A Domestic Dilemma-2

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    "Marianne!" Martin called, for even the recolle of that time brought the need for reassurahe baby girl, no longer hurt, but no less precious to her father, came into the kit with her brother. Marti on with the preparations for the meal. He opened a  of soup and put two chops in the frying pan. The down by the table and took his Marianne on his knees for a pony ride. Andy watched them, his fingers wobbling the tooth that had been loose all that week.

    "Andy-the-dyman!" Martin said. "Is that old critter still in your mouth? e closer, let Daddy have a look."

    "I got a string to pull it with." The child brought from his pocket a tahread. "Virgie said to tie it to the tooth and tie the other end of the doorknob and shut the door real suddenly."

    Martin took out a  handkerchief ahe loose tooth carefully. "That tooth is ing out of my Andys mouth tonight. Otherwise Im awfully afraid well have a tooth tree in the family."

    "A what?"

    "A tooth tree," Martin said. "Youll bite into something and swallow that tooth. And the tooth will take root in poor Andys stomad grow into a tooth tree with sharp little teeth instead of leaves."

    "Shoo, Daddy," Andy said. But he held the tooth firmly between his grimy little thumb and forefinger. "There aint any tree like that. I never seen one."

    "There isnt any tree like that and I never saw one."

    Martin tensed suddenly. Emily was ing dowairs. He listeo her fumbling footsteps, his arm embrag the little boy with dread. When Emily came into the room he saw from her movements and her sullen face that she had agai the sherry bottle. She began to yank open drawers ahe table.

    "dition!" she said in a furry voice. "You talk to me like that. Dont think Ill fet. I remember every dirty lie you say to me. Dont you think for a mihat I fet."

    "Emily!" he begged. "The children --"

    "The children -- yes! Dont think I dohrough your dirty plots and schemes. Dowrying to turn my own children against me. Dont think I dont see and uand."

    "Emily! I beg you -- please go upstairs."

    "So you  turn my children -- my very own children --" Twe tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks. &qu to turn my little boy, my Andy, against his own mother."

    With drunken impulsiveness Emily k on the floor before the startled child. Her hands on his shoulders balanced her. "Listen, my Andy -- you wouldnt listen to any lies your father tells you? You wouldnt believe what he says? Listen, Andy, what was your father telling you before I came downstairs?" Uain, the child sought his fathers face. "Tell me. Mama wants to know."

    "About the tooth tree."

    "What?"

    The child repeated the words and she echoed them with unbelieving terror. "The tooth tree!" She swayed and renewed her grasp on the childs shoulder. "I dont know what youre talking about. But listen, Andy, Mama is all right, isnt she?" The tears were spilling down her fad Andy drew back from her, for he was afraid. Grasping the table edge, Emily stood up.

    "See! You have turned my child against me."

    Marianne began to cry, and Martin took her in his arms.

    "Thats all right, you  take your child. You have always shown partiality from the very first. I dont mind, but at least you  leave me my little boy."

    Andy edged close to his father and touched his leg. &quot;Dadd<s>9９ｌib?</s>y,&quot; he wailed.

    Martin took the children to the foot of the stairs. &quot;Andy, you take up Marianne and Daddy will follow you in a minute.&quot;

    &quot;But Mama?&quot; the child asked, whispering.

    &quot;Mama will be all right. Dont worry.&quot;

    Emily was sobbing at the kit table, her face buried in the crook of her arm. Martin poured a cup<u>?9９ｌｉb.</u> of soup a before her. Her rasping sobs unnerved him; the vehemence of her emotion, irrespective of the source, touched in him a strain of tenderness. Unwillingly he laid his hand on her dark hair. &quot;Sit up and drink the soup.&quot; Her face as she looked up at him was chastened and impl. The boys withdrawal or the touartins hand had turhe tenor of her mood.

    &quot;Ma-Martin,&quot; she sobbed. &quot;Im so ashamed.&quot;

    &quot;Drink the soup.&quot;

    Obeying him, she draween gasping breaths. After a sed cup she allowed him to lead her up to their room. She was docile now and more restrained. He laid her nightgown on the bed and was about to leave the room when a fresh round of grief, the alcoholic tumult, came again.

    &quot;He turned away. My Andy looked at me and turned away.&quot;

    Impatiend fatigue hardened his voice, but he spoke warily. &quot;You fet that Andy is still a little child -- he t prehend the meaning of such ses.&quot;

    &quot;Did I make a se? Oh, Martin, did I make a se before the children?&quot;

    Her horrified face touched and amused him against his will. &quot;Fet it Put on yhtgown and go to sleep.&quot;

    &quot;My child turned away from me. Andy looked at his mother and turned away. The children --&quot;

    She was caught in the rhythmic sorrow of alartin withdrew from the room saying: &quot;Fods sake go to sleep. The children will fet by tomorrow.&quot;

    As he said this he wondered if it was true. Would the se glide so easily from memory -- or would it root in the unscious to fester ier-years? Martin did not know, and the last alternative sied him. He thought of Emily, foresaw the m-after humiliation: the shards of memory, the lucidities that glared from the obliterating darkness of shame. She would call the New York office twice -- possibly three or four times. Martin anticipated his own embarrassment, w if the others at the office could possibly suspect. He felt that his secretary had divihe trouble long ago and that she pitied him. He suffered a moment of rebellion against his fate; he hated his wife.

