Homeland
He married her because she felt like home. And a home was what he needed at that time, he thought. He married her because she looked so fragile, stricken, and he imagined himself as her saviour, as the father that he never had, or knew, to protect and defend. He married her because he thought that getting older meant that you were supposed to settle for something, anything, before it was too late, before every last one of your doors snapped shut.
And she _was_ home. He no longer needed to struggle with the awful language that bombarded him daily, he could recoil, into himself, into her. Her firm hands preparing his food, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirts as he readied himself for a trip back into society, good hands, kind hands, knowledgeable hands, that cared for others. Daily. There was music in his house, and companionship that he had so desired, but the stricken, frightened girl began to lose her fear. And the music began to lose its distinct tug at his heart strings. She began to demonstrate daily that there was something that he was failing to give her. She would never tell him what it was, after all, good girls didn’t make demands from where she came, but he saw in her eyes again - the sadness, the disapproval, the silent reproach.
He was not what she had imagined. The love of her life dying long before this man had found her. She imagined that his loving kindness would involve roses and kisses and pretty words and would require less work on her part. She thought that she could be a home to him, a light in his darkening eyes; that she was meant to be that, for someone, and that he needed to feel like he had a purpose. She tried to be his purpose, but his gaze wandered inward, and she began to feel as if she were a mirage, a specter in her own home.
She had followed another man to this place, a man that she had loved passionately, and for whom she would have done _anything_ he asked. But this was another man, a different one, one that needed respectability, she thought, one who she could only please unimaginatively. One whose desires were a mystery to her. She quietly moved about the house, doing her work, humming songs to herself. This was not a satisfactory situation, but she had always been a relatively optimistic person, and her work, the interaction with her students, was enough. It was. However, the house was not a home, just a house, built together, with mutual sweat and toil. She no longer wondered why he would wander off, alone. She knew she did not want to have children with this man, she feared that they, too, would make her feel like an alien in her own home.
He sat, looking into the depths of his glass, the food silently swallowed, the plates silently cleared, diligently cleaned and replaced in their respective nests. He cringed at the silence and solemnity, he would have filled the house with laughing children to make up for the crying of his own spoiled youth. But then, the bitter reality, he had created a home that felt more like a prison than a home after all. He was more like his father than he would like to admit, demanding perfection, obedience, despite the decided lack of yelling. But he also yearned for playfulness. This beautiful, crystalline wife he had chosen, tiny like a doll, but with no external motivating factor to spark her eyes with life. Not in this house, anyway. He had seen her with this spark, he had thought that it was meant for him, but it was really meant for another, far off, behind the curtains of her eyelashes and within the secrets spaces in her heart.
And now what? they both wondered, wordlessly. Neither speaking, even though it should have been so easy, words should have rolled between them like the waves of their respective seas. She was not the landscape of his youth, he was not the adventure of hers, they were just stoically, silently together. Wading through life, one day at a time. The food prepared, the animals fed, the sheets tucked under in a perfect hospital corner. Perfection and purity, with no messy edges. Straight lines, and straight-laced interactions in the bedroom. He respected her excessive propriety, she, his need to control everything down to the most minute of details. They smiled ruefully, heroically. This would not be another failure. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. And besides, who would get the dogs if they both just got up from the table and left?
And she _was_ home. He no longer needed to struggle with the awful language that bombarded him daily, he could recoil, into himself, into her. Her firm hands preparing his food, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirts as he readied himself for a trip back into society, good hands, kind hands, knowledgeable hands, that cared for others. Daily. There was music in his house, and companionship that he had so desired, but the stricken, frightened girl began to lose her fear. And the music began to lose its distinct tug at his heart strings. She began to demonstrate daily that there was something that he was failing to give her. She would never tell him what it was, after all, good girls didn’t make demands from where she came, but he saw in her eyes again - the sadness, the disapproval, the silent reproach.
He was not what she had imagined. The love of her life dying long before this man had found her. She imagined that his loving kindness would involve roses and kisses and pretty words and would require less work on her part. She thought that she could be a home to him, a light in his darkening eyes; that she was meant to be that, for someone, and that he needed to feel like he had a purpose. She tried to be his purpose, but his gaze wandered inward, and she began to feel as if she were a mirage, a specter in her own home.
She had followed another man to this place, a man that she had loved passionately, and for whom she would have done _anything_ he asked. But this was another man, a different one, one that needed respectability, she thought, one who she could only please unimaginatively. One whose desires were a mystery to her. She quietly moved about the house, doing her work, humming songs to herself. This was not a satisfactory situation, but she had always been a relatively optimistic person, and her work, the interaction with her students, was enough. It was. However, the house was not a home, just a house, built together, with mutual sweat and toil. She no longer wondered why he would wander off, alone. She knew she did not want to have children with this man, she feared that they, too, would make her feel like an alien in her own home.
He sat, looking into the depths of his glass, the food silently swallowed, the plates silently cleared, diligently cleaned and replaced in their respective nests. He cringed at the silence and solemnity, he would have filled the house with laughing children to make up for the crying of his own spoiled youth. But then, the bitter reality, he had created a home that felt more like a prison than a home after all. He was more like his father than he would like to admit, demanding perfection, obedience, despite the decided lack of yelling. But he also yearned for playfulness. This beautiful, crystalline wife he had chosen, tiny like a doll, but with no external motivating factor to spark her eyes with life. Not in this house, anyway. He had seen her with this spark, he had thought that it was meant for him, but it was really meant for another, far off, behind the curtains of her eyelashes and within the secrets spaces in her heart.
And now what? they both wondered, wordlessly. Neither speaking, even though it should have been so easy, words should have rolled between them like the waves of their respective seas. She was not the landscape of his youth, he was not the adventure of hers, they were just stoically, silently together. Wading through life, one day at a time. The food prepared, the animals fed, the sheets tucked under in a perfect hospital corner. Perfection and purity, with no messy edges. Straight lines, and straight-laced interactions in the bedroom. He respected her excessive propriety, she, his need to control everything down to the most minute of details. They smiled ruefully, heroically. This would not be another failure. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. And besides, who would get the dogs if they both just got up from the table and left?
posted by ilana at 4:43 p.m.
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