Forty days and Nights: Love Stories. 21. Earth Mother

She had deciduous hair. In the fall it turned red and orange and in the winter it fell right off and she wore hats. But it came back every spring, and then it was curly. Summers lasted forever, long and flowing. He liked that about her, he really liked it. He didn't get out much and it helped him feel connected. His office was dark, his den was dark, his work was pretty dead boring and the people he worked with were stiff. She made life so interesting. Her mother didn't like him, of course, said he had stolen her daughter, her flower, said he took away the light from the world.

She told him not to pay attention to her mother.

She's a little crazy since the divorce. He nodded; he knew that. If your husband leaves you and marries your sister, it's gonna leave you a little tippy. Anyway, she said, my mom will never forgive me for loving your food. My mom's such a bad cook, such a terrible cook. It's weird, he said, since she's an amazing gardener. Everything just grows for her, too bad she never gets any joy out of cooking it. He sighed. Nothing grew for him. He put his arms around her, held her close. I love to cook with you, he said, and ran his hands through her hair, which right then was long and flowing. And green. She smiled at him. I love you, she said, and it's okay for my mom, she eats mostly fresh stuff anyway. All she has to do it chop. Anyone can use a knife.

It made him uncomfortable when she said things like that.

The thing is, her mom really didn't like him. It wasn't just a little problem, it was a big problem. Her mom talked to people about it, about their marriage. I don't believe she's happy, her mom told people, unloading tomatoes and zucchini onto their kitchen counters, I really don't think she's okay. I think he has some hold over her, I think he somehow keeps her against her will, her mom said, handing people bags of peaches and plums. It didn't bother him, much, that her mom talked to people, even that he knew the uncles and aunts didn't care for him either. People often didn't, he knew that. People found him depressing. Silent, hulking. He was used to it. He made people uncomfortable. That was one reason he loved her so tenderly, so fiercely. She loved him, yes, but she liked him, too, and that meant so much. Even liked his big, dark house. A fortress, her mom said, who does he think he is? What is this, a castle? her mom said, handing over a basket. Here, I thinned the beets and carrots.
Her mom didn't like him at all, would never even come to dinner. Her mom made a big deal about never eating his food.

Thing was, his food was amazing. It was really good. Maybe he couldn't grow anything, no, certainly he couldn't, but his cooking was divine. She told him the first time he cooked for her that he had just changed her life. He remembered her smiling at him across her plate; her hair was short and curly then. Nothing will ever be the same after this, she said, and it never was. She never ate at home again after that first meal. And her mom never forgave him.

Her mom talked to people about him. Her mom complained, campaigned, threatened, even litigated. Her mom called one of the uncles, the judge, nearly every day. Isn't there something you can do, her mom asked, isn't there anything you can do about this? I want my daughter back. I know she can't be happy, but she keeps it from me. I can't sleep, I can't work, nothing is going right. I left corn and string beans on you back step, by the way. The uncle sighed. It was a problem. Her mom had a way of making life difficult for the whole world. Thank you, the uncle said, for the corn and beans, and no. There's nothing I can do. She's of legal age, he takes good care of her, she insists she's happy. But he's so much older than she is, her mom wailed. As if that clinched it. And I'm lonely, her mom said, I'm so lonely. Her mom covered her face with her hands and sobbed. I can't live without her, I'm so, so lonely. Which was what clinched it.

Look, one of the aunts finally said, we've all talked about it, we've all talked about it and this is what we think. Why don't you just ask her to come stay with you for a week or two every so often? Other people do it. It works. Borrow her back, the aunt said, and thank you for the pumpkins. They're beautiful.

She stayed with her mom for a week or two, and he spent the entire time waiting for her to come back. He baked and froze things, he filled the fridge with food, and there was an enormous salad and fresh bread on the table when she came back. Oh, honey, I missed you, he told her, choking a little. Hey, she said, smiling at him, I never want to go back, but I think I will. I think that was good. My mom's so happy right now, in fact, she's going on a cruise. Thank the gods, he thought, but he said, oh? She'll like that. This is so good! she said around a bite of salad, I have missed your food so much! Oh, I do love fruit in a salad. Pomegranates, he said. Don't leave me, he said, running his hands through her hair that was streaked with yellow. A few fine strands came away on his fingers. I'll always come back, she said, I love you.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908