Thrown Together: A Novel of Love in a Turbulent Time

By Jon Michael Miller

The world seems to be coming apart. Into the stew of chaos, a mix of characters are thrown together. Matthew Boyer--just back from the war; Amy St. Clair--disenchanted with her conventional marriage. From the paddies of the Mekong Delta, the classrooms of Ohio State, the teeming meadows of Woodstock, cross-country highways, and the flowerchild world of Frisco, their search for meaning, stability, and redemption swirls others into the caldron.

Impacted aby the turmoil of war and social revolution, they try to chart uncertain paths.

It was a time of monumental questions.
It was a time of supercharged emotions.
It was a time when everything was on the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Michael Miller
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465866288

Jon Michael Miller

Born and raised in the farmland of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, Jon Michael Miller received a teaching degree from Penn State University. After teaching high school English a number of years in his home area, he attended graduate school at Ohio State during the turbulent 60’s when he was introduced to Transcendental Meditation as taught by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. He then spent twelve years in the TM movement, rising to work directly under the spiritual master himself and later for the movement’s television station in Los Angeles. To activate his writing career he returned to Penn State where he earned two advanced degrees, taught English, and administered a liberal arts major in which students were able to design individualized courses of study. After fifteen years in Happy Valley, during which he became a regular visitor to Jamaica, he relocated to Saint Petersburg, Florida, where he now teaches and writes.

Book preview

THROWN TOGETHER

Jon Michael Miller

Copyright by Jon Michael Miller 2011

Smashwords Edition

Readers’ Comments

For grad school intrigue, this is right up there with Love Story & The Paper Chase!

The best book about a Viet Nam vet I’ve read, and I’ve read a few.

This author’s insights into the subtleties of love’s many changes are as good as it gets.

Two people hook up for escape—sex turns to love—love turns to freedom.

~

For my mother,

Mary Ellen Miller

~

With special thanks to

Patricia Anne Ferguson

and

Mary Alice Dobson

There is not any haunt of prophecy,

Nor any old chimera of the grave,

Neither the golden underground, not isle

Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm

Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured

As April’s green endures; or will endure

Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

--Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning

Prologue

Mekong Delta, Viet Nam, 1967

They were exposed on both sides of a dike that divided a rice paddy, nothing for cover but rows of elephant grass at the dike’s base. Matt was sure it was the end of them because there was nothing to protect them except their own return fire. As they let loose into the open field with their M-16s, Woody called frantically for air cover.

It had been their own mistake. They should have realized the peasants in the fields were overly intent on their work. Not even the children looked up to watch the group of American soldiers bopping along on the dike in the noonday sun. Woody started it, grooving and strutting to some inner music like a Philadelphia mummer. The other guys followed suit. Everything seemed fine. It all felt safe. But it wasn’t, and they’d missed it. It was because the kids were there. Woody must have figured the VC would never start anything with so many little ones around.

Of course, the kids would certainly have taken notice of the nutty G.I.s, grooving along the dike like a bunch of morons. But they didn’t. Everyone, including the kids, remained intent on their work. No one even as much as glanced up at the Americans.

Then the gunfire started, vicious incoming rounds from both sides of the dike, and nowhere for cover. Even with the kids there, the Americans blindly returned fire from the bank, from behind the thin row of tall grass, because it was coming in so heavy there was nothing else to do. Mud burst up around them; the ground was alive with it. Joel Butters, a towhead from Ft. Worth, covered with freckles, whom they called Opey from Andy Griffith, got blown into Matt by a shell, knocking Matt to his back. Matt was down under him, his rifle a yard away, fire still chopping through the reeds like someone working with a machete. Matt rolled out from under Opey’s smoking corpse, retrieved his weapon, fumbled to change the ammo clip and fired mercilessly at nothing. Beside him, Woody screamed obscenities into the radio. Matt was drenched with Opey’s blood.

Air Cav finally got there, coming in over the trees and spraying the paddy with machinegun fire. Matt didn’t hear Woody any more. Suddenly the ground stopped spurting up lumps of mud. But Matt kept changing clips and firing. He lay on his back shooting through the reeds until he realized the VC incoming had stopped. The ground was still. Blood was oozing from Opey’s severed gut, his eyes wide open in vacant amazement. When Matt rolled over to his left, he saw Woody, sitting, bent over, still gripping the walkie-talkie with his face half gone, his skull split and his helmet knocked askance, filling up with blood. Bits of tissue smeared the ground around his head.

