Fiction

Life Writing

by John Collins

She wondered why she put up with the frustration, why she had even tried. Lately he had become increasingly distant, almost sullen. But tonight she had finally gotten him out of his den, away from his book, and alone. Or so she thought. As they drove home in silence, Pamela Walker thought back to the restaurant, trying to determine the exact moment that her vision of a romantic dinner had been doused.

"Do you remember the first time we came here?" Her question startled him out of staring into his pasta.

"Of course I do." His eyes went into memory mode. "God, I wanted to impress you so much. I blew my cheque for two weeks in one night. I had no idea how I was going to make the car payment or buy gas for the rest of the month, but I didn't care." He laughed, not really remembering her, but rather, his vision of that night, packaged and sold as his first novel, Paradise in Paris. He was picturing his hero, Paul, promising the restaurant manager a week of dishwashing services if he would only help him make the evening perfect for Kristina, who was meeting him there in half an hour.

Pamela tried another tack: "So, how's the book going?"

"Oh, fine, fine." A sip of wine, a glance to nowhere.

She reached out and touched his hand. "When do I get to read it?"

"Well, honey, you know nobody can see it until it's done. God," he added, to himself, "all I need are helpful suggestions this close to the end."

She recoiled. He had done it again; slammed the door blindly, unknowing. "Why did you do it, anyway?" she asked quietly.

He looked up, mouth full. "Do what?"

"Marry me. Why did you marry me?" She twirled her fettuccine with her fork and watched the pattern. An endless spiral, disappearing.

He looked at her. She twirled the noodles faster. "Well, because I loved you, of course. You know that."

"What about now?"

* * * * *

Pamela talked Shirley into letting her go home early. She climbed into the four-year-old Toyota, clicked the door quietly closed, and leaned back against the imitation leather headrest, letting the heat gathered there soak into her head and down her back. She lay back with her eyes closed, in no hurry to go home; she knew what was there. Tom would be in his den, probably talking to himself, and wouldn't want to be disturbed. Is this what I got married for, she thought? To be alone with someone else in the same house? The same bed? But then the constant question. Is it me?

She drove by rote, signalling, braking, accelerating, turning. What do I do for him, she asked herself? Sure, at twenty-seven I look good, keep myself in shape, wear the right clothes. But does he notice? God, we haven't made love in a month, and it was at least that long before that. No, it wasn't her: it was his damn writing.

When they first got married, he took a course here or there, even joined a writing group. But then, his time was for her, and hers for him; nothing else really existed. She knew what a good wife should do, so she encouraged him, pushed him, even nagged him a little to write more. He enjoyed it so much and, she insisted, he was so good at it. And so he did, spending more and more time at the dining room table of their one-bedroom apartment, pencil scratching and muttering at the page, but always, always taking a break every twenty minutes or half hour to come and see what she was doing. Just to give her a kiss. After countless rejections and self-recriminations, it happened; he sold Paradise in Paris and was given a $2,500.00 advance. When the reviews came out they weren't spectacular. But they were enough, and she lost him.

She pulled into the driveway and was startled out of her reverie by a strange car. Who would he be seeing at one in the afternoon? She got out of the car, closed the door quietly, and made her way to the front door. Testing the handle, she found it locked. A thousand suspicions passed quickly through her mind, and she used her key to let herself in. On the coat rack by the door she saw a long blue flannel-type coat with black leather patches at the shoulder, and on the mat under the rack, black boots. She put her purse and keys on the hall table, and was stopped for a moment by her reflection in the mirror over the table. She saw a woman with a tense, worried face—lines in the corners of her eyes, lips downturned — and made an effort to smooth out. Then she walked slowly toward Tom's den, still in her coat and boots. When she reached the door, she stopped to listen for a moment, but no voices, just the occasional crinkle of paper and, once, the clearing of a throat. She knocked and opened the door. Tom looked back over his shoulder at her from his steno chair beside the desk. At the same time, Cheryl Weather, Tom's agent, looked up from the manuscript in her lap and smiled warmly.

"Pamela, how nice to see you."

Tom scowled a bit, clearly wondering why she was there. Pamela filled the door frame, bulky in her coat and boots. "Hi, Cheryl, how are you?", and then, as if to explain her attire, "the door was locked." She stood for a moment more, then crossed over to Tom and kissed his cheek. "Not too busy at the office today, so I took off." She wanted to stop sounding apologetic. She lived here!

Tom cleared his throat. "Cheryl's just giving my first draft the once over." He looked at the door frame to Pamela's left, then at the floor.

"Yes," enthused Cheryl, "marvellous, isn't it? I think it's his best yet."

Pamela replied flatly. "Oh, really? I haven't read it." And then at Tom, "Nobody can see it until it's done." She left Cheryl with an upturned brow and Tom still avoiding her gaze, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

* * * * *

Tom breathed beside her in the dark, slightly raspy on the intake, like a scuba diver. Occasionally he worked his mouth wetly, making gummy, stringy noises. Beside her on the cluttered night table her clock glowed faintly and hummed to itself, keeping her solitary company. Three fifteen. Behind it all her own sounds; breathing, heartbeat, swallowing, blinking, staring, thinking. It's no big deal. She's his agent, she's supposed to read it. I'm only his wife, goddammit. She turned her head slowly, silently, to look at him. He was on his side, curled into himself and faced away from her. She grasped the top of the blanket and stealthily pulled it off herself, watching him carefully for signs of waking. That done, she waited ten heartbeats then started to move. First one leg over the side, unbunch the nightshirt, touch the floor. Then up, watching, watching. He took a quick breath, loud, and she stopped halfway vertical. She could taste her heartbeat. Christ, it's not like I'm going to kill him in his sleep! But she still waited another ten heartbeats, then moved again, up off the bed and over to the door. Taking her robe down from the hook on the door, she brought it out into the hall with her before putting it on. She slowly closed the door most of the way, then stood up straight and breathed. She put a hand on her chest and felt a hammering fist. Jesus!

On the way down the stairs, she convinced herself she was going to the kitchen for a snack; had it all planned out, in fact, peanut butter, toast, milk. But she didn't reach the kitchen, of course, because on the way she had to go by his den. She stood at the door and looked back over her shoulder at the stairway, at the closed door at the top of the stairs. She reached for the knob, touched the metal, and jerked her hand back sharply. Damn static, damn carpets, damn, damn, damn. That had almost startled a noise out of her, and her heart took off again. She gave herself a moment to calm down, then reached tentatively for the doorknob, wincing in expectation as she tapped it twice before grabbing it firmly and turning. Once inside, she closed the door and turned on the overhead light.

There it was. The pile of papers nobody read until it was done. Except his agent, and probably his publisher, and maybe even the goddam mailman. Everyone except his wife.

She sat in his steno chair and picked up the first page.

* * * * *

She stopped an hour later, not wanting to read any more. Oh, it was well written, of course, and it was exceedingly literary. It was funny, suspenseful, engaging. In fact, it was perfect. It was perfect, and so were the hero, David, and his wife, Valerie. Perfect house, perfect marriage, perfect teeth. They even fought perfectly. In the pages she had read were Tom and his perfect mate, frolicking gaily through a made-up perfect life while Tom's doppelgänger served time with Pamela.

She looked at the pile of papers and tried to judge how many she could rip at once. She grabbed a stack and lifted them with both hands in front of her face. Then she looked at the papers, just dead trees really, and at the terminal on the desk. Then she looked up at the ceiling, and imagined, through it, her bedroom. She stacked the papers neatly as she had found them, turned off the light, and went back upstairs.

As she crawled back into bed, Tom rolled over and mumbled what might have been his wife's name.