Black Eye: Escaping a Marriage, Writing a Life

Diffidence

Sunday evening, June 1, 1986, Mother’s birthday The last two days went by in a haze.I spent a lot of time reading back over the journal I’ve kept since last December and studying the chart I started in late April on which I scored our day-by-day progress on issues like “control,”“help around the house,” and “sex.” Stu and I talked. He apologized for the door-slamming. I did not apologize for tearing up the check. We made love.I felt very warm toward him,having begun to realize,reading the journal, how far I—and perhaps even we—have really come since December. We talked again about bedrooms. Stu described his new notion : the study would be his room, the third floor, my room; and our old bedroom would be transformed into our room for reading, sleeping, and relaxation.He seemed much less intent on mere“coexistence.” This really had me elated. Last night we had carp for dinner, a carp that David netted off our pier and Stu slaughtered.“A sacrificial carp,” Stu said. This afternoon I wrote Stu a letter reporting my decision to stay with him.“I know, and I know that you know, that you would be terribly hurt if I left,” I wrote.“You are vulnerable, and I treasure the lapis necklace and earrings because they are physical manifestations of your love and your vulnerability.”I wrote that I felt I had grown more strong and independent, able to recognize and express my own needs and insist that they be met. And I concluded,“I am much more excited by the prospect of renegotiating our relationship out of my new-found strength and your new-found vulnerability than I am about packing up and moving to the west side.” Then I went to look at another house for sale. Not a great house (I’m happy to say), but when I was there, I ran into a friend. I found myself 171 Diffidence n explaining why I was staying and why I was not sure this was a final decision . She said she knows someone who is taking a sabbatical next year and wants to rent his house. Which made me feel there is an out,if I need one in the next few weeks. n Monday morning, June 2, 1986 Stu drank too much last night and tried to cajole me into bed on the porch. I refused. I told him,“I won’t stay because you’re drunk.” He got up, opened the door to my room, growled like an animal, said, “If you won’t be with me when I’m drinking, I’ll drink some more,” and went downstairs for another full glass. Nonetheless, I am not going to give him affection when he is drunk: it is too hard on me. Decided this morning that I will make a monthly decision about staying or leaving. n Two weeks before Helen died, I took her to Walrus, the century-old women’s club to which we both belonged. Karen Olsen, the hostess, served delicate Christmas cookies with ice cream and fresh raspberries over meringue. We met in her great room, looking out over a snowy and tranquil yard. Karen had decorated her table and buffet with evergreen boughs and dozens of candles that cast a warm glow over the room. After we ate, we moved to the sitting area for the evening ’s program. In the middle of the illustrated lecture, Helen got up—awkwardly , because she was a little stiff—and left the room. I could see her go into the bathroom and then come out and stand uncertainly in the hall. I went to her and showed her the way back to the group. We both sat down. A few minutes later she stood again and went down the hall, looking into several doorways. I thought she again had to go to the bathroom, and I went to show her where it was. “No,” she said. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go up to bed.” “You can’t go to bed yet,” I whispered. “Your bed’s not here.” I took her arm and guided her back to the group. But again she stood Diffidence 172 and wandered off down the hall, looking for her bedroom. “This is Karen’s house,” I told her, “not yours...