Writing Diaries #14: A pro forma marriage

I wrote the very short story appearing below in the 1970s. I based it on my observations of a married middle-aged couple who'd befriended me.

When I met them, they'd lived together for almost thirty years and had produced two adult children.

They spoke to each other only to communicate about practical things. They never looked at each other in the eyes. Although they behaved politely enough, hostility stood between them like a third person.

At the time, I judged them harshly for staying together. I told myself I'd never stay put in an empty, loveless marriage like theirs.

What did I know? I was in my twenties and hadn't yet learned that people's reasons for the choices they make are complex. They are rooted in shades of grey not in the black and white by which I'd judged them.

Joyce and Peter

From the outside the house looked like a sad, lonely face. It didn't help much when someone switched on the living room lights.  A woman came to the window, peered at the lightly falling snow for a moment then pulled the heavy drapes.

Inside, a middle-aged man and woman occupied the living room. The man, Peter, sat on a comfortable deep blue velvet couch while his wife, Joyce, occupied a wing chair. to his right. The house was pretty and well tended.

Neither his eyes nor his attention strayed from the TV screen facing him. He never missed TV’s six o’clock news broadcast. His wife, however, kept her gaze on her husband's profile.   

Each of them had in front of them a foldable TV table on which sat a plate with their dinner: a small steak, cooked medium rare, a baked potato and some peas. Peter had a tall glass of milk to accompany his meal; Joyce had a glass of water.

From time to time, Peter put a forkful of food in his mouth but his attention stayed on the reportage. He ate without thought, one mouthful after another.

Joyce looked away from her husband, sighed and began to eat. Now and then she cast furtive glances at her husband. Then her right leg began to jiggle.

Peter didn't notice. Or maybe he suspected she had something on her mind and didn't want to hear it.

  When he’d finished eating, he wiped his mouth, crumpled the paper napkin, placed it on the empty plate and pushed the tray table away from him. Joyce stood up and cleared everything away, including her own meal which she'd barely touched.

They hadn't said a word to each other since he'd come home from work.

In the kitchen, she washed the dishes, put everything away then returned to the living room. She resumed her place in the wing chair. She reached down for her knitting bag and took out a pattern book, a ball of bright red wool and pair of long knitting needles.

She glanced at her husband, who now lay with his legs stretched out and his head resting on the couch’s puffy back pillow. His gaze remained on the screen.

She took a breath. “Peter, I bought tickets to the Christmas concert."

"Hope you and your parents have fun."

“Peter..."

Peter turned to look at his wife: “I told you I'm not going this year."

“You know how much they look forward to it." She looked down at her knitting, the loops moving from one needle to the other as the piece grew longer. Joyce was an expert knitter.

"They'll enjoy it just as much without me."

"My parents have been very good to us – to you and your business over the years. Show some gratitude.”

Colour climbed up Peter’s neck. He turned his whole body so that he faced his wife.  

His eyes flashed hostility but his voice remained calm. “Yes, they were good to me, as you’ve reminded me often enough. And I repaid them long ago. I repaid the money and I showed my appreciation by being at their beck and call all these years.

“Tell me, Joyce, will there ever come a time when I stop owing them?”

Joyce put down her knitting. “Taking them to a concert isn’t about ‘owing’ them. It’s about family."

His shoulders sagged and he turned away from her.

“I can’t force you go, Peter. But if you have any kindness left in you, you’ll make the effort.”

He walked over to the television set, turned up the volume and resumed his seat.

At eleven o’clock they went to bed. They slept in the same bed. They slept back to back, as they had for the last fifteen years.

The silence between them continued through breakfast the next morning, after which Peter  went to work and Joyce started cleaning the house.