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 Too Late Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com MF Mf 1st preg wl



   This material is copyright, 2010, by Uther Pendragon.  All rights
reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping one
electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is
included.  Reposting requires previous permission.  If you have any
comments or requests, please e-mail them to me at nogardnePrethU@gmail.com
. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public
figures in the background, are figments of my imagination.  Any resemblance
to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

   "God, Susan," I said.  "I feel like shit about how I treated her."

   "We all feel bad about how we treated Gwen, Ted.  But it's too late now,
isn't it?"

   Susan was right, however bitter she sounded.  And that is my memory of
Susan, right and bitter.

   The first time I noticed her bitterness, she'd been right.  We were
sophomores in high school working on a science-fair project together.  We'd
worked at school and at my apartment; but, when Mrs.  Johnson heard that
I'd be home alone, she insisted that I come over to their house to work
with Susan.  Her worries weren't groundless.  Susan was one of those girls
who carried their books so as to hide their new boobs from the boys.  When
I walked up the stairs behind her, I watched her butt work.  Mostly, I was
interested in her as a science-fair partner, but I was interested enough in
the other things to justify a rule that we couldn't be alone in private
together.  At least, I was until Gwen opened the Johnson's door to me.

   Straight as a stick then, Gwen still exuded more sensuality in eighth
grade than her sister did on her wedding day.  She resembled Susan the way
a spotlight resembles a penlight.  She invited me in and took me to the
head of the stairs down into the basement.  Susan was waiting down there,
ready to get to work.  Later, Gwen helped Mrs.  Johnson bring snacks down
to Susan and me.  When they'd gone upstairs again, Susan watched me looking
up.

   "I told Mom that she was ruining things," she said bitterly.

   "What is she ruining?  She's been perfectly nice to me, and she's
letting us alone to finish painting this."

   "She's ruining my chances to be anything more than a friend of yours. 
Mom could have waited 'til next year; I'm lost then, anyhow.  Even now,
you're dreaming of Gwen." I was thinking of her, not dreaming of her; but I
did dream of her often enough later.  However annoying Gwen's presence
could be, her beauty and sexual allure dominated my memory when she wasn't
there.

   And, sometimes, I think that the sexual allure was one of the things
which made her annoying.  When she was arguing or accusing you, half your
annoyance was the thought of how much better the time could have been spent
in bed.  And, when I say "you," I mean me.

   Our first real serious argument, for example, involved my erection. 
She'd been crying.  She cried a lot those days.  I took her in my arms to
comfort her.  She cried on my shoulder, her sobs shaking me.  Then, when
she came more completely into my arms and hugged me, she felt that I was
hard.  I could get hard simply looking at her, holding her made it
inescapable.  She didn't think so.

   "Ted, is that all you think about?  Your kid's dead; my daughter is
dead; and you're horny."

   "Isn't the word you want 'human'?  I wasn't raping you; I wasn't even
groping you.  I had the woman I think is the epitome of sexiness in my
arms. So, my cock responded.  I know you shouldn't yet.  I know you
wouldn't want to even if the doctors approved.  I wasn't suggesting
anything.  I wake up with a hardon almost every morning, did even before we
slept in the same room.  I don't ram it into you; I go piss and it goes
away.  I don't hold you responsible for how your body acts; why do you hold
me responsible for how my body acts?"

   "How can you say that about me?" Gwen asked.  "I didn't want to
miscarry. How can you blame me?"

   "I didn't blame you.  I wasn't even thinking about that.  It wasn't your
body's fault, much less your fault.  But my erection wasn't my fault.  It's
just how my body acts."

   "Well, it shouldn't act that way.  You should be crying through your
eyes, not though your dick.  And what do you mean saying that I'm not ready
'yet'?  You were thinking about doing it.  Maybe, when your dick was saying
'now,' your mouth wasn't.  Well your mouth was saying 'later.' That's not
weeping for your loss; that's not sympathy for my loss.  That's simple
horniness.  And it's not just your dick -- it's you."

