Sylvia: A Novel by Leonard Michaels Page A

for a living. I’d never believed writing stories was work. It was merely hard. The sound of my typewriter, hour after hour, caused Sylvia pain, and this was another reason to stop. But then whatever had importantly to do with me—family, friends, writing—shoved her to the margins of my consciousness, and she’d feel neglected and insulted. This also happened if I stayed in the hall toilet too long, and it happened sometimes when we walked in the street. I’d be talking about a friend or a magazine article, maybe laughing, and I’d suppose that I was entertaining her, but then I’d notice she wasn’t beside me. I’d look back. There she was, twenty feet behind me, down the street, standing still, staring after me with rage. “You make me feel like a whore,” she said. “Don’t you dare walk ahead of me in the street.” Then she walked past me and I trailed her home, very annoyed, but also wondering if there wasn’t in fact something wrong with my personality—talking, laughing, and having a good time, as if, like a moron or a dog, I was happy enough merely being alive. At the door to our building, Sylvia waited for me to arrive and open it for her, so that she could feel I was treating her properly, like a lady, not a whore.
    She’d never say, “You’re walking too fast. Please slow down.” She’d slow down, lag behind, let me discover that I was treating her like a whore. And then it was too late. I’d done it, proved for the ten-thousandth time that I was bad. It was hard, from moment to moment—walking, talking,laughing, writing, shitting—not to say or do something that hurt Sylvia.
    It was a nice day. I felt only a little miserable. I was going out to buy a winter coat. I was at the door when, suddenly, Sylvia wanted to make love, and she persisted endearingly. I didn’t want to do it, and I didn’t know how to say I didn’t. Only Sylvia has that privilege. It became late afternoon, too late to go buy a coat. Sat in my room. I don’t deserve a winter coat.
    JOURNAL, JANUARY 1962
    The one time I got sick, I wanted only to go to sleep. I felt an apologetic reflex. If I went to sleep, Sylvia would feel abandoned. Still, I had to go to bed; sleep. I had a fever. I ached all over. It was only a cold, no big deal. But really, I had to lie down and sleep. The moment I shut my eyes, Sylvia began to sweep the floor around the bed. She decided I couldn’t be allowed to lie there, sick, surrounded by a filthy floor, though we had roaches, fleas, and sometimes rats in the apartment, and there were holes in the walls through which spilled brown, hairy, fibrous insulation. She swept with great force. Then she washed the dishes, making a racket. Everything had to be cleaned because I was sick. She put clothes away in drawers, slamming them shut to make clear that order was being established, and shehustled about picking things up, straightening the place. When the apartment was as clean and orderly as she could make it, she said I couldn’t lie on those sheets. We’d slept on them for several weeks. They were stained and dirty. I got out of bed and stood in my underwear, hot and shivering, while she changed the sheets. When she finished, I flopped back into bed. I fell asleep, but was soon awakened by an unnatural silence. I saw Sylvia standing at the foot of the bed, staring at me, shifting her weight from side to side as if she had to pee, looking frightened.
    “You have to see a doctor,” she said. “Get up. Get up.”
    “I come from peasant stock. Nothing can kill me.”
    “That isn’t funny. Get up.”
    There was desperate urgency in her voice. I was too sick to argue with her. I got up and put on my clothes. We walked downstairs and then eight or nine blocks through the freezing night to the emergency room at St. Vincent’s, then waited in line with drug addicts and crazies. Eventually, I was seen by a doctor. He said I had a cold. I should go to bed. Two or three hours after I’d gone to