God’s in heaven, all’s right with the world, but I think if I got married and stayed at home all day it might be even better.—olga prozorova
“Theodore, are you asleep?” Masha asked her husband Kulygin. I, as Masha, lay down on the bed with my face away from Chris, who, as Kulygin, was snoozing on the couch.
“Eh?” he asked, rousing.
Still not looking at him, I muttered, “Why don’t you go home?”
Chris/Kulygin stood and approached me carefully, as if he were approaching a feral cat: “Darling Masha, Masha my dear one—”
Irina, played by the delicate redhead Rachael Smith (from
Chris/Kulygin sighed, “All right, I’ll go. My splendid, wonderful wife—I love you, I love no one but you.”
Masha, annoyed by her schoolmaster husband and aching for Vershinin, propped herself up on her elbow and spat, “Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.”
Chris laughed carefully. “Oh, isn’t she marvelous!” he asked Irina. He knelt beside my bed and tried to look into my eyes; I turned away. Chris patted my head quickly, “You and I’ve been man and wife for seven years, but I feel as if we were married only yesterday,” he responded to my grimace, “I do honestly.” He leaned back on his heels, “You really are a marvelous creature. I’m happy, happy, oh so happy.”
“I’m bored, bored, oh so bored!” I cried, my face in my hands. I sat up on the bed and swung my legs down on the side opposite from Chris. “Theodore, why don’t you do home?”
Chris leaned in and kissed my cheek. The place where his lips touched my skin burnt me. “You’re tired,” he soothed. “Have half an hour’s rest, and I’ll just sit and wait. Go to sleep.” He moved away, and I lowered myself back down onto the bed. “I’m happy, happy, oh so happy,” Chris sang as he left the room.
“All right! You have done enough!” Professor Allred wiped a thin layer of perspiration off her brow. “Do not use all your venom before the performance. Please rest over conference weekend and renew your characters.”
A week was too long to let Chris’s and my argument fester. “Chris . . .” I began to apologize.
He glanced at me—one eyebrow lowered in mild, fleeting interest—then leapt off the stage towards a streak of maroon-colored energy shooting down the theater aisle. Nyx Hastings, clad in fuchsia leggings and a black-and-pink–striped rugby shirt, grabbed Chris’s arms and pulled him into a huge hug. The auditorium was silent as Chris, chest swelling, led her out of the theater door, which slammed behind them.
* * * *
During the Saturday morning session of general conference, the 37th ward always had a pancake breakfast at the first counselor’s huge house in northeast
I shook my head, but Charlie did not respond. Graça smacked her lips beside me—she was blowing Charlie a kiss. Charlie heard me gasp, quickly released the brake on his chair, and rolled down the hallway. I wanted to follow, but leaning against the back wall of the media room was Christian Miles. Instead, I slipped out the sliding doors into the backyard and rushed around the huge house to the driveway.
Charlie rolled down the ramp set up over the front steps and headed towards the many, many cars parked along the street. He looked back when I called to him, but he kept going. Nine months ago, my exboyfriend had been flat in a hospital bed; now he was propelling himself so fast down the row of parallel-parked cars that I had to run in my crocheted flats to catch up. He braked at his green Volvo and threw open the door.
“Charlie, please stop,” I gasped, finally reaching the car.
Shoulders falling, he wheeled around to face me. “What do you want, Bekah?”
What did I want? I opened my mouth, breathing ragged, and shut it again. “My cousin—boy, you can’t stay away from Cardim girls, can you?”
“Graça’s last name is Freitas,” he pointed out.
“Um,” I pulled at the ends of my hair, “so, what could you—I mean, are you guys dating or something?” While I waited for his answer, I took surreptitious shallow breaths through my teeth.
His dark eyes were laughing at me, just a little. “Yeah, you could say we’re dating. We haven’t DTR’d[1] or anything, but when it feels right, maybe you don’t have to.”
My arms at my sides suddenly felt a hundred feet long. I wanted to fold them up, but I didn’t want to close myself off from Charlie. Body language is important. “So, then,” I began. Charlie calmly waited for me to finish. He knew he had the upper hand in our relationship. He always will. “Well,” I tried again, “when—I mean, where did you meet?”
“Salsa Club.”
“Oh,” I nodded casually.
“It’s not just dancing, y’know; it’s a place to meet other Latinos on campus.”
I nodded more vigorously, “Oh, yeah, of course it is. They send me emails.” I stared at my feet. “And, Charlie, I’m—I’m truly happy that you’re together, you and Graça. You didn’t have to hide from me.”
Charlie and I had dated for a whole semester before the climbing accident—we’d even talked about how many kids we wanted (he, five; I, four). So now I knew from his lowered brows and his placid smile that he didn’t believe me. “Well we won’t hide anymore,” he said diplomatically. “And I do really have to go now.” Muscles I had never before seen on Charlie’s arms bulged as he lifted himself from his chair to the driver’s seat of his car. Before I could offer to help with anything, he folded his wheelchair and pulled it into the back seat.
He paused with his hand on the door, and then he looked back at me. “Bekah, I’m really—grateful that you’re not mad. I’m telling you, Graça is something special.” His eyes sparkled, “Graça is the most amazing person I’ve ever met. She’s so beautiful and so strong . . .” Charlie looked at me and I looked at him, and I knew he was thinking about how weak I’d been after his accident. How I broke up with him the first day I saw him in a wheelchair. How I couldn’t handle dating a paraplegic. How this was the first time we’d spoken in eleven months.
“Well, bye!” he called back at me. With a slam of door and a squeal of tires, I was left in a cloud of sweet exhaust.
[1] DTR—define the relationship; n. a meeting in which a couple decides whether they are dating exclusively or not; v. to hold such a meeting
1 comment:
I am not sure that an argument is the way to convey what has happened between Bekah and Charlie. While it is efficient, it feels (You are probably what I know about feelings) a little too convenient.
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