Fiction: What?
By Candace Lyons
arttimesjournal April 6, 2019
The only surprise is that the inevitable took so long to happen. Theoretically, annoying habits are the kind of thing that can nip a relationship in the bud. But Ron and I were married for years before his gnawed so deeply into the foundations of ours that it crumbled. Then again, we're not talking about a raft of petty annoyances like squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube or leaving the caps on jars unscrewed. Ron never did things like that. In fact, compared to some of my friends' husbands, he was a prince. He didn't make fun of my political views or expect dinner to be waiting for him seeing as I work too, and he even went to the theatre with me the time I bought tickets for a matinee scheduled on Superbowl Sunday.
BUT -- his response to absolutely everything I said, whether it was small talk or something really important, was,
"What?"
Not only did he never vary his response with a "Huh?" or a "Pardon?", he never varied its delivery either. There would be a little rise at the end that, for a long while, I thought indicated interest. However, it didn't change the fact I had to repeat everything I said to him. Eventually, just the tiny breeze created by the "wh" reacted on my nerves like the skreek of fingernails on a blackboard, yet eventually was a long time coming too for, as hard as it might be to believe, at first I found the habit an endearing quality. Every, "What?" was accompanied by a longing gaze. Ron even apologised,
"Sorry, I was so busy looking at you, I wasn't listening." He loved me to distraction! That's officially endearing.
I'm really not sure when the look went away, when it was that I noticed Ron had become merely distracted. We'd already been married several years, at any rate, before I began to suspect that my ineffable charms were no longer the reason for Ron's lack of attention. Disillusionment set in, but rather than succumb to it, I succumbed to denial, refusing to believe Ron didn't listen to me. To reassure myself, I put my theory to the test, saying whatever came to mind to get past the, "What?" which lead to conversations like,
"Your shirt's on fire."
"What?"
"Do you want rogue fort or Italian dressing on your salad?" or,
"The cat ate your tropical fish."
"What?"
"Your Aunt Milly is coming for dinner on Thursday."
That my theory didn't hold water became all too quickly clear But the phenomenon had begun to amuse me -- or at least the stupid things I could say amused me -- and we probably could have continued like this forever if I hadn't gotten carried away and begun a conversation with,
"You're a real jerk." the one and only day Ron happened to pay attention. He didn't reply "What?" he replied,
"WHAT!!!" and we almost came to blows. When I explained the reason for my rashness, he told me I was imagining things. We patched things up, but Ron went back to saying, "What?" and I no longer dared to play my little game to keep my nerves from fraying so I taped him to prove my imagination was not at fault here. Yet when I played the tape for him, all he said was,
"I've had a lot on my mind lately," refusing to admit that the recording attested to anything more than catching him at a bad time.
Interestingly enough, the very next day, he accidentally dropped the tape recorder and broke it. I don't usually agree with Freud but I suspect he'd have found an easy explanation for Ron's clumsiness. I certainly did. Clearly, he would never acknowledge he was in the wrong. Resignation set in. In an effort to make the best of the situation, I simply began repeating everything I said, leaving a little pause so Ron could get his,"What?" in on cue.
Initially, I wasn't too thrilled, but life actually began to fall into a peaceful pattern again until my friend, Alicia, pointed out that I not only repeated everything I said to Ron, but to her, all my other friends, and,
"Even the sales clerk at the hardware store. You remind me of the radio messages to the French underground in Cocteau's Orphée," my film buff friend said, slipping into a monotone to add, "'The blue dog barks in the church, I repeat...'"
There's nothing more embarrassing than being caught at something you're not even aware of. I'd grown as annoying as Ron - although not as impervious to change. Besides, I had Alicia who quickly broke me of the habit by asking, "Is that a dog barking?" every time I lapsed. At the time, I was grateful to her but, now that I think about it, she just may be responsible for what happened later because I figured if I could be cured, so could Ron and that's what I set out to do.
Initially, I used Alicia's method, choosing a trigger word. I decided the most obvious would be to respond to Ron's, "What?"with a,"What?" of my own but, when I did, Ron would square his shoulders in irritation and reply,
"I didn't say anything, you did!"
Thinking I finally had his attention, I'd make the remark I'd been intending to make only to hear,
"What?"
Aarrgh! The solution was worse than the problem. Yet I had faith in the method and tried again, deciding I'd simply approached things from the wrong angle. Obviously, I needed to give him a full taste of his own medicine replying,
"What?" to every remark he made, and we were soon having scintillating exchanges like,
"Honey, where's my blue shirt?"
"What?"
"Where's my blue shirt?"
"In the closet."
"What?"
"In the closet."
This solved absolutely nothing at all since Ron, alas, seemed to find the new mode of communication perfectly normal. Then again, why shouldn't he? I was speaking his language, after all. Still, it wasn't a solution I could live with so I sought a better one and when I found it, I even announced it to Ron,
"I'm sick of repeating myself. You can ask, 'What?' all you want but if you don't listen the first time, tough!"
... For me, as it turned out. I'd speak, Ron would reply,
"What?"
I'd keep silent and consequently couldn't get him to pick me up after work when my car was being repaired, never knew what he wanted for dinner, and refused invitations because I had no idea if Ron was free. Worse, Ron merely greeted my silence with a shrug and that's when I cracked. The horrible truth had been revealed. Ron not only didn't listen, he didn't care -- about me! I no longer sought change, I sought revenge. Ron owed me the best years of my life and the bill came due, so to speak, one morning over breakfast when we had the following conversation,
"Is the juice good?"
"What?" Ron asked between gulps.
"The juice, Is it good?"
"Excellent," he drank it down. "Is it fresh squeezed?"
"No, it's probably the arsenic."
"What?"
"I said, that must be ..."
I never needed to repeat this sentence. Ron had already dropped dead and was stretched out on the linoleum. I dialled 911 without a moment's hesitation because years of being secretary to a cardiologist have made me a whizz at symptoms. When the paramedics arrived, I played the distraught wife, telling them about Ron's unusual pallor and the pain he'd complained of in his arm,
"He figured he'd slept on it funny, which didn't surprise me. He's a very restless sleeper and even sprained his thumb one ni..."
"Which arm?" one paramedic interrupted my reminiscences.
I furrowed my brow, held one biceps, then the other, then both before confirming,
"Left."
"Any other pain?"
"No, well, not pain, but he thought he had indigestion - felt kind of nauseous, and kept rubbing his chest, saying he had heartburn. I suggested cereal and toast but he wanted his usual breakfast so I went back to cooking the bacon and when I turned around to ask how he wanted his eggs, there he was."
Given Ron's age, the paramedic noted "heart attack" on the death certificate without even a "probable" to qualify it. Ron's debt was paid in full.
Everyone's been very kind. My friends thought it a wonderful idea that I come here to the Bahamas to get over the shock. Where will they go to get over their shock, I wonder, when I return with Imre? We met at the airport waiting for the hotel van and have been inseparable ever since. I really think I've found the love of my life.
Imre is Hungarian. Not only does he have soulful eyes to look at me longingly with, but his English is far from fluent and, in his effort to understand, he hangs on my every word as if I were the oracle of Delphi. His only flaw is the way he persistently cracks his knuckles, but that's the kind of habit I'm sure I can get him to break with no trouble at all.
(Mary C. Lyons lives in Paris, France.)