Fear Strikes Out by Jim Piersall, Hirshberg

thinking of getting out? I hadn’t even moved in. What was the matter with me?
    All through the month of November, while Mary kept going back and forth between East Main Street and the new house, I worried about the situation. She was so happy getting ready to move in that I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my doubts. Instead, I listened while she chattered, telling me about the furniture and the drapes and the colors and the kitchen equipment and all the other things wives talk about that go in one male ear and out the other.
    The weeks went by quickly, and one day when I got home Mary met me with a breathless, “The house is ready. We can go in tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    I didn’t expect it to happen so fast.
    “Oh, there are a few little odds and ends, but we can take care of them after we move in. Oh, Jimmy, I’m so happy!”
    “Well,” I said. “That’s fine.” And, as if to convince myself, I said it again.
    We didn’t move in the next day, but the day after. It was December 15, and Mom and Dad were busy getting ready to leave their apartment, but they wouldn’t be completely set for several days. However, they would be back and forth all the time, and it wouldn’t take them long to get settled.
    On the day we moved, I suddenly realized what had been bothering me. I was trapped. We both were trapped—Mary and I—if we bought that house. If we bought it? What was I thinking? We had bought it already. And, for no one knew how many more years, I would have to listen to the rasping, nagging voice of my father hollering at my mom, telling her what she was doing wrong, just as he had been telling her what was wrong as long as I could remember. Suppose he started nagging Mary? I couldn’t live with him any more. I loved him and I loved Mom, and I wanted them both to live a long time. But if I had to listen to them arguing any more, I’d be wishing they were dead so Mary and I could get out from under. Why, we’d be counting the years! What could I do? I couldn’t tell them now they weren’t to move in with us. There was only one answer. We’d have to sell the house.
    I told Mary the next day.
    “Honey,” I said, “we can’t stay here.”
    “Can’t stay here?” Her voice was shaking. “Honey, what do you mean? What’s the matter?”
    “We can’t afford it,” I said, a little too sharply.
    “But I thought we could afford it. We had it all figured out. Between the baseball income and the winter job, we’re in good shape. And you don’t have to worry about giving your folks so much money every week, because they’ll be living with us.”
    “It would be better for me to give them the thirty-five dollars a week.”
    “No, it wouldn’t, Jimmy. We’ll be happy here. It’s just what we want.”
    “It isn’t that,” I said. “I simply can’t afford to keep it, that’s all.”
    “We can’t afford not to keep it. We’ve spent a small fortune on household furnishings and things like that. We’ve made a big down payment. We’ve got a lot of money sunk in this house, honey.”
    “We can get it out. It’s brand new. We won’t have any trouble selling it. Mary—”
    “What?”
    “Let’s get out of here. I want to get out of this house—out of this town—away from everything—”
    “But Jimmy, I thought—”
    “You were wrong. Mary, we’ve got to sell the house . Do you understand?”
    Three days after we moved in, we moved out. We went to Scranton, and settled down with Mary’s family. My mother and father returned to East Main Street. Several months later, we got our price and sold the house, furnishings and all.
    Mary was puzzled and unhappy. She told me years later that she first began worrying about my health that day when I insisted on selling the house we had just bought. While she knew I was unusually tense and nervous, she had never seen me do anything so obviously irrational, and she was deeply concerned. But I was so much more at ease in Scranton than I