Matt stared at him, panting, sweating, soaked in gore. Woody’s head drooped like he’d dozed off. There was sporadic chopper fire toward the trees at the far end of the field.

That was when he heard screaming from the paddy—a child’s voice in agony and fright. By instinct he moved toward the shrieks, like a ghost, without feeling or thought, hearing only the child’s anguished cries from somewhere in the slop. He moved through the chopped-up reeds into the dark muck, half mud, half buffalo shit. The VC, dressed like old men and women, with kids here and there, were scattering toward the trees, taking heavy losses from the Hueys that hovered, spun and dove above them.

As he moved toward the cries, he saw a small girl, her clothes soaked in mud, struggling over the body of a fallen VC. He trudged through the mire toward her as she screamed. When he got to her, he saw that her one arm was nearly off, hanging limply from below the elbow like a torn rag doll. She was stuck in the mud up to her knees. After tugging her out, he put her on his hip like a football and worked his way back to the dike where a couple of Med Vacs were sitting down.

From copters, machinegun fire strafed the jungle. The girl cried out as Matt hauled her through the paddy into the reeds. He struggled up the bank where corpses were being lifting into the choppers, Woody the last one, his split head hanging helplessly backwards, his one remaining eye staring blankly at the sky.

Stifled from the hot air of the gunship blades, Matt was dragged aboard with the kid in his arms. He lay on the crowded floor among the bodies, no one saying anything as the chopper lifted, leaned to the left and took off toward the trees. Unconsciously Matt held the girl, not even realizing he had her until a sergeant gunner scuttled over to have a look. There was the stench of feces from the dead and wounded, someone groaning in pain, the girl crying, the thunder of the rotors, the gasoline odor of napalm, the jungle in flames, and then the open paddies flowing beneath them like a silent dream.

Let go of the kid, the gunner yelled.

Matt held her tighter.

Let go of the fucking kid!

She’s not dead, Matt answered.

I know she ain’t fucking dead. Let go of her.

She’s with me.

We don’t have time for no bleeding heart bullshit. We ain’t taking no gooks in with us.

Like hell.

We ain’t here to save fucking VC. Give her to me.

The girl was screaming, her eyes wild.

Medic! Matt yelled.

The gunner got hold of her foot and yanked. The medic crawled across the bodies.

Stop, the medic told the gunner.

We ain’t taking her in, the gunner said.

Let go, the medic said.

I’m in command here, the sergeant answered.

Back off, the medic said. It’s a medical issue. I’ll take care of it.

Incoming! someone shouted.

Shells riddled the side of the chopper. The sergeant moved back to his gun and started firing. The medic looked at the child.

Christ! This kid is messed up.

I’m taking care of her, Matt said.

Yeah, right. Here, let me see that arm. All right, it’s fucked. No way to fix it.

With a knife he sliced off the remaining tendon. Then he tossed the little arm and hand out of the chopper. He wrapped and taped the stump. As they followed the river toward base, Matt held onto the kid as though she belonged to him, as though by holding on to her he could save not only her life but his own.

Chapter One

South Vietnamese Kill 114 in Two Clashes near Danang, New York Times, September 16, 1968.

A soft September breeze edged Amy’s pleated skirt upward on her thigh. Crossing her legs, she eased the starched linen back to its proper place. She was glancing around the circle at her new colleagues, the entering master’s degree candidates of 1968. Fifteen strong, they were seated on folding chairs in Professor Greene’s well-shaded yard just a block north of the Ohio State University campus. In a sagging seersucker suit, the stork-like academician was approaching the climax of his welcoming address.

And so, he shouted over the roar of a neighbor’s lawn mower, I appeal to each of you not to allow your demand for relevance to deter you from reading Aristotle. What the world needs now, just as much as love, is more of the Classics, not less. But his alluding to the popular song by Dionne Warwick did not produce applause. The group merely seemed relieved that the speech was now behind them.

The prevalence of long skirts, blue jeans and leather sandals made Amy realize she’d become too accustomed to dressing for Republican luncheons. Her trip to the salon had been completely unnecessary, and the full hour she’d taken to apply her makeup an utter waste of time. In this ragged group even her understated jewelry bordered on the ostentatious. She must have looked more like a senator’s wife than the present breed of graduate student. With his remarks completed, Dr. Greene instructed his new crop to rise one by one and introduce themselves.

