Nov 8th 1960
Piggleston, Oregon 9:31pm
As always, they watched the Huntley-Brinkley report till the end.
‘Goodnight, Chet.’
‘Goodnight, David.’
‘And good night for NBC news. Stay tuned for more election coverage.’
Billie had not been listening, or really even watching. She was knitting Christmas stockings for Elisabeth and Sam, who were in bed. Sam was getting a Santa going down a chimney and Elisabeth’s stocking would have a snowman. It was the hardest thing she’d ever knitted, and needed all her concentration. She frowned when Jacko spoke, because she’d been silently counting stitches.
‘What?’
‘I said, let’s celebrate.’
‘Why?’
He ignored her and opened a bottle of Zinfandel from Buena Vista. He’d bought it in a nostalgic mood; his dad had been entitled to discounts, and Zinfandel had often been on the table at home.
‘Here’s to our saviour,’ Jacko said, touching her glass with his own. ‘Kennedy almost certainly won,’ he prompted. ‘Skin of his teeth, but it looks like he’s got it in the bag. Thank God for the electoral college.’
‘The what college?’
‘Never mind. Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ said Billie, automatically, and put her glass down without drinking. She resumed knitting. It had been a long day. Martha from the PTA had phoned to scold her about forgetting to bake three cakes for the school sale as, apparently, she’d promised. Then Elisabeth had wet herself at kindergarten again. Twice, so she’d had to wear the kindergarten underpants and skirt home. Elisabeth had whined all the way home, not because of her humiliation, but because the underpants were blue, and she hated the colour blue. Sam had brought home a note from school asking Billie to arrange for a parent-teacher meeting soon, to discuss Sam’s ongoing problems with reading. What problems with reading? There was nothing wrong with Sam’s reading ability. Now, this. Christmas stockings beyond her knitting ability. Why had she begun? They were 50¢ at Woolworths, for heaven’s sake. In August Billie loved the idea of Christmas, but although it was still only November, it had already begun to feel like something that loomed.
Jacko drank and smoked. Squatted in front of the set and turned the channels till he found another programme about the election results. Such a close race, still counting till this morning and the result not confirmed till now. It was incredible, because Nixon actually won the popular vote. He wanted to race outside and find other people who also thought it was incredible. He wanted to drink a Goddamn case of this stuff.
‘Can we get a puppy? The kids would love one.’
‘No,’ he said distractedly, and lit another cigarette.
‘What if it was one like Lassie? I can’t believe you don’t want a dog. I thought all men liked dogs.’
‘Billie. Listen, honey.’ He spoke very slowly. ‘The Republicans damn near won, but they lost.’
‘I heard. So what?’
‘So it’s important. It’s very good news.’
‘I know! Your face looks funny. Are you drunk?’
He’d been feeling old lately, and hating his job. He hated this town too. And the neighbours in the apartment below. They had a dog that barked continually, and the wife never said hello unless Jacko said hello first. He’d apply to Golden Gate Freight Press again. Why not? Hell, he’d look for jobs anywhere in California; Oregon was not for him. He was thirty-three years old already, for Christ’s sake. According to the news yesterday, he only had thirty-six more years. If he was lucky. And here he was, stalled in some podunk town with a valley wife who didn’t know the difference between a Republican and a Democrat. In fact, who the hell was she? He didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. In the back of his mind, that very small cool room, he wondered: So then, is this what my marriage is? This daily, constant getting to know a person you thought you already knew. Was it just that, plus a slow accumulation of joint memories? Surely marriage must be more, could be better than this…this business of thinking he knew her, and then not. Estrangement and intimacy, round and round. In the beginning it had been thrilling not really knowing her, but the best bits now were the times Billie felt familiar and comprehensible. It was so cosy, then. He wanted that feeling back.
‘Oh come here, Billieboo.’ He patted the place next to him on the sofa and smiled his old self-mocking leer. That used to break the ice.
‘Get lost.’ Then, softly: ‘I’m all comfy here.’
‘I’ll rub your feet.’
‘Are you spilling ash on the rug again?’
Billie scolded herself silently for nagging. Rule number three in How to Keep your Husband Happy: Do not criticise him. She stood up and took him an ashtray.
‘Here you go, sweetie. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Take your shoes off and sit down.’
‘Just going to finish this row.’
She went back to her seat. I’d be happy if he never touched me again, she thought. She crossed her legs, smoothed her hair back and argued with herself while still managing to knit. Rule number two taunted her. Make him feel valued and attractive. He needs to feel you respect and love him.
Oh, just go sit on his lap, she chided herself. Go on, it’s what he’d love.
Why? I don’t want to. (She had a few sips of wine.)
Go on, just do it. He’s your husband. He’s not a bad man.
I didn’t say he was.
Well? You read the book.
Billie drank more wine.
Chapter two. Please Your Husband. His home is his refuge from the world of work.
