She struggled to keep her eyes focused on the pages before her. She certainly wasn’t bored with the writing. Which she could claim for the book that preceded it, but would not, since that book was not a novel but a serious historical accounting of the arduous journey of transmigration of an afflicted population to another place, of eventual refuge.
This one was a novel by Kingsley Amis,
The Old Devils. A far superior writer to Martin Amis. Who doubtless inherited much from his father, but excellence as a writer not among his inheritances. The son is a passable writer, nothing more. The father in another class entirely. So it was irritating beyond belief that she realized that she had just closed her eyes on the printed page that so entertained her, and must have dropped off to sleep for a nano-second. Even worse; she understood that this was not the first time. There had been a succession of these stop-and-starts.
More than a little obvious, since she knew she had been reading the same paragraph over and over again. She recognized the words, but the purport eluded her, which was why she began again at the top of that paragraph each time she jerked herself awake. She should, she knew, simply call it a night.
Glancing over at her husband, whose breathing betrayed his state of sleep, although his alert pose, holding aloft the novel he was reading - one of those interminable detective novels he affected - as though he was still reading it, though he was not, made her experience a twinge of guilt. He always did that. That little artifice. As though he was being loyal to her. Wouldn’t put the book on his night stand, shut off his lamp, plump his pillow, and go to sleep. No, if she was reading, he would too.
When it was the other way around, and she finally admitted to herself that she’d have to call it a night; tossed her extra pillow down to the foot of the bed, set aside her book, took off her reading glasses, and settled herself into her half-clam sleeping position, back turned to him, to block out the light, he would pat her behind, murmur goodnight, and continue reading.
Sometimes she roused herself sufficiently to lean over to kiss him goodnight, before turning her back to him. When, eventually, he too succumbed to the inevitable, he would turn toward her, draw her into him, and they would sleep in a close embrace, the habit of 55 years of marriage.
Occasionally, however, she would fall asleep, back to him, then suddenly awaken, alert to the sound of his deep-sleep breathing, aware that his lamp was still on. She would nudge him, whisper, “time to sleep!”, rousing him briefly awake, whereupon he would perform the perfunctory tasks to sleep preparation.
This time she kept struggling to keep her place in the novel, intent on continuing. She had no intention yet of going to sleep. Too early. Damn it. And he was still going strong, deep into his detective novel. Why not
her? Why
not her? Well, possibly because she felt exhausted from the heat. And the humidity. They had a fan going, directed right at the bed, and that helped.
The bedroom window was open, and doubtless that helped to exhaust some of the stuffy hot air out of the house’s second story. Another fan was directed at the loveseat sitting kitty-corner to the window. Which was where their little poodle, the little black female poodle, settled down for the night. This heat was hard on the little dog. The little old dog.
Her struggles with her book and her stubborn resistance to sleep finally concluded with the book falling out of her hands. She’d fallen asleep momentarily, become instantly awake as she felt the book leave her hands. Tried to retrieve it, but was too late. She heard a yelp, and she felt badly. His own fault. Who told him to sleep there, so close by her, anyway? She pulled the book away, and felt him settle back to sleep. Also heard a horribly ferocious growl emanate softly from under the top sheet. Then quiet.
Time to call it a day. There would be ample time to continue reading the novel. She half-rose to deposit her second pillow, turned to pull the other one to a cant, and as she did that, her husband woke, rid himself too of his novel, pulled his pillow down, turned off his lamp just as she had hers. They murmured their ‘good-nights’, and sleep overtook them both.
When she awakened, it was dark. Dark and slightly clammy feeling. She felt herself perspiring. Felt too that creepy menopausal feeling. That, on her part. On his, the routine was that he would toss the light sheet off, turn, wait awhile until he was slightly more awake, then roll off the bed and pad into the bathroom. When he returned he would assess the situation over at the loveseat, pile back into bed, and leave the top sheet off, relying on that hard-working fan to cool him off. And her too. The other fan was directed toward the little black dog. The heat hit her hard, all 18 years of her.
