Is It My Fault?

Is It My Fault?

Milton Louis Steinberg

He’s dead. Henry’s dead, the son of a bitch. How could he?

Don’t speak harshly of the….

He’s dead. I’m free…but not like this. (Ugh, with a pipe.)

Oh, why did I marry him, why, why, why?

He wanted me, that’s why I married him. I knew right away he wasn’t…, but he wanted me. I wanted to write my poetry, and he wanted…me…me. More than anything in the world he wanted me. I could see it in his eyes. I could feel it radiating off of him like heat when we were together. He wanted me, and it’s wonderful to be wanted like that. He pressed towards me, reached towards me, yearned towards me with all of…and I loved that. Is that so wrong? I loved that. I didn’t encourage him, but oh, I loved that. After all, it’s more important to be loved than to love, isn’t it?

I loved him loving me, and I thought that would be okay. I thought that would be enough. I would make him very happy. That’s a good thing, right? Making someone else happy is a good thing. And I could write my poetry and not have to worry. And we’d both be happy.

And really, he made me feel like a princess. The pleasure he found in my body, the way he came to me, like I was food for a hungry man. I was his goddess, his goddess! The look on his face when I disrobed…I was the Goddess of Lightning Bolts.

My wedding dress, a long train, two children carried it.

Momma liked him. Poppa liked him. They thought, “finally….”

Puerto Rico…our suite overlooked the water, so blue, warm. The water caressed. Snorkeling. The fish all colors.

(What will I do with Jason? How will I tell Jason? Thank God Jason wasn’t there. What will I tell him?)

A lovely little house, bright, darling porch with a turret at one end, back yard onto woods. I fed the birds. The turret room was my study, circular with a high ceiling. High ceiling promotes high thoughts. I wrote there. He took the train into the city to work everyday. That was good. I was alone. I worked, I shopped, I bicycled, I drove around. Cute little yellow Mustang with a convertible top. I’m Mustang Sally. It was wonderful. Happiest days…?

He wanted a baby. I hadn’t really thought about it. Little pink pills in a wheel. I didn’t want. He wanted…a lot. He made a room for a live-in nanny. He took me to baby stores. Darling little doll-clothes baby things. He looked sad, dejected. That was no good. I stopped the pills.

(With a pipe.)

I got sick right away. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t think of food. He went to work every day and left me there sick. I lay in bed all day. Bored silly, but when I tried to get up…. He’d come home all lovey-like, he stroked me, talked to me, but talking and being touched just made me sick. I had to push him away. That hurt him, but it made me sick. I thought, “Nine months, I’ll die.” But it only lasted about a month.

I was almost normal for a couple of months, but I lost my waistline. Then my belly started to show like a beach ball. After a while, I was heaving it around with my hands on both sides of it. It was hard. It shocked me to see it when I looked in the mirror.

Funny how when you are showing like that, you see more and more women around you who are in the same way. They smile. They think it’s beautiful, but they fool themselves. It’s ugly, it’s gross and ugly. I felt like a baby-making-machine thing. Constant trips to the obstetrician. Watch what you eat and drink. Do-this-do-that, all about this bulge in my belly. I am the thing of this bulge.

(Thank God they didn’t make me look at him there in the garage.)

Water came out of me. Greasy and wet. A smell, sort of clean, sort of animal.

The delivery hurt so much, for hours and hours, never again.

I read that when your baby is born, a hormone flows out that makes you love it as soon as you see it. I wanted that, but it didn’t happen. Jason looked tiny and red, covered in white goo, and misshapen.

I tried to hold him, but it felt clumsy, awkward. He was demanding. He wanted things from me. I was his food, ugh. After all that pain and effort, he was repulsive to me. I so wanted it to be different. I wanted to love him and smile and put him to my breast, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I began to cry, and they took him away. The relief I felt when they took him away made me cry some more.

(When they had me look at Henry the next day, he looked like he was asleep.)

A darkness spread over me…over us. I lay in bed or sat in my study and stared. I knew Henry missed me terribly. He asked me to go see a doctor. He demanded that I go see a doctor. I refused. Enough doctors.

I came down for dinner. I couldn’t talk. Henry talked, but I couldn’t answer. It was painful for him. I didn’t want to cause him any pain, but I couldn’t talk. He started to get upset, so I got up from the table and left. He called after me, he thought I was leaving in anger, but I was leaving because I couldn’t talk and my silence was angering him. I didn’t want it to be that way, but that’s the way it was. It was bad if I came to meals and it was bad if I didn’t. I went back upstairs and cried.

That night when Henry came to bed, I had to turn away from him and move to the far edge of the bed. He put his hand on me, but I lay there frozen. I couldn’t stand his touch. I lay there with my knees up to my chest and my hand over my ear. I was trying to bear him being there without screaming. When I didn’t respond to him, he left the bedroom. He went to sleep in the guest room. I felt relief, but my pillow was wet with tears.

