The Making of a Marriage

Meeting in the middle, my parents decided to live apart.

My mother bought a small cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire and moved lock, stock and barrel, leaving the city heat behind her. My daddy moved in with my grandmother and commuted each weekend. It was an odd arrangement and one that caused a fair amount of talk, much to her enjoyment and his chagrin, but mostly it seemed to work. The distance and separation brought them each a measure of peace and quiet during the week and as their time together on weekends was limited, they were able to get along with a minimum of conflict. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my brother said with a pleased smile. I thought it was more likely they had just worn each other out.

My daddy continued to work and after my grandmother's death he moved into a small room at the funeral home with his books and crosswords and music. My mother was content with her soap operas, bingo, knitting and newfound freedom to drink at will and without consequence. They spoke by telephone once or twice a week but otherwise lived separate lives - each moving in their own circle, at their own pace, married but apart and happier than they'd been in years. It was unsettling to see them get along after so many years of unrelenting warfare and I suspected that it was at least in part due to the absence of their children. We were adults by then, we had survived and moved on to our own battles and taken much of the hostility with us. It's hard to find something to argue about when you can't even find anything to talk about.

It wasn't exactly a reconciliation as such, more like a prolonged truce, sustained by weariness and age, hard earned wisdom and a fair share of resignation on both sides. They had come to terms, finally, and discovered a way to live together - if not in harmony, at least in peaceful coexistence.

On the rare weekends when we drove to visit, I watched them, perversely curious about the relationship and how it worked. They didn't speak much to each other but the extended silences didn't appear to bother anyone. The television was on constantly for noise and companionship - they slept in single beds in different rooms and my daddy puttered outside a great deal doing small repairs and projects while my mother knitted and sipped genteel sherry. Toward the end of the day they sat on the deck, watched the sunset and listened to the ski boats making their last runs while hamburgers cooked on the grill. There was store bought potato salad, iced coffee, cold beer if my brother was there, and the illusion of a normal family. Come Monday morning, my daddy rose early and drove back to the city. They lived this way for several years through summers and winters, heatwaves and ice storms, strangers with a history. They had chipped away at their mutual anger and unhappiness for so long that the marriage had become a habit, too much trouble to break, too insignificant to bother about.

They had, in their own way, solved the mystery of partnership and the making of a marriage - after a lifetime of incompatibility and bitterness, they had retreated to their separate corners and learned to settle for what they had. It was sad and tragic, wasteful and empty, but at least it was quiet.