The Nipple of the Queen

Being Occupied

You ruined my life, my husband said, as we were separating. On the spot, I began to wonder. Up till then I had thought that if anyone’s life was ruined, it was mine, and I thought I knew who ruined it, and it wasn’t me. You ruin everything, he said. There I was about to draw the line, but he was saying, You can have the house. I never liked it, it was like living in a museum. So all I said was, Thank you. End of the marriage. Twenty years.

After a while, I fell in love with another man, oh, not really in love. He was one of those New Men who have to tell you how they feel. He said things like, I feel close to you and I own anger, but the last thing he said was: With you, Ruthie, I’ve discovered what it is to be my very worst self. I couldn’t have done it alone. I’m almost grateful. Again I was surprised. All I could think was, Why me? If he needed all that help, why couldn’t he have gone somewhere else for it? It never occurred to me to say, You haven’t done me much good either, Buster. Instead I wept a bit (it seemed to be expected) and said I thought it would be nice if just once someone, it didn’t matter who—children, husband, lovers, friends—would decide that knowing me had been good for them. But he only laughed, not very nicely, and stumbled off into the afternoon. I was living on an island then, and I remember yelling after him, anticlimactically: I hope you miss the ferry and have to stay in that crummy hotel!

At the time, I didn’t take his departure too much to heart. I sat down in my sunny living room and looked out at the distant water, thinking something like, "Well, it’s always going to be there. I don’t know whether I meant the view or the water. But after a while, as my anger faded, I began to realize that I was alone again, which before had never much bothered me. And I found myself thinking, What if it’s all true? What if I do bring out the worst in people and ruin their lives? What if it’s true that I ruin everything? I hadn’t had such an attack of dread in years, not since my children grew up and went wrong, doing drugs and worse, and cried at me: Why did we have to live on an island? You never taught us anything about the world." Then, as now, I was amazed by my destructive potential. Perhaps the time had come to give the matter some thought.

So, okay, I thought, say I did all these things. How was I going to stop? If you don’t know, maybe you don’t want to stop, I heard myself suggesting. But, even as an experiment, who could maintain this line of reasoning? Consider the way it was coming out: If you don’t know how to stop doing what you don’t think you’re doing, what that means is: you wish you were doing it. This was maybe the first time I realized a complex thought could be stupid.

I could see the ferry now, small—my friend, I hoped, on it. You’re a dope, I said, to both of us, and my dread subsided. But now I was sad, oh, sad. Mis-accused, I thought, like Circe, legendary for turning men into animals. Some myth! A man washes up on your shore; you rescue him, feed him. Love casts its spell, and what happens? He changes. Not for the better. Who’s responsible? You. Or so he says: you wanted a barnyard, not a companion. Not true, you say. He only grunts. You don’t want to see him too clearly; it’s hard on your feelings. What can you do but make him want to escape? Else, you’ll have him for life—in no form you can want him. That’s relief, when he sneaks away into the night, goes stumbling off into the afternoon. Disappointment comes earlier, when he changes.

But maybe they don’t change, I thought, sitting in my sunny room, the ferry now vanished. Maybe they were always the way you finally see them. Such alternatives: terrible powers—defective judgment. Here I foundered: no reason you can’t have both. Recovered: or neither. And foundered again, transferring my gaze to the mirror. (Better to have gone on staring at the water.) How long had I looked like that—I mean slightly shriveled, like one of those peaches that sit too long in the bowl on my kitchen table? Doleful, I wondered, Didn’t I used to be more cheerful? I didn’t want to put blame where it didn’t belong, but oh, how I wanted to put it somewhere. (A moment’s regret here for not having accused my departed friend.)

So I thought: Hey, whose ‘worst’ are you supposed to be bringing out? Theirs. At forty-five, a man’s going to turn into something new? But I was passing the mirror now, on my way to the kitchen, and all I could think was: Or a woman either? No, disregarding for the sake of argument the effects of time, I had to say nothing took it out of you like human relations.

Maybe you should give yourself a little rest, I thought, making myself a cup of tea, stay out of the world a while. Where I lived, it should’ve been easy. I meant to give it a try, but life stepped in, and the next thing I knew, I’d fallen in love again.

All I saw, on that Friday morning when he came to fix my roof, was a strong, dark-haired man, smiling up from my bottom step. He wore a blue shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the sleeves rolled up. His face and arms were brown from working long hours in the sun, from clambering around, I supposed, on the high peaks. I took one look and forgot to care whether my roof got fixed that day or ever.

