How to Make an American Quilt by Whitney Otto

Author:Whitney Otto
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-05-20T04:00:00+00:00

A YEAR LATER she discovered that Dean had a new woman. All Em knew was that she was two years older than Dean and had something to do with the college that employed him. Em sobbed and asked, “How could you do this to me again? Why do you keep doing this?” Deep inside she wondered with a sort of detached curiosity if perhaps she was unlovable or if there were strict time limits to the length of loving her and maybe three or four years was its duration. “Why are you doing this?”

Dean was quiet, his voice low and defeated. “I do love you,” he told her.

Em’s tears washed the heels of her hands, the backs of her slim fingers.

“Em,” he said, “I am a man out of control. I can’t be a painter; I can’t improve my lot and I can’t live with it. I’m cynical and hard and cursed to see the world in romantic terms.”

Em looked at him with furious, wet eyes. She thought him a remarkably selfish sonofabitch. She said, “You bastard.”

And she thought of something else: When only a year before he had ended the first affair, the girl called the house, once or twice, crying for Dean. “If I could just talk to him for a minute,” she said, “I could get some sleep tonight and never bother you again. I promise.” But Em would have none of her promises and only turned the phone over to Dean, whose face took on a harsh, irritated expression when he said, taking a deep breath, “What do you want from me? I have already said all there is to say.” Then his voice yielded just slightly (with an imperceptibility only a wife could detect) and he said, “I know. I know. Didn’t I tell you this was not good. Couldn’t you tell?”

Em had crossed her arms and pulled her mouth into a tense line, causing Dean to turn his back on her and cut the conversation short. But Em could’ve sworn she heard him whisper baby into the phone just before he said he was sorry, he really was, but it was over and she would have to accept it. Down the receiver came into the cradle and Dean wandered from the room, but not before he stopped and gently touched Em’s bare arm. She heard him in his studio, stapling stretched canvas to a wooden frame, and then silence; a brush stroke is like a whisper in a cave and cannot be heard unless you are in close proximity.

At that time, Em would bang up to their bedroom or take long, angry walks, her steps violent, often mumbling to herself; reminding herself that he showed remorse and good faith, that he promised not to do it again, and that everyone makes a mistake and where would we all be if we didn’t express a little forgiveness now and then? And at other moments, even worse, for no reason, Em would feel herself in a

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