Page 84 of The Story of You
“These are for you,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said dutifully. I’d been strictly calling him sir. He knew what I was doing and from the way his nose wrinkled, I wouldn’t be doing it for much longer.
“These will teach you what I want you to know. How to be like your mother was.”
“How was that, sir?”
“Read the magazines,” he said with a hint of playfulness in his voice.
“Why this old? Isn’t this information outdated?”
“Some will be, but it’s the culture I want you to pick up. The fifties encouraged a form of spousal obedience I’ll expect from you.”
My heart rate kicked up. Spouse? I breathed slowly afraid anything could set him off. “Yes, sir.”
“Aleksander. Say it.”
He didn’t lay a hand on me. I hadn’t even felt the sting of his belt since before Darius left. I wasn’t afraid of physical violence. There was another kind of violence holding me captive.
I swallowed. “Yes, Aleksander.”
“You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I shook my head, but it was. Another loss. Another battle he’d won so easily. Though the wordbattleis generous. He waited patiently for me to do as he wanted, giving me the illusion of choice, but when he was fed up with waiting for me to come around, he pillaged.
He let me think I was fighting back, which made it profoundly devastating when I would lose.
The magazines were the house spouse’s guide to pleasing the breadwinning one, an idea prevalent at the time the magazines were dated. It was the kind of relationship Mama and Father had.
The next day, Oliver found his way into the bags. He plucked a toddler-sized handful of the magazines and carried them over to me with a bright smile. “Baba, pretty,” he said. “Yours?”
On the one cover was a woman wearing her best Sunday pearls, a conservative sweater, and a frilly white apron. “I’m not wearing pearls or a fucking apron,” I muttered, but I did open the magazine.
A lot of it, I was already doing, but there were little extras I supposed I could be doing if it would make him happy. It was easy stuff like setting out his slippers on the weekends and always make sure his coffee mug was full and hot.
Other things were confusing. There were countless sections on how to serve dinner guests and how to display proper etiquette for your spouse in those situations. We didn’t have guests. The only people I saw were the parents of Oliver’s friends and sometimes the teens at the swimming hole.
I had no choice but to approach him. Surely, he didn’t want all of this?
After reading most of the magazines, I began a conversation with him over dinner, once I’d gotten Oliver happily set up in his highchair with his food. “I’ve read the magazines, Aleksander.” The “Aleksander” felt weird on my tongue. “I have questions.”
He sipped his wine and swallowed his mouthful. “Of course.”
His inviting tone soothed me. “Many of the magazines feature women. Is that what you want? Pearls? Aprons? A woman?”
With his winning smile—the one everyone trusted—he considered me. For a moment I worried he did want that. He had asked me to grow my hair long and at the time I was a lot thinner than I am now. Especially then. I still had my broad-shouldered frame, but it had considerably less muscle on it, and I’d begun wasting away months before he shared his forbidden desires.
“No. I had a housewife, now I want a househusband. I’m not opposed if you wanted to wear pearls and aprons, but they are not a requirement. Not to worry, I’ll make my expectations clear. I’m very happy to see you taking initiative, Silas.”
I was weak. His praise felt too good. It was the long cool drink of water I needed after living with dehydration. A blanket stitched from his praise allowed me a few moments of rest from the constant and exhausting anxiety that rattled through me all day, every day.
That version of me was happy I didn’t have to wear aprons and pearls.
“After you put the baby to bed, we’ll watch a movie together.” He sipped his wine.
There was a breath of hesitation before I nodded. Was he planning something? He’d promised nothing would happen until I’d reached the age of majority. That didn’t make it better, but it did give me time. Time to do what? He wasn’t going to change his mind. Maybe Icouldget used to the idea.
“It’s just a movie, Silas.”
