the morning light falls
on the house next door waiting
for the day’s shadows
the morning light falls
the morning light falls
on the house next door waiting
for the day’s shadows
The house is so still
nothing stirs, nothing at all
as I lie in bed
“Why do you always run off to the shower after we make love?” This could be the man or the woman asking. On this particular night, it is the woman.
The man, her husband, slides back into the bed beside his wife’s naked body, reaches over, kisses her lightly on the lips. She resists his kiss.
He withdraws to a few inches from her face. “You know you can join me in the shower. It’s not like there’s not enough room.” The best defense is a good offense.
He’s not ready to give up on that kiss. He tries again for her lips.
She is having none of his attempts at getting on her good side. “All I want is to be close,” she says, moving her lips away from his.
“I’m trying to be close now.” He catches her cheek with his kiss.
She pushes him away. “It isn’t the same. After we have sex, all you do is run away.” Slipping over to her edge of the bed, she gives him her back, then pulls the sheet tight around her, making it into a cocoon.
He drops off to his side of the bed. “But … Lenore,” he protests.
“Why do you choose to call me that?” she tosses over her shoulder at him. “You know I don’t like it, Sam.”
“What do you mean? Call you what?” he speaks to her back.
“Lenore,” she says the name as if it is a curse.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Of course it’s her name.
“It’s what my mother calls me. But I’m Nora and you most definitely know that.” Of course he knows it. He has called her Nora a thousand times and more. Her back is now a wall and she’s not allowing any climbing over it. Not for this night anyway.
”I like Lenore. It has such a romance to it. Just like you.”
Silence. Not a sound coming from behind that wall.
After several minutes of waiting for a truce and a goodnight kiss, he reaches over and switches off the bedside light, sighs and slides deeper into the bed. He lies on his back and studies the shadows spreading out across the room as the night grows deeper.
A sob escapes through a crack in that impenetrable wall lying next to him. His wife is crying, pouring herself into her pillow. He reaches over to offer her a tender, comforting touch.
She moves away from his hand and rolls over and faces him. “My name is Nora. And just why do you always feel the need to wash me off after we have sex? Guess you can’t stand the smell of me, the taste of me, the touch of me on your skin. Bet you can’t even stand the sound of me.”
He starts to protest but holds it in.
“Next thing I know you won’t even be able to stand the sight of me.” Shoving the covers off, she jumps out of bed, grabs her robe, heads for the door. Takes one last look at the man in her bed. “Ever since Candace went away to college,” she says, changing the subject but not really. She throws the robe on and heads off down the hall.
He calls after her. “Candace doesn’t like Candace for a name, you know.” Their daughter likes to be called Dash.
“That’s her name, Sam-u-el,” she cries out into the night. She’s Candace’s mother and she can call her daughter any damned name she wants. Why doesn’t he understand that?
“And Lenore is yours,” he wants to yell back but doesn’t. She is the woman he loves, has always loved, and he knows that this is not a good time to call out “Lenore”.
He moves over onto his side and faces the wall, pulls the sheet closer around his body. He hates these dark, restless nights when nothing seems to go right. When everything he tries is wrong.
He waits in the dark and hopes. What is he hoping for? That she’ll come back to bed? That he can somehow show her that he didn’t mean for the night to turn out the way it has? Maybe that, after twenty years of marriage, things can change? That he can change? He keeps hoping but he knows. This will not be the night.
It’s one thirty and he has to get up in the morning for work. But he’s not going to get any sleep. Not till Lenore comes back to bed, and they make up.
Why does he keep calling her Lenore? he wonders in his sleeplessness. He knows how much she hates it. It’s only at times like these when he drops his guard that she she is no longer an average, everyday Nora. She is the Lenore of his best dreams and he is recalling their honeymoon in that long-ago before twenty years wore down their marriage.
He glances over at the clock on his nightstand once again. It’s two and she’s not coming back. He slips out of bed, pulls on this pajama bottoms and a robe.
Downstairs and out on the patio, she hears him slide the glass door open behind her. “I’m not mad,” she says to nobody in particular. “It’s just that, well I’m not mad,” this time she’s speaking to her husband.
There she goes. Making peace. Why does she always do that? he wonders. “I was a jerk,” he says, looking at the back of her neck. The moon throws its light across the room and he can’t ever remember seeing anything so beautiful.
“No, you were just being you.” Her voice is soft and lonely. Then she thinks, “There I go again, making peace. Why do I always do that?”
He doesn’t know what else to say or do so he waits.
