A Story at the Dinner Table – Part 2

The days went by, with the atmosphere in the house charged every day. The mother often wept loudly, lamented the unfairness of Heaven, and expressed her deep desire to go back to the farm and die alone. The husband comforted her and convinced her to stay every time.

One cold morning, snow was falling on the already white-enveloped city. The wife wrapped up in her favourite white scarf, and got on her bicycle to go to the studio as usual. The snowflakes were large and fluffy, and they fell slowly and lazily. She watched them as they descended… Carefree and dreamy. She didn’t even notice she was tilting sideways until the tire lost traction.

The bike slid away from her, sweeping a trail of black asphalt through the perfect white. Cold had invaded her chest; her scarf was missing. She looked for it. She walked farther and looked for it. She looked for it some more. She looked over the places she had already looked. She threw up the snow from the ground, but more snow fell to cover it. She looked. And looked. And cried. The dam collapsed. The river flooded. She was cold. Snow was in her clothes, but she couldn’t care anymore. She missed the husband who had loved her so simply and irrevocably. She missed her scarf. She missed the warm feeling when he got up early to get her breakfast each morning. The white scarf couldn’t be found in the white snow. She missed the days when she didn’t need to defend herself against accusations and blame, when her loving husband would do the defending for her. Where had they gone? Oh where…

The passing of a pair of fellow commuters put a stop to her overflow. She gave no answer to the looks of concern on their faces. Those frozen rivers on her rosy cheeks didn’t exist. Not at all.

She didn’t go to the studio that day. She got a cup of hot tea in a shop, and sat in the corner looking at the snowflakes melting on the window. She was asked to leave after a few hours, and her bike carried her to her husband’s office. A vague thought of wanting her favourite scarf back ran through her mind…

But he wasn’t there. He was at the hospital, because his mother had just been struck by a car on the icy road. By the time she got in front of the operating room, the unlit operation light, the emptiness, the quietness, and the drops of brightness under the deject figure of her husband told her everything.

They stopped talking to each other after that. The days went by again, and never did the wife’s heart go without aching every time their eyes met. He was no longer the gullible, but cute hubby in front of her. And she, it seemed, was no longer the woman he loved either. He stopped coming home at night every so often. He still bought her breakfast in the morning, but left it on the table as he himself went elsewhere. The new production the studio put on was a great success, but the star of the show was no longer her, but the young prodigy the newspapers are calling a genius. She wondered how long it would be before she wouldn’t be able to hide her belly anymore.

One day, there was no breakfast on the table, so she went out to buy it herself. She walked by a shop, and walked back to its window after a realization. Her husband was eating with a girl inside. She hesitated. She went in. She was not the kind to lose her head and argue, but she stood a few feet away and held his gaze. He returned the stare stonily. The girl he was with got up, embarrassed, but he held her hand and stayed her, all the while looking at the wife with the utmost hatred. She looked back for a moment, her expression firm. Inside, she was collapsing. She turned to leave, but knocked herself and someone in line to the floor. She scrambled up and stumbled through the door. The husband didn’t notice her tears. He was looking at her right hand, holding her midriff.

At the abortion clinic, the janitor informed the wife that it was midnight and she had to leave. She walked out the lobby, and headed for the door. Someone held it open for her.
“Thank you.”
He didn’t reply. She kept walking. She didn’t want to know who it was. She kept walking, and didn’t want hope. A horn sounded to her left. A scramble behind her, and she was pulled back just in time for a muffled curse to reach her as the ugly sound sped away to the right. Her saviour didn’t let go. She closed her eyes. When they got home, four damp spots decorated her jacket.

He told her he realized everything. He apologized over and over. Every night, in fact. He did every chore around the house. Gave her every convenience. Arranged for maternal leave with her manager. Did headstands for her amusement. The everyday progression of a piece of knitting almost interrupted her melancholy, but it was not enough; that one look, so devoid of love, at the breakfast shop… that look, she thought, will stay with her for the rest of her life.

Sometimes he would have a constipated look on his face, and moan as if in pain. It would stir her compassion for a moment, but the symptoms would immediately disappear when she gives him attention. So she didn’t, and ignored him. He would stop when he knows he can’t get her to forgive him that way. He tried other things. He bought baby toys and gave them to her. She ignored him, but when he left she poked at them curiously, and almost smiled at the sounds they made. During times when he tried the moaning strategy again, she stayed in her bedroom and paid no attention to the sound coming through the wall. The piece of knitting he finished was a white scarf, which he presented to her with a flourish. She put it on, despite being indoors, and said nothing. After a few days, the moaning got louder, but she put on ear plugs. It became more often, but she hummed loudly to herself. One day it suddenly stopped, but her heart stopped with it. The beats then resumed in her breast, but there was no more stirring in the other room.

A long time after, the husband woke up in the hospital, the white scarf around his neck.

Yep… it sure got bad…