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I
think
I
’
m
proposing
marriage
.
The
wedding
.
Her
father
had
been
there
,
her
mother
had
not
been
.
She
discovered
she
could
live
with
that
,
if
she
had
Jack
.
Then
Danny
had
come
,
her
fine
son
.
That
had
been
the
best
year
,
the
best
bed
.
After
Danny
was
born
,
Jack
had
gotten
her
a
job
typing
for
half
a
dozen
English
Department
profs
-
quizzes
,
exams
,
class
syllabi
,
study
notes
,
reading
lists
.
She
ended
up
tvping
a
novel
for
one
of
them
,
a
novel
that
never
got
published
…
much
to
Jack
’
s
very
irreverent
and
very
private
glee
.
The
job
was
good
for
forty
a
week
,
and
skyrocketed
all
the
way
up
to
sixty
during
the
two
months
she
spent
typing
the
unsuccessful
novel
.
They
had
their
first
car
,
a
five
-
year
-
old
Buick
with
a
baby
seat
in
the
middle
.
Bright
,
upwardly
mobile
young
marrieds
.
Danny
forced
a
reconciliation
between
her
and
her
mother
,
a
reconciliation
that
was
always
tense
and
never
happy
,
but
a
reconciliation
all
the
same
.
When
she
took
Danny
to
the
house
,
she
went
without
Jack
.
And
she
didn
’
t
tell
Jack
that
her
mother
always
remade
Danny
’
s
diapers
,
frowned
over
his
formula
,
could
always
spot
the
accusatory
first
signs
of
a
rash
on
the
baby
’
s
bottom
or
privates
.
Her
mother
never
said
anything
overtly
,
but
the
message
came
through
anyway
:
the
price
she
had
begun
to
pay
(
and
maybe
always
would
)
for
the
reconciliation
was
the
feeling
that
she
was
an
inadequate
mother
.
It
was
her
mother
’
s
way
of
keeping
the
thumbscrews
handy
.
During
the
days
Wendy
would
stay
home
and
housewife
,
feeding
Danny
his
bottles
in
the
sunwashed
kitchen
of
the
four
-
room
second
-
story
apartment
,
playing
her
records
on
the
battered
portable
stereo
she
had
had
since
high
school
.
Jack
would
come
home
at
three
(
or
at
two
if
he
felt
he
could
cut
his
last
class
)
,
and
while
Danny
slept
he
would
lead
her
into
the
bedroom
and
fears
of
inadequacy
would
be
erased
.
At
night
while
she
typed
,
he
would
do
his
writing
and
his
assignments
.
In
those
days
she
sometimes
came
out
of
the
bedroom
where
the
typewriter
was
to
find
both
of
them
asleep
on
the
studio
couch
,
Jack
wearing
nothing
but
his
underpants
,
Danny
sprawled
comfortably
on
her
husband
’
s
chest
with
his
thumb
in
his
mouth
.
She
would
put
Danny
in
his
crib
,
then
read
whatever
Jack
had
written
that
night
before
waking
him
up
enough
to
come
to
bed
.
The
best
bed
,
the
best
year
.
Sun
gonna
shine
in
my
backyard
someday
…
In
those
days
,
Jack
’
s
drinking
had
still
been
well
in
hand
.
On
Saturday
nights
a
bunch
of
his
fellow
students
would
drop
over
and
there
would
be
a
case
of
beer
and
discussions
in
which
she
seldom
took
part
because
her
field
had
been
sociology
and
his
was
English
:
arguments
over
whether
Pepys
’
s
diaries
were
literature
or
history
;
discussions
of
Charles
Olson
’
s
poetry
;
sometimes
the
reading
of
works
in
progress
.
Those
and
a
hundred
others
.
No
,
a
thousand
.
She
felt
no
real
urge
to
take
part
;
it
was
enough
to
sit
in
her
rocking
chair
beside
Jack
,
who
sat
cross
-
legged
on
the
floor
,
one
hand
holding
a
beer
,
the
other
gently
cupping
her
calf
or
braceleting
her
ankle
.
