A Widow for One Year by John Irving Read Free Book Online Page B

reply. “Joseph E. O’Hare.” The E. was for Edward, the only name his father called him.
    “I didn’t name you Edward because I wanted to call you Eddie,” his father periodically told him. But everyone else, even his mom, called him Eddie. One day, Eddie hoped, just plain Ed would do.
    At the last family dinner before Eddie left for his first summer job, he had tried to interject some of his own conversation into his parents’ endless non sequiturs, but it hadn’t worked.
    “I was at the gym today, and I ran into Mr. Bennett,” Eddie said. Mr. Bennett had been Eddie’s English teacher in the past school year. Eddie was very fond of him; his course included some of the best books that the boy had ever read.
    “I suppose we can look forward to seeing her armpits at the beach all summer. I’m afraid I just may say something,” Eddie’s mother announced.
    “I actually played a little squash with Mr. Bennett,” Eddie added. “I told him that I’d always been interested in trying it, and he took the time to hit the ball with me for a while. I liked it better than I thought I would.” Mr. Bennett, in addition to his duties in the English Department, was also the academy squash coach—quite a successful one, too. Hitting a squash ball had been something of a revelation to Eddie O’Hare.
    “I think a shorter Christmas vacation and a longer spring break might be the answer,” his father said. “I know the school year is a long haul, but there ought to be a way to bring the boys back in the spring with a little more pep in them—a little more get-up-and-go.”
    “I’ve been considering that I might try squash as a sport—I mean, next winter,” Eddie announced. “I’d still run cross-country in the fall. I could go back to track in the spring. . . .” For a moment it seemed that the word “spring” had caught his father’s attention, but it was only the indolence of spring that held Minty in its thrall.
    “Maybe she gets a rash from shaving,” Eddie’s mom speculated. “Mind you, not that I don’t get a rash occasionally myself—but it’s no excuse.”
    Later Eddie did the dishes while his parents prattled away. Just before going to bed, he heard his mom ask his dad: “What did he say about squash ? What about squash?”
    “What did who say?” his father asked.
    “Eddie!” his mom replied. “Eddie said something about squash, and Mr. Bennett.”
    “He coaches squash,” Minty said.
    “Joe, I know that !”
    “My dear Dorothy, what is your question?”
    “What did Eddie say about squash?” Dot repeated.
    “Well, you tell me,” Minty said.
    “Honestly, Joe,” Dot said. “I sometimes wonder if you ever listen.”
    “My dear Dorothy, I’m all ears,” the old bore told her. They both had a good laugh over that. They were still laughing as Eddie dragged himself through the requisite motions of going to bed. He was suddenly so tired—so indolent, he guessed—that he couldn’t conceive of making the effort to tell his parents what he’d meant. If theirs was a good marriage, and by all counts it seemed to be, Eddie imagined that a bad marriage might have much to recommend it. He was about to test that theory, more strenuously than he knew.

The Door in the Floor
    En route to New London, a journey that had been tediously over-planned—like Marion, they’d left much too early for the designated ferry—Eddie’s father got lost in the vicinity of Providence.
    “Is this the pilot’s error or the navigator’s?” Minty asked cheerfully. It was both. Eddie’s father had been talking so much that he’d not been paying sufficient attention to the road; Eddie, who was the “navigator,” had been making such an effort to stay awake that he’d neglected to consult the map. “It’s a good thing we left early,” his father added.
    They stopped at a gas station, where Joe O’Hare made his best attempt to engage in small talk with a member of the working class. “So, how’s this