I can remember the sound of the day as we stood looking at each other—a few birds, the bees buzzing in the rhododendron. I can hear myself asking:

Would you like some coffee before you start on my roof?

Sure, he said, and came into my house.

I waited for him to say, This is an old one, isn’t it? but he wasn’t looking at my house, he was looking at me, and the look in his eye was one I had come to recognize. I knew better, but I could feel my own eyes begin to twinkle.

Would you like a muffin? I asked.

I always like a muffin.

We both laughed, I hate to think why.

I sat him down at my kitchen table, and we sized each other up across the peaches and the muffins. Yes, he was a handsome man. Blue eyes to match his shirt, a good head of hair—wavy, no gray. I’d already formed a pretty good idea of the rest of him. As for me, I could feel myself plumping up, unshriveling. Even the peaches in the bowl looked better. It was plain to both of us what was going to happen, but we had all day; we took our time. I didn’t even mind when he said, as they all do, You live way out here by yourself? No, I didn’t care what he said. We had a long conversation.

I was a foolish woman, wasn’t I? We were a mile from the nearest neighbor. But what did I care? I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t mind knowing nothing about him. All I regret is the end of that ignorance.

Well, he was a man of much sweetness. Even his breath was sweet. It had a faint scent like a newly mown lawn, or chamomile. His skin, too, seemed to emanate this grassiness and it was very smooth and fine, with none of those pale clammy places on the lower belly or the inner thigh. I’d fallen in love by the end of the day.

Evening came before I knew it. Saturday went by. On Sunday I began to wake up, woke up first and saw him sleeping. I sat looking at him. Had he changed a little already? Wasn’t he a little larger, his features, relaxed in sleep, a little less fine? As I watched, I saw there was something stray about him.

By and by, he woke up too; he looked dazed—like a big three-year-old, frightened. When he recognized me, he seemed glad to see me.

No more of that just now, I said. He said:

I’m hungry.

I was a little while understanding that he meant for food.

We ate breakfast. He said, I think I love you, Ruthie. What about it, shall we go get my clothes?

Clothes? I said.

Yes, they’re at my brother’s.

At your brother’s?

It’s where I’ve been living.

But why?

I always do, between wives.

Between wives! I said. Have you been between many?

Only three.

I thought, What have we got here—a Bluebeard?

Come on, Ruthie, let’s get a move on.

What’s this hurry?

We’ve got to make the ferry. I’ve got to get my brother’s truck back. But now I was the one who was dazed, and I sat there. Come on, I want to borrow my brother’s car.

Why do you have to borrow your brother’s car? I asked. Don’t you have a car of your own?

The engine seized last month. I had to junk it.

Oh, I said, reassured, I suppose, because the demise was so recent.

How about it, Ruthie? Are we getting my clothes?

I took a long look at him. Then I said, We can get some of them.

That seemed to satisfy him. We set off for the ferry. The ladders on the truck rattled, as we bumped along my dirt road.

He shared a tiny room with his nephew: white crib in the corner, a rollaway cot, yellow dresser (decals of white ducks across the drawer fronts). His few belongings were in cartons under the crib.

"But why do you stay here?" I asked. He didn’t answer, just draped some shirts over my arm.

He told his brother, Every man needs a vacation. His brother seemed glad enough to let him go. Maybe he hoped he’d be gone for a lifetime. He lent my roofer an old white Oldsmobile. We had to shout over the muffler’s rumbling.

Now, I thought I would also like a vacation. I stopped answering the phone. I woke up happy, and happily every morning I’d whip up an omelet or a batch of muffins. We’d walk down to the beach; he’d take my hand. We’d wander along the cold sand, go wading. We sun-bathed and shade-napped, ate lobsters and clams. I never thought of my roof. The weather continued fine.

But at the end of ten days, the skies clouded over; the next day it rained, and the following day also. My roof began to leak, and when he heard the water pinging into the bucket, my roofer jumped up, and how he glared at me!

I can’t spend my whole life lying around. I have to earn a living. Even his hair looked angry.

So who’s stopping you? I said, and before he could answer: You could start with my roof.

Are you crazy? I can’t fix your roof in the rain.

Then, I said, how can you fix anyone else’s?

That’s not the point. We’ve been lying around for a week.

Almost two, I said. He roared:

Don’t correct me!