To her dismay Amy was already acquainted with one of them from her undergraduate days—Freddie Burleson, a fraternity brother of her husband’s. Once, after too many gin and tonics she’d necked feverishly with him among the lacrosse sticks in a Sigma Chi equipment closet. Now, as their eyes met he nodded in mock gallantry. Predictably, he wore a skintight tee shirt that accentuated his powerful pectorals and biceps. He was short and thick, solid as a chestnut tree, his sober expression always a warning that he stood as a bulwark against of any sort frivolity. For Amy his presence marred what she’d hoped would be a fresh beginning.

Seated next to him was a much more appealing fellow, a youthful Gregory Peck, she thought, lanky, strapping, tanned and ill at ease. His sandy hair was cut unfashionably short, and he gripped his knees as though he were bracing himself against an invisible force. He, too, had overdressed, in a sports coat and corduroy slacks, though his tie was loosened. Apparently an associate, Freddie muttered something to him but got only a minimal nod in response. Bored or weary, perhaps both, he seemed tired around the eyes as he peered downward at obviously new desert boots. She’d seen his type before, bartenders and golf pros used to doing their duty but wishing they were somewhere else, a type that for some elusive reason she found attractive.

When it was her turn to speak, she rose and smiled, holding her skirt against the insistent eddies of air.

Hello, everyone, she said with the opening she’d been silently rehearsing, I’m Amy St. Claire. Unlike most of you I’ve been out of school for a few years, trying my best to achieve domestic bliss. She was pleased to hear some quiet laughter. I’ve learned to play tennis, at least. This comment further amused her audience. Having established rapport, she went on more seriously to explain that as an undergraduate she’d been a typical sorority girl majoring in English and not absorbing much of it, but now that in her plentiful spare time she had been reading more deeply, she was eager to take classes again. She added that her favorite poet was Keats and she’d just finished Middlemarch, which she had positively adored. But I must confess, she concluded, try though I have, I still find the poetry of Wallace Stevens completely baffling. As she resumed her seat she was rewarded with scattered applause and even a loud Amen.

Soon Fred stood up, a stubby Colossus surveying his domain. With his intimidating scowl he announced, as in an edict, his interest in Old English syntax and Arthurian legend. Then it was his intriguing friend’s turn to speak.

He rose and looked directly at her. She immediately glanced down at a patch of clover by her purse. Rather than introducing himself as he should have, he said, You say you find Wallace Stevens completely baffling. Have you considered the fact that ambiguity is the central feature of all great art?

At this precise moment the sound of the lawnmower shut off, hanging his words in the sudden silence like a challenge from On High. For a horrifying moment Amy thought he expected her to debate the merits of Wallace Stevens’ poetry right there and then, but when she looked up to assess the situation he was seated again, staring at his shoes. Her neck was on fire. She squirmed in her chair.

Trying to gain her composure, she was hardly able to listen to the next several speakers until at last a willowy young woman named Molly Sparks, a recent graduate of Oberlin, addressed the group. Her plaid kilt was fastened on the side with a huge brass safety pin, her blouse was wrinkled, her knee socks drooped, and pennies glinted from her loafers. Wringing her hands and gazing at the wispy clouds, she proclaimed her devotion to Shakespearean comedy, noting proudly that she’d played Puck in a summer stock performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Formalities completed, the aspiring scholars mingled, helping themselves to Ruth Greene’s hamburgers, frankfurters and apple-peppercorn salad. To Amy’s great relief, her movie star antagonist left immediately. Apparently with urgent business to attend to, he strode to the tree-lined street, got into a sports car with the top down and roared off. With chagrin Amy continued to stare at the point where he had turned from Maple Terrace onto North High Street.

From just behind her she heard Freddie’s baritone. That character is my officemate. Just got back from Viet Nam. He spat some watermelon seeds into a sumac bush. Hey, that line about tennis was pretty lame. How is Ritchie-boy, anyway? I haven’t seen him since the wedding.

Ritchie-boy is selling tires left and right, front and rear. What’re you doing back in Columbus? I heard you were teaching at an Indian reservation somewhere on the Great Plains.