She looks over her shoulder and up into his face. His eyes gaze at her the way he did that first night oh-so-many-years-before on the the beach where they first fell in love. Her hand reaches out for his, takes it, draws him to her side on the bench. “I love this house,” she says.
“It has been a good house.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the one for us.” She leans her head on his shoulder.
“I didn’t know that.” He squeezes her hand with all the affection that comes from years of loving and arguing and making up and arguing and making up some more. “I wasn’t that positive myself.”
She squeezes back. Her head feels the strength of the shoulder she has always known that she can lean on no matter what. No matter what. She then takes her head off his shoulder and looks up at the sky. “That sure is a pretty moon.”
“We didn’t think we’d we be here that long.”
“And, my god, the mortgage.” She laughs.
“We’d never owed that much money to anybody. But Dash loved it.”
“We thought we were buying the moon. Five years old and Candace knew it was for us.”
“Why do you keep on calling her Candace?” he whispers. “You know how much she hates it.”
“Why do you insist on calling me Lenore?” she whispers back. “It spoils eyerything.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, unsure how to tell her all that her name means to him.
“I can see we got what we paid for.” She is back thinking about the house.
“It was a good price.”
She points toward the sky. “We got that moon too, and it is much better than the one we thought we were buying.” She looks at it for several minutes. “You think that Brett and Dash will last as long as we have?”
“I hope so. He seems to love her but not as much as I loved you then, Nora.” He kisses Lenore, not a soft easy kiss, not a deep passionate kiss, but a kiss that makes up for everything. And she kisses him. Then he whispers, “And still love you.”
She stands, reaches for his hand, and they go inside.
On the way up the stairs, he says, ”If you let me call you Lenore every-once-in-a-while, I promise not to run off to the shower after we make love.”
“Only when we’re alone,” she says from the stair above him.
He nods yes, and they are back in bed and soon asleep.
Forgiveness fills the house as it has so many times before and they continue their married life together. At least for one more day.
Just think. For three years, you’ve been out doing the Lord’s work. “On the job training,” Jesus called it. You come home for a few days rest and relaxation. You’d think the wife would be happy to see you. But here’s what you get.
Mrs. Saint Peter runs out to meet her husband. Hugs him. “I’ve missed you a lot.”
Saint Peter hugs his wife real good. “I’ve missed you too, Agatha. It’s been three years on the road. I sure could use one of your extra special back rubs and a pile of your homecooking. And it’s been three years since I’ve had a good bath.”
“I can tell.” They walk hand in hand back to the two bedroom house Saint calls home. “Well, it’s good to have you back.”
“But you know what? Jesus—”
“You’re home for good?” she interrupts as they walk into the living room.
“He rose from the dead. It was the most amazing—”
“There’s so much work to be done around here,” she says enthusiastically, her voice full of hope.
“thing,” he finishes his sentence. “And He put me in charge. I sure have a lot to do. It’s not—”
“The roof needs mending and there’s the boat to patch. Things have just gone to rot since you left.”
“BUT WOMAN, I CAN’T STAY. I HAVE TO LEAD THE DISCIPLES OF JESUS.”
“Don’t shout. It’s not the Christian thing to do.”
“Well, He put me in charge.” Saint is adamant now.
“Jesus did what?” Hands on her waist, she stares at him with disbelief.
“Jesus left me in charge,” he says with pride, a big grin on his face. “He even called me Rock.”
She laughs. “Rockhead more likely. If Jesus left you in charge, he sure made a big mistake.”
Peter’s face is starting to turn red from anger. “You never did believe in me. And you just don’t understand.”
“Understand? What’s there to understand? All I know is there’s a lot of work around here that needs doing and you’re never around to help.”
“Woman, all you do is—nag, nag, nag. Tar the roof, mend the floor, fix the wall, hinge the door. Catch the fish, sail the boat, paint the house. I’m a joke.”
“Peter, Peter, I wish you could hear yourself. All you do is brag, brag, brag. Walk the sea, heal the blind, change the water into wine. Thousands fed, raise the dead. He chose you, you dumpy head.”
Saint storms out of the house. “I don’t know why I ever came back, Nagatha.”
“Me neither. You never change.” She stands at the door.
“That’s not true. I do change.”
“Peter, you’re a good man, but you’re awfully hard-headed.”
“I’m not going to stay here and listen to this. I’ll go where I’m appreciated. And can be in charge. I’ll see you in three more years.” He stalks off into the darkness. “Women.”
“Men! Hmph!” She slams the door.