“Love Song of a Housewife”
I have waited here all evening for him to return so we can dine together. But there is no sign of him. I’d have phoned the office, but should I do so and he’s there, he’ll fly into a rage. And should he not be there, my fears will have been confirmed. Or will they?
The late nights he keeps these days cannot be because of his work. I’m sure he is busy in another woman’s arms. I have seen lipstick on his shirt several times. I definitely found face-power all over his shirt-front. I knew he was up to something. But I couldn’t confront him. And I kept on hoping I was wrong. But I’m sure I’m not wrong. Or am I?
He was always a deeply caring man. I was proud of him and have lived for him, determined to live up to his high standards. Ten years together and not one day have I looked at another man with desire. I thought he’d be equally faithful to me. Or has he been?
I cannot be said to have grown any worse. Time has not taken much from me. Indeed I should think I was even more desirable now, in my maturity. A little more flesh here and there, some fat on the upper arms, but surely that was to be expected? After three children. Two boys, one girl. And he always told me he didn’t want any more children. I could have more children if he wanted them. And I’m sure we’d be able to care for them. I’d make any sacrifice that was needed. I’m willing to do so. God, I’m willing. Whatever he says. Whatever he wants. If that will only stop him from dancing. Or have I been too accommodating? Too nice to him? Would it have driven the lesson home to him if I’d nagged him some, challenged him some, called him to his senses?
Would that have helped? What does he want? What do men want? You are a pretty, elegant, faithful, hard-working mother and wife; you have read all the books about how to keep a family happy and your husband contented; you know what he wants and you give it all to him; he does not ever show any signs of dissatisfaction with you, and yet? What does he want? Fun? You’re willing to go to parties and nightclubs with him and you can dance as well as any other woman young or old. What does he want?
I think I hear the sound of a car outside. Yes, No, it’s not him. And his food’s grown cold. How I wish I could have my dinner all alone. But habit has made me want to have him opposite me at table. I’ve grown accustomed to him guzzling his drink; I love to hear him commend my cooking. My cooking … Is that what he hates? Does it bore him to have good food all the time? But he’s never complained? If he as much as raised a whimper of a protest, I’d go and purchase all the cookery books in the world and give him exactly what he wanted … Did I hear the telephone ring? No. my senses begin to deceive me. Why won’t he call, just to let me know exactly where he is? Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if he were at a cocktail party, or at the club or even in another woman’s house… Another woman’s house? Really, it’s the suspense that bites. Kills. Suppose he’s had an accident on his way home? What then? Maybe I should call the hospital or the police? I should make a fool of myself in public, you say. Probably. But at least it would ease the burden on my mind. Or would it?
You know what I dread most? That one day, I’ll hear he’s had a baby by some wretched young girl in some crummy part of town. On, I should commit suicide. No, wait … That will please some people, honour them. And who’ll take care of my children? No, not suicide. Rather, I should get into my very best clothes, call up his dearest friend or his assistant in the office and offer to make love to them. Make love to them. That should serve him right. Cut his ego to size. The son-of-a-bitch. Let him but bring a bastard to this house. I’ll set the children on him! Could I?
But suppose he were actually to inform me some day that he’s acquired a new wife? After all, his friends are doing it, so why shouldn’t he? Ugh, that would really mortify me. To share his love on a regulated basis … It’s better to have him doing it quietly on the side rather than it institutionalized, programmed, time-tabled. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, my turn. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, hers. And Sunday s? God defend us against these terrible monsters! Come to think of it, the Europeans do it better. When you are fed up with each other, you cut the links, share the responsibilities and go and start all over again with someone else. But the male beasts here just want it all their way. The pigs! Harems, harems. Lord, why did you make women in so cruel a world? Why will two, three or four of them want to share one man? Can you see a man agreeing to share a woman with another man? Yet most women do not think twice before doing it. I thank God I’m not like other women. If he dares, I’ll show him a thing or two. Surely.
But wait. What’s that I hear in his room? Sounds like snoring. Oh, he might have come in while I was having a shower and making myself desirable to him … Goodness, and his dinner is all cold! He must have been mad at not seeing his dinner on the table when he arrived home. How often he’s told me about that! … Oh Lord, it’s him indeed, snoring away his hunger and anger! Oh dear, oh dear … And to think I’ve been worrying myself stiff…
‘Honey! Darling! Wake up! It’s dinner time. Honey! Please’
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