Marriage

They were gone—Pauline Sutter and her husband Larry—gone away on vacation. Eddie stood in their kitchen staring at the swinging door. It was closed, motionless, a glossy pale yellow. It hid the room behind it as if guarding a mystery. For 16-year-old Eddie, the mystery was Pauline Sutter. If he could see her living room, open her books, sit down on her couch, perhaps it would be like touching her.

The swinging door looked substantial, heavy. He wanted to give it a good strong push and set it swinging. But first he savored the moment, anticipating the intimacy of the living room.

He had only spoken to her on two occasions, but had spent time watching her. It was she who had given him the instructions for feeding the cats. It was she, not Larry. This had been Eddie’s hope, a persistent kind of hope that never left his consciousness from the moment his parents told him they’d lined up the job. He wanted to talk to Pauline, to have her instruct him, to see her looking into his eyes.

Yesterday, he’d come to the rear of her house. She’d held the door open for him. “Hi. Come in.” She didn’t say his name. She spoke softly. Eddie almost thought she was a timid person. People might think that of her, but he knew it wasn’t true.

She reached up on tiptoes to get the cat food from the cupboard. The backs of her slippers slid down revealing the smooth, white skin of her heels. Her shirt wasn’t long enough to tuck into her jeans so, as she reached, he also got a glimpse of her midriff. She was a petite woman.

When the electric can opener wouldn’t work, she swore at it, but not loudly. After she swore, she looked up at Eddie over her shoulder, a sheepish glance. Eddie took this glance and held onto it. It remained fixed in his memory for a long time.

She tapped the cat bowl by the open window, and an orange cat ran in through the cat flap. It looked at Pauline and meowed three times as if telling a story. Pauline smiled at the cat—a big smile. This was the first time Eddie had seen Pauline’s teeth. One dark-blond strand of hair fell loose along her cheek, the rest she’d gathered up behind her head in a disorganized bunch.

“Milo’s the friendly one. You’ll be able to pick him up and pet him. Pepper’s skittish.”

She was suddenly skeptical. “Do you like cats?”

He eagerly described his own cat and this seemed to satisfy her. But when he told her his cat liked its belly rubbed—“like a dog”— Pauline was put off, which confused him.

The other cat, Pepper, came halfway through the flap, looked around, stared at Eddie in seeming disbelief, and then backed out again. Pauline shook her head and laughed, or almost laughed.

“I guess we’re paying you five dollars a day. So that’ll come to fifty bucks. When we get back.”

He shook her hand before leaving. Her skin was warm and smooth. She had a firm grip.

That was the second time he’d spoken to her. The first time was six months earlier at the movie theater. He’d sold her a bag of popcorn at the counter. She’d looked at the hot dogs on the rack and asked him if they were fresh. Without hesitating, he told her no, pulling his upper lip into a discreet grimace. She pulled her head back and, though her lips remained set, she smiled at him with her eyes.

The living room smelled of sage and old books and of the ashes in the fireplace. The air was heavy and still, closed to the outside world. If she had been home, Eddie imagined, Pauline would have opened a window. Spots of sunlight changed shape on the hardwood floor, filtered through the windblown branches outside. The coffee table was strewn with junk mail and magazines. He flipped through a catalog of women’s clothing. Simple things like the button shirt Pauline wore yesterday. Eddie found the models ugly.

He saw a handwritten envelope, carelessly torn. The return address was Auckland, New Zealand, from a woman named Sandra Wellsey. The handwriting was loopy and girlish. He looked around for the letter but couldn’t find it.

On the mantel was a jumble of photographs. Some were in cheap frames, others loose. There were posed pictures of elderly couples, snapshots of children, dogs—even one of Milo meowing at the camera, his mouth wide open. There was a picture of twin girls, eight or nine years old, standing side by side, arms around each other. One was saying something, her tongue touching her upper teeth as if pronouncing an L. The other was laughing. Eddie studied this picture at length. He could see Pauline in these girls. Perhaps they were nieces.