Nebraska, for my draft deferment. But I just got a medical exemption. He tapped his flat stomach. Me with an ulcer, would you believe it?

The former Puck joined them. Howdy, pardner, she said to Amy, extending a slim hand, her nails having been bitten to their quicks. Did you catch my ‘Amen’? That goof should learn the difference between ambiguity and mass confusion. You and I share an office, just your alphabetical luck. I don’t have much success with roommates.

Smiling as pleasantly as she could, Amy replied, That has just changed, I’m sure.

I’ll try my best, but my last roommate called me ‘half a case.’ She was glancing upward into the ginkgo tree that shaded them. Look at that robin’s nest! she cried.

After acknowledging the irrelevant cluster of straw, Amy brought her new colleague’s attention back to earth by introducing her to Freddie.

Oh, yes, Molly said, having to look down at him a bit, you’re the one who likes all that ancient stuff. Me too, I’m thoroughly nuts about The Canterbury Tales.

Just a bunch of dirty jokes, Freddie countered. A comic book compared to Beowulf.

To escape being witness to the intellectual dismantling her new officemate was about to receive, Amy excused herself in order to sample the oatmeal-raisin cookies. As she drove home in her Nash Rambler, she tried three of them, sensing all way that her return to academia had not boded as well as she had hoped.

That evening, with the sun a mellow gold and the shadows long across the plush lawns of Arlington Heights, Amy rode with her husband Richard on their way to Chestnut Hills Country Club where they were scheduled to dine with the St. Claire’s. Having barely spoken all evening, Richard raced his new Mustang along the suburban streets like Mario Andretti. Silent too, Amy clutched the seat, determined not to express her ire at his recklessness, which was, she knew, actually displaced aggression toward her for some reason she hadn’t yet fathomed. Finally, at a stoplight he reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and took out a disc of birth control pills.

I found this in your purse, he said, tossing it onto her lap.

She remained motionless as the container lay between her thighs, indisputable evidence of what, in his mind, must have constituted a crime.

You were even going to let me go ahead with a sperm count, he said. God-damned incredible!

Her neck and ears burning, she stared at the plastic case.

How could you do something like that? he added. When the light turned green, he squealed the tires, accelerated and took a curve at 60. What kind of person are you?

He swerved onto a long driveway, lined with chestnut trees. Ahead of them stood the white facade of the club house with plantation columns, wrought iron porticoes and tall windows. Surrounding the building were undulating fairways, lush greens, kidney-shaped sand traps, and groves of beech and birch. In front of the grand entrance, only a few cars remained lined for valet parking—the Elstons’ Fleetwood, Jack Fargo’s Eldorado convertible and the Galbraiths’ Town Car. Richard pulled up and let his new pleasure toy idle.

What right do you have to search my purse? Amy said in a fruitless attempt to reverse his accusation. As he handed the keys to the valet, she slid the container into her bag.

Already seated at their usual table with a view of the eighteenth green, Edward and Georgina St. Claire rose as soon as they saw the younger couple. Richard shook his father’s hand and hugged his mother, giving her cheek a non-contact kiss as she cooed at him, her eyes closed in happiness. With the warmth that had allowed him to rise to lofty heights in the Firestone organization, Edward St. Claire smiled at Amy, but she only beckoned the waiter. She wanted an extra-dry martini right away.

Everyone seated, Richard said, So, you guys, welcome back. How was it?

I adore Bermuda, Georgina said in her husky voice. The British really know how to live. It’s not at all like those nasty islands in the Caribbean. She went on about the hotel, the service and the weather. Did you know, Amy, that Shakespeare used the island as a model for his final play?

No.

It’s quite true. What was the name of that play? It slipped my mind.

The Hurricane, Edward answered.

No, silly, Georgina said. That was the night club at the hotel.

The Tempest, Amy said, still searching the room for their waiter.

That’s right, Georgina said. Amy, darling, you are so smart. I wish Richard shared your love of culture. In that department, he’s a brute, just like his father. To these two, Shakespeare might as well be metaphysics.

Georgina St. Claire was a small woman with defined sinews in her arms and a breathy voice that betrayed her long history of double rob-roys. Her dyed strawberry-blond hair was piled high with spray, and her discourse on Bermuda occupied the better half of their meal. It’s not a bit Third Worldish there, she said. The British really take care of their natives.

