Jack:
Oh, my dear friend. If your husband is both drinking and being unfaithful, what choices do you have? Adultery is a monstrosity, a man attempting to isolate one kind of union from the sacred one. But sometimes, Joy, divorce is a surgery that must be done to save a life. Are the boys safe? Is it possible for you to take a holiday and come to visit England? We are praying for you, as always.
Joy:
Thank you for the kindness of your sentiments. I agree with your view and yet being gobsmacked in the middle of it all, it is hard to gain perspective.
Oh, Jack, a holiday? Yes, I dream of coming to England. I dream of so much.
The days were long and crammed with pain, the pills barely easing the throbbing in my kidneys. One terrible night there was a winter storm shrouding the windows in translucent ice, and Bill still had not come home. Memories of previous disappearances appeared as taunting ghosts. Finally, in the middle of that sleepless night, I heard him arrive. First his steps on the stairway, the click-snap of the old doorknobs inside their mechanisms, and then he stood in our bedroom.
His shadow fell long beside the bed, and his shape bent over to kiss me on the forehead. “Poogle, your fever appears to be gone.”
The sticky, primordial aroma of sex overwhelmed my senses, making me dizzy. If only the pain meds could dull the pain of betrayal. “Where have you been?” My voice rose, exhausted but steady.
“Hey,” he said softly, “don’t be angry. This has nothing to do with how much I love you, Poogle. Can’t you see that? A man’s needs must be met, and you’re in no condition to meet those needs. I’m just trying to be kind, give you a chance to heal while I recharge my batteries.”
“Who was it this time?” My question was a whisper, a last breath.
“Oh, Joy, my love. Don’t ask me what you don’t want to know.” He stood and backed away as if he had just realized his own scent.
Jack:
God of course does speak to us in our pains—his megaphone to reach us.
Joy:
If only I could hear what he says; usually that megaphone of pain drowns out all other noise and I can’t understand anything else. In my moment of greatest weakness—my novel tanked, my health in disrepair—Bill decided that fulfilling his own needs would help.
“Oh, Joy,” Bill said with that false Southern lilt in his voice. He lay down beside me, his body stretching long and his leg flopped over mine in a motion of love and familiarity. His breath smelled of rancid whiskey and cigars. “Rest. And heal. And when you do, we’ll be better. Just you wait and see.”
But I knew this would not get better. If I did not leave, I would die. I felt this as surely as knowing soon it would be spring, then summer, then fall, and then the cursed-iced winter again.
God, I prayed in desperation, please help me. I don’t know what to do.
CHAPTER 7
Knew, in the lonely midnight afterward,
The terrible third between us like a sword
“SONNET II,” JOY DAVIDMAN
February 1952
The mug of tea beside my Underwood had gone cold, yet still I took a sip, distracted by the Ten Commandments article I was writing. He is the source of all pleasures; he is fun and light and laughter. I was moving fast now, nearing the seventh commandment.
Downstairs lay a pile of sewing and mending for the boys. I would get to it soon. All the while I was slowly healing and sleeping better as I’d moved out of Bill’s bedroom and into my own.
I wanted to leave him, how I wanted to leave Bill, but I saw no way out. And God help me, I did love him. Love doesn’t disappear when it’s supposed to leave; it doesn’t shimmy away at the slightest provocation. If only it would.
There I was, writing about God’s will, and at the same time contemplating divorce. Yet we didn’t have enough money to split; there were sons to protect. And now, to add to the constraints, my cousin Renee and her two children were arriving. This little family would move in with us while Renee escaped her alcoholic husband in Mobile, Alabama. It had been a secret plan that involved my parents and hers plotting a pretend crisis in New York City, but instead she’d come to me, where her husband could not find her.
With a start, I heard the sound of a car door slamming. Were they here already? It felt as if Bill had just driven away to fetch them from Grand Central. I glanced out the window to see the three souls who would change my life: Renee and the little ones, Bobby and Rosemary. She was a moving picture of elegance as she emerged from the passenger side, touching a gloved hand to her black hat. I’d almost forgotten how arresting she was. A blue wool double-breasted coat hugged her lovely silhouette, and her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders in a shimmering cascade. Her children, ages six and eight, spilled out from the back of the car looking stunned and submissive. I rose to make my way downstairs and greet them.