Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

in his mouth, and maybe spits a few times, you look at him as if he was a hog. Oh, you didn’t know I was onto you, and I certainly hope Sam hasn’t noticed it, but I never miss it.”

“I have felt that way. Spitting⁠—ugh! But I’m sorry you caught my thoughts. I tried to be nice; I tried to hide them.”

“Maybe I catch a whole lot more than you think I do!”

“Yes, perhaps you do.”

“And d’ you know why Sam doesn’t light his cigar when he’s here?”

“Why?”

“He’s so darn afraid you’ll be offended if he smokes. You scare him. Every time he speaks of the weather you jump him because he ain’t talking about poetry or Gertie⁠—Goethe?⁠—or some other highbrow junk. You’ve got him so leery he scarcely dares to come here.”

“Oh, I am sorry. (Though I’m sure it’s you who are exaggerating now.)”

“Well now, I don’t know as I am! And I can tell you one thing: if you keep on you’ll manage to drive away every friend I’ve got.”

“That would be horrible of me. You know I don’t mean to Will, what is it about me that frightens Sam⁠—if I do frighten him.”

“Oh, you do, all right! ’Stead of putting his legs up on another chair, and unbuttoning his vest, and telling a good story or maybe kidding me about something, he sits on the edge of his chair and tries to make conversation about politics, and he doesn’t even cuss, and Sam’s never real comfortable unless he can cuss a little!”

“In other words, he isn’t comfortable unless he can behave like a peasant in a mud hut!”

“Now that’ll be about enough of that! You want to know how you scare him? First you deliberately fire some question at him that you know darn well he can’t answer⁠—any fool could see you were experimenting with him⁠—and then you shock him by talking of mistresses or something, like you were doing just now⁠—”

“Of course the pure Samuel never speaks of such erring ladies in his private conversations!”

“Not when there’s ladies around! You can bet your life on that!”

“So the impurity lies in failing to pretend that⁠—”

“Now we won’t go into all that⁠—eugenics or whatever damn fad you choose to call it. As I say, first you shock him, and then you become so darn flighty that nobody can follow you. Either you want to dance, or you bang the piano, or else you get moody as the devil and don’t want to talk or anything else. If you must be temperamental, why can’t you be that way by yourself?”

“My dear man, there’s nothing I’d like better than to be by myself occasionally! To have a room of my own! I suppose you expect me to sit here and dream delicately and satisfy my ‘temperamentality’ while you wander in from the bathroom with lather all over your face, and shout, ‘Seen my brown pants?’ ”

“Huh!” He did not sound impressed. He made no answer. He turned out of bed, his feet making one solid thud on the floor. He marched from the room, a grotesque figure in baggy union-pajamas. She heard him drawing a drink of water at the bathroom tap. She was furious at the contemptuousness of his exit. She snuggled down in bed, and looked away from him as he returned. He ignored her. As he flumped into bed he yawned, and casually stated:

“Well, you’ll have plenty of privacy when we build a new house.”

“When?”

“Oh, I’ll build it all right, don’t you fret! But of course I don’t expect any credit for it.”

Now it was she who grunted “Huh!” and ignored him, and felt independent and masterful as she shot up out of bed, turned her back on him, fished a lone and petrified chocolate out of her glove-box in the top right-hand drawer of the bureau, gnawed at it, found that it had coconut filling, said “Damn!” wished that she had not said it, so that she might be superior to his colloquialism, and hurled the chocolate into the wastebasket, where it made an evil and mocking clatter among the debris of torn linen collars and toothpaste box. Then, in great dignity and self-dramatization, she returned to bed.

All this time he had been talking on, embroidering his assertion that he “didn’t expect any credit.” She was reflecting that he was a rustic, that she hated him, that she had been insane to marry him, that she had married him only because she was tired of work, that she must get her long gloves cleaned, that she would never do anything more for him, and that she mustn’t forget his hominy for breakfast. She was roused to attention by his storming:

“I’m a fool to think about a new house. By the time I get it built you’ll probably have succeeded in your plan to get me completely in Dutch with every friend and every patient I’ve got.”

She sat up with a bounce. She said coldly, “Thank you very much for revealing your real opinion of me. If that’s the way you feel, if I’m such a hindrance to you, I can’t stay under this roof another minute. And I am perfectly well able to earn my own living. I will go at once, and you may get a divorce at your pleasure! What you want is a nice sweet cow of a woman who will enjoy having your dear friends talk about the weather and spit on the floor!”

“Tut! Don’t be a fool!”

“You will very soon find out whether I’m a fool or not! I mean it! Do you think I’d stay here one second after I found out that I was injuring you? At least I have enough sense of justice not to do that.”

“Please stop flying off at tangents, Carrie. This⁠—”

“Tangents? Tangents! Let me tell you⁠—”

“⁠—isn’t a theater-play; it’s a serious effort to have us get together on fundamentals. We’ve both been cranky, and said a lot of things we didn’t mean. I wish we were