It makes him think of another time he said something that made her cry. Maureen, no more than four at the time, ran into the room and said “Mommy, Mommy, don’t cry. What’s wrong? Does something hurt?” and Gwen stopped crying and said “No, it’s nothing, my darling.” “It’s something,” Maureen said. “People don’t cry for nothing. Is it something Daddy said?” and Gwen shook her head. “I was angry,” he said, “and said something I shouldn’t have,” and Maureen said “You have to say you’re sorry to her.” “I’m sorry, Gwen,” he said. “I was wrong,” and she nodded. “Don’t make Mommy cry again, Daddy. Listen to me. Don’t get angry anymore,” and he said “You’re right, I won’t,” and looked at Gwen and started shaking his head and then laughing at what Maureen had said, and she smiled and mouthed “I know.” “Good,” Maureen said. “Now I can go away,” and she left the room. “God, that kid is great,” he said. “Both of them. Two great kids. And I got off easy,” and he made a move to try to kiss or just hold her, but she opened and turned the pages of the book she was reading a minute before she began crying.
He doesn’t know why but he suddenly thinks of her Cuisinart, which she had even before they first met. One of only three food appliances they used, the others being a toaster and coffeemaker. Of course a stove and refrigerator, but he means the ones that sit on a kitchen countertop. Maine, that’s it. They used to send it there every summer by UPS, and at the end of their stay send it back the same way, at first to her New York apartment and then to their Baltimore apartment and next to their house in Baltimore and finally to this one in Ruxton. It’s a big Cuisinart, so no room for it in the car and later in a succession of vans, what with his two manual typewriters, which he didn’t trust sending up, and her electric typewriter and then her computer and printer. And her two cats to one carrier and her parents’ two cats in theirs. And their manuscripts and some writing supplies to start off with before the UPS boxes arrived. Also, for a while, a kid’s stroller and whatever that infant carrier’s called that he used to carry the kids in on his back. And a case of good wine. Wouldn’t send that up and didn’t think he could by law. Would have taken two if he had the room. And a suitcase and boat bag or two of clothes and some of her mother’s things for when she came up, since she didn’t like to carry too much on the plane, and necessary books. Dictionary, thesaurus, French and Italian dictionaries and scholarly works she was writing. Cat supplies: litter box and ten-pound bag of kitty litter for the overnight motel stay in Kennebunk and then Kennebunkport and for the house in Maine. Cotton linen for the motel — Gwen had trouble sleeping on polyester pillowcases and sheets. Blankets and quilts and pillows and other things, like a four-cup coffeemaker, which they didn’t send up by UPS but often sent back. Plus they needed room in the car for three to four shopping bags of food and other goods, which they’d buy at the Bucksport Shop ’n Save thirty or so miles from their destination, for their first night and morning in the Brooklin cottage they rented for seven summers and the Sedgwick farmhouse for close to twenty. Gwen taught him how to use the Cuisinart. Which blade did what, and so on, but he only used the sharp metal one for things like hummus and pesto and chopped salad and smoothies and to puree soups. They had about four toasters and maybe as many coffeemakers in the time they had this one Cuisinart. The toasters and coffeemakers were cheap and always broke down in a few years, while the Cuisinart never stopped working or needed fixing. About a year ago she said “Do you think we should get the Cuisinart serviced before we send it up to Maine again?” and he said “Why, it’s not running well?” “No, it’s just that we’ve had it for so long, altogether for more than thirty years,” and he said “We’ll see; we’ve plenty of time. It must have been a big investment for you when you bought it,” and she said “It was. I didn’t think I could afford it at the time. I was just a graduate student, barely getting by. But it’s proven to be worth every cent I spent on it. But what do you think if we bought a much smaller one for Maine — the one we have was the only model they sold then — and leave it at the farmhouse every summer? If it’s not there when we come up the next summer, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t be, at least we’d know it didn’t cost much — Cuisinarts of all kinds are much cheaper than they used to be. And think how much we’d save by not shipping it back and forth every summer, especially so because UPS rates have gone way up.” He said “Good idea — we don’t need one so big up there — and the box you originally bought it in is on its last legs. We can buy it at Wal-Mart in Trenton on our way to Acadia Park. Might as well get it at the cheapest place possible, and while there we’ll buy a couple of reams of copy paper for your printer and my typewriter. That way we’ll also be creating a little extra space in the van by not bringing all that paper up with us.” “You think we need that much paper?” and he said “There hasn’t been a summer that I remember, except two of them when you were still using your typewriter and we had to cut our vacation short to get back early to have our babies, when we haven’t gone through as much as that. I alone use a ream and half.”
They were sitting in the balcony of a Broadway theater, waiting for the curtain to go up. Or maybe the curtain was up when they took their seats or there was no curtain, and they were waiting for the houselights to dim and the actors to come on stage. Pinter’s Betrayal, and he thinks it was the St. James Theater. That’s what pops into his head. “Look,” he said, “two available seats in the first row of the orchestra. I know they’re not going to be taken. It’s getting too late to and they’re the last seats to sell because they’re all the way over to the right. Let’s grab them before somebody else does.” “No, I couldn’t do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right and I’d be too embarrassed if we were caught,” and he said “It’s done every day, at the opera and here, and we’ll see and hear the actors better and enjoy the play more. And there won’t be any embarrassment. If we’re stopped, I’ll do all of the explaining, and we’ll just go back upstairs or find two other available seats down there that I can’t see from here.” “Suppose the real ticketholders are late and want their seats while the play’s going?” and he said “Slight chance, and they’re two end seats, so easy to leave. Come on, follow me,” and took her hand and led her out of the row and balcony and down a flight of stairs, maybe two, and down the right aisle of the orchestra, not letting go of her till they sat in the seats, she the second one in, he on the aisle. Nobody stopped them. And an usher up the aisle even wanted to give him a playbill, but he showed her the one he already had. The actors came on stage but didn’t speak for a while. He doesn’t think there was an intermission. He could tell by glancing at her every now and then how engrossed she was in the play. After it was over and they were standing by their raised seats to let some people farther in get by them — he’s not sure why they didn’t move out to the aisle to make passing them easier — he said “That was terrific. Play, performances and from where we saw it from. So much better than the balcony. I bet it’d be like seeing a somewhat different play from up there, and all the lines and facial expressions you’d lose. But I’m always giving my opinion first. What’d you think?” and she said “The same; I loved it. And I haven’t sat so close to the stage since I was a little girl and saw Peter Pan. Here, you could see the spit flying. And it was exciting what we did, taking these seats. I never would have done it if it wasn’t for you. I don’t even think I ever thought of doing it before. Good thing you held on to me. My heart was racing when we came down the aisle and I thought for sure we’d be caught, so I doubt I could ever do it again,” and he said “Sure you will, if you stick with me and we get another chance to, and you saw how nothing happened. Maybe sometime when we have enough money to spare we’ll buy our own orchestra seats to a play we really want to go to, though the way Broadway ticket prices keep rising, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to. Maybe for your birthday or mine, if we’re in town, or our wedding anniversary — then, we’re always here on winter break,” and she said “That’d be nice. Exciting as it was, I’d rather buy them, and every so often we can splurge.”