   We went around like that for hours.  Probably the neighbors could hear.
I slept on the couch that night, and it was a damn lumpy couch.  It didn't
get any softer over the next week, either.

   Then, one night, she came home from another doctor's appointment.  She
didn't say anything, but she did cook dinner.  I'd gotten tired of my own
cooking, and we couldn't afford restaurant meals except for celebrations --
not really for them.  If I'd have eaten out, Gwen would have thought I was
celebrating; the argument would have been much worse than the last one.  As
I was making up my bed on the couch, she called to me.

   "Ted, come here." It wasn't a particularly sweet tone, but neither was
it the rancor I'd grown to expect.

   "What is it?" I went into the other room.

   "I have something for you." She was in her nightgown.  It was a damn
sexy nightgown, but I didn't think much about that.  The only sleep wear
she had were sexy nightgowns.

   "What?" She held out her hand with a condom in it.  I peeled down my
slacks and boxers.  She fit the condom on my cock, which had hardened at
her first touch.  Then I got my shirt and undershirt off and stepped out of
my shoes and slacks.

   "I'm sorry about the way I've been," she said.

   "I'm sorry about how I've behaved, too," I said as I sat to remove my
socks.  "I do cry about my loss, but I know you feel the loss more.  You
were carrying her, and the miscarriage was an injury to you, too."

   "It wasn't that.  What happened to me was nothing compared to the loss.
Oh, Ted. . . ." She went to turn down the bed while I appreciated the rear
view of her bending over in the sheer nightie.  I stripped off my socks and
stood where I could remove her nightie when she stood again.  After I had
done that, we shared a lovely kiss.  Tongues dueled; her soft breasts and
firm nipples pressed into my chest; I fondled her firm butt.

   Some of the lubricant from the Trojan rubbed onto her belly, but I
really enjoyed the rubbing.  Finally, she crawled into bed.  After enjoying
that sight, I lay down beside her.  One more light kiss on her mouth, and I
moved to sucking on her breast.  I stroked her thighs and then between
them.

   "Oh Gwen!" She was already wet.  I kept stroking, though.  Every phase
of sex with Gwen was delightful.

   "Ted?  Now?" And it was time!  I climbed between her legs, kissed her
mouth once more and eased in.  The lost lubrication didn't matter; she
provided enough of her own.  I slid into her warm depths.  I stayed there
long enough to move to rest on my elbows and get my hands on her breasts. I
looked into her eyes.

   "Oh, darling," I said.  She tightened around me, and I started to move.
I struggled to keep my pace slow; it had been a long time.

   "Tight enough?" she asked.

   "Delicious."

   "I was afraid that it would have stretched it." Well, the miscarriage
hadn't.  Maybe a live birth of a kid three months bigger would have.  But I
couldn't -- can't -- imagine an unsexy Gwen, and I didn't want to mention
anything she might take as an advantage of the miscarriage.  I watched her
face take a serious expression and her attention turn inward.  Meanwhile, I
fought back my own orgasm.

   "Oh," she murmured.  Her eyes blinked.  Those are her only external
signs, but I felt her flutter around me.  It drove me over the edge.

   "Gwen!" I shouted.  All my built-up passion pulsed out of my cock,
followed by my heart and brain.  It seemed to last forever, but her last
contraction was after I was done.  I turned us as I collapsed.  We were
facing each other on our sides, but I had pulled out.  We lay looking into
each others' eyes.

   "Let's never fight again," she said.

   "Never!" I agreed.

   "I've missed you."

   "I've missed you, too."

   "Not only last week.  Not only since . . . .  I've missed watching your
face above me." We'd stopped making love with me on top when her belly
interfered.

   "And I've missed watching your face, too.  You always have a sexy face,
but it's sexiest then." I took off the condom.  Despite the amount that I'd
felt pour out of me, it wasn't particularly full.  I chucked it, and pulled
the sheet over us.  She turned over and nestled back.  I cupped her breast.

