Free Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin Page B

behave like beautiful animals,” said Dee-Dee. “Uncle Henry does not behave like a beautiful animal. It isn’t fair to the chimpanzee to say that Uncle Henry behaves like one.”
    â€œAunt Andreya hit him on the head,” said Dee-Dee. “Then she hit Kirby on the head.”
    â€œKirby is like a chimpanzee,” Pete said.
    â€œThat isn’t fair to the chimpanzee,” said Dee-Dee.
    â€œIt is so.”
    â€œIt is not.”
    â€œEnough, you two,” Polly said. On Sunday evenings her children were tired and fretful. When their voices began to climb the scale, she knew it was time to give them a bath and put them to bed. Polly felt tired and fretful, too. Her heart was divided and she was only half present. Henry cleared the table while Polly gave the children their baths. They were so tired they did not demand their usual story, but neither would go to sleep until they had been kissed by both Polly and Henry.
    â€œYou look a little peaked, Polly,” Henry said.
    â€œI’m terribly tired,” said Polly.
    â€œGo take a bath,” Henry said. “Soak a while. Run it really hot. I’ll be up late tonight: I’ve got a pile of work to go through.”
    In her bath Polly felt so tired that she thought she might collapse and drown. Her bones hurt; the insides of her bones hurt. Polly had been trained to explain this sort of thing away by thinking that she was overtired, and then taking a very hot bath and going to bed early.
    She did not have the luxury of getting sick—mothers of young children never did—but she was an excellent nursemaid when anyone else got sick. Wendy had trained her well. Her children were allowed extra pillows, given hot milk and honey or hot lemonade, were allowed to have breakfast on a tray and their toast cut up into pieces the size of postage stamps. These were the treats Polly had been given as a child. As a teen-ager she had been an excellent nursemaid to Wendy, who liked to go into an occasional decline and have her meals brought to her in bed. Now, when Henry had his yearly head cold, she waited on him as well. No one asked her to do this, but it cheered her. Polly liked to make order out of chaos, to tidy up the mess, to give the sick crisp fresh sheets and a nourishing and savory meal.
    But she was not overtired. The fact that she was having a love affair was a clear message: she had been troubled for a long time and had never admitted it and it had worn her down. She had labored cheerfully and without complaint. She came from a legal family and knew as much about Henry’s work as someone who was not a lawyer could. She had felt it right to understand his work. For years she had listened and discussed the very things that took Henry away from her, and she had done it without a thought. She had never felt justifiably angry about anything, and now that repression had come back to bite her. She did not know much about other people’s marriages. She had instead the example of her parents, whom she had never heard quarrel, bicker or snap, or say a cross word about each other. Polly loved Henry with all her heart, but that seemed not to be enough to prevent her from feeling hurt and angry. She had lost her stamina. She had given in. She could not imagine either of her parents angry or hurt; thus she felt she had fallen from grace.
    Henry’s sister, Eva, had been Polly’s roommate at college; she had introduced Polly and Henry. The first time she met him Polly had said to herself: I want to marry that man, or someone like him. A few years later they found themselves at the same party. Henry was a young associate at his firm, and Polly was teaching reading. Their courtship was open and uncomplicated: they knew without a doubt that they would marry, and they were thrilled to have found each other. Both felt that marriage was a step into the adult world. It made sense in every way. Their families were delighted. Her