Movement by Valerie Miner

Marriage had been a worthy sequel, working every night, reading together on Saturdays. (They tried earnestly to learn about Canada, another guilt to expiate. Not only were they white, middle-class and heterosexual, but they were American.) Perhaps that was what was wrong with marriage. Perhaps it was just too straight.
    Although Phil had never read The Artisan, he said if that’s how she spent her time, he wanted to see a copy. He didn’t get beyond the last couple of pages. He always read from the back. They had some good talks about the office and he stopped making women’s lib jokes after a while.
    â€œWatch it,” she had said, “I’m serious about feminism.”
    â€œI can see that” he laughed, adding, “politics is cool.”
    â€œPolitics is not cool, ” she said.
    He couldn’t handle the dialectic.
    â€œI know you’d agree with me if we discussed it,” she said.
    But he didn’t feel like it.
    So she accepted a moratorium on socialism, feminism and the counterculture because she was tired of figuring things out. She wrote to her friends that he was a nice guy, a natural non-sexist. They had no struggles about authority or fucking or washing the dishes.
    â€œWe can still be friends, can’t we?” Guy telephoned to ask. “I thought we might get together.”
    â€œSure,” she said, out of guilt, holding the cat close to her cheek.
    â€œThe abortion,” he said abruptly. “We never really talked about it. You made that decision, you know. I want to deal with that. I feel I’m still mourning.…”
    â€œFriends,” she spoke absently, wistfully, directly into the cat’s eyes.
    â€œDon’t get ironic with me, Susan. I’m just trying to be open with you.”
    Sometimes Phil talked about a muse in Afghanistan, a spiritual leader, but she did not press him about it. Whenever he talked about leaving, he promised he would bequeath her the half-melted sandalwood candles, a collection of Blind Faith, a finely polished cheroot and one of his flutes.
    He wasn’t a very good flautist. And whenever she thought of leaving him, it was because she didn’t really like his music.
    It would be up to the cat to choose between them.
    Someone Else’s
Baby
    The Food Coop met every Saturday morning at ten. Ted waved to Maureen as she parked her bike. He was armed with someone else’s baby, a kid who was being raised in his commune.
    Maureen helped him weigh the tomatoes.
    â€œWe broke up a couple of weeks ago,” he told her. “It was Maryanna’s decision. I still don’t get it. She claims there isn’t anyone else. What did I do?”
    Maureen shrugged and tried to look sympathetic. Ted was all right for a man—gentle and pretty un-oppressive. “Maybe Maryanna just wanted to be alone.”
    â€œBut we had so many plans.”
    Maureen was glad he didn’t notice her brief smile.
    He explained all he could explain. “I told her she could sleep with anyone she wanted. I even offered to introduce her to this new guy at the Institute. You know I’ve always been a supporter of women’s liberation.”
    Maureen inched over to get some hazelnuts before they were all gone.
    â€œWhy couldn’t we work it out together? We’re still the same people we were four years ago. I do not get it. It’s happening to so many of our friends. Marni and Joe. Chris and Peter. The women are leaving. And, yeah, you left Mort. It was the same with you.” He tried not to look accusing.
    She nodded.
    â€œListen, it would really help to talk about this some time,” he said. “How about dinner next Friday?”
    â€œCan’t Friday,” she said.
    He shifted the baby higher on his hip.
    â€œAnd it wasn’t exactly the same with me.” She secured the basket to the back of her bicycle. “I mean I decided to be a lesbian.”
    He fell silent for a