Copyright 1998,1999 by Jane Urquhart
JANEY'S MARCH (3RD try)
by Jane Urquhart
Author's Note: If you've read the story that finally
was posted as "Janey's March," then you know that it
has absolutely nothing to do with this one. When I
first started writing, I knew what my first two stories
would be, then Lord Malinov's Island party gave me the
subject for my third. Then I had to start thinking:
what would I do for "Janey's March"? This is the third
try on a story I never finished. Why not? You know
how snotty characters can be to their creators. Well,
Janey finally simply told me that she wouldn't even
consider having sex with her brother-in-law. No way.
That put the cap on this one, so I had to start all
over. I like parts of this and probably will use them
at some point in some story, but this one's never going
to get written. Pity.
-----------------
Beth, my little sexpot friend, was in great form when
we had our regular weekly lunch early this month. She
kept wanting to talk, loudly and at some length, about
our February adventure, the one my husband keeps refer-
ring to as "swingin' in the rain." Now,when you eat at
the Trident, you aren't exactly in a private space--
it;s more like eating in an elevator. The food;s good,
but you'd better not care whether the people at the
next table hear what you're saying, because they're
only about two feet away. So I kept shushing her, and
she kept starting off again. I finally got her to
change the subject by complaining about my husband's
brother,who came night before last to spend a week
with us while he attends some kind of conference.
"He acts like a major depression case," I said, "and,
so far, he treats me like I have leprosy. The kids and
Bob had already left, so it was just him and me at
breakfast. He ate with his nose stuck in the paper and
barely said two words. Did the same thingt this
morning. And last night neither of us got in 'til late,
so I barely saw him."
"Well, what's matter with him?" Beth asked.
"How am I supposed to know?" I said. "I've only met
him two or three times,when we've gone back to Iowa to
see Bob's parents for some holiday and found him there
with his wife. He seemed o.k. then, and Bob says he was
a big joker when they were kids."
"Good looking?" Beth asked.
"I'll say. He's not as tall as Bob, about my height I
guess, wide shoulders, flat stomach, clean-cut looking.
Yesterday morning he wore his uniform to the first day
of his conference and he looked like a poster boy for
the Army. Badges, ribbons, razor-sharp creases, the
works. Today he wore a polo shirt and a jacket and
looked like a movie star."
"Ummm," Beth said. "How do you want him to treat you?"
"Like a human being, for God's sake!" I said. "He could
at least talk to me. He acts like I smell bad or some-
thing."
"You wouldn't like a little schmoozle, maybe?"
"Oh, God, you only have one thing on your mind, don;t
you! This is my husband's big b-r-o-t-h-e-r."
"I say it;s best if you keep it in the family," Beth
said, primly.
"Forget it," I said. "I just want him to be civil."
"You want my advice?" she asked. "You're a trained
therapist. Do therapy. Show him a little skin." "That's
not exactly what Carl Rogers would recommend," I said.
"If you were some old psychology guru it wouldn't work.
But it works for me and it'll work for you."
"Come on."
"No, I'm serious," she said. "He;s a male. They're not
complicated. When you want something from a male, you
make it worth his while, or at least make him think
it'll be worth his while. So give him a little taste
and imply there's a banquet waiting.You could start
off by asking him why he's such a prick. That would
get his attention."
"Maybe I will," I said, then went back to my omelette.
Beth started trashing theBoston Ballet and we forgot
about nasty old Henry.
--------------
I called Bob that afternoon from my office.
"What's with your brother?" I said. I described two
days of lousy breakfasts. "I don't know," Bob said.
"He acted a little like that with me, too. Nothing
much to say. I haven't really seen him since the
divorce. Maybe he's got problems."
"Well, if he didn't yesterday," I said, "he does now.
I can be just as nasty as he can."
"Please don't," said Bob. He knows I can be nasty, and
I could hear him cringe right over the phone. "Why
don't you play therapist, instead? He used to be a
nice,happy guy. I used to worship him. I don't know
what's wrong, but what you describe isn't the Henry I
knew ten or twelve years ago."
