Three Women at the Water's Edge Read Free

was fine. She was capable of doing it all with good humor and even grace, even though sometimes while she rested she cried with exhaustion. Each day the simple lovely pleasure of lifting Jenny, damp and clinging, from her crib, made Daisy’s shoulders and back ache and cramp, as if this simple act which she loved were for her dumb body a sort of torture.
    At three-fifteen, the other mother would drop Danny off; he would come running into the house to hand her a splotchy bright painting or some crafted item made from straws or dried beans. Sometimes, if necessary, Daisy took them then to get groceries, or new rain boots, or vacuum cleaner bags or dry cleaning, or a birthday card or gift; there was always an errand to do. Sometimes, once or twice a week, Daisy took them to a friend’s house, and she would sit with the other mother and drink coffee or diet soda and laugh, while the children played. Tuesdays she took them to Storytime at the library. Around four-thirty or five, she would come home and put the children in front of the television, and she would fix dinner, and give the children baths and read them stories and finally, with a heroic attempt to be nice about it all, she would put them to bed. Most nights she carried it off pleasantly enough, but some nights, when Jenny asked for more water, more water, and Danny whined, “But I’m not tired, I don’t want to go to bed yet, you don’t love me, why won’t you read me another story, scratch my back,” sometimes then she shouted at the children. The tears came easily. If Paul were home, he might come up and look at her in amazement, as if she had gone mad and were doing something insane in front of the children, and he would talk to Danny in an adult and calm and reasonable voice, the voice of a
good
parent. Then Daisy would slink off into the bathroom, to soak in a tub of bath water so hot that she came out with parched and reddened skin.
    Saturdays Danny did not have school, and she took the children with her to get the bulk of the week’s groceries. Perhaps there was a birthday party then, or an afternoon children’s movie, or a trip to the zoo or museum, or a visit to a friend. Sundays there was church, and Paul would be home so she did not clean house; then they tried to do something together as a family. Sundays were usually long and unsuccessful days.
    It was a good enough life for a while, especially if you could indulge yourself as Daisy did in chocolates with cherry or marshmallow centers, and novels with heroines who had no husbands, no children, usually not even a house that required dusting. There were other, sensual pleasures: holding and handling the children, even changing Jenny’s diaper, and bending down to bite her fat thigh; drinking coffee with a friend; lying down in a warm bed in a quiet room.
    It was not, however, a very romantic life. Daisy knew she had grown unappealing, especially to Paul. Her body had changed; even if she saw it as temporary, certainly it was a grotesque change. And her cheerful energetic morning self was something Paul rarely saw—he was usually gone then, and so saw her mostly in the dragging, ragged evenings when she cursed and whined with fatigue. She did not want Paul in bed with her much anymore; the more sensual pleasure was in not touching anyone, in lying perfectly still, tending to no one else’s needs—this was now more satisfying than the pleasure of stroking skin, fitting Paul’s body to hers. She saw what she was doing and could understand, finally, why Paul would want to have an affair, play around with someone else for a while. She was betraying him a bit, but it was for the children; it was, therefore, okay if he betrayed her a bit, for a sexy young girl.
    But to fall in love with the girl, to pine and weep over her, to want to leave his wife and children so that he could live with her, to make it seem that all of Daisy’s past and present life was without meaning—that was unforgivable, an