I knew to be quiet. There was nothing else to do anyway. He wanted to leave now; otherwise, his whole life might be wasted. Never mind that I might have a life of my own not to waste.

So I waited, and he calmed down and said, more kindly:

You see, Ruthie, if you had an occupation of your own, you wouldn’t be so content to just lie around.

I suppose I could have laughed. Instead I surprised myself by crying. I was crying (need I say?) from disappointment. Why did he have to be so dumb, I mean make such dumb assumptions, and just when I’d gotten used to him and would miss him when he left? I was almost afraid to look at him, for fear of seeing how he might have changed in the last few minutes.

Now, Ruthie, he said, coming back from the exit he was making, taking me in his arms, I have to leave now…

Good-bye, I snuffled.

. . . but I’ll be back. I just have to go make some money.

I was unable to answer. My own worst self got in there and got my tongue. I was feeling comforted, and I liked it there, nestling in his arms. I didn’t see why I had to give all that up just yet.

But, he said, firmly, taking me now by the shoulders, we can’t lie around like this all day anymore. It uses up all my energy.

But you have more than most, I thought. Aloud I sniffed.

Here, he said, handing me a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. I’m going now. And kissed me on the cheek.

I went over to the window and watched him get into his brother’s car, the old Oldsmobile, gathered back the curtain and watched, standing to the side so he couldn’t see me, like one of those sea captains’ wives in the old movies. The music swells, and you know he isn’t coming back. I felt it—all that emotion, so pure and spurious. I stood at the window until I could no longer hear his car.

And now it was time to tend to my own business, which was antiques. I was a picker. Twice a month or so I’d go in my van to far places and bring home quilts and cupboards to sell to dealers. I didn’t deal with the public myself, although at one time there was a sign on my lawn that said, Ruthie’s Rarities. A friend made the sign and put it up. When he was no longer a friend, he took it down again. I would’ve taken it down myself. I was just getting around to it.

So now I went, to Maine and Canada. I had to make a living too, late in life though I’d realized. What had I been thinking all those previous years—that the future was mine, that it was all before me? Do I have a future? I asked myself, the day my husband said good-bye. But soon enough, What future? became the question, and shortly thereafter I was into antiques.

For the house I’d been given was not empty. It was full of furniture, mostly eighteenth century. No sooner was I living alone than these chairs and tables began to pester me, looming at me in the night, tripping me in the morning. And not just the furniture but all my collections—the red-ware, sponge-ware, the baskets hanging from the beams—were doing their own collecting, I mean of dust. Now, what do I need all this for? I began to wonder. There was so much of everything, because all the time I was doing the things a woman does to raise a family, I was also out, in the barns and cellars of people I didn’t even know, finding forgotten cupboards, old bottles, broken chairs. I was in my own cellar, refinishing, restoring. I had to have furniture around to work on, the way some women have to have a baby to raise. I’d live with it a while and then, like as not, sell it. I never thought, though, of ruining a pleasant hobby for the sake of a career.

But with my furniture turning into such a nuisance, the thought occurred and every day got stronger, until one morning I said good-bye even to things I’d thought were mine for a lifetime. I called some dealers I knew; soon my house was as bare as if Shakers lived there. In the Shaker spirit, I saw no reason not to turn a profit, and that was the beginning of my antique business, which flourished, owing to hard work and a certain shrewdness.

Where was all this shrewdness when it came to men? Not entirely absent. Driving around Canada and Maine, I had time to think. It would be just as well, I thought, to pack up my roofer’s clothes and send them to him, maybe with a note about how much I had enjoyed knowing him. And yet, I thought, driving along those empty roads, the radio my companion, when had I ever enjoyed my few flings at rational living? What rewards lay there for a restless spirit? Thus, no sooner had I decided to send my roofer his clothes than I sent him a postcard, saying when I’d be home. And no sooner was I home (a day earlier than I’d expected) than he telephoned, and over he came on the next ferry.

All that was very well—another honeymoon. Then my troubles began.

So, he said, do you do things like this very often—just take off on a trip, without telling anyone?

You could hardly expect that I had told him everything on a postcard. I had explaining to do.

Let’s see this stuff. And no, a barnful of old furniture did not delight him. You went clear to Canada, you paid money, for this junk?

It’s not junk.

Looks like junk.

Look again when I get it cleaned up.

Cleaned up isn’t going to help. This stuff is broken.

Yes, it’s broken. I’m going to fix it.

