Читать книгу The Story I Am - Roger Rosenblatt - Страница 14

The Writer’s Wife

Look at him, my active man. Sometimes he sits and turns to the left. Sometimes, to the right. I wouldn’t think of disturbing him. He is dreaming his writer’s dreams, and his dreams are inviolable. I have the privilege of serving him, and of watching him.

Did you say something, dear? Nothing yet? Still dreaming? Well, while you’re at it, I’d better get to my chores. No, don’t get up. I can handle it: fix the engine on the Prius; recondition the Steinway; point up the bricks on the west wall; build a bathroom in the basement, from scratch. Busy, busy is the writer’s wife.

And please, don’t even think of lowering yourself to the details of bill paying, dry cleaning, shopping, cooking, dishwashing, trash toting. May I get the door for you? May I get two?

Am I complaining about my lot? Never, sweetheart. The intellectual challenges alone make it worthwhile. How many ways can I invent to assure you that you’re not losing a step? Our topics of conversation: Your obligation to your gift. My obligation to your obligation. Were you born before your time, or after your time, or just in time? I forget.

Then there’s our social life. The dinner parties where everyone speaks in quotations. The book parties where everyone says, “There he is. Or variously: “There she is!”

Do I want to go to Elaine’s? Are you kidding? I want to live there!

And don’t worry. I’ve laid out your uniform. Dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie. Your special look.

Do you think you might speak to me this month? It was so nice last month, or was it the month before that, when you asked me how I was. For a moment there, I thought you’d ask who I was. That’s just a little joke. Nothing to upset yourself about. But what am I saying? Why would you be upset? Why would you—sitting there in your dreamscape—why would you even look up?

My folks, having met you but once, suggested I marry an actuary or mortgage broker. Or a wife beater. Hell, what do parents know about the life of the mind—yours. The precious moments we share—

Such as the times you asked me to read something you’ve written, and if I say “I love it!” you say I’m blowing you off, and if I appear disappointed or confused, you go into a clinical depression, and if I say, “Then please don’t ask me, if you don’t want my opinion,” you go into a clinical depression.

Oh, dear. Did I say, “That was the best thing you ever wrote”? Of course, what I meant to say was, “Everything you write is a masterpiece. And this latest masterpiece just proves it.” That’s what I meant to say. You’re right. I must learn to say what I mean.

Forgive me?

But soon we make up, and you’ll say, “Let’s go to so-and-so’s poetry reading.” And I’ll say, “Oh, darling! Let’s! Just give me a minute to freshen up and hang myself from the hall chandelier”—which, by the way, I repaired last week.

Memories? Say, rather, treasures! The day your agent returned your call. The day your editor returned your call. The day you found your name in the papers. In the phone book. Remember the time we saw your first novel on sale in the Strand for one dollar?

How we laughed! The night you awoke with an inspiration for a story, and in the morning it sounded so silly?

Remember when I tried to write something myself, and you said it was “interesting”?

You know? I used to like books.

Ah. You’ve turned to the left again. I’m pooped just watching you. Watching you in your dreams. I dream, too. Here’s mine:

Lord, please let him find a younger woman.

{ essay in The Kenyon Review }