Object of Your Love by Dorothy Speak Page B

through the kitchen cupboards, turn on the television. Sitting down again, I wait some more. When I consult my watch, I see that it is ten o’clock. I have been here for two hours. Finally the phone rings and I grab for it.
    â€œJean,” Dr. Beveridge’s voice comes over the line. “It’s me.”
    â€œI know that,” I say sharply. “Where are you?”
    â€œJean, I’m not coming over. I can’t do it,” he says.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI can’t come over there.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI swear to God, I came home with every intention of carrying through. But, Jean, I came in and the house smelled wonderful. Alice and the kids had held dinner up for me. A pot roast. Scalloped potatoes.”
    â€œI know how to make pot roast,” I tell him.
    â€œThe boys were full of news about their hockey club, plans for the weekend. Everyone was so beautiful and excited. Everyone was so happy. I couldn’t spoil it.”
    â€œTell them tomorrow night, then,” I say, noticing that I’ve begun to shake. “I’ve waited three years for this. Another twenty-four hours won’t kill me.”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Jean,” he says, his voice growing firmer. “Basically, we are a happy family. I’m not coming over there. I’m calling it off.”
    â€œMaybe you don’t understand, either. I’ve made the break with my family. I’m waiting here for you.”
    â€œYour family will get over it,” he says. “Make up a story. Tell them you were fantasizing. Plead temporary insanity. You’ll think of something. Nobody else has to know. Ask your family to keep it quiet.” I think wildly of Blanche, the blabbermouth.
    â€œHow about I tell Floyd to shout it from the roof of his church?” I say bitterly. “How about I take an ad out in the daily paper?”
    â€œCalm down, Jean. You wouldn’t want to do any of those things. It would only backfire on you. Think of your reputation. Think how your mother would feel.”
    â€œI never heard you concerned about her feelings before this.”
    â€œShe’s a good woman, Jean. Don’t put her through any more pain.”
    â€œWhat about my pain? You have humiliated me.”
    â€œJean,” he says. “I’ve been thinking. It would be best if we made a clean break of it. I don’t want you to come back to the office. I’m letting you go. I’ll have your outstanding wages and your severance pay mailed to you tomorrow. I’ll write you a letter of reference. I’ll write a dozen of them if you want. I’m not worried about you. You’re a good assistant. You’re young and sharp. You won’t have any trouble finding another job. And Jean,” he paused, his silence rich with warning, “don’t make trouble. Let things go. Forget about it all. Accept it and move on. Don’t let yourself get bitter.”
    In my blouse and skirt, I crawl into bed and sleep all the next day and the next. When I finally get up, snow is falling. It is December, after all. I get undressed, step into the shower and stand there for a good hour, in a hot stream. I put on my housecoat and a pair of thick wool socks and sit at the living-room window for another day, feeling somewhat cleansed from the shower, consuming nothing but ice water, like a nun punishing and purging herself, flushing out bodily poisons.
    Outside, big, soft, independent flakes come down. I watch them in all their purity, in all their individuality and separateness, and this seems to give me strength. At first, they melt, these enormous snowflakes, when they touch the ground, and this brings me a sense of effacement, of peace. I feel myself liquefying, dying with them as they fade into the warm gardens, into the grass, still green as summer, fragile vegetation from a gentler season. Gradually, though, they build up, coating lawns,