"OK," I said. "He's your brother, so I'll try. But he'd
better loosen up."
Henry is just two years older than Bob. They had the
same parents, lived thesame places, and ought to have
turned out sort of similar, but they didn't. Somebody
handed Henry a rifle when he turned up for ROTC class
the first day he was in highschool and Henry fell in
love. Somebody handed Bob a book before he even went
to school at all andsince then he's tried never to be
more than half an hour from a big library. SoHenry's
a lieutenant colonel in the Infantry, and Bob's an
associate professor of medieval history.
I was ready when breakfast time came around. I didn't
have to go into the city, soI came down in my night-
gown and robe to get the kids off to school and say
goodbye toBob. Then Henry came down, dressed in casual
civilian clothes.
"Hi," I said, smiling. "You get your choice of break-
fasts this morning because Idon't have to go to work."
"Ugh, thanks," he said, looking off into the distance.
"I'll just take whateveryou'rehaving."
He sat down and picked up the paper. Beth told me to
do therapy. Bob told me to do therapy. I'm just a
vocational counselor now, but I've had the courses, I
know the moves. Then I remembered Beth'sideas on
therapy. Of course, Beth's a five-foot-four bundle of
sex waiting to happen,while I'm a five-foot-ten,
freckled-faced, messy-haired, slightly overweight
faculty wife with two kids. Still, she's no dummy. But
if I wanted to follow her advice, I'd have to approach
the problem a little differently. Therapy began.
"How would you like to arm wrestle?" I said solemnly.
Henry looked up, puzzled.
"Huh?"
"I said, how would you like to arm wrestle? Come sit
over here. I'll clear a space." I picked up some dishes
and a place mat and put them on the drainboard. Then
Isat backdown and looked at him. "Well, come on."
"I don't generally arm wrestle with women," he said.
"Well, this isn't generally. Come on over."
"What's this all about?" He said. He was beginning to
look a little more alive.
"I have this thing," I said. "I like for people to
treat me like a human being, I just thought a little
arm wrestle would break the ice." He shook his head,
wiped his mouth with a napkin and began to move into
thechair next to me. Then he got up and took off his
jacket. His biceps came into view. Ithought I might
lose the match. :He sat back down and put his right
elbow on the table, ready to go. He smiled. Maybe a
couple of millimeters wider than anything I'd seen so
far. I grabbed his hand.
"O.K., I'll call the start," I said. And I did. Now
maybe ;m female and all that jazz, but I'm not a
ninety-pound weakling. In fact, I weigh a hundred
and sixty. (Maybe a little more--you think I'd tell
you?) I used to throw the javelin and put a shot, and
I still swim all the time. So when he kind of lacka-
daisically pushed, I shoved his hand down within an
inch of the table. Hecaught on just in time. Then
he started pushing back. It took him a long time,
nearly a minute, to pin me. Of course I nearly busted
a gut. (That;s the athlete talking; I'm really a prim
suburban housewife, and such language never crosses my
lips.) He let go and I whooshed, then smiled. "See?
You touched me and I didn't break," I said. "You could
probably take a chance and talk to me. After all, I
expect you could protect yourself if I'd start to eat
you up."
"Yes, well," he said. Then he actually smiled a real
smile. "I can't tell anybody back at Fort Benning that
you almost beat me. I'm a big hardass, you know?"
"Well, on very short acquaintance I like the hardass
better than the prick you've been since you got here,"
I said.
"Am that bad?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. Then I just sat there and looked at him.
Therapists aren't supposed to talk; they make you talk.
"I guess I am," he said. "I don't have much to do with
women. The ones in my battalion think I don't like
'em."
"They think you don't like them?," I said.
"Yeah. I kind of avoid them in the O-club, and I treat
the ones who work for me very formally."
"You avoid them," I said.
"I haven't had much to do with women since I got
divorced," he said. "Since you got divorced?"
"All right, you asked," he said, "so I'll tell you.