    On the<q></q> childrens room he closed the door a secure for the first time that evening. Marianne fell down on the floor, picked herself up and calling: &quot;Daddy, watch me,&quot; fell again, got up, and tihe falling-calling routine. Andy sat in the childs low chair, wobbling the tooth. Martin raer iub, washed his own hands in the lavatory, and called the boy into the bathroom.

    &quot;Lets have another look at that tooth.&quot; Martin sat ooilet, holding Andy between his khe childs mouth gaped and Martin <samp></samp>grasped the tooth. A wobble, a quick twist and the nailk tooth was free. Andys face was for the first moment split between terror, astonishment, and delight. He mouthed a swallow of water and spat into the lavatory. &quot;Look, Daddy! Its blood. Marianne!&quot;

    Martin loved to bathe his children, loved inexpressibly the tender, naked bodies as they stood ier so exposed. It was not fair of Emily to say that he showed partiality. As Martin soaped the delicate boy-body of his son he felt that further love would be impossible. Yet he admitted the differen the quality of his emotions for the two children. His love for his daughter was graver, touched with a strain of melancholy, a gentlehat was akin to pain. His pet names for ?99ｌｉｂ?he little boy were the absurdities of daily inspiration -- he called the little girl always Marianne, and his voice as he spoke it was a caress. Martin patted dry the fat baby stomad the sweet little genital fold. The washed child faces were radiant as flower petals, equally loved.

    &quot;Im putting the tooth under my pillow. Im supposed to get a quarter.&quot;

    &quot;What for?&quot;

    &quot;You know, Daddy. Johnny got a quarter for his tooth.&quot;

    &quot;Who puts the quarter there?&quot; asked Martin. &quot;I used to think the fairies left it in the night. It was a dime in my day, though.&quot;

    &quot;Thats what they say in kindergarten.&quot;

    &quot;Who does put it there?&quot;

    &quot;Your parents,&quot; Andy said. &quot;You!&quot;

    Martin inning the cover on Mariannes bed. His daughter was already asleep. Scarcely breathing. Marti over and kissed her forehead, kissed agaiiny hand that lay palm-upward, flung in slumber beside her head.

    &quot;Good night, Andy-man.&quot;

    The answer was only a drowsy murmur. After a minute Martin took out his ge and slid a quarter underh the pillow. He left a night light in the room.

    As Martin prowled about the kit making a late meal, it occurred to him that the children had not once mentioheir mother or the se that must have seemed to them inprehensible. Absorbed in the instant -- the tooth, the bath, the quarter -- the fluid passage of child-time had borhese weightless episodes like leaves in the swift current of a shallow stream while the adult enigma was beached and fotten on the shore. Martin thahe Lord for that.

    But his own anger, repressed and lurking, arose again. His youth was being frittered by a drunkards waste, his very manhood subtly undermined. And the children, ohe immunity of inprehension passed -- what would it be like in a year or so? With his elbows oable he ate his food brutishly, untasting. There was no hiding the truth -- soon there would be gossip in the offid iown; his wife was a dissolute woman. Dissolute. And he and his children were bound to a future of degradation and slow ruin.

    Martin pushed away from the table and stalked into the living room. He followed the lines of a book with his eyes but his mind jured miserable images: he saw his children drowned in the river, his wife a disgra the public street. By bedtime the dull, hard anger was like a weight upon his chest and his feet dragged as he climbed the stairs.

    The room was dark except for the shafting light from the half-opened bathroom door. Martin undressed quietly. Little by little, mysteriously, there came in him a ge. His wife was asleep, her peaceful respiration soundily in the room. Her high-heeled shoes with the carelessly dropped stogs made to him a mute appeal. Her underclothes were flung in disorder on the chair. Martin picked up the girdle and the soft, silk brassiere and stood for a moment with them in his hands. For the first time that evening he looked at his wife. His eyes rested on the sweet forehead, the arch of the fine brow. The brow had desded to Marianne, and the tilt at the end of the delicate nose. In his son he could trace the high cheekbones and pointed . Her body was full-bosomed, slender and undulant. As Martin watched the tranquil slumber of his wife the ghost of the old anger vanished. All thoughts of blame or blemish were distant from him now. Martin put out the bathroom light and raised the window. Careful not to awaken Emily he slid into the bed. By moonlight he watched his wife for the last time. His hand sought the adjat flesh and sorrow paralleled desire in the immense plexity of love.

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