   "I've missed this, too," I said.

   "Me too." She pressed her hips into my lap.  I, for one, slept much
better that night than I had for a long time.

   The business of her putting the condom on me was an old ritual.  She'd
established it the first day we made complete love -- not the first time,
but the first day.

   We'd dated for most of two years, despite her mother's limits.  We'd
gone from kissing when we could be alone to petting when we could be alone,
and the petting had gotten more intense.  Then, on Pulaski Day -- one of
those holidays which the Chicago Public Schools celebrates but nobody else
does -- she told her mother she was going to the mall to hang out.  I
picked her up and took her to my apartment.  My parents were both at work.

   We kissed in my room.  We petted, with me removing one piece of her
clothing at a time.  We kissed standing up skin to skin above the waist.  I
laid her on my bed and kissed down her torso.

   "Gwen," I asked, "do you want to?" She nodded.  I pulled off her jeans,
panties, and pantyhose.  I stripped and lay down beside her for one last
kiss.  Then, I reached into my drawer and took out a condom.  I put it on.
"So you don't get . . ." I explained.  She nodded again.

   I got between her legs and found the right place.  My fingers had been
there often enough.  I carefully placed the tip of my wrapped cock in the
entrance.  I straightened up to look in her face.

   "Oh, Gwen," I said as I pushed inward.  The feeling of her smooth warmth
was miles beyond what my hand could provide.  "Are you all right?" I asked
when I was buried as far as I could go.  I knew that the first time could
hurt a girl.

   "I'm fine." And she looked all right -- not in any visible pain, but not
showing the pleasure that I'd seen in her face during petting sessions.  I
started moving in and out, and soon I drove deeply into her and had an
explosive orgasm.

   "Is that it?" she asked.  I nodded and pulled myself out.  I took off
the condom, tied its end, wrapped it in several layers of Kleenex, and
dropped it into the wastepaper basket.

   "You are so sexy," I said.  We kissed again, and soon we were back to
petting.  The one time she touched my cock, she immediately moved her hand
away.  I guess it was sticky.  When I could tell that she was close, I
moved back from sucking her nipple but kept stroking her clit.

   This time, I could see more than her face when she climaxed.  She got
that serious look and stopped focusing on my face.  Her legs went back
together.  She started breathing rapidly, with her gut instead of with the
chest.  I could see all her muscles tense.

   "Oh," she said softly.  She blinked.  I could see spasm after spasm
cross her abdomen and her breasts heave.  Then, she relaxed.  She pushed my
hand away.  After a minute of lying quietly, she turned her face towards
me.

   "Do you want to again?" she asked.  Lying there naked and hard as a
rock, I didn't bother to answer.  I reached into my drawer for the box. 
This time, I had to pull out the strip of condoms and rip one off.  She
watched me tear open the foil.  Then she spoke again.

   "Let me put it on," she said.  The feeling of her hands on my cock were
so exciting, it's a wonder I didn't go off right then.  What I watched,
though, was her face.  She looked so serious and intent on her task that I
fell in love with her once more.

   "The other way," I said.

   "Yeah.  I could tell that." Then the rubber was on.  I kissed her.  I
started sucking at her nipple again and stroked up her thighs toward their
sweet juncture.  Her hand stopped mine.

   "No," she said.  "Now." Again, I knelt between her legs.  Again, I
spread her lips and placed myself between them.  Again, still gently, I
pressed forward.  "Yes," she said.

   I lasted much better this time, and I established a decent rhythm.  As I
sped up, she moved herself in counter rhythm.  Her face took on the serious
look, and her thighs clenched mine.  I tried to hold back my orgasm.

   "Love," I said.

   "Oh," she said.  As she blinked, I could feel her clench around me.  At
that sensation, I lost it.

   "Love," I shouted as I shoved forward and spurted into her.  My cock was
still throbbing when all the rest of my muscles went limp.  I collapsed on
top of her.  She hugged me for a minute.