" You know how it is in the Army, right? You live here
for a while, get transferred, live there for a while,
get transferred again and live somewhere else for a
while. If you'rea regular, like me, you know a few
people whenever you hit a new place, you'vegot a new
job you're comfortable with, you settle right in. But
your wife doesn't know anybody, so she's lonely until
she gets to know a few people. As soon she begins to
getcomfortable you move. Takes a certain kind of woman
to put up with this.
"Meanwhile, you go on maneuvers, you go on TDY--
temporary duty--somewhere else, you sometimes have to
work a week or so without even getting home. Pretty
often,when you do get home, you're shot to hell and
just want to sleep, not party. Some people have kids--
we didn't. So naturally she gets a job. Selling real
estate is not unusual. Makes pretty good money if
you're in the right place, and we always were. She
meets a lot of civilians who don't go off to the
boondocks all the time. Screws a few guys, just for
the hell of it. No big deal. Of course, I didn't know
about that part. "I go off to Bosnia. She stays home,
of course. I come home after a few months really
feeling lousy. Bosnia is a terrible place. I saw lots
of guys and quite a few nicelooking women all blown
apart. They kind of superimpose on all the dead
IraquisI saw a few years ago. This gets on everybody's
nerves, but if you're like me, you've got aplace in
your mind where you put this stuff so it doesn't bother
you. Good soldiers all have that place--it's what keeps
you from going nuts. Short-timers don't have it--they
get PTSD. So I put all that bad stuff back there in
the place I don't look. Unfortunately, when I got home,
I'd get all sexed up looking at Katie, she'd take off
her clothes, ol' dick just shrivels up. Then a staff
sergeant I know pretty well tells me I ought to keep
an eye on my wife.What can I do? I do nothing. She
gets sick of this after a while and moves out. End of
story. Only I came out of it not too happy with women,
not very trusting, you might say.Actually, not too
happy with people in general. They seem to kill each
other a lot. Sothat's why I'm a prick. Ironic, the
word you chose. Maybe lots of other things, but not
a prick.
"But I couldn't just tell you to fuck off--you're
Bobby's wife, and you listen and keep your mouth shut,
and you damn near pinned my arm, so I decided to tell
you why I'm not a very nice guy." He looked up at me
and smiled crookedly.
"Did you tell your wife about Bosnia?"
"Not much," Henry said. "She was pretty busy, and she
didn't like to hear about bad things."
"You know something?" I said. "We've all got a place
like yours where we put things we don't want to think
about. I'm lucky--mine doesn't have blown-up bodies
in it,just things like a kid that got slapped when he
shouldn't have, a mother hurt when I toldher to go to
hell because she was trying to protect me, a guy I led
on in a big wayand then dumped without even bothering
to get back in touch, a couple of times I cheated
various ways, a husband I screamed at when he hadn't
done a thing. Just little stuff,compared to yours. I
can keep it pretty well battened down. When I get to
feeling bad about something, though, all that stuff
seeps back in and makes things worse. Ican tell Bob
what's bugging me, and that helps. Or I can tell one
of my women friends.Then Ican say, 'get on with it,'
and put the old stuff back out of sight. But you can't
tell anybody, can you?"
"Nope," he said. "But I'm familiar with 'get on with
it.' I just can't seem quite todo it."
"Give me your hand," I said, reaching out to him.
"Feel that? My hand? I'm all in onoe piece, and you
can feel the bones in there, all covered up with skin
that will feel pretty good if you let yourself feel
it. The fingers work. It's all alive." I squeezed."I
could squeeze hard and hurt you. But I don't want to,
so I won't. Do you want to squeeze harder?"
He increased the pressure a little. "Yes, I'd actually
like to squeeze harder."
"Go ahead." He squeezed a little harder. "No," he said,
looking at me, "I can't. I don't want to hurt you."
"So we don't want to hurt one another?"
"No."
"Remember that. Now what do you want for breakfast?
You've got to go towork."
I cooked for him.
-------------And this is where it stopped-------------
Janey98@hotmail.com