Something Ive Been Meaning to Tell You by Alice Munro Read Free Book Online

piano.”
    “I arranged so that I could have this afternoon free. That did not just happen. I arranged it. I am at a crucial point, I am at the point where this play
lives or dies
. If I go down there I’m afraid I might strangle her.”
    “Well don’t look at
me
. Don’t strangle
me
. Excuse my breathing and everything.”
    I always did go down to the basement, of course, and knock on Dotty’s door and ask her if she would mind not playing the piano now, because my husband was at home and was trying to work. I never said the word
write
, Hugo had trained me not to, that word was like a bare wire to us. Dotty apologized every time, she was scared of Hugo and respectful of his work and his intelligence. She left off playing but the trouble was she might forget, she might start again in an hour, half an hour. The possibility made me nervous and miserable. Because I was pregnant I always wanted to eat, and I would sit at the kitchen table greedily, unhappily, eating something like a warmed-up plateful of Spanish rice. Hugo felt the world was hostile to his writing, he felt not only all its human inhabitants but its noises and diversions and ordinary clutter were linked against him, maliciously, purposefully, diabolically thwarting and maiming him and keeping him from his work. And I, whose business it was to throw myself between him and the world, was failing to do so, by choice perhaps as much as ineptitude for the job. I did not believe in him. I had not understood how it would be necessary to believe in him. I believed that he was clever and talented, whatever that might mean, but I was not sure he would turn out to be a writer. He did not have the authority I thought a writer should have. He was too nervous, too touchy with everybody, too much of a showoff. I believed that writers were calm, sad people, knowing too much. I believed that there was a difference about them, some hard and shining, rare intimidating quality they had from the beginning, and Hugo didn’t have it. I thought that someday he would recognize this. Meanwhile, he lived in a world whose rewards and punishments were as strange, as hidden from me, as if he had been a lunatic. He would sit at supper, pale and disgusted; he would clench himself over the typewriter in furious paralysis when I had to get something from the bedroom, or he would leap around the livingroom ascking me what he was (a rhinoceros who thinks he is a gazelle, Chairman Mao dancing a war dance in a dream dreamt by John Foster Dulles) and then kiss me all over the neck and throat with hungry gobbling noises. I was cut off from the source of these glad or bad moods, I did not affect them. I teased him sourly:
    “Suppose after we have the baby the house is on fire and the baby and the play are both in there, which would you save?”
    “Both.”
    “But supposing you can just save one? Never mind the baby, suppose
I
am in there, no, suppose I am drowning
here
and you are
here
and cannot possibly reach us both—”
    “You’re making it tough for me.”
    “I know I am. I know I am. Don’t you hate me?”
    “Of course I hate you.” After this we might go to bed, playful, squealing, mock-fighting, excited. All our life together, the successful part of our life together, was games. We made up conversations to startle people on the bus. Once we sat in a beer parlor and he berated me for going out with other men and leaving the children alone while he was off in the bush working to support us. He pleaded with me to remember my duty as a wife and as a mother. I blew smoke in his face. People around us were looking stern and gratified. When we got outside we laughed till we had to hold each other up, against the wall. We played in bed that I was Lady Chatterley and he was Mellors.
    “Where be that little rascal John Thomas?” he said thickly. “I canna find John Thomas!”
    “Frightfully sorry, I think I must have swallowed him,” I said, ladylike.

    There was a water pump in the