Marta ~ May 4

 

Mostly, my heart just hurts. Not because the thing with Washington Square Park did not work out for the 100 millionth time, not because my husband is slowly losing his marbles, not because of anything -- though identifiable things are handy pegs to hang the coat on. Handy for a minute, anyway. The coat always drops off. 

 

There simply is a little open wound covered up with tons of stuff, and then tons more stuff so you hopefully will never find it or even know it's there. Nothing unusual. Common human condition. It has no origin and doesn't need to be figured out. It just needs air, exposure, sitting with. Ouch. Very painful. You only only do it when other escape hatches have closed. 

 

Yesterday instead of liking the perfect typewriter I brought, Fred complained that I hadn't asked what kind of typewriter he wanted before I went out and got one. He couldn't get close enough to it, which I'd anticipated -- that's how it is with wheelchairs. It would take a while to solve that, but surely it was more important to bring the typewriter in and get going, right? But the type was too pale and too small. He couldn't see it. And it didn't come with a manual either. No, electric typewriters from the 70s, which you should know how to operate as easily as a fucking toothbrush, do not come with manuals. Especially second-hand ones. 

 

The typewriter was in good shape. A real survivor. Heavy as hell. The keys had a nice touch. Just like all the typewriters we used in college. A nice man who runs a shop in Kingston sold it to me. Brought it right to the house. A clean-cut guy, polo shirt tucked into pressed pants, tidy dyed hair. A price that didn't break the bank. 

 

It's not that I presented the typewriter as the solution to all life's problems, but I did expect it would make Fred happy. That he'd be able to at least fool around on it. Maybe even a poem a day. 

 

Instead, I got a man who drifted into silence, looked at the machine, poked at a few keys, didn't know how to make capital letters. I gently showed him things. But then the tirade started about how it was all my fault and why hadn't I asked him. Two days ago the problem had been that he had nothing to write on and no one cared. 

 

I'm used to him. He's like this sometimes, always has been. Any difficulty he has finds an immediate victim to blame. And usually, especially since he has been incarcerated, I have been patient and tolerant, steering the conversation in other directions and employing other techniques to get through without bloodshed. 

 

But yesterday the room felt very small and crowded. My hackles were raised. My ire went up. I was fucking fed up to my core. "I have to go," I said, standing up.

 

"Oh, now you're going to walk out on me!" 

 

A wave of doubt flits across me. Is it wrong to walk out? I can't help it. I walk out, leave the room in a mess for someone else to clean up. Maybe if I just go somewhere and cry I'll be able to come back. I do that, but my car still pulls towards home.