   "Sorry," I gasped when she let me go.  I moved aside so that I wasn't
lying on her.  I lay there trying to catch my breath.

   "No," she said.  "That was it."

   "Huh?" I wasn't at my brightest.

   "That is what they talk about. . . .  Can I use your john?" I nodded and
she went into the bathroom.  I heard water running.  When she came back
into the room, she started to pull back on her clothes.  I disposed of the
Trojan the way I had of the first one.  Then, I, too, started to dress.

   "You want to listen to music?" I asked.  I didn't want the special day
to end.

   "Only in your car.  I don't have to be back at the mall, but I want to
be out of here before your parents get back."

   They weren't due for hours, but she knew that.  We'd talked about my
certainty that they wouldn't come home early.  But, sated into stupidity
just then and never all that clever, I was at least smart enough to see
that her nervousness was about the immediate past rather than the possible
futures.  I drove her to the mall.

   "I love you," I said as she got out of the car.  And I did: I'd loved
her for two years, then, but never as much as that day.

   "I love you, too," she said.  But she looked relieved to be walking
away.

   I put gas in my dad's car and drove it back to the station where he
parked it.  Luckily, there was an empty space not far down from where he'd
left it that morning.  When I got back home, I emptied my wastebasket and
took a shower.

   We had to sneak around for the next four years, although sneaking became
easier as each of us got older.  The University of Illinois Chicago Campus
is called "Circle." Susan went to the big campus, "Champaign-Urbana"; I
went to Circle 'because it would be so much cheaper living at home.' Then
in the middle of my freshman year, my father got transferred to Omaha. 
When I got a room in a shared apartment, I made sure that girls were
permitted in the rooms.  Gwen was admitted to Champaign-Urbana; but Susan,
who was making her own life there, threw a cat fit.  Gwen settled for
Circle, but insisted on more freedom than she'd been granted as a
high-school girl.  Her parents knew a little and suspected a lot about what
we were doing, but they had already figured out that they couldn't control
it.

   Gwen went with her parents to Susan's graduation.  Still in June, I was
a guest -- as Gwen's steady -- at Susan's lavish wedding.  She went off to
St.  Louis with her husband, Brian; Gwen went back to her summer job at a
luncheonette.  By then, I had started my job in entry-level IT.

   My marriage to Gwen in August was not at all so fancy -- Gwen wore a
street dress and I wore my suit -- but her parents paid for a church, at
least.  Susan brought Brian back for it since it was on a Saturday
afternoon.

   The next Monday, I visited the HR department to report my change in
status.  Gary, the guy I spoke to, had one piece of advice.

   "Just don't plan on starting a family immediately."

   "Why not?" Not that I had much choice in the matter.

   "The insurance.  Your wife is covered, as of today, for most conditions.
But the policy doesn't cover the normal expenses of a pregnancy for the
first year.  Not even the first doctor's appointment if it occurs eleven
months from now."

   At least we were still looking for an apartment.  We drastically lowered
our expectations.  We got one with two real rooms, a bedroom and a living
room which held a dining table and would hold a crib.  Gwen kept her
waitress job, and school started up in September without her.

   Our second blow-up was about that job -- a lot of other things, we never
seemed to have arguments about only one thing -- but money and the job
started it out.  She'd gone back to the job when she got out of the
hospital.  One day, she came home with a new coat.  I'll admit that it
looked lovely.

   "Is that warmer than your parka?" I asked.  It certainly didn't look
like it was.

   "No.  It's not supposed to be." She looked at me in the pitying way she
used when telling me about fashions.  "It's a spring coat."

   "It's lovely.  Really, you're lovely in it.  But can we afford it? 
You're only working 'cause of tuition next year."

