Page 30 of The New Couple in 5B

“Yes—thank you. Good night, Abi,” I say for lack of anything else to say.Were you listening to us, Abi? Did you hear us having sex?

“Good night, Ms. Lowan.”

ACT II

the windermere

The world of god and spirits is truly “nothing but” the collective unconscious inside me.

Carl Jung

The Collected Works of C.G. Jung,

Psychology and Religion: West and East

eight

Willa

1963

Paul says that this apartment is haunted. In fact, he thinks the whole building is. He’s writing about it in his new novel, a couple in a building populated by ghosts. He says it will be a love story of sorts, but he won’t let me read a word. Not yet. But of course, the apartment, which is lovely and full of light, could never be haunted. He’s a writer and prone to flights of fancy.

Sunshine streams in through every window. At night we light a fire, and the space is cozy and warm. I remind him that it’s the place where our love lives, and where we will raise our family. He just smiles and says that the city is no place to bring up children, that soon we’ll move to the country.

And I try to smile back. I don’t say how I can never leave this place, how all my dreams are paved into these streets. And all the glittering lights, and the parties, and auditions and opening nights; these things are the blood in my veins.

I am trying to be a good wife. Truly, I am. I cook and clean. I answer his correspondence, take his messages when he’s working. I keep myself beautiful for him so that when he emerges from his study, there’s something to entice him back to the real world and away from that too vivid, consuming imagination.

He’s been cranky. The writing is not going well. He’s been frustrated with his publisher, says they’re not doing enough for him. And the truth is, I’m not happy, either. Since my show has closed, I’ve not had another callback from any of my auditions. My ankle is so painful, that some nights it keeps me awake.

And month after month, my period comes with unforgiving regularity. I’m even failing at that, the one thing that should come easily to me. It seems that I can neither be the star I wanted to be, nor the wife and mother that Paul hopes for.

There’s only one thing that fills me with joy. And it’s another thing I know I’ll have to give up.

Tonight Paul was up late writing, and when he emerged from his office, he was a bear. We fought. But like so many of our arguments, it ended with passionate lovemaking—this time on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispers as I lie in his arms. Whatever we bickered about already forgotten. Just a way to blow off steam for both of us.

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” I tell him, even though I’m not sure that’s true.

He sighs and kisses me on the head. “I’m not good enough for you.”

“You’re everything,” I tell him.

But that’s not entirely true, either. I wish it were. I wish he was enough. That this quiet life was enough.

Later in bed when he starts to snore, I slip into my red cocktail dress with the sweetheart neck, fitted bodice and flouncy skirt, and the heels that will make my ankle swell later.

I told my love that I wouldn’t come out to meet him tonight. He said he would wait in case I changed my mind. I check the hour and it’s almost midnight. Surely, he’ll be gone by the time I arrive.

Still, I sneak down the back staircase again, and out the side door, so no one will see me. And the street is quiet, as quiet as a city street ever is. In the town upstate where Paul hopes to move us, it is as dark and quiet as a tomb. Surely, that will be my fate—a grave of domesticity. Like my mother—hands raw from cleaning, slumped from cooking, body soft from childbearing. No music or hot stage lights, or the wild thrill of applause. Just a task list with no end.

When I arrive at the hotel lounge, the singer is still crooning despite the late hour, and my love is waiting for me in our favorite corner booth. My heart is a soaring bird in my chest. Do I ever feel this way about Paul? It’s a question I can’t consider. Won’t. There are all different kinds of love, I tell myself.

I’ve barely sat across from him when he reaches for my hand.

“Leave him,” he says, urgent. I can tell he’s been sitting here, ruminating. There’s an empty glass in front of him, a second in his hand. “He can’t love you the way I do. He doesn’t evenseeyou.”

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