Tidings. William Wharton
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over my hair to rinse it. If I weren’t completely awake, aware, before, I am now.
Then I strip off the top part of my long johns and do a good soaping and rinsing off of my whole upper body, not just under the arms. I scrub up a good lather in the hair on my chest, arms and back.
I dry vigorously with a towel, then strip off the bottoms to the long johns, scrub all my vital parts. I actually lean over the bowl on our table to let them float in the water so I can do the job properly. I think this part of a man has less density, floats more easily, than other parts. It should, there are no bones, despite romantic claims to the contrary. I stare at these complicated organs of mine and wonder what music they should play to be heard. I rinse and towel myself off again, pull the long johns back on, mostly for Ben’s sake. He’s at an age where nudity bothers him. He even goes into the cold toilet room to dress. The new heater in there might save him from pneumonia.
Now I put the bowl on the floor and the towel beside it. One at a time, I carefully wash my toes. No wonder the washing of feet is such an intrinsic symbol for so many religions. There’s such comfort in it.
I resist overstimulating a minor case of athlete’s foot on my left foot between the little and next toe. No sense starting something.
I carefully dry each foot and slide on the socks, the ones I washed last night, along with my underpants. I’d hung them on the mantel to dry. They’re somewhat crinkly stiff, but still soft and warm. There are some small luxuries in life, hard to describe, but which give it texture, and for me, having washed the socks and underwear by hand, myself, drying them by a fire I kept burning all night, makes it a better, deeper experience. I’ve got to be careful not to try forcing the ones I love to love the things, the ways of living, I love. It’s an easy mistake to make. It might be called the philosopher’s folly, or maybe everybody’s folly. It would be so great if we could show our love by enjoying those we love for what they are, not what we want them to be. It would be the ultimate mutual emancipation.
I’m just exploring that thought, pulling my dark blue Shetland wool sweater over my head when I hear Lor waking up; yawning, mmmning, lip sucking. She gave me this sweater for my birthday, she knows the kinds of things I like. She should, after thirty years, but some women wouldn’t. I don’t really know what she wants sometimes; I hope she really wants the girls here for Christmas. I hope she even wants to be here herself. She has every right, every reason to want to be somewhere else right now. But it all came about so fast.
‘What time is it, dear?’
I look at my watch tipped sideways on the table, beside the bowl of dirty water.
‘Quarter to nine. Wow, is it ever beautiful outside, Lor. Look at that sunshine, and it’s twenty-two below! Everything’s frozen. Except for the sun coming up, it’s almost as if time’s stopped.’
Lor rolls over on her stomach, props her chin on her elbows, looks past me out the new washed window into the icy world. I think there are tears on the outsides of her eyes. It could only be from sleep or the strong light from the window. She quickly wipes them away with the backs of her wrists.
‘You should have wakened me. What a beautiful day. Happy Christmas Eve day, darling.’
‘Happy day to you too, Lor. There’s still plenty of hot water to wash up if you want.’
I look at the inside thermometer.
‘It’s between eighteen and nineteen now, practically like California.’
She’s turned over and is sitting up; spreading covers, making the bed as she slides out. She’s wearing a dark blue flannel nightgown. Sexy sleeping gowns are not her thing. Lately Lor has been much more sexy in the clothes she wears and the way she makes up and does her hair, but she still sleeps in old-fashioned flannel, usually dark blue.
‘Not quite California, dear. I’m not complaining; I think it’s wonderful how you keep this place warm but for a Californian this is Arctic hardship. Gosh, I wonder how the girls are going to manage? I did tell them to bring plenty of warm clothes.’
I dump my bowl of dirty water into the sink, wipe it out with a paper towel, fill it with steaming hot water and some cold, while Loretta makes the freezing trip up to the toilet. I stretch out on the made bed. She doesn’t have time to unplug and plug heaters, just one quick morning piss, or maybe with a woman that’s pee. I know a man’s piss and a woman’s pee sound different; in a toilet bowl anyhow. It’s amazing how much stronger piss smells in the cold. I wonder if she notices that too, probably it’s in the great area of things too vulgar to discuss.
When she comes back, she walks past me, pulls her nightgown up over her head, splashes water over herself, toweling dry as she goes. I try not to let her know I’m watching, but this is one of the best parts about being at the mill. Her skin is still smooth as when we married, transparent pink, no moles nor warts, her stomach bulges slightly under the belly button from four kids but her body is odalisque, especially her back. Ingres, Matisse, Cézanne would love to paint her. Our relationship is such that I find myself more aesthetically pleased than sexually aroused. I don’t know why. I don’t really think either of us wants to rock our boat; broad-beamed, slow-moving, hard to tip over, or at least I always thought it would be hard to tip.
I’ve come to believe nothing fouls up a successful long-term man-woman relationship more thoroughly than rampant sex. One or the other, or sometimes both, sooner or later, get to using withheld intimacy, physical satisfaction, as a weapon; sexual blackmail. Even now, with everything that’s happened, I still feel that way. Maybe that’s part of what’s wrong with me.
At school, over the years, I’ve had many chances at flirtations with students and fellow teachers. I always back off, the rewards don’t seem to match the involvements, the complications, the expectations. I just don’t seem to have the sexual drive needed. I’m much more the romantic than the stud.
Lor squirts herself with deodorant and starts dressing. I get up, push logs around on the fire, then snuggle another one in. We have enough logs cut to get through the day but not enough for tonight. It’s probably time for me to induct Ben into the art of hauling and cutting wood. It’s a very Christmasy thing to do. I hope he’ll see it that way.
Behind me, Ben has wakened. He reaches for his glasses on the table beside him and looks at his digital watch, also on the table. He’s very nearsighted. When we go back to Illinois next time we’ll try fitting him with soft contact lenses.
He’s weird with his watch and his sense of time. He has a flat credit-card size combination computer-watch. He can’t even tell time with a regular handed analog watch. Don’t ever tell him it’s quarter to three instead of 2:45. That’s sacrilege.
Ben swings his feet out of bed and slides them into his slippers. These slippers are the largest size made in France. He stares into the fire. He’s a slow waker, coming from some deep place of rich, imaginative dreams which he’ll sometimes share with us at breakfast, but not now. We all know better than to try much communication with Ben at this point. He told me once he doesn’t mind getting up but he hates to stop dreaming.
‘Morning Ben, have a good sleep?’
‘Uh uh.’
‘It’s a beautiful day out, clear and cold. The pond’s frozen.’
‘That’s good. Did it snow?’
‘No. It’s too cold to snow now.’
‘Uh huh.’
Ben’s a bit of an old man in his ways. Each night he carefully folds his clothes and stacks them on a chair beside him. It’s hard getting him to surrender clothes for washing. He’s not enthusiastic about change of any kind, even changing his socks. If happiness is being satisfied with what you have, then Ben’s the happiest person I’ve ever met.
He gets up, stretches, pokes the fire with his favorite stick poker, gathers together his pile of clothes and heads up the small, steep, four-step stairway toward the bathroom.
‘Ben, you can