   "Remember that!" she responded.  "I am working.  It's my money, and I
can buy a new coat if I want.  The parka is grungy, all right for a coed;
but a working woman needs a spring coat." I didn't think a waitress needed
a spring coat.  I was working in an office with one new jacket and two new
pairs of trousers.  We were making it, saving money, but we wouldn't be
when she went back to school.

   "That's your money?"

   "That's right." She glared defiantly.  "Having hearing problems?"

   "And is the money in my pay my money?  Who pays the rent?" I asked.

   "You're doing what you have wanted to do for years.  I'm sweating or
shivering in a greasy spoon.  I deserve something for that."

   "I thought your tuition was something for that.  The bosses seeing me
always in a few outfits are going to remember that for years.  But I go to
work in a few outfits so you can go to school.  Not so you can tart
yourself up whenever you want to.  It's not like it's forever; it's for a
couple of months so you can go back, graduate in two years, and get a
decent job."

   "You admit it!  This isn't a decent job.  I'm a wage slave, and then I
come home to be your slave.  Well, guess what?  Lincoln freed the slaves.
Make your own damn dinner.  I'm eating out.  From now on, I'm eating at the
luncheonette." Now, employees got a discount at the luncheonette, but 50%
of the menu price was still a lot more than groceries.  And I was
brown-bagging it to save money!

   Despite her threat, she didn't go out until later.  We ate a separate
restaurants after screaming at each other for hours.  And we slept in
separate beds too -- or a bed and a couch.

   The next night, I fixed dinner.  As a peace offering, I fixed hamburgers
for both of us.  It wasn't a feast, but cooking isn't one of my skills. 
Gwen turned me down; she'd eaten at the luncheonette.  After one more
night, I went back into the bedroom.

   "If I'm paying the rent, it's my apartment.  I can sleep where I want."

   "You can sleep where you want; but if you touch me, it's rape."

   Sleeping next to Gwen without sex, without even any cuddling, was worse
than the couch.  I toughed it out, though.  I took to taking my relief in
my morning shower; if Gwen noticed, she didn't say anything for the longest
time.  But, by then, neither of us were saying much.  When her payday came,
she opened her own bank account.  I still used the joint account, but I
took enough money out to buy lunch where the others ate.  The Saturday
after my next payday, I bought two more pairs of slacks and a blazer.

   Gwen came home in a rainstorm with her new coat soaking.  She wore the
parka to work while the coat slowly dried out in the living-room closet. 
The next night, though, she came home carrying the parka and wearing a
raincoat.  I went to bed early that night.  When Gwen came in, I tried to
see if we could make up.

   "You know, dear, I need you." Mentioning the raincoat would be a sure
way of escalating the argument.

   "You don't need me.  You need a convenient hole.  Why don't you take
another shower?"

   "When you needed me, I was there."

   "I'm just learning how little I need you -- how little I've ever needed
you." She had needed me once, though, and I think she knew when I meant.

   She'd been working at the luncheonette for less than a month when the
food smells started to nauseate her.  She'd missed a period.  Missing one
wasn't that unusual for her, and we'd panicked before.  She bought a kit,
and took it into the bathroom of the apartment I shared when none of my
roommates was home.  She came out with the kit showing blue.  Her face,
though, was greenish.

   "What shall I do?"

   "You know, I've always planned on marrying you someday."

   "Is that a proposal?"

   "Not a very good one.  Tell me your decision, and I'll make a better
one. Either we get married or you lose the pregnancy.  It's your call."

   "I don't want to get an abortion."

   "Then, darling Gwen, will you marry me?"

   "Is that your proposal?"

   "That's the proposal.  What did you want, kneeling and a ring in my
hand?"

   "I know why you don't have a ring."

   "We'll shop for one together.  I never understood the idea that a woman
had to wear for the rest of her life something about which she hadn't even
been consulted."

   "She can always turn down the proposal."

   "Because of the ring?  Anyway, yours isn't going to be much.  We'll have
lots of new expenses, and I'm nowhere near solvent yet."

   "Still, the expensive one isn't the most important one.  Thanks, Ted."

