Long-overdue self-reflection continues . . .
My new job grew more demanding once I made a lateral move to the graphics department, since I had to stay late in order to meet my deadlines. The cabin lost its allure because of the time it took to cut wood and schlepp water. William and I decided to live together. I rented out my cabin for twenty-five dollars a month to a woman in need and we rented a sweet furnished house in Peterborough a few blocks from the magazine where I worked and Jesse’s day care center.
The house was owned by a dowager from Dublin: Lydia Hamilton Morris, a white-haired force in sensible shoes and tweed skirts. During our interview she asked if we were married. William and I smiled and looked at each other lovingly. She raised her eyebrows expectantly and cocked her head when Jesse (right on cue) sitting perfectly still on her couch looked at her and said, “Thith pillow is beautiful. May I touch it, Mithus Morrith?” Her icy demeanor melted, and we were accepted on the spot. I gave Jesse a dollar for being brilliant, but not until we were out of Mrs. Morris’ sight.
As we prepared for the move, William stunned me by declaring that I should pay two-thirds of the rent because I had a child. He didn’t push the issue when I disagreed, but his calculations felt cold after all the warm interactions I’d witnessed between him and Jesse.