A WORKING BASIS
BY ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH
Why she married him her friends wondered at the time. Those she made later wondered more. Before long she caught herself wondering. Yes, she had seen it beforehand, more or less. But she had seen other things as well: he had developed unevenly, unexpectedly, if logically. There had been common tastes—which grew obsolete or secondary. As the momentum of what she believed and hoped of him ran down with them both, he crystallized into the man he was, and no doubt virtually had always been.
It was bad enough to have to ask for money, but to have it counted out to you, to be questioned about it like a child, was worse.
“I don’t understand,” she said in the first months of their marriage. “Are you afraid I won’t be judicious, responsible? Mightn’t you try before judging?”
“Judicious? Responsible?” He pinched her cheek. (Judith was five feet nine and sweetly sober of mien.) “There are no feminines or diminutives of those words, my dear.”
She stepped back. “But with more freedom I could manage better, Sam.”
“Manage?”—jocularly. “That is your long suit, isn’t it? You feel equal to managing all of us? Could even give me pointers on the business, eh?”
“Why not?” she asked, quietly.
Sam, feet apart, hands in pockets, looked her over with the smile one has for a dignified kitten. “I won’t trouble you, my dear. I manage this family.” With his pleasantries a lower note struck—and jangled.