The Marriage Seed

by Christine Swint

“I’m going to the bookstore to pick up the New York Times. You want to come?” Freddy said.

“I’m too tired, and it’s so cold. I’m going to stay right here under the covers with Louis next to me.” Mary stroked her blue-eyed, white cat, who nestled next to her on the comforter and purred.

“Want me to bring you a croissant?”

“Sure. I’ll make tea for us when you get back.”

When she heard the door close behind her husband, she looked out the bedroom window at the ice bending the pines and coating the power lines. Only a northerner like Freddy would venture out in this weather, she thought. She watched him start his beat-up Civic parked on the street in front of their bungalow, scrape off windows edged with ice, and pull away. Exhaust fumes clouded the dank, gray air.

She picked up the novel she had been reading, but set it on the bedspread when she kept going over the same passage. She felt a familiar yearning she indulged in at times when she was alone.

”Let’s go up to the attic,” she said to the cat. Louis, sleek and agile, rubbed against her arm and meowed.

She drifted down the short hallway to the attic. Opening the door in the ceiling required all her strength. She tugged on the cord attached to the wooden door, and unfolded the ladder to the floor. She grabbed the rungs, dragged herself up, and entered the opening. Louis waited below, but she could hear him calling out his plaintive meows.

Mary settled herself on the attic floor. The air smelled musty, but she didn’t mind. She felt at home here, breathing in the cold, stagnant atmosphere.  She reached for a battered cardboard box under the overhead bulb. It was her box, filled with old diaries, letters, and photographs. Her hands slipped past the diaries. She’d read them many times. She stopped at the photographs. They were stacked in chronological order.

Looking at the photos, Mary remembered her college days as if they had been a never ending Fellini film. The parties, the music scene, the art openings, it had all been so creative, so fun. They’d dress up in evening gowns bought at vintage clothing stores, accessorizing with long satin gloves and high heels, and then dance at punk rock concerts.  Or she’d drink coffee all night with skinny boys in thin ties and dark jackets, and they’d read poetry to each other. Now she spent her evenings grading papers while Freddy finished his last newspaper article in time for the early morning presses.

She noticed one stack of pictures tied with a black string. She untied it and was surprised to see a collection of all her past boyfriends. In one picture she was wrapped in a blonde boys arms in front of a backdrop of trees. In another she was at a party, kissing Mateo’s cheek. He was a sweet guy who moved back to Columbia after their junior year.

The photo on the bottom of the stack was of Hank. He was standing in front of brick wall, a bored look on his face. She had dated him after college, right before she met Freddy. Her last conversation with Hank had been over the phone.

“I waited for you all night. I thought you were taking me out for my birthday.”

“I had to work. I tried to get my brother to take my shift, but he couldn’t do it.”

“You could have called.” She hung up the phone.

She never wanted to see Hank again. She had waited for him near the window in the darkened living room, looking out on the winter street, hoping any minute to see him strolling toward her apartment. Later she cried herself to sleep. A few months passed and she met Freddy, who pampered her with compliments and affection.

Why did she keep these photos? She imagined Freddy’s dark eyes. He’d be hurt to know she still had these pictures. She retied the small stack of photographs, and placed it in the pocket of her sweater. She’d tear the photos up and throw them in the garbage can. As she crept down the ladder, Mary envisioned Freddy’s handsome, worried face in the moment of discovering the evidence of her past. She wouldn’t let it happen.

Cold air filtered through the house, but Mary didn’t bother to close the attic door behind her. Why was she so sad and tired? Instead of going to the garbage can to destroy the pictures, she made her way to the bedroom instead. Louis followed close behind her. She lay down on the chenille spread and went to sleep, with Louis nestled in the crook of her legs.

Mary dreamt.

A war is waging, and she and Freddy have enlisted. She trudges up a hill wearing mud-caked boots, Freddy marching behind her. Mary scans the petrol sky, and worries about the horizon dotted with trenches and barbed wire. When she reaches the summit, she’s surprised to see Hank relaxing on a bench, watching her toil.

As she plods along the landscape begins to change. Rubble and dirt become manicured lawns and brick homes. Mary enters one of the homes, and finds herself in the middle of a cocktail party filled with elegantly groomed guests. She’s wearing a dress made of midnight-blue tulle. Everyone in the house is wealthy and good looking, and bright smiles flash from every corner. She revels in the pleasure of the moment.

Bathing in a glow of happiness, Mary dreams that she awakens, but she feels no disappointment. She knows she can return to the dim lights and soft laughter of the party whenever she wants to. She dreams on, slipping in and out of the dress made of midnight blue tulle.

The afternoon sun sliced through the blinds, and Mary woke up with a dull pain behind her breastbone. This time she was awake. At her side lay Freddy.  His chestnut hair framed his fine-boned face, and his eyes looked at her as though he had been waiting for a long time for her to awaken. She patted the pocket of her sweater. The pictures were still there.

Freddy said, “I saw you napping when I came home, so I thought I’d lie down with you. You’re so pretty.”

She felt his fingers smoothing over her cheek, but she couldn’t bring herself to make love to him. The magic of the midnight-blue dress washed over her, and then disappeared.

Later, while taking the kettle off the stove, Mary remembered with certainty that she never sorted through her pictures to organize all her past loves. She heard his footsteps behind her on the wood floor, and stiffened under Freddy’s hands when he placed them gently on her shoulders.

Turning to look up at him, she said, “I know you went through my things, my diaries and photographs.”

“Is that what you were doing while I was out? Up in the attic again?”

“I was starting to sort through some of our junk to donate, and then I got so sleepy.”

“Maybe you’re pregnant.”

“Just tell me the truth. Were you snooping around in my box?”

“I found the photos by mistake, when I was looking for our passports. I already knew you had those pictures. To be honest, I don’t understand why you keep them after three years of marriage.

“I don’t know why I still have them. Look, I’ll get rid of them. That’s what I was planning to do before I took a nap. Can I help it if I had relationships other guys before I met you?”

“You don’t get it. It’s not about the other men. It’s the idea that you gave to them what you never give to me. I see something in those pictures you keep, something in your face back then.”

He reached for her hand, but she bent down to trail her fingertips on Louis’ back, who was rubbing against her legs.  “I was young and carefree, that’s what you noticed. Believe me, my past is packed away in that box in the attic. I’m with you now.  Let’s leave the memories in storage,” Mary said.

She heard herself lie, remembering the soft laughter and the midnight-blue dress of her dream. She pushed the image down. For now it was easier to lie and be sad. She poured the tea into the mugs and wished the weather were warmer.

Christine Swint lives in Marietta, Georgia with her husband and two teenage sons. She has a BA degree in English and Spanish literature from the University of Georgia, and a Master's degree in Spanish literature from Middlebury College. She writes poetry, short stories and essays.