Copyright (c) 2015 Phyllis Zimbler Miller
All rights reserved.
Gov. George C. Wallace (D, Ala.) announced his withdrawal from the race for the U.S. Senate seat held by retiring Sen. John J. Sparkman (D, Ala.). -- May 16, 1978
Jennifer's Story
1978
"Steve, I need to talk to you."
"Yes, dear," he says.
I wait for him to raise his eyes from the book. He doesn't.
"Could you close the book please and look at me? I really need you to listen."
"I always listen to you." Steve closes the book, inserting his index finger as a bookmark.
I lean towards him across the kitchen table. "I want you to move out -- I want to separate. And then I want a divorce.'
"What?" His finger slips from the book. For once he is listening.
"I don't want to be married any longer to you."
"Are you out of your mind? It's your father, right? You're upset because of your father."
I scrape at a sticky spot on the table with my index finger, the same one on which Steve placed his ring at our wedding ceremony. "Yes, I am upset about my father. But that's not why I want a divorce. I want a divorce because we no longer love each other. My father's death just made me realize what I've known for a long time."
Now Steve slams his book down on the table. "Don't be ridiculous! Whether we love each other isn't the issue. We're a family. How can you even think of subjecting the children to the humiliations of divorce?"
Keep your voice calm. Show how reasonable you are. "I've given this a great deal of thought. I'm an historian, after all. I'm well aware of the studies done over the years on children from broken homes."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What does your research show?"
"Forget about the research. I want to talk about us."
"We are talking about us. How you want to add our children to the statistics of children under 10 living in single-parent homes. Probably the single most significant cause of a myriad of ills in American society today."
Spoken as a true scientist. Don't challenge him. This is going to be hard enough.
"I thought you could move into an apartment near the university. We'll work out a schedule of when you see the children. You'll probably see them more than you do now, given you rarely see them awake."
His eyes bore into hers. "I'll fight you every step of the way. You're going to regret this."
***
"It's so nice of you to come back to visit so soon," my mother says as I lead the girls into what's now my mother's house. "I know how busy you are."
I nod, unwilling to lie, to say I wanted to see how my mother's doing. This will be a difficult yet necessary visit. Some things are better said in person.
"Can we watch television, Grandma?" Leah asks.
My mother smiles at the children. "Do you know how to turn the tv set on in the den?"
"Of course, Grandma," Leah says. "We're not babies."
The girls run off to the den. "They're growing so fast," my mother says. "I hardly recognize them from one visit to the next."
If this is a gibe that I don't bring the children to visit enough, I ignore it. I've got bigger fish to fry.
"How are you doing, Mom?" I ask. I sit down next to her on the living room couch. "Is the lawyer taking care of everything?"
"Yes. And Uncle Arthur has been so helpful."
I nod. "Maybe you should work in the business. Give you something to do."
"No, no. I couldn't do that. I've never taken care of anything like that. And my volunteer activities keep me busy."
Volunteer activities. My mother is from a different generation of women, one which consumes all its best creative energies with rummage sales and bake sales. Small efforts compared to what these women could accomplish.
"How's Steve? Busy working as always?"
Now's the time. There's no turning back. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Steve."
"Why? Is something wrong? Is he ill?"
"No, he's fine. It's just that I've asked him to move out."
"You've what!"
"I've asked him to move out – to live someplace else."
"Jennifer Rubin Silberman! How could you do that!"
I study my fingernails. Yes, it's a good question. How could I ask the father of my children, a decent provider, not an alcoholic, gambler, womanizer, or wife beater, to leave?
I raise my eyes to my mother's face. "Because he doesn't know how to love me and he's always at his lab and I'm always alone with the children."
"Jennifer, that's what a man does. He works hard and provides for his family -- just the way your father did for us. The wife takes care of the children, the home, and her husband's needs. It's only you who insists on working too, having your own 'career,' while your children are young."
I walk to the mantelpiece. There's a photo of my father in casual clothes, clothes he rarely wore. I don't turn around.
"Daddy thought my work was important, studying and teaching about women in the United States, helping to preserve their accomplishments. It's you who can't accept that I'm not like you, not willing to focus my life on how polished the children's shoes are and whether each meal is well-balanced."
"Jennifer!"
My head whips around. Grey brows are squeezed together and thin lines radiate from her mouth.
"How dare you insult me!"
I throw my arms around her. "Mom, I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just trying to explain."
My mother pulls away. "Do the children know?"
I shake my head. "I wanted to tell you first."
"Then we won't speak of this again during your visit. I beg you to reconsider before you tear your family apart. Even you cannot predict where this drastic step could lead."
My mother leaves the room before I can say anything more. Tears pool in my eyes. I cannot undo what I have started.
***
The weekend away in Chicago has served its dual purpose. Besides telling my mother in person, I find that Steve's belongings are gone when the children and I return to St. Louis Sunday evening. The children do not notice. They do not, as I do, pull open his drawers and closet to check. There are no missing gaps on the bookshelves. His science books have always been kept at his university office and he has never been interested in any of my books, either fiction or nonfiction.