Her husband fell quickly back to sleep. He always did. His enlarged prostate ensured he would waken several times during the course of the night to haul himself off to the bathroom for some relief from the urge to urinate. Soon as his head touched the pillow she always heard the steady rhythmic sound of his deep-sleep breathing. That always reassured her.
As for her, she would often lie awake. Thinking. There was always something to think about. Something to worry about. So many things that wouldn’t perturb her when they were younger, now did. She tried not to discuss those things with him. If and when she did, he would be upset with her.
This time, lying awake, her mouth felt disgusting. It was that Vidalia onion. Vidalia onions weren’t supposed to be so strong-tasting. She had chopped it into the potato salad they had for dinner. It was delicious; a very nice foil for the potatoes and the grape tomatoes. Went very well with the devilled eggs. Would have been far better, too, not to have those big fat sausages her husband insisted on grilling on the barbecue. At least in the winter, she sighed to herself, she didn’t have to compete with the barbecue.
In the winter catering their meals was her affair. In the summer things became more complicated. She hated to deny him the pleasure of barbecuing things. She didn’t mind when he barbecued salmon. She loved salmon any way they had it, but he would only enjoy it when it was barbecued. He would barbecue everything they ate, if he had his way and she allowed him to. Once or twice a week was more than enough.
They’d reached an agreement over what they’d have on the barbecue. He could do steaks occasionally. And sausages, and meat patties, but no more often than twice a week. It was better for them, she had long ago convinced him and he had reluctantly acquiesced, that they have more frequent dairy meals, be less reliant on meat for their protein. So often, despite that, when they were doing the food shopping together he would casually comment about something looking really good.
A few months ago it was beef tongue. They hadn’t seen that for sale in years. She could live without it. Organ meats, she told him, are very high in cholesterol, they didn’t need that. But he was so excited at seeing the tongue - and the disgustingly expensive price-tag didn’t deter him one bit - that she had agreed; all right. There was just the two of them. That tongue was huge. And what a nuisance. It had to be boiled, the rough skin removed afterward, along with all those unappetizing tough bits at the root of the tongue. And then it could be baked, or prepared in some other, imaginative way, with spices, with carrots, or cabbage, a traditional type dish. Fussy and hardly worth the effort. But he loved it.
Just last Friday, even though they had long ago agreed they would buy only fresh sausages, not smoked or processed ones with nitrates, he had spoken so longingly of the others she had agreed --- just this once. She had almost changed her mind when she asked him to look at the sodium content: 37%. She was horrified. He ambled over to the meat counter to look at the sodium content of the fresh sausages: 24%, not all that much of a difference, he said, grinning at her.
She could still taste the sausage. She could still taste the Vidalia onion. Her mouth felt hot and the odour overwhelmed her with disgust. She couldn’t work up the energy to get out of bed, brush her teeth again, drink some cranberry juice to help cleanse that disgusting taste out of her mouth. Finally, she did fall back to sleep.
And when she again awoke, it was to a dim dawn light creeping through the bedroom. If it wasn’t so hot and humid they’d have had the bedroom window open. And they could hear the robins, the cardinals singing in the backyard. They started so early in the spring, as soon as the sun came up. Their songs were divinely inspired, luminescently lovely.
They often lay abed listening, while fresh spring air filtered through the open window. But not when the overnight temperature only dipped to 21-degrees, from a day-time high of 31-Celsius. Not this morning. She hated it when they couldn’t have the bedroom window open.
And then, she opened her eyes, slowly. Closed them again. He was still asleep. So were the little dogs, the one on the loveseat, the one curled into a tiny ball under the top sheet, close by her, in the bed.
What on Earth, she wondered, was that? Like a neat little firework explosion. A daisy-wheel. A narrow-flanged gear. A cartwheel. Was that an accurate description? Did it do justice to that round, perfectly articulated object that flashed in the vision of her left eye? As though burned inside the retina. Close the eye, and it dissolves. Open the eye and it flashes flamboyantly into prominence, obscuring her vision.