   "Well, you've had your proposal.  What is your answer?"

   "Yes, Ted, I'll marry you -- silly as you are." We kissed then.  One
thing led to another, and we ended up in bed.  As usual, Gwen put the
condom on me before I went into her.  Only afterward, did I think how
unnecessary that was.  After marrying and moving into the new apartment, we
no longer gave the Trojan company any business.

   Gwen's hours at the luncheonette were 10:30 to 7:30.  She got Tuesday,
Friday, and Sunday off.  That gave us three kinds of days.  Either she got
home late, and we ate something she'd (or, occasionally, I'd) prepared
earlier and I had nuked just before she walked in.  Or she was home most of
the day and prepared a meal we could eat soon after I got home.  And, one
day a week, Sunday, we were together all day.  Those kinds of days being so
different, we treated sex differently.

   I can remember one Tuesday when her belly was large enough to restrict
our positions.  Soon after dinner, we turned off the TV and went to bed. 
We lay facing each other with our heads close to the center line of the bed
and our butts close to the edges.  We kissed while I stroked her marvelous
breasts.  Then my mouth went to her breast under the covers while my hand
went between her legs.

   "Oh, Ted," she said finally.  That was our signal.

   "Not yet," I said.  I ducked farther down to give her belly one smacking
kiss.  Then I helped her turn onto her right side.  She arched her back to
give me access.  I pressed my hips forward and used my hand to guide my
cock to her entrance.

   The slide inward was delightful.  She was so smooth, so warm, so
welcoming.  When I was as far in as I could get and the front of my thighs
were pressed against the backs of hers, she squeezed once.

   "Hello," she said.

   "Oh, Gwen, oh, darling." I worked my left hand between her thighs while
she lifted her left leg to give me room.  When I reached her clit, I began
stroking.  She undulated, which moved her cunt around my cock.  I had to
move in response.  Soon, I was moving more rapidly and more forcefully, for
all that I was lying on my side.

   "Oh!" she said.  She was fluttering around me.

   "God!" I shouted.  I drove into her once more and pulsed and pulsed.  We
lay there joined for another minute, but then I shrank out.  "Love you," I
said.

   "Love you." I pulled the blankets around both our shoulders.  She kept
us both warm while we slept those days, but I worried that she'd let her
extremities get cold.

   In our first days in the apartment, Sundays were our days of
exploration. We'd never had anything but a bedroom and a car before, and
the backseat of a car makes a bed look palatial in comparison.  Always,
somebody might come along to see us in the car or hear us in the room.  It
hadn't stopped us at the time, but I certainly noticed the privacy when we
got it.

   The kitchen was little more than a closet with a sink, stove, and
microwave (the refrigerator was outside).  Still, it would hold two if they
stood close enough, and we stood close enough.  Lying on the sofa was just
a narrower and lumpier bed; on the other hand, if we stood at the end of
the sofa and Gwen leaned over the back, it gave her great support when I
came into her from behind.  We sat in two chairs when we ate, and sometimes
shared one of them afterwards.  We even used things in the bedroom besides
the bed.  We never finished in the bathroom -- a rather grungy place -- but
we shared some showers.

   One Sunday, I woke to the sound of her upchucking in the bathroom.  When
she came back to bed, I went in to use the facilities and to shave.  When I
came back, we petted until our hunger for food temporarily replaced our
hunger for sex.  By that time, her stomach had settled, and she cooked eggs
-- a luxury on our budget -- for both of us.  After breakfast, we shared a
shower.  I soaped her thoroughly, including the slight bulge that her
clothes still covered.  We dried each other off -- not the most efficient
procedure, but this was Sunday; we weren't in any hurry.  By this time, the
apartment was warm; the landlord kept us cozy when he was home.