"I don't read fiction," he said on one of our early dates as we sat in his car at a campus parking spot. "I don't have time to waste on such nonproductive reading. But I don't mind if you do." Then he pulled down my undies and positioned me on his lap. "But this I have time for." He unzipped his fly and jabbed his taut member into me. "Come on, honey, let's do it."
"Why did you marry him?" Laura once asked her, a month before Marcia was born. "Surely you would have met lots of other men. You got attached your freshman year and that was it."
I shook my head. "I don't know. It seemed so obvious then: he was good-looking, Jewish, smart, a future scientist. He pursued me and I allowed myself to be won."
"Yes," Laura said. "He pursued you because you didn't fall all over him. His ego was hurt. Then as soon as he got you the thrill was gone."
"No, no," I said. "If that were true he wouldn't have married me. He could have married anyone."
"Maybe. But I think he liked that you'd be busy with your own work. No demands on him to be home at a certain time. As one scholar to another he could expect acceptance of his dedication to science."
I hesitated. "And what about sex? You think he's getting it off with his graduate students?"
"How often do you sleep together?"
"Not much."
"Who knows? Do you care?"
And of course I said I didn't care, sex wasn't that important, especially now that I was having a child. I wasn't willing to admit the truth even to my best friend. And it wasn't that many years since Trent awakened my sexual feelings. Could I spend the rest of my life without physical love?
I enter the kitchen. There is a note propped next to the phone; Steve has left his telephone number. "Call me when you get back so we can discuss telling the children."
I walk into the family room and turn off the television set. "Take your bags to your bedrooms," I tell the girls. "Then you can have a snack before bed."
Without protest the girls drag their bags down the hall towards the stairs. They are so wonderful. I love them so much.
And I am about to make them statistics.
***
I stand in the doorway of the girls' bedroom after dinner the next day. The pink ruffles of the twin bed canopies match the bed skirts and the ruffled curtains on the double windows. I did all this only three years ago when Leah graduated from a crib to a bed.
"Can Leah sleep in my room, Mommy?" Marcia asked. "You and Daddy sleep together and I have to sleep alone."
I hadn't even asked Steve what he thought. I purchased twin beds to replace Marcia's junior bed and decorated the room for the two girls. I turned Leah's original room into a playroom, filled with stuffed animals, Legos, Playmobil, blocks, dolls, doll cradles, and a child-size kitchen.
I agonized over the kitchen – was I saying I expected the girls to fill traditional women's roles of wife, mother, homemaker rather than striving for their own goals? I quieted my fears with the Legos, Playmobil, and blocks.
And the books. Children's books on art, music, science, history, animals, and any other topic you could name. Now I'll have to buy some more children's books – dealing with divorced parents.
"Mommy," Leah says, holding up a Playmobil playground piece. "See the merry-go-round!"
Marcia is stretched out on her bed reading a children's mystery. She doesn't even look up.
"Girls," I say. "I need to talk to you. Why don't we go into the kitchen and have some juice?"
"Okay," Leah says.
"I only have a few more pages," Marcia says. "Can I finish?"
A reprieve? No, I must do it now. "Come on, honey, you'll be able to finish it in a few minutes." If she's not hysterical.
I pour apple juice for all of us and set the glasses on the table. I sit down between them.
"What did you want to talk about?" Marcia asks.
Life. Love. Sex. Women's expectations.
"Your father and I have decided." What have we decided? Nothing.
At first Steve threatened to live in the basement. "This house is half mine and I'll live in it until further notice!"
I refused. Imagine having your separated husband spying on you from the basement! I insisted we could afford a small apartment for him on our combined salaries. "If there's a shortfall, I can always contribute from the money my father left me." Later Laura told me it was a mistake to offer this, that Steve could use this against me. But how?
The girls stare at me, waiting. I have to tell them. "Your father will no longer be living here. He and I are going to get divorced."
"Divorced!" Marcia screams.
"What's divorced?" Leah asks.
"You know," Marcia says. "Like Billy Saperstein's parents. He sleeps at his father's house some nights and at his mother's house other nights."
"Can we have toys at both places?" Leah asks.
"Leah," I say, "do you understand? In a few months your daddy and I will no longer be married. He may marry someone else and I may marry someone else. You may have new brothers and sisters."
"Do I have to share my toys with them?"
"Leah, you're a baby!" Marcia says. Then she turns to me. "Why, Mommy? Why are you and Daddy getting divorced?"
How can I explain to them that I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. A wife in name only. Because maybe there's a man somewhere who can love me the way I want to be loved.
"Your daddy and I no longer love each other." Flush spreads across both their faces. I realize this is a mistake. "But we both will always love you," I add. "The love for children is something very special. No matter what parents think of each other, they still love their children."
"Was I bad, Mommy?" Leah asks. "Is that why Daddy's going away?"
"No, honey," I say, wrapping an arm around each girl. "You're both wonderful. And Daddy wasn't bad either."
"I have to tell my dolls," Leah says. "They'll cry." She runs from the kitchen.
"I'm going to finish my book now," Marcia says. "I hope you're happy."
__
If you would also like to read women's fiction that takes place in the future rather than the past, check out THE MOTHER SIEGE here on Wattpad at http://budurl.com/MSintro