They’re hardly natives, Amy said, if their predecessors were hauled there in chains.

Well, call them what you will, now they’re as happy as clams. And the place is so marvelously white and neat.

When Richard asked his father the inevitable question about golf, Edward, accustomed to holding court, provided a hole-by-hole description of a match in which he’d nearly defeated the club professional of their resort. Except for an errant drive into the bay on the last hole, he’d have won the round. The senior St. Claire was a robust man with a freshly tanned bald head and confident eyes.

Aren’t those club pros paid to keep the rounds close? Richard jibed at his father, who laughed heartily, the two being great chums. Amy spoke only to the waiter each time he arrived.

After their meals—rack-of-lamb, vegetable medley, chocolate mousse and brandy—the two males left to smoke cigars in the men-only lounge. Time for business, Georgina pulled her chair closer to Amy.

Are you well, my dear?

Just honky-dory, the daughter-in-law replied, sniffing the remains of her Couvassier before downing it.

I am informed Richard’s opposition to your going back to school has you quite upset.

He would much rather I learned golf.

Yes, dear, these little boys do need their games. But did you know that when Richard first told us he was actually serious about you as a potential wife, it was your love of independence he touted most? He said he admired your spunk. Yes, that was the word he used, ‘spunk.’

Richard excels at sales.

Forgive me for sounding a tad aristocratic, my dear, but becoming a St. Claire is no small feat. At least it wasn’t for me. And I wasn’t encumbered with the difficulties of your social background. Doesn’t it go without saying Richard had to make his case?

You mean because I’m the uncouth daughter of a steel worker? Amy moved to get up but was stopped short by a sudden grip on her wrist.

Don’t you dare make a scene, said Georgina, having locked Amy in place with an amazing strength. She moved so close Amy winced from the scent of her Chanel. Richard’s nature is not romantic. I’m afraid he’s a carbon copy of his father. But in your case, I’ve never seen him fight more vigorously for a cause. And he persisted until, against our better instincts, we had no choice but to give in. It was a remarkable victory for you, one which, perhaps, you’ve never fully appreciated.

Please let go of my arm, Amy said.

Please hear me out a moment, then. With little choice, Amy nodded and remained seated. There’s a good girl. Now listen, Amy. I need to discuss a matter of urgency with you. What in God’s name is this nonsense about your taking birth control pills? And furthermore, of hiding the fact from your husband?

Her rage growing, Amy stared at the two olives in her empty martini glass.

Whatever injustice you feel at his having told us, can it match your making him think he may be sterile?

Amy was about to scream. Instead, she mis-swallowed some saliva and coughed into her napkin.

Now listen to me, child, Georgina said more gently. We have made a tremendous investment in you, and we are not about to give up. We have come to adore you. It’s time you recognize your victory. You are one of us now. I know it’s difficult at times. Believe me, darling, I know. But there are rewards, and I don’t just mean four-week vacations in Bermuda. Richard is a lovely boy. We couldn’t be more pleased with him. He is worth all your devotion; he is worth some sacrifices too. You will have a beautiful family. Your children will want for nothing, and a time will come, as it has for me, that you will be so proud. That is a rare thing and worth working for. It’s time to embrace your good fortune and start a family. We want that for you and for our son. And what beautiful children they will be.

When she tried to reassure Amy by touching her hand, Amy wrenched it away.

Well, darling, Georgina said, turning toward the rapid approach of the Hathaways, I can see you’re in no mood to discuss this at the moment. But think about what I’ve said. It’s true, every word. It’s best for you. And I want you to know we’re rooting for you. She ended the conversation with a reassuring pat on Amy’s wrist.

With the arrival of the other couple Amy felt a repeat performance of the Bermuda script coming on, so she excused herself, probably seeming rude but not caring. At the gleaming mahogany bar she ordered her fifth martini, a double. Then she stepped out onto a small balcony overlooking the ninth green. Stinging with shame, she stood alone. Night had fallen with a fading autumn warmth. Silently, two young lovers strolled across the putting surface and sat down on a bench by a ribbon of brook. They nestled together. With a few bright stars low in the sky, a dim crescent moon lay over the tips of some tall pines.

Her peace was suddenly ruined by the arrival of Edward St. Claire, who stood beside her for a moment in the silence of the evening.

We have worked out a compromise, he said.

