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The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.
“You don’t look like a witch. Is that really what they call you?” he asks. “Sometimes they put a b in front.” He’s American and Texan and therefore a gentleman, so it takes him a moment to realize this is a joke. “My momma would yank a knot in my throat if I used either word for a lady.” “Lucky for you I’ve rarely been accused of being a lady,” I say with a wink, and I haven’t been married so long that I don’t enjoy watching him blush.
I absolutely hate having to wear flats just because a man didn’t have the good sense to grow a few inches taller.
My voice is that of a stranger. Distant. Tremulous. Weak. “What just happened? I wouldn’t treat an animal that way, much less a human.” “That’s because you are human, Nancy. They are not. Or at least not anymore.”
This is how people are brainwashed, I think. This is how they follow a monster. Everyone around me is mesmerized, their eyes glazed over, their breathing slow and rhythmic. And the longer he speaks, the more the crowd is hypnotized. They lean into his words, consuming them. Hitler shouts, they nod. His Lilliputian mustache quivers, his fists punch the air, he jabs and gesticulates, and they devour every word. They love him. They worship him.
I am a devoted fan of the male species. They are brave, brilliant, offer endless entertainment, are good for moving heavy objects, and make the act of procreation a great deal more enjoyable. I’d hate to see a world in which they did not exist. But sometimes they can be spectacular idiots.
Show me a girl who gets wobbly at the sight of blood and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t hit puberty. Dealing with blood is one of the most basic realities for every woman alive.”
“Shall we find somewhere to eat?” he says. I consider it a great testament to my character that I do not suggest him as the main course.
The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed. —ERNEST HEMINGWAY
The thing about marriage, I am learning, even this early on, is that so much is said without words. The gift of emotional intimacy is that you can read each other’s face from a distance.
The thing about lipstick, the reason it’s so powerful, is that it is distracting. Men don’t see the flashes of anger in your eyes or your clenched fists when you wear it. They see a woman, not a warrior, and that gives me the advantage.
“We have no women drivers.” “You do now.” Honestly, I’m so tired of this bullshit. I can’t have a byline because I’m a woman. I can’t apply for a marriage license on my own because I’m a woman. I can’t drive an ambulance because I’m a woman. “Tell me where to go and who to collect or I’ll just head off on my own and cause everyone more trouble,” I say.
Though I could not surrender my Protestant past for his Catholic present, I do remember how to pray, and I know that God is God regardless of which denominational peg I hang my hat upon.
Exhaustion and discouragement have seeped into every fiber of my being. I feel as though the very strands of my hair are limp with it. I am hungry. I am thirsty. And my damn period started this morning.
Luxury is an odd thing. You don’t know you have it until confronted with someone else’s lack.
He prays for me. What am I supposed to say to that? I have no idea. But I open my mouth and try to find something anyway. “Don’t,” Henri says. “I never wanted a tame wife.” “But did you want a reckless one?” “Are you being reckless?” I answer honestly. “No.” “I didn’t think so.” Henri cups my face with his free hand and turns it upward so that we are looking each other in the eye. “I want you exactly as you are. Brave and bawdy.”
I’m not sure what exactly the café brewed but it tastes of old leaves and disappointment. I shove it aside and open my book once more.
Men. I have known them to sit and discuss hemorrhoids, ejaculation, diarrhea, vomit, and countless other bodily fluids without so much as a hint of discomfort. But menstruation? Perish the thought!
You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it. —VICTOR HUGO, LES MISÉRABLES
I walk into our old bedroom, crawl into the bed that I once shared with my husband, and scream into the pillow for so long that my throat becomes raw and I can taste blood in my mouth. I pound my fists against the mattress. I weep and curse, allowing myself to break, finally and completely, into a thousand jagged pieces. Then I cry harder, grinding those pieces into dust.
This is a novel about marriage. Yes, of course it’s also about war and friendship and bravery and tragedy and one of the most important conflicts of the twentieth century. Yes, to all of that. Particularly the friendship. But to me, at its heart, this is a novel about a woman and her husband and the sacrifices made by both in the midst of extraordinary circumstances. Marriage is a subject I am perennially fascinated with—particularly good, healthy, lifelong marriages. I wish there were more good marriages portrayed in print. And I believe that all good marriages have one thing in common:
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An Unlikely Story,
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