   Back in the bedroom, Gwen started to brush her hair while looking in the
mirror over the dresser.  While she took care of the hair on top, I started
to comb the hair on her mound with my fingers.  By the time I'd parted her
lips and was stroking her clit, she put down the brush and spread her legs.
Finally she reached back and pushed the head of my cock, standing up by
then, down.  As I bent my knees and she stood on tiptoes, we managed to get
it to her entrance.  Slipping in, unsheathed, feeling her warmth and
slickness directly, was still a new treat then.

   "Oh, Gwen," I said.  "You're so hot."

   "For you," she said and pushed back until I was rooted in her.  She
gripped the edges of the dresser top while I gripped her hips.  As I drove
in and out, I could glimpse her face in the mirror.  Her smile turned to a
grimace fairly soon.  We'd teased ourselves on the edge too long for this
phase to last.  I pulled her against me and erupted.

   "Oh," she said.  She leaned her head against the dresser.  As I
softened, I could straighten my legs at the expense of pulling out.  She
grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the dresser and held it between her legs.
That freed space for my right hand on the dresser; I needed it to support
myself.  Exploring the alternatives to bed is great, but bed supports you
when you're done.

   "Darling," I said.  "I love the feel of you.  Everywhere, but there is
special."

   "I'm glad one of us is getting something out of this." She didn't sound
glad.  We went into the bathroom, used the facilities one at a time, and
washed off one at a time.  Then we went back to bed for a cuddle until
lunchtime.

   The pleasures of those days more than made up for the penny-pinching and
tight quarters.  They came to an abrupt end, though.

   It was a Wednesday night, Thursday morning really.  As Gwen got home
late and had work the next day, we'd gone straight to bed.  Sex had been
nothing adventurous, although quite pleasant.

   She woke me up in the wee hours by screaming, "Ted, I'm bleeding!"

   "God, you are." We scrambled into clothes and I drove her to the
hospital emergency room.  We'd already picked a hospital -- or her doctor
had.  It might not be the closest one, but I knew how to get there.  They
got her into a side room with doctors trying to stop the bleeding.  The
desk asked me how we were going to pay for it.  I showed them the insurance
card without telling them that it wouldn't pay for this.

   By the time they got her actually admitted, she'd already lost the baby.
Her doctor came by a few hours later.  I took the time to call my work and
hers and to go down to the hospital cafeteria for a hamburger.  It was
still morning, but I'd been up for seven hours.

   Ironically, when I talked to HR the next Monday, I found that the
insurance did cover miscarriages.  So, with all our tragedies, money had
become a lesser worry.  Gwen came home an invalid.  When she wanted to go
back to work, her boss took her.  She told me that her tips were better
when she didn't look pregnant.

   Anyway, I'd been there for her when she had needed a husband and when
she had needed somebody to take her to the hospital.  Neither was great
heroism, but I'd been there for her.  I didn't think she was being there
for me.  Even when things got better, it wasn't what I'd call being there
for me.  We had neither one been doing much housework.  It was a matter of
why clean up after the other one.

   One Saturday, I decided to clean the place up.  It was really that I'd
become tired of living in a pigsty.  That night, while I had eaten earlier,
she fixed enough for two.  I ate the leftovers Monday.  I fixed plenty of
spaghetti Wednesday.

   "There's spaghetti for you," I said when she got home.  Her working
days, she got home later than I did.  Without quite saying anything about
it, we were hardly saying anything those days, we started fixing dinner on
alternate days.  Days she worked, I made the bed after I got home; days she
didn't -- even Sundays -- she made the bed.

   "You know," I said one Sunday morning when I returned from my shower and
saw her making the bed, "there are more important things about the bed than
whether it's made."

   "More important to you, maybe."

   "It used to be important to you, too."

   "That's when I thought I loved you."

   "And after you'd promised to love me as long as we both shall live."

   "Well, that didn't turn out.  Sorry about that."

   "So, the obligations I took on are binding.  The obligations you took on
are something you can redecide?"

   "So, you decide for yourself.  I don't see you breaking your back to
help me."

