The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [18]
Only once had Jack ever lashed out at Mattie. Kathryn could see even now the fury in Jack’s face when he discovered that Mattie had shoved a playmate down the stairs. Mattie and her friend were how old? Four? Five? Jack had grabbed Mattie by the arm, whacked her once hard on the butt, and then nearly dragged her to her room and slammed the door with such ferocity that even Kathryn had been shaken. His actions were so instinctive, so swift, that Kathryn imagined that he had himself been punished that way as a child and that he had, for one brief moment, lost his usual control. Later, she tried to talk to him about the incident, but Jack, whose face still bore a deep, rosy flush, would not discuss it, except to say that he didn’t know what had come over him.
“You specialize in this,” Kathryn said to Robert.
He glanced over at the counter, searching for something that might function as an ashtray. She took the white saucer from under her teacup and slid it across the pine table. He propped the cigarette on the saucer and began to pick up his dishes.
“Not really,” he said.
“Let me do this,” she said. “You’ve done enough.”
He hesitated.
“Please,” she said. “I’m capable of washing dishes.”
He sat down and picked up the cigarette again. She walked to the sink and flipped open the dishwasher. She turned on the water.
“I like to think of myself as forming a cocoon around the family,” he said, “insulating them from the outside world.”
“Which has so grotesquely intruded,” she said.
“Which has so grotesquely intruded.”
“Containment,” she said. “That’s what you do. Containment.” “Tell me about your job,” he said. “What do you teach?” “Music and history. And I’m in charge of the band.” “Seriously?”
“Seriously. There are only seventy-two students in the high school.”
“You like teaching?” he asked.
She thought a minute.
“I do,” she said. “Yes, I like it a lot. I’ve had one or two truly outstanding students. Last year, we sent a girl to the New England Conservatory. I like the kids.”
“It’s a different life being married to a pilot,” he said.
She nodded. She thought about the odd hours, about never celebrating a holiday on the day itself. About Jack’s wanting breakfast at seven o’clock in the evening, or dinner and a glass of wine at seven in the morning. Theirs had been a life different from that of other families. Jack might be gone for three days, home two, and that schedule would continue for two or three months. And then, the next month, he might have four days off, six days on, and Mattie and Kathryn would adjust to that rhythm. They didn’t live by routine, as other families did — they lived in segments. Bits of time when Jack was home, longer bits of time when Jack was gone. And when he was gone, the house would seem to deflate a bit, settle quietly in on itself. And no matter how much attention Kathryn paid to Mattie or how much they enjoyed each other’s company, it always seemed to Kathryn that they were suspended — waiting for real life to begin again, for Jack to walk back in the door.
Kathryn wondered, as she sat across from Robert, whether she would feel like that now — suspended in time, waiting for Jack to once again walk in the door.
“How often did he commute?” Robert asked.
“From here? About six times a month.”
“Not too bad. It’s what? Fifty minutes?”
“Yes. Do you have a suitcase packed in your office?” she asked. “Packed and ready?”
He hesitated.
“A small one,” he said.
“You’re going to the inn tonight?”
“Yes, but I could sleep here on the sofa if you’d rather.”
“No. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Julia and Mattie. Tell me another story,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
She put the last dish in the dishwasher