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The Requiem.
That’s what this was. Trina was singing hers now. The death of a marriage. The death of a typical family in an atypical life. Her sobs made the ironic melody that echoed in the bathroom as Marvin tried to sleep.
While his wife felt the grief new, Marvin sang his own requiem long ago. He sang his on their wedding night. He sang his the day Trina phoned her father to tell him the happy news about the baby. He sang his the first night he had sex with his wife.
The Encounter.
He walked her home from the library. He had seen her judging the weather, the rain coming down lightly. Her face was worried. Her eyes a little frantic. He strolled over to her with his awkward stride and offered to take her back under the protection of his umbrella. It was barely enough for him, but the squeezed under it carefully. They chatted quietly, discovering they were in the lecture for biology together. He was a year older than her but put off his science class so he could pursue English a little more. He thought he was very smart. He talked to her about the symbolism of Oscar Wilde’s work. She just listened. She happened to be fascinated, though. She liked the stimulating conversation. She liked him. And when they reached her apartment, she offered him a late dinner, which he accepted. Turned out nice, too. And soon the storm hit and Marvin knew that the rain would be too powerful for his little umbrella. She offered him a place to sleep.
The Intimacy.
His mouth was a line she could not see. A grimace. A fear. A world of confusion and hurt. Marvin’s face was a battlezone of emotion. He pressed against the woman’s thin frame, pushing her further down into her own bed. The mattress was thin. She could feel it pressing down against the springs below it. But she seemed to be enjoying herself. He knew because he caught glimpses of her face. Her eyes seemed to be closed whenever he looked.
He could do this. Marvin could do this. This dance in her bed, the casual nature of this sudden development scared Marvin. He had realized that they had started this together. It was a mutual decision. Wait. No. Had he been pressured by her? No. He had said yes on his own. Because he needed to prove to himself that he could do this. He pressed her further down, came at her with an awkward force that only seemed to surprise her more.
When it was over, he fell on his back, sweating. Sweating because he had to force himself to do that. Sweating because he tried. The girl slipped under the covers, amazed. Her body seemed to be a bit redder, maybe from embarrassment? Maybe from shock. He didn’t seem to care. He fell asleep with her heavy breathing beside him. This wouldn’t happen again, right? Well, it would.
The Communication.
The phone rang dangerously. Marvin eyed it as he waited for her to return from the mailroom. He had a creeping suspicion of who it would be. Her mother. Or her father. Horrible meddlers. They hadn’t heard from their daughter for a few weeks. It made sense. She didn’t want to talk to them.
She came in through the door, her face a smile. The phone had stopped and Marvin thought he was safe. Until the phone rang again and her face became alarmed, shocked, startled, and scared. Her heart had leaped and she walked the slow march to the phone.
“Hello? Hi, mom. Yes…”
The conversation seemed endless. Marvin wondered if she would mention it. Her recent growth. The reason she had bought a few new shirts and blouses and only wore those. His smile was ironic and sad. And then…
“Yes, a baby. There’s going to be a baby.”
Marvin’s ironic smile fell. He was facing it.
“Dad?”
Oh. Her father was involved. Wonderful.
“Dad?”
Her face went pale and Marvin looked at her as she looked at the phone in disbelief.
“What did he say?”
Her sad smile was pained. Her eyes looked watery. “That we’ll marry.”
The Nausea.
He was nauseous. His soon-to-be wife looked as if she was trying to smile. That was the motif. A smile. All of their smiles were false. Fake. Failing. Unnatural. And artificial.
As her father walked her down the aisle, his face looked solemn. This was not the life he imagined for his daughter. This was not the marriage.
Marvin did his best to be a good Jewish son-in-law. He gave a grin. He acted his part. They said their vows. The rabbi didn’t look at them much. More to the small audience.
The Game.
Marvin watched as the girl undressed. Shed her wedding dress for a nightgown. She wasn’t too large yet. And it wasn’t as if this was the ceremonial first night they planned. Marvin tried. But it was official. He felt sick. He held out his hand to graze her face, to touch her breast, chest, stomach, back, just her arm. He couldn’t. Something was lacking. He couldn’t play this game. He went to bed. “Tired,” he said. And he was under the covers.
His wife played a game of solitaire. He woke up once and watched her, only for a moment. She sat by the light of the television. He wondered what was going on with the game. He liked baseball. (Except he soon wouldn’t.)
She played a game of her own. A game of solitude. His game? It was the joke that his life was. Trying to appease everyone with his image. Trying to appease his wife with his presence. But he already failed. And he didn’t feel guilty.
The Reprise.
Marvin sat in his car, ready to pull out of the driveway. There was no use pretending that he hadn’t come home late that night after walking Whizzer to the door and then driving him home. He watched the kitchen window, trying to see if his wife was playing the role of the perfect domestic mother. He didn’t see her. It was the day after the incident. He had gone to work early. His wife had made his breakfast. They didn’t talk. Their son noticed. Finally, after a few minutes, he got out of the car and let himself into the house. The creek of the old door reminded him of a song. The song that every time he returned, he died a little more. His requiem was in the sounds that this old house made around him, reminding him of this tragic life he lived.
He walked down the hall, littered with pictures of him, his son, and wife. He looked at their smiling faces with the corners telling a small story. He looked into the eyes of his wife as they stand behind their son on his first day of third grade. They are sad. Tired. They cannot mask their own problems even for their son’s achievements. He goes down the hall to their room. His and his wife’s.
She’s asleep. Her hair is messed up. Twisted and tangled. Her sleep must have been uneasy for she is clutching a pillow to her chest as if it would save her life. A preserver in her sleep. Drowning, she was. Drowning in her mourning. Marvin gave a sad smile. He wasn’t happy that this had happened. He wanted to say something about dinner, but that wasn’t his place. She would make him breakfast in the morning, as always. But for one night, he let her sleep.
Jason wandered over. Marvin blocked the sight of the boy’s mother as to not alarm him. He stood protectively in the doorway.
“Is mom okay?” He asked. Worried, but still bitter about the situation. “Dinner isn’t ready and you’re home.”
Marvin winced and sighed, pushing him further into the hall and shutting the door the the master bedroom.
He frowns, smiles, then asks, “Jason, how about takeout?”
The boy agrees. Marvin dials. They let her sleep.