Love/Imperfect

As If in Time of War

As If in Time of War Against the door frame with her glass of wine, she felt a peaceful laziness that passed over her too seldom in the afternoon. It usually came only at night, when the children were in bed, when, from the deck, she could hear but not see the surf tumbling rhythmically below. She squinted in the sunlight, gazing over the rooftops to the distant beach and, beyond it, the shimmering Pacific. For that instant, Lois let herself marvel at her good fortune—having this view, this house. Rare were the specialists in John Ford who could afford it. Nor could she have but for Eric. She glanced inside. He was kneeling beside the table, tightening its hinges with a tiny screwdriver. As he rolled the shaft with his fingertips , she admired the tracery of bone and vein on the back of his hand, his sinewed forearm, the biceps that, even at rest, strained the sleeves of his T-shirt. She smiled. 100 · christopher t. leland When they had been married, neither of them had paid much attention to biceps. He swayed back on his heels and stood. “You now have a functioning gate-leg table, and I rewired that lamp in Amy’s room, which should be okay as long as she and her pals don’t swing on the cord.” He popped the screwdriver into the toolbox and slid it with his foot into the corner. “So, do I get a prize?” “Try the Zinfandel. Or that Australian Chardonnay is nice. And come on out!” she yelled over her shoulder, moving to one of the chairs beneath the awning in the far corner of the terrace. He emerged with a beer. “Still early for anything too potent,” he explained, sliding into the place across from her. “Say, is that pastel in the hall downstairs yours?” “No, no. I picked it up at the campus art show last year. I haven’t done anything in years.” “Thought you might have started again. You really were pretty good, you know.” He raised the can. She noticed blood where he had somehow barked his knuckles. “Tchin-tchin.” She made an exaggerated grimace as she toasted him back. “Merde.” The afternoon was warm, though the sea breeze put the slightest chill in the air. She settled into the cushions and breathed deep. It made her a little dizzy. “Did you look at the VCR?” “Yep.” He shook his head. “Some things are just too complicated. You’ll have to talk to Rob. I can’t figure out what the hell he’s done to it.” “Oh, I’ll just take it in or get a new one. He certainly doesn’t know what’s wrong.” “I can look again if you like.” “No. Forget it, Eric. You’ve done enough.” She grinned across the as if in time of war · 101 table at him. “‘It’s so nice to have a man around the house,’” she warbled . He smiled wistfully. “Don’t I know it.” Earlier on, it would have bothered her, back when the children were small and the divorce was a fresh wound. But now, it was easier. They could joke back and forth about it. Eric was hurting anyway, and it made no sense to make it an issue. “Do you think he’ll come by?” “No,” she said gently. “It’s a phase, but a longish one.” It had been a year since Rob had seen his father. The break occurred out of the blue when he turned fourteen. He seemed to have adjusted to the notion. Both he and Amy visited Eric in Marin regularly; both of them had liked Mark. And then, from one day to the next, the boy balked and had been balking ever since. He had sent all his fifteenth birthday presents back to the Bay Area unopened. He was spending the weekend with friends. “I guess you’re right. I probably wouldn’t have dealt with it very well if it had been my dad when I was his age.” He laughed softly. “I really thought times had changed.” “Uh-huh.” When they met, she reflected, times had been changing very quickly indeed, or so it seemed, and her interest in ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore and Renaissance iconography vaguely embarrassed her when she sat with Eric and his law school friends as they discussed...