March sunlight came palely through the window that was dingy with the
drippings of two-day old snow, and shone along the crinkled counterpane
on Peter’s bed. Under the crisp blue and whiteness, the doctor slept,
peacefully. I could touch his shoulder, by sitting up and stretching out
my arm, but I did not want to, at all.
Peter said, yesterday, “Don’t mourn me long.”
In a sense, my dear Peter, I mourned you only seven hours, but I may be
going to mourn you all my life besides. The doctor is an efficient
person. I do not like him much, though. The way he shifts from
professional to passionate manner, and back again, is a bit automatic.
Hot water faucet, cold water faucet, hot water faucet . . . He must have
been Don Juan of some hospital staff six or seven years ago. But he
solved one night for me, and that was what I thought I wanted.
(I wonder if Peter is waking up by himself, or not. Peter.—I could
scream and beat my fists against the floor and sob hours and days and
weeks to have you back—to have the year 1922, again. And all that would
happen, if I began, is that I would wake up the doctor. He would fish
bromide tablets out of his dinner jacket pocket, for the emergency, I do
not doubt.
He will have to telephone for a cab to get home in those dinner clothes.
Wonder if he will sleep all day.)
I did sleep well, extraordinarily enough. One is not supposed to; one is
supposed to lie awake biting sheets, or something of the sort, when
one’s husband deserts. But I was so tired.
It feels remarkable to be a deserted wife when one is only twenty-four.
Not what I planned to do with my life, precisely. I planned to be a Red
Cross nurse, in time for another war. Was just sixteen in the war, and
felt sick because I was too young to marry someone on his last leave,
for my-country’s-sake, under a flag.
Peter was too young, too. He would have looked marvellous in a uniform
. . . naval aviation green. But most of those did not get across. Peter
marching with sun shining on his blond hair.
Oh God, if I begin to cry I shall not be able to stop. Better get up,
and see what there is for that doctor’s breakfast. I want to be all
dressed when he wakes.
Left leg out of bed, right leg out of bed, negligee, slippers. I feel
very clear-headed. We did not drink much. The doctor probably believes
in keeping fit. (I must ask him, I bet he will mention “mens sana in
corpore sano.”) They had that on the wall of the gymnasium in school.
I believe in keeping fit myself. I shall go do calisthenics in the
livingroom, I do not want him waking and watching me. Calisthenics every
morning—and nights when there is nothing exigent to prevent, are ten
minutes sacred to the memory of an athletic adolescence.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. They help. I like
touching my toes to the floor over my head. Calisthenics make me feel
like a warm, live animal rolling about in a pasture. Liquor makes
everything go far off, too, but it makes me feel like a mind wandering
freely through space, not like a warm body in a pasture.
Better go look at the doctor. He sleeps on. “After life’s fitful fever,”
no, that is something else. I will have a shower, now. Someone should
invent a method for using bath salts in a shower, then it would be
perfect.
I am actually hungry. People are not supposed to be able to eat with
broken hearts. I feel like an alarm clock wound up too tight. I must not
think . . . count sheep jumping a fence . . . no that is for going to
sleep.
I will wear my blue jersey dress with white collars and cuffs . . . it
looks so chaste. Lord, I have been more chased than chaste. Oh damn, I
must get myself together, that man will be waking up. I wonder what his
first name is. I forgot to ask. Should I look it up in the telephone
book?
I wonder what Nora ordered for breakfast. She is a very good maid. It is
a good thing she does not come on Sundays. I shall have to get her
another job; Gretchen will snap her up. I cannot keep this apartment.
What will become of me? A bad end no doubt—walking Sixth Avenue, and
touching Peter on the arm begging for fifty cents—like hell.
This kitchen is nice and sunny. Give the doctor orange juice, of course,
it is full of vitamins.
There are duck eggs. . . . Nora went to Jefferson Market and bought duck
eggs, for Pete’s Sunday breakfast because she knows he is absurdly fond
of them. I am going to cry, now, only for a minute though. . . . The
duck eggs will do for the doctor. There are no others. They are nicest
shirred.
“Good morning, Patricia . . . you look very fresh.”
“I’ve been doing calisthenics.”
“The _mens sana_ idea?”
(Hold everything while he kisses you. Count sheep fence jumping. A kiss
does not take long.)
He is a more percipient young man than I thought. “Are you having
morning-after reactions? I’m sorry, my dear.”
“It’s all right. I’m just a bit—what my husband used to call jittery.”
“That’s understandable. Have you such a masculine accessory as a razor,
Patricia?”
“Silly little gold one . . . in my dressing table. I’ll get it—can you
manage with that?” (Pete used a big straight one . . . that was what I
was going to slash my wrists with . . . he packed it . . . the bathroom
has gone feminine over night.)
The doctor talked about medicine, vitamins, ductless glands and things,
at breakfast. He was _extremely_ percipient. And he liked duck eggs.
He called the Brevoort for a cab. Then, “I’m going to be tactful, and
wait for you to telephone me, Patricia, because I don’t want you to feel
that I’m thrusting myself on you.”