He said, with a lip-curl, You?

Me.

Oh, Mrs. Fix-it! She’s so smart, why doesn’t she get up there and fix her own roof?

I knew better, but I said, I don’t like heights.

His face got red; he pointed his finger. You think you could!

Oh, calm down, I said, painting varnish remover on the nearest chair.

Huh, he said, turning away, I guess I can see when I’m not wanted.

Be fair, I cried, running after him; he was heading for his car. I won’t do this now, but I’m going to have to do it sometime. I’ve got dealers coming next week.

So, no more lying around now, only when it suits her. What am I supposed to be doing while you play furniture-repair?

Well, I was getting snappish. You could fix my roof.

He looked sulky. I haven’t got my ladders.

Then why don’t you go home and get them?

I’ll go home, all right.

He was gone for a week.

When he came back, he wanted to learn about antiques. He wanted to go on my trips with me.

What for?

I want to be with you.

But what about your roofs?

They won’t run away.

I’ll give it a try, I thought. We went.

We went together, every two weeks from June through September. He was a help. I no longer had to hire neighbor boys to unload; I could bring back more furniture, tied to the roof. I was no longer lonely. But I paid a price. I paid literally, because he was helping, and in other ways; his company was not entirely pleasant.

You’ll take the next left, he’d say, for he soon knew my routes.

What’s this?

Baker Street.

"No, why are you telling me?"

"Because I want you to turn. Blinker lights on."

He wanted to drive. His driving scared me. We’d go hurtling down the middle of the road, the double horn blast at full toot. He identified with trucks. Ran red lights. What were stop signs? Sometimes I thought he even watched for my shudder.

There’s no reason to be nervous. I’m in complete control.

That’s what makes me nervous.

Look, don’t tell me how to drive.

Once I asked him, Did your engine really seize or did you have an accident? He didn’t answer. He gave me such a look.

We would argue, yet the nights were tender; and sometimes we stopped in the afternoon, at a lake, made love in the woods, checked early into a motel. We were leisurely; my business suffered. There were times when I wished that I were alone.

Between trips, for a few days he’d go back to the mainland. I welcomed his absences, though I missed him. It began to seem to me that the only time I did my own work was when he was gone. When he was there, what was I doing? Cooking meals, not fixing furniture, cleaning up after him, doing laundry. What was he doing? Oiling my gutters, replacing my downspouts, re-shingling my entire roof. For none of this would he let me pay, but I did not like this kind of bargain.

It’d be nice, he’d say, from his lofty ladder, if you’d bring me a cup of tea. And then, Ruthie, you could run to the hardware. I’m going to need some more of these nails.

Listen, I told him, at last, this makes me uncomfortable. You’re giving up too much. And so, I felt, was I.

He rose to new heights. Since when has giving got to be on an equal basis?

But you’re giving up your life. You’re living mine. And I was living his, I thought; I felt I owed him.

Ruthie, is that a sensible remark? We’re making a life together.

That’s the problem, all right.

He laughed. He gave me a squeeze. Oh, with all his misguidedness, the man had warmth.

If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ve got a pile of shirts that need buttons, and I ripped my jacket when I was fixing the porch.

But I’d thought I was through with all this tending. Gazing out at him as I sat sewing, I thought: Do I want to be the woman he wants if I have to be the woman he wants me to be?

We were now into October. He was spending less and less time on the mainland. Maybe there were no roofs to work on; maybe his brother didn’t need him. Came the day when he didn’t want to go back.

I want a home, Ruthie. I want a stable home life.

There’s no stability here, I said.

Stop walking around, come here and sit down. I want to do some serious thinking.

Fine, you do it, I said. I’ve done enough for a lifetime.

Now, look, Ruthie, I’m not kidding.

And neither was I. Let’s not talk about it.

Ruthie, I love you. I want to live here.

I could feel myself filling up like a bottle, with dismay. I can’t give you a home, I said.

Why not? You’re living in a six-room house.

Space, I said, isn’t the only consideration.

Of course it isn’t. We love each other.

Do we?

I was at a stage in my life where it seemed to me that I had never loved anyone—not father, nor mother, nor husband, nor any child. I mean I was at that stage on that particular day, but it was recurrent. The next day I might love the world. Who could trust such feelings?

I don’t know if you’d want to take a chance on me, he said, and reached for my hand, but I’ve got nothing against getting married.

I have not had so many proposals in my life, and this one brought the tears to my eyes.

