My husband has graying hair, dark eyes, and a gentle disposition. Because of his disposition, I've heard women come up to him before Mass and remark that he could be a priest. They've even gone so far as to call him Father John. They've told me how lucky I am to have a partner of such grace and ease, such poise and posture. I suppose I've just taken him for granted after thirty-six years.
John and I live in Davis, California, a university town. He's a professor of viticulture, and I've been his secretary for twenty-two years. We met in the department as undergraduates. We have three children who attend the university: Charlie majors in economics; Paul studies musicology; and Mary Anne hasn't decided.
Because our lives are constrained by the university and our salaries, the surface of our daily routine is easy to describe. John arises at six and turns on the news. He's fond of listening to the weather report. (He raises vines in the experimental field and he is nearly as close to them as his children.) I let our dogs out upon rising. We have a pug named Mitsy and a dobbie named Earl. When I return from walking the two, I shower and dress and hurry on to Taber Hall.
John teaches between nine and noon. He schedules his afternoon for office hours and departmental meetings. I usually set up the meetings and run off copies of homework assignments. When I return to the house around five, I walk the dogs again and prepare dinner for the two of us. I light three candles, turn down the lights, put on some classical music, and lay out the silver, crystal, and china.
Most of our acquaintances live in our small neighborhood, one of Tudor houses and large lawns bordered by elms and aspens. Here the professors and their families abide. I call them our acquaintances because we really have no close friends, busy as we are. We usually go to the Pattersons once a semester to taste Ed's home brew.
Last month at the Pattersons, we met Ed and Katherine's only child, Joan, who was taking a semester off from Harvard. Joan was twenty-one and working on her M.A. in agriculture. I do think looking back at that evening, Joan was the aggressor in the friendship between her and my husband. I remember how she teased a strand of hair out of his eyes when they were sipping ale on the hearth in front of the fire. I remember Joan's high-pitched, playful laugh and John's blushing.
Joan was a rather plain-looking girl. She wore plaid skirts and loafers and fall-colored sweaters. She reminded me of myself when I was a student, except I was shy and wore glasses. Sometimes after walking the animals, I'd see John talking on the phone, pacing and pulling his hair. He'd see me walking up to the porch and hurriedly put down the receiver. At Mass, I noticed Joan sitting directly opposite us. I swear her eyes were never on the priest or the missal but on my husband.
One night I was cleaning the dishes, and Joan rapped on the front door. She asked if John might talk to her about the history of the glassy-eyed sharpshooter, a pest who was slowly making its way up from the San Joaquin to the fertile Napa and Sonoma valleys. The wine industry was at stake. I excused myself, left a bowl of plums in the breakfast nook, and went to the den to watch T.V.
The next day, John asked me out to lunch at the cafeteria where a dozen Joan types were buying chips and sandwiches and loading up on diet Cokes. He took my ring hand in his. "I don't know what to do, honey. Joan wants me for this and that, and I've seen her eyes fixed on me at church. I'm not some Jeremy Irons type after young girls. Damn, I'm not the type. But it feels good to be appealing again. It reminds me of when we first met. Don't get me wrong, honey. I love you, I do, but Joan has triggered something in me I both like and fear. Am I crazy?"
What could I say? I was in a cafeteria and part of me wanted to scream, You jerk. Stupid, naive jerk. Tell that young Lolita to take her charms elsewhere. But how could I say all this? The tables were so close together I could hear the sucking on straws and the rustle of chips. Perhaps John took me here knowing I wouldn't throw a hissy fit in front of a youthful and desperate audience.
We agreed to stop visiting the Pattersons, to let the thing, whatever you call it, have some time to work itself out. But Joan seemed to be in charge of time and ended up at the door a week after our luncheon. I told her we were busy, that John had a briefcase of papers to correct. Why couldn't I tell her the truth? Why couldn't John? Perhaps I saw Joan as a rather unattractive, bookish type, not something any man would think of bedding. But then again, I once thought of myself like Joan; a nobody, a studious girl not worthy of a glance or a flirtation in my youth. Sometimes I saw her in front of the lawn under the harvest moon, scrutinizing the house. She'd pirouette around and around in those ugly loafers.
I retrieved the mail with the dogs one day in late November. There was a card addressed to John from Joan. Her writing was in pink and smelled of roses. The little letters were crowded together like leaves left in a heap. I wanted to tear up the card then and there, but I waited until John came home. I poured us two stiff martinis and put the envelope in front of him at supper.
"Crazy, just crazy, she is!!! Smart, but crazy. Look honey, I'm flattered, I really am, but this is just too much. She's in my classes now. Staring, just staring." John bit down hard on his olive and then swallowed it quickly. He opened the note. The card had a lovely beach scene. A couple was embracing. There was a short poem from Millay about unrequited love. Under the poem, Joan had written Love you, my Johnnie boy. Oh, there was a time I called my John, Johnnie, but how many years ago was that?
The evening before Thanksgiving, I knew what I had to do. I thought about the pest, the glassy winged sharpshooter, how it could take out an entire valley almost overnight. I thought of people who could wipe out what had been years in the making. The kids would be coming over later this evening. I decided to call Joan Patterson herself.
"Yes, this is Joan?"
"Hello, Joan, this is Mrs. Galvin. Yes, John's wife. I wanted to call you and tell you not to see my husband anymore. Plain and simple. Go back to your studies, Joan. Seeing my husband, who is married, is not good for you, for us. We have three children about your age. Please don't embarrass them. Don't embarrass yourself. You are a smart girl. A pretty girl. Just leave our family be." I could hear a gentle weeping on the other end. I put down the receiver in its cradle and started towards the kitchen. I thought briefly of the times when I was dumped by the few men I dated, the ones before John. I remembered how it hurt, how very fragile I became and couldn't concentrate on my studies.
I saw John in the den with a bundle of papers in front of him. He was smoking a pipe and the cherry smell gave me a sense of security, one I had never felt so strongly before. John looked more placid, and more debonair, than ever; it could have been the way the moonlight was pouring its milky light upon his hair and shoulders. I like to think Joan returned to Harvard, to her schoolwork, and found a nice young man her own age.
The children came home for Thanksgiving. I lit the three candles. We read from the Old Testament about sons being like olive plants around the table. We kidded Mary Anne about being a lily, a tiger lily. I noticed John had buzzed his hair. A military type cut. I'll have to say it made him look youthful. Come evening, I cleaned the dishes, and after that, I walked the dogs.