   "Help you do what?" I shouted.  "Help you make my life a living hell? 
When you needed help, I gave it.  I didn't say 'call an ambulance for
yourself.' I didn't say, 'sorry, kid, I'm not ready to marry yet.' I'm not
claiming great credit.  Those were our problems; I treated them as ours. 
But they were the problems of a couple.  Now, when we have couple problems,
you say you'd find it easier not to be a couple."

   "Are you denying that?  If some customer shouted at me like that, Joe
would toss him in the street."

   "I'm not a customer!"

   "Damn lucky, too.  He'd not only toss you in the street, he'd call the
cops on you.  Maybe I should call the cops now."

   "Don't bother.  I'm going.  And, when I come back, either I have a wife
or I have an empty apartment where I can have peace and quiet.  I've had
roommates, although they helped on the rent.  I didn't sign up for another
roommate.  Either I have a real wife or I have my own space.  Decide
which." I stormed out, ate lunch and dinner out, returned late.

   Gwen wasn't there.  The answering machine was blinking, but I ignored
it. I put a chair in front of the door and another in front of the bedroom
door.  She could get in, but not without effort.  I woke up alone.  This
time, I listened to the answering machine.

   "Ted, enjoy your peace and quiet.  Forever." It was Gwen's voice.  I
went to work wondering if she'd come home that night.  She didn't that
night nor Tuesday.  Wednesday, I went to the luncheonette at lunch time.

   "You've got nerve," Joe, the owner, told me.  "Gwen quit with no notice,
after all the help I gave you guys."

   "Sorry about that," I told him.  "We've been going through some rough
times." I didn't lay out how rough, and he didn't want to hear.  I did eat
there, though, and left the harried waitress a good tip.  That night Gwen
hadn't even called again.  I couldn't stand it any longer, I phoned her
parents' house.  I would try to talk Gwen into coming back.

   "Please, Mrs.  Johnson, I need to talk with Gwen."

   "She's not here, Ted."

   "Please.  If I'd left her, you'd want her to be able to talk to me. 
Maybe I said some nasty things, but so did she.  I never got physical with
her -- not physically violent.  Ask her.  She's been going through a bad
time; we've been going through a bad time.  But you know the root cause,
and it isn't me."

   "She's not here.  I shouldn't tell you this, but she went to Susan's. 
She wanted to get clean away." I took a deep breath and called information.
Finally, I dialed Susan's number in St.  Louis.

   "Neither Brian nor Susan Keating can come to the phone right now.  After
the beep leave a message, and we'll get back to you."

   "This is Ted.  Gwen, please call me back.  I've missed you terribly.  We
can work this out.  I know I've been harsh to you, but I love you.  Please
call me back."

   But, for the longest time, she didn't.  I finally slept, went to work,
came home, stared at the phone.  Maybe, if I left enough messages, Susan
would tell her to call me back to clean up her answering machine.  More
likely, Susan would just erase them without even telling Gwen that I'd
called.  Finally, while I was eating a belated supper, the phone rang.

   "Ted Randolph speaking."

   "Ted?" I recognized Susan's voice, although it sounded strained.

   "Susan, let me talk with Gwen.  Please!"

   "She'll never talk with you again, Ted."

   "Don't say 'never.' We can work things out."

   "Never is real.  She'll never talk to me again, either.  I just came
from the funeral home.  Gwen took my car out shopping.  She got in a bad
accident.  The other driver is in the hospital; Gwen wasn't so lucky.  When
they release the body, I'll call you about the funeral time." Neither of us
said a word for the longest time while I tried to take that in.

   "God, Susan," I said.  "I feel like shit about how I treated her."

   "We all feel bad about how we treated Gwen, Ted.  But it's too late now,
isn't it?"

   The end Too Late Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com 2010/02/04

   Thanks to Denny for proofreading this.

   For another story about difficulty in a marriage, albeit less permanent
difficulty:

   mcmurdo.txt "McMurdo Sound."

   For almost all of my stories: index.txt