~the Backward Fall

She lowers her eyes to the blanket. "He did it before I even knew what was happening."

George remembers this conversation. It was years and years ago, during a time when she worked at the factory for several months to help save for their first real house. He stares at her but says nothing.

"Here's the thing, George," she says. "Things haven't been right with us for a long time. You don't seem to appreciate me anymore."

"I appreciate you."

"You don't act like it." At the time, he hadn't acted like it. For some reason, he'd fallen into a pattern of ignoring her, of taking her for granted, without even realizing he was doing it. This was the conversation when she had called him out.

"I've had a crush on Wendell Thurber for awhile," she says. "Today, he showed me that he feels the same way." She clutches the blanket to her. "I'm telling you this because I love you. I just want you to know that there are other men out there who might treat me like I deserve to be treated." It was quite a chance she took. He could have gotten angry, called her a whore. He could have left.

She bet their lives together on his reaction to a kiss from another man. And it worked. Instead of getting angry, he held her in his arms. He changed. He started being nice to her again. And then a wonderful thing happened. The more he was kind to her, and did things just to make her happy, the more she did the same thing for him in return. Soon, it was like a contest to see who could be the best spouse, who could give the most love.

Smiling, he draws her into his arms. "I'll change," he says. "I promise."

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5

"What are you talking about?" she says. He looks down and sees that her eyes are fixed on the clock. "It's four in the morning," she says. "What are you doing up?"

"I … couldn't sleep."

"Well, turn off the light and try harder." She lies back and turns roughly onto her side. He looks at her for a long moment. Then he turns off the lamp and closes his stinging eyes to the dark

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"I know you stole my ring," she says. "Where is it?" Her eyes are narrow but full of fire.

She is twenty-three and sixty-eight.

"I don't know where it is, Mom."

He is standing in the kitchen, pebbles of broken glass from the coffee pot all around his bare feet.

  "You're a liar."

"You must have hid it again. Just calm down and we'll go look for it."

She roars, a sound he did not think she was capable of making, and picks up the fruit bowl. Pulling his arms up over his face, he says, "Please don't throw anything else at me, Mom."

"Stop calling me that! I'm not your mother. You're just a dirty old man."

"Don't you recognize me? It's me, George."

She slams the bowl back to the counter, hard enough to crack it. "You're not my George. You're an old man. You've got me trapped here. You stole all my money, and now you took my wedding ring."

"That's not true." She says nothing for a moment, breathing hard.

"I gave you that ring," he says. "I wouldn't ever take it away from you."