Then he spotted the picture of Larry. He’d heard about Larry. Larry was a pedal steel guitar player. Apparently, he was successful and performed in country bands and did session work. The photo showed him from the side, sitting at his instrument. He stared up at the camera, straining his neck, with a tense expression as if challenging the photographer. The flesh around his mouth and eyes suggested he was a man who did little smiling. He was skinny and had a braid going halfway down his back. Eddie was certain Larry was cruel to Pauline. He stared at the braid. It reminded him of Willie Nelson. Eddie hated Willie Nelson. He hated men who wore braids and he hated country music. Country musicians were mostly crazy. He hated the whole deal.

But most of all he hated Larry.

He went upstairs to the bedroom. The bed was haphazardly made, the comforter bunched up in places, one of the pillows crooked. There was an antique vanity in the corner. He was surprised at this because Pauline didn’t wear much makeup.

He caught sight of an eight-by-ten photo of her atop the dresser. He stopped breathing for a moment as all the other objects in the room fell away. She looked to be around 18; it was probably a high school yearbook photo. Her loose, straight hair was perfectly combed, her skin clear and radiant. Her smile was true, but it was a doubting smile. He was so stunned that he couldn’t stare at it. He turned around and went home.

On the eighth day, he decided to look through the drawers. He’d already examined all the rooms and closets. After the desk drawers in the study, he looked through the bathroom drawers. Then he went up and examined Pauline’s jewelry. He saw a box of family heirlooms and picked up a Victorian locket. Inside was a wisp of dark hair behind beveled glass. It seemed a morbid thing so he quickly snapped it shut. A black, velvet box caught his attention. He pushed the tiny button, and the lid popped open to reveal two rings, each in its own slot. One was an engagement ring with a raised diamond, the other a gold wedding band with a delicate pattern etched at the edges. Eddie knew there was an important reason she didn’t wear the rings, something significant.

He opened the top drawer of her dresser and found a pile of brassieres on one side and a pile of panties on the other. He had an urge to fondle the underwear, but he stopped himself. He slammed the drawer shut and paced, breathing hard through his nose. He went down to the living room and gave the leg of the coffee table a good kick. Some of the magazines slid off.

Then he heard a sound in the driveway. A car was pulling in.It was their car, home early from the camping trip.

Eddie crouched down so as not to be seen through the window. As he rushed to put the magazines back on the table, he discovered the letter from the New Zealand woman. The first sentence ended with four exclamation points. He shoved it back into the pile. Still crouching, he ran through the swinging door and into the kitchen. He stopped the door from swinging. He thought it best to leave. He could’ve gone out the back door without them knowing, but he didn’t. He stood in the kitchen, praying that he hadn’t left anything out of place.

He heard car doors slam and then the rattle of keys at the front door. The door creaked open and it banged against the wall. The keys landed somewhere with a clatter, and he heard boots on the hardwood floor.

“What!”

It was a woman’s voice, a loud voice. It almost didn’t sound like Pauline.

“Damn it, Pauline. You’ve got to stop doing this to me. Stop. Just stop.”

“This is bullshit, Larry. You’re just blaming your own neurotic crap on me and I won’t—”

There was a thud that sounded like luggage being dropped on the floor. The door slammed shut.

“Larry—I’m not the one doing this!”

Eddie heard her squeal—or grunt—as if straining. Then he heard another thud followed by bumps and scuffles that sounded more like knees and elbows than luggage. Pauline grunted again, a sound of distress deep in her throat.

“Larry,” she warned. “Larry… Larry!”

A louder thump.

Eddie’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. He put both his palms up to the swinging door, ready to push it open. But suddenly there was silence.

Then he heard Pauline say, “You.” It was an accusation, but now her voice was calm, almost gentle.

Eddie knocked timidly on the swinging door and then slowly opened it. He leaned his head in.

“Hello?” he said.

There they both were, on the floor by the front door, still grubby from camping. Larry was on his back with his knees up. His jeans were muddy and his elbow poked through a hole in his flannel shirt. Pauline sat on top of him, straddling his torso, her hands on his shoulders. They might have been two kids, her telling him to say uncle.At the sound of Eddie’s voice, their eyes turned toward him. Pauline pulled her hair from her face and Larry raised his head. In this position they froze. Eyebrows raised, mildly curious, mouths open. They both had exactly the same expression, husband and wife.