Offering no response, Amy wondered if there was any limit to the humiliation that could be heaped upon her this atrocious evening.

You know, Edward went on, it’s funny. Georgie used to hate golf, couldn’t stand it. But, anyway, I just couldn’t help myself going out there every weekend. Oh, she tried everything to keep me home but I just love the game, what can I say? So I hit the links whenever I could, just like I do now. Drove her crazy until we finally worked out a compromise. It was her idea. You know what it was?—She would learn golf if I learned bridge. Perfect solution, don’t you think?

She should work for the United Nations.

You know, she’d be damned good at that. Now let’s take you and Rich. You want to go to grad school. He wants a family. Why not make a deal? If you both say ‘yes,’ you both win, don’t you?

He sent you out here to negotiate a deal?

We want everyone happy, y’hear? We St. Claire’s are a team. It’s always been like that and always will. And see here, Amy, we need you aboard. We can’t do it without you. Compromise, there’s the word. It’s maybe the best word in the English language except, of course, the word yes. Yes is a beautiful word. And compromise. Compromise is the backbone of every marriage that lasts. You do want your marriage to last, don’t you, Amy?

She downed the residue of her drink. At that moment the word yes was anything but the most beautiful word in the English language. The lovers on the bench were necking furiously, heads moving about, legs locking.

Would’ya look at those two nuts down there? Edward said. Someone oughta call security. Answer me, Amy. You do want your marriage to last, don’t you, honey bun?

The lovers were tangled in one another’s arms. I need a refill, she said, leaving her father-in-law to observe the scene in solitude.

Not a word was spoken in the car. When they got home Amy stumbled in the breezeway, upsetting a potted geranium but managing to restore it before Richard strolled out of the garage. With soiled hands she went directly to the kitchen and slid open the glass door so that Ozzie, their Yorkshire terrier, could scamper out over the patio to the big cedar in the back yard. When he finally ran to her across the lawn, Amy lifted him up, laughing as he licked her nose with his tiny tongue. Upstairs in the bathroom she took a pill out of its disc and, with no pang of conscience, swallowed it.

She sat on the covered commode, trying to keep her head from spinning and dreading having now to deal with Richard. When she finally went into the bedroom he was standing at the dresser in only his socks and briefs, examining his lean body in the mirror. Still in good shape, he pulled in his gut and posed from side to side. He didn’t look at her. She went into the walk-in closet, changed into silk pajamas, returned and got into bed as he was leaning toward the dresser mirror, plucking hairs from his nostrils with a tweezers.

Then he turned and walked to her side of the bed. He pulled his briefs off and drew her blanket down.

Come on, he said, edging close to her face.

I don’t feel well. She closed her eyes.

He reached down, opened the buttons of her top and squeezed her nipples.

Not so hard, she said.

Come on.

I’m nauseous, and you reek of tobacco.

Come on.

It was best to get it over with. She rolled onto her side and took hold of his partial erection. As he stepped closer he bumped her cheek with it. She managed to capture it with her mouth, struggling a moment to breathe as he shoved it in. Though she gagged and coughed, he continued to move it in and out. After a few interminable minutes, he finally withdrew it, pulled off her pants and got on top of her. He had to spit on his fingers to moisten her. When it was over he rolled aside, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and handed it to her. She took a long drag and gave it back, feeling his sticky fluid seeping down the inside of her thigh.

I thought you wanted kids, he said. You used to say so.

You should have seized that moment. Her eyes were closed.

I had to get the business started.

You cared about me then.

I do now. Still the same. Would I want a kid if I didn’t?

It’s required, isn’t it? An heir to the throne?

Honey, we’ve been married over two years. We finally have some money to play with. I just closed that deal with U-Haul. Everything’s coming up roses, except these crazy spells you get into.

I didn’t feel a thing just now.

Too many martinis.

This marriage has turned into a charade. She took the cigarette from his hand.

You’re the one that changed. They lay in silence. Damn it, Amy, maybe we should go somewhere. I can take a break now. How ‘bout Paris? Or Hawaii? Any place you choose. What about that place you wanted to go on our honeymoon, in England, what’s it called?

The Lake District. It’s where Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote their poetry. Keats too. They used to go for long walks there. They talked about everything.

Okay, then, we’ll do it, go for long walks and talk about every God-damned thing.

"I’m