me?”
“Yum, bread. Can you say, ‘Bread’?”
Lindy grinned at him, showing two tiny bottom teeth coated green with mashed asparagus.
“Please don’t be this way, Michael. Can’t we make up?”
“Bread,” he told Lindy distinctly.
“I didn’t mean what I said, honest! It’s just I was feeling so under the weather. Michael, I can’t bear
Pauline gave her chuckly laugh. “Oh,” she said, “I’m lucky, all right!” and she cocked her head at Michael, waiting for him to laugh too.
He didn’t, though. He just stared at her stonily, till Wanda cleared her throat and announced she’d be running along.
Pauline must think words were like dust, or scuff marks, or spilled milk, easily wiped away and leaving no trace. She must think a mere apology—or not even that; just a change in her mood—could erase from a person’s mind the fact that she’d called him stuffy and pompous and boring and self-righteous. Watch how lightheartedly she moved around the kitchen table, humming “People Will Say We’re in Love” as she forked a pork chop onto each plate. She’d prepared the pork chops the way Michael liked them, a coating of nothing but flour, salt, and pepper and a quick, hard fry in bacon fat. (Ordinarily she had a weakness for experiment, mucking up good food with spices and runny sauces.) And the vegetable was his favorite, canned asparagus spears, and the potatoes were served plain with a pat of real butter. “Isn’t this nice?” his mother said happily, smoothing her napkin across her lap. Lindy crowed in her high chair and squeezed an asparagus spear until it oozed out either side of her fist. Michael said “Hmm” and reached for the salt.
During the course of the meal, Pauline reported all the news she had gathered while she was out shopping. Mr. Zynda’s daughter was visiting from Richmond. Henry Piazy had married an English girl, or maybe just gotten engaged to one. Little Tessie Dobek had been taken to the hospital last night with a burst appendix. “Oh, my land,” Michael’s mother said. “Poor Tom and Grace! First losing their only boy, and now this. They must be worried out of their minds.” Michael just went on eating. To hear Pauline talk, you would think she cared. You would think she actually felt some attachment to the neighborhood, instead of scorning it and maligning it and itching to leave it behind.
His mother said, “How old would Tessie be now, I’m wondering. Twelve? Thirteen? Michael, you must know”—trying to rope him into the conversation.
But Michael just said “Nope” and helped himself to another slice of bread.
“His hip has been acting up,” Pauline explained to his mother. “I’ll bet it’s going to snow. Did you notice how he’s been walking today? And he couldn’t finish his exercises this morning.” As if he weren’t in the room; as if his mother didn’t know the real cause of his behavior.
And his mother went along with it. “Oh,” she said, “I can feel the snow! Every joint in my body is giving me fits.”
“Did you take your pills?” Pauline asked her.
“I forgot! Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’ll fetch them. You sit still.”
“No, no! Stay where you are!”
Like partners in some elaborate dance, both women half-stood and appeared to curtsy to each other. Then Pauline sat back down and Michael’s mother rose all the way and shuffled out of the kitchen.
“I should have thought to remind her earlier,” Pauline told Michael. “It’s a whole lot easier to stave off pain than to cure it once it’s set in.”
Michael said nothing. He tore a bite-size piece from his slice of bread and set it on Lindy’s high-chair tray.
“But of course, you’d know that better than I would,” Pauline said. “Accustomed as you are to living with your hip.”
He was silent.
“Michael?”
“Try some bread, Lindy. It’s delicious,” Michael said.
“Michael, aren’t you going to talk to me?”
“Yum, bread. Can you say, ‘Bread’?”
Lindy grinned at him, showing two tiny bottom teeth coated green with mashed asparagus.
“Please don’t be this way, Michael. Can’t we make up?”
“Bread,” he told Lindy distinctly.
“I didn’t mean what I said, honest! It’s just I was feeling so under the weather. Michael, I can’t bear
Similar Books