One marriage is enough.

I don’t regret my three.

But I regret my one.

He was hurt. You said you loved me. In fact, I had said that, several times. How can you love me and not want live with me?

But it was the only way, I knew, to keep such love alive. And that’s selfish, I thought, not wanting to explain. Selfish. I began to slide toward my doom.

The weather turned cold: November. We made the last trip north until spring. Together we filled my barn and cellar with furniture for me to work on during the winter. He put up my storm windows, brought in my hoses. What, he asked, not facetiously, would you do without me? The same as I did before, I thought, recollecting the previous winter, how bleak, how long, it had been. And how I’d been lonely and had the flu. I’m getting too dependent, I told myself, as well as him.

Let me take care of you, he said.

I grew sad when, even for a few days, he went back to the mainland. And I was not the only one. You would’ve thought he was going on a ten-year journey.

Why do I have to leave? Why can’t I stay here?

Yes, why can’t he? I began to wonder.

He had a peculiar gift: he made me happy. He had a loving touch. I think I could have found him in a dark room, among other people, by his sweet breath and the way he touched me. Sometimes he would stroke me as if I were a dog or a cat, his hand automatically, almost absent-mindedly, finding familiar places—the forehead, the cheek, the jaw; the ribcage, the hip, the flank. It was a hand that knew me in a way I didn’t know myself, I mean sensually in a soothing way. I would feel myself go soft, ripe, like a hard cheese that has been set in a warm place. I am afraid that this happiness is what I loved him for.

Naturally, I couldn’t leave well enough alone but had to ask whether he knew what he was doing, had to tell him how the stroking made me feel.

You’re just in a soft emotional state, he said, gruff, offended. What good does that do if you don’t want to live with me?

He went home after Thanksgiving, came back upset. I have to clear out, Ruthie. My brother’s mother-in-law’s coming. Now, Ruthie, what am I going to do? Do I have to go to a rooming house? Am I going to live with you? What’s it going to be, what’s the story?

He held me by the shoulders. I was tired of struggling. Why did I have to be the one with the judgment? I said:

Let’s get the rest of your things.

He had more than I thought. What’s this—a coat collection? He laughed. I laughed too, because he was laughing. He took me down into the cellar. What’s this?

My furniture. In the gloom it didn’t look like much—a double bed, a metal desk.

We spent the weekend packing things into cartons. He kept finding more and more to pack. Why did we have to bring it all now?

My brother needs the room.

I supposed we could put it in the barn.

Why should my stuff be in the barn?

But where will we put it?

We’ll find a place.

I had thought to use my van for the move. We rented a truck. The metal desk was very large. That was not a double bed; it was king-size. In his brother’s cellar were more cartons. They had on them the dust of months, maybe years. I could see they had spent time in the cellar—not just his brother’s? I began to have misgivings. This looked like a move for life.

Listen, I said, let’s leave this for later.

"We’ve got the truck now."

We can get it again.

Why wait?

What if we don’t work out?

Ruthie, he said, dignified, you agreed we’d live together.

"I agreed to live with you, not all this."

What nonsense, he said. Grab the end of the mattress.

We could barely work the desk through my doorway; it had grown larger in transit. The lamps had quadrupled. There was a sofa I’d never seen before.

Where did all this come from?

He didn’t answer. We’ll put my chair by the fireplace. You can sell the settle.

But I like the settle.

Stone age, I heard him mutter.

I ran upstairs and sat on my bed, staring out at the choppy sea. I felt tricked, in some not so indefinable way. He followed me up. Ruthie, what’s the matter?

I don’t like what’s happening.

What’s happening? I’m trying to get moved in. And you’re not being much help, Ruthie, to be truthful. You’re not making room for me.

I said, between laughing and crying: But you’re so much larger than I thought.

Ruthie, you’re talking like a child.

It was true. I even sounded like one. I said:

I have to go for a walk.

Now?

But I was off and running. What have I done? I thought. I’ve made a mistake. I ran down to the beach. There was a cold wind blowing.

I walked up and down the beach. Maybe my mistake would be good for me. Maybe I would learn from it, the way you were supposed to do with mistakes. What would I learn? Oh, to be less rigid and more accommodating, more flexible, less controlling. It was the beach where we had gone when we first fell in love.

So, he said, when I got home, did you have a nice walk?

The settle was gone—and my couch that was made from a hired man’s bed. His desk had replaced a blanket chest. There was hardly anything left