They were out for a walk. It was Sunday, around five, getting dark, and when they still lived in the Baltimore apartment on West 39th Street. Rosalind was in a sling on his chest. He was holding her head up with one hand and holding Gwen’s hand with the other. They passed a neighborhood Chinese restaurant on the way back — The Poison Dragon, he started calling it after the incident, when its real name was The Golden Dragon — and he said “Like to get takeout tonight? We’ve never had any from this place and we should try it,” and she said “I already have dinner prepared — salmon and a quinoa dish and you said you’d make a salad.” “Then just soup. We’ll have it when we get home. It’ll warm us up. But not egg drop or hot and sour. Something different.” They went into the restaurant and ordered a large container of the “neptune house soup,” with scallops and shrimp and rice noodles and black mushrooms and baby corn. About a half-hour after they ate the soup — maybe fifteen minutes: he knows it was an unusually short time — he got stomach cramps and felt nauseated and he said “Oh, no, shrimp again,” because he’d got sick like this twice before from bad shrimp, and she said “You too? Cramps? Nausea? It has to be the soup. I’m so glad we didn’t give Rosalind any. Both of us have to induce vomiting before it’s completely digested.” “You mean to stick your finger down your throat?” and she said “It’s briefly uncomfortable and disgusting, but it can save days of being sick.” “I can’t do it. Never could. I don’t know what it is, but something stops me, even though I know it’s for my own good.” “Well, I’m certainly going to do it. One of us has to stay well to take care of the other and Rosalind,” and she went into the kitchen bathroom and he heard her throwing up. He waited a minute and said through the bathroom door “Gwen. I’m really not feeling well, so I’m going to lie down,” and she said “I’m sorry, my sweetie. I only wish you had done what I did. I’m already feeling better.” “Just so you don’t think I’m a complete chicken, I did try to in our bathroom, gagged a little but nothing came up,” and she said “Maybe you didn’t go down far enough. Try again. It’s always worked for me,” and he said “I’m just going to have to hope it doesn’t get worse than it is.” “Well,” she said, “yell for me if you need anything. I’m going to wash up, change Rosalind and get her set for the night, and then treat myself to a very weak tea.” He rested on their bed, tried to fall asleep but couldn’t, had to rush to the bathroom several times to vomit or because of the runs. She came in every half-hour or so, felt his head, said “No temperature, but I wouldn’t have expected any,” asked how he was and he said “Much worse,” or just looked at him and said nothing and left. Then she came in and turned on the TV to the public television station. A promo was on for a Masterpiece Theatre series starting next Sunday. He said “What are you doing?” and she said “It’s the final episode of the James Herriot program — the English vet. I know you don’t like it, but I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” “But I’m sick; very sick. Been doing nothing but vomiting and shitting diarrhea the last two hours. The TV noises and flickering — just the voices — will make me feel even worse. I need quiet and rest,” and she said “I hate saying this, but if you had done what I first suggested you do, you wouldn’t be feeling this bad. Now it’s too late, and I don’t think I’m asking too much. An hour, that’s all.” “There’ll probably be a rerun of it sometime this week. Isn’t that what they normally do with a series?” and she said “I checked the monthly program guide. If it were on this coming week I wouldn’t have come to watch it now, but it isn’t scheduled again. I’ll keep the sound low and you could turn over so you don’t see the screen. But what you should do is go into the guest room and try to sleep there.” “I like our bed,” he said. “I feel better on it and in this room,” and she said “Listen, Martin, I’m sorry you’re so sick. But you have to give me a little too. This is the only television I’ve watched since the previous episode last Sunday. If we had another television set in one of the other rooms, I’d watch it there. But we don’t, and now the program’s starting. So, my poor little sweetheart, I’m afraid I’ll have to watch it here. Now please let me.” “Okay,” he said, “go ahead. But I have to say I’ve never seen you act this way to me before. You’ve never shown such inconsiderateness, such…well, you know, lack of sympathy…everything,” and she said “Oh, if you want to call what I am asking for here that, which I don’t think I’m being, then I’ve shown it. Maybe you just didn’t pick up on it before.” “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “I won’t forget this, Gwen, I won’t.” Then he felt sharp pains in his stomach again and got up and rushed to the bathroom. The television volume was much lower when he came back. He got into bed, lay with his back to her and the set and stayed in that position and said nothing to her till the next morning. When she came to bed she said things like “Want me to sleep in another room? Are you feeling any better? Can I get you anything? Do anything for you? I’m sure you’ll be much better in the morning. I certainly hope so. All right. Goodnight, dear.”
The time he slapped her hand. This was long into their marriage. She was sick with a stomach flu and he was spoonfeeding her soup from a bowl. They were at the dining-room table. The kids couldn’t have been in the house or else they would have come when they heard him yell and her crying. He held the spoon to her mouth and her hand jerked up and knocked the spoon to the floor, some of the soup splattering his face. “Damn you,” he yelled, and slapped her hand. Then: “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to do that. I swear I didn’t.” She looked at him as if she was about to cry. Then she cried. Some of the soup had got on her neck and he wiped it away with the cloth napkin on her lap and then wiped his face. “Do you want me to wipe your neck with a damp towel?” he said, and she shook her head and continued crying. “I’m really sorry, Gwen. I’ve never done anything like that to you before. With Maureen, once, when she was around two and got out of her stroller and I caught her just as she stepped into the street, and I slapped her hand and told her what she’d been slapped for so she’d know not to do that again. I regretted slapping her that one time. I’ve told you. I should have made my point in a nonphysical way. But this with you is much worse. Please say you forgive me. I don’t know where it came from. For sure not some up-till-now hidden animosity to you that even I didn’t know was there, and I promise it’ll never happen again.” She stopped crying and wiped her eyes with her napkin. He picked up the spoon, went into the kitchen and washed it, and came back to the table. She pointed to the floor. There were a few drops of soup on it — he thought that was what she meant. He went through his side pants pocket for a paper towel — there was usually one there; wasn’t any, and he wiped the drops up with his handkerchief. He held up the spoon and said “Here, let me get you some more soup. It’s light, more like a broth — it has a little miso in it; brown rice miso, the kind you like — and you need liquids in you and nourishment.” She shook her head and looked away from him. He put the spoon back on the table. “I understand,” he said. “You’re angry at me now, and for good reason. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. And that I did it when you were still so weak and feeling so lousy. I’m so ashamed, Gwen. But you’ll forgive me sometime for it. Isn’t there something I can do for you?” She pointed to the spoon. “You want me to resume feeding you,” and she shook her head. “You want to feed yourself?” and she said “Let me, but I can’t reach the spoon.” He gave her the spoon, moved the bowl closer to her, straightened out the place mat under it and said “Excuse me, I’m sure you don’t want me sitting here, so I should probably leave you alone for the time being. If you want something, just yell for me.” He got up. She put the spoon into the bowl, brought it to her mouth, swallowed the soup and put the spoon in the bowl for some more. “It must mean you’re getting better,” he said. He went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water and drank it. “Like me to put on some water for tea for you?” he said. She didn’t say anything or look at him. “I’ll be in the living room,” he said, “reading.”