After a time, I felt somewhat better. I came down to dinner again one evening. Jason sat in a highchair next to our nanny, Portia, from Latvia. She fed him and looked after his needs. He was a demanding bundle of noise, and I found it difficult to be around him. I wanted to be his mother. I thought about feeding him. I thought about dipping the little plastic-coated spoon into the goopy green stuff he was eating from the little jar and putting the spoon to his lips but the thought…. I started to cry. Henry and Portia looked at me and at each other. I had to get up and leave the room.

(There was a tag tied to Henry’s big toe.)

As time went by, the sadness lifted. Jason was crawling by then. I could be around him for a while and I could pretend that I wanted to be with him. I didn’t want him to know how I felt, so I tried to be cheerful and play with him. We were building something with blocks. I built them up, he knocked them down. That worked for a while, but he got fussy, and I had to hand him over to Portia. Then I got up and ran to my study. I didn’t want Jason or Portia to see me crying.

We worked out a routine. Portia did almost all the childcare. I was free to write, and shop, and do as I pleased like before. Henry and I came together for dinner each day, but I still couldn’t bear it when he touched me. He tried to approach me.

“Henry, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

I felt really bad. I didn’t want it to be that way, but I couldn’t stand it.

I met Jerry at an office party, Henry’s office. Henry introduced us. I could see right away…. We shook hands. I pulled mine away. He looked into my eyes. I turned away. I kept away from him.

We threw a party. Jerry was invited. He came with a girlfriend, thank God. He still managed to show me….

Jerry threw a party. I said I didn’t want to go. Henry cajoled…I could at least do this for him. So I went. We had drinks, talked, the usual….

Jerry…tweedy, well built, big face, strong chin, broad smile, liked to talk. He sat next to me on the sofa. Animated by his interest in me. His fishing…camping in the woods. Did I ever…? A bear one day. Always hang your food from a tree. A deer came right up…. Would I like to…? He took my shoulder in his big hand. I could feel him through my thin organdy blouse like skin on skin. I liked it. I sat up straight and let my chest poke out.

A lot of people think there is a heaven where you get to live and have thoughts and feelings after you are dead. That would be nice, but I don’t think so. I think that you just get whatever you have right now, and it would be wrong to waste that. You only get it once. Don’t you agree that it would be wrong to waste that? It’s all we have. And if you just live like a drudge and deny yourself all the possible experiences….

I told Henry that I needed to have some time to myself. I booked a cottage in the mountains for a week. Jerry came out there. When he came to the door…

We couldn’t get enough of each other. I never had an experience like that before. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Jerry wanted me like Henry did, but I wanted him, too. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

I thought about it for a long while before I told Henry. It was very difficult. He tried to reason with me.

“Haven’t I loved you?”

“Yes, you have.”

“Haven’t I given you everything you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“I gave you a child.”

“I didn’t want a child.”

“Is that it? Is it Jason?”

“It’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Henry…. Henry, the truth is I don’t love you.”

“You don’t love me? Then why the hell did you marry me?”

“I thought it would make you happy.”

“Make me happy? What kind of stupid…?”

“You’re right. It’s stupid.”

I left Henry and moved in with Jerry. Jerry had a big house…twelve rooms, all on one floor. I saw Jason on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I’d come by on Tuesday after Henry had left for work. Portia would be there. The three of us would do something pleasant. Last Tuesday we went to the zoo.

Jason loved the petting zoo. There were goats and llamas there. The goats’ eyes had pupils like funny mailbox slots. We bought food from a candy dispenser, a handful for a quarter. Jason held out his hand flat. Most of the food fell on the ground. The goats came right over and ate from his hand. When they touched his hand with their lips, Jason snatched it away quickly and put it behind him. He was afraid of them, but also delighted. He laughed and jumped up and down.

Tuesday evening, the three of us would spend the night at Jerry’s. There was a schoolyard with swings and slides three blocks from Jerry’s house. We usually went there on Wednesday afternoon and let Jason play.

Last Tuesday night, I got a phone call. It was the police. Henry had killed himself in the garage. He got a long, flexible plastic pipe, attached it to the exhaust pipe of his car, put it through the driver’s window, and turned on the engine in the closed garage.

He left a note. Here’s what it said:

Dear Zelda,

There’s a joke about a girl who says to her ex-boyfriend, “If you can’t live without me, how come you’re not dead?” Well, I’m dead.

Henry

I think that summed up how angry and hurt he was. And if it was intended to make me feel guilty…well, it worked. I guess I’ll get over it, but for now….

Maybe you think it’s all my fault. But I didn’t want it to be like this. I just wanted my own happiness. I didn’t want to hurt Henry, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He forced himself on me. He set it up so that I had to hurt him sooner or later. I wish I had done it sooner.

I’m glad Henry’s dead. No, not glad. I prefer that he’s dead. I would never have done anything to hurt him. If he needed help, I would have helped him. But I feel freer with him out of my way.

Funny, I can remember other people, friends and relatives, who died and left me feeling freer that they were dead. I know you’re not supposed to feel that way, but I do. I don’t want to feel that way, but there’s nothing I can do about it. That’s how I feel and I have to accept it. I have to be honest with myself. I usually am honest with myself.

Are you?