Chapter 2

        We spent the two and a half days of our honeymoon in the Chicago Loop in an old, elegant hotel. On the first day while eating lunch in the hotel restaurant, I dropped my fork on the plate and ran from the table to the lobby, gasping for breath and feeling as if I would smother. Gene dashed after me and stood by helplessly while I struggled for, and finally caught, my breath. Despite his urgings, I refused to return to the restaurant. On the second day in the middle of a film, my throat and lungs again tightened. I gasped and ran from the theater with Gene fast behind me. When I caught my breath, he said, "What's wrong, darling?"
        "I felt like I was suffocating. I'm afraid to go back in."
        "Maybe you should see a doctor."
        The next day we moved into my parents' cottage on Lake Michigan and I immediately called a doctor and told him what had happened. "I'm petrified," I said. "When it happens, I feel as if I'm going to die."
        "You're in no danger of dying," he said. He explained that I had marriage nerves; they were not too uncommon and would be gone in no time--just as soon as I adjusted to marriage. As the doctor predicted, the nerves quickly left, but spontaneously, not because I was adjusting to marriage. At all times I felt trapped and several times during the first week at the cottage I thought, I should have canceled the wedding, and somehow given back the presents and sent the caterer and guests and Gene home.
        But I hadn't. I was stuck in a marriage with a man 1 didn't love. I had to accept that.
But evidently I couldn't. On the tenth day of our marriage, after buying milk and eggs, I found myself walking into the liquor store at the corner. I've got to buy a bottle, I thought. I was a wreck. I was certain those marriage nerves would return. Gene wouldn't mind if I drank. He knew nothing about my plan to drink only on festive occasions; therefore he wouldn't blink when he saw me having the three drinks we'd agreed on.
        But as I decided that, I thought about the peace drinks gave, ironing every feeling of insecurity, every worry, every wrinkle in the world. They would give me a happier marriage. And I figured out a scheme that would allow me to keep the agreement, yet have more than three drinks. But to carry it out I would need privacy so that Gene wouldn't think I was cheating on the agreement.
        Because our cottage was small, finding a private spot would be difficult. There were two bedrooms without closets, a kitchen about the size of a closet, a combination living-dining room, and a bathroom with a crack running diagonally across the door. Though the crack was wide enough to see through, I decided that the bathroom would be the best bet. The door locked and the room was long enough to hide from anyone looking through the crack. Best of all, at the end of the long wall was a tier of metal shelves filled with Dad's fishing gear. Gene never fished, and it was unlikely he would go through the gear.
        I bought a fifth of bourbon and three quarts of beer. At home I put the beer in the refrigerator and laid the bottle on a shelf in the bathroom between a tackle box and the wall. I then carefully covered it with a towel.
        That night I poured several ounces of beer into a glass, took the glass to the shelf, lifted out the fifth, and poured in several ounces of bourbon. That night and every night for a couple of weeks, I was able to get high on three "beers" without a word of complaint from Gene--although I caught him giving me puzzled looks.
        But one night I forgot to stand by the storage shelves and stood in front of the crack as I spiked my beer. I heard a squeak, a rustle, a tap against the door. I looked up and saw Gene's eye peering through the crack. Flustered at the discovery, I flew into a fury and yelled, "Get away from the door, you sneak! Don't you know a bathroom's absolutely private?"
"Now I know why you get so looped on three beers." His voice was high-pitched with anger. "We agreed to three drinks a night."
        "We never said what kind of drinks. We just said three drinks. They could be anything." I tilted the glass and drank. "Take your eye out of the door and leave me alone."
        "Cheater."
        "Spy."
        "Get out of the bathroom."
        "I'm staying. I'm never coming out."
I heard Gene pad from the door into the living room. "Apologize, you spy!" I yelled. "I won't come out until you do."
Instead of an answer, I heard a click and a blast of sound as the television came on. I sank to the floor, leaned against the wall, finished my drink, and started on the bourbon. At some
point, I blacked out.
        I woke with an aching head, a terrible thirst, and a queasy stomach. A high sun slanted light through the bedroom window and across the bed. It was close to noon. The last thing I could recall was leaning against the bathroom wall with the bottle between my knees, wondering if I should return to Northwestern University and finish my English education degree. I felt up to the fifty-mile drive and the rigorous studies. I couldn't sit around vegetating. In between that thought and now, Gene had gone to work and I had gotten to bed. How? I wondered.
        Not via Gene, I hoped. If he had taken me to bed, then he would know I had drunk far more than three spiked beers. He might be furious. Until last night I had believed he had an easygoing, accepting nature--that in any situation he would eventually give me my way. For the most part I still believed that, but his show of anger was unsettling.
I worried all day about the fight that might be coming. When I heard his car, I went to the kitchen window and watched him get out. His hair was standing in unruly curls, as if he had been running his fingers through it. His lips were set in a tight line.
I ran to the bedroom so that he wouldn't see that I was waiting for him. When I saw him putting his briefcase on the couch, I ambled out. "Did you have a good day?" I said.
        I carried you to bed like a sack of potatoes!" he snapped. "I hope you never repeat last night."
        "I won't. It was an accident."
        "How can that be an accident?"
        "I don't know, but it was."
        "Impossible," he said.
        "I've been nervous. It's hard to be married when you're not used to it. It won't happen again. Really, I'm sorry."
His mouth relaxed and I saw that he was accepting my apology. "I expect that your three drinks will be unspiked. I expect that you'll stick to three."
        "I will. I promise."
        I meant to keep my promise, but a couple of nights later I found myself in the bathroom pouring bourbon into my beer.
Though Gene and I fought about it, I continued spiking my beer. I hated the fights, and when confronted, I apologized profusely. Gene always accepted the apology, then I turned around and drank again. It seemed as if we were falling into a pattern, maybe the only pattern available--to Gene, who in his love gave me awesome acceptance, and to me, who had to drink.
        About six weeks after we moved to the lake, I got a job as a laboratory technician. I would be training to co-manage a five person chemical laboratory. I enjoyed the lab work, but abhorred the training program, which included much chemistry that I didn't understand. I hadn't studied chemistry since my senior year in high school and was sure that my boss had mistakenly hired me.
        One night over dinner, I told Gene. "I'm scared to death. I don't understand half of what my boss says. He knows it and I know he's getting ready to fire me."
        "He hired you. He must think you can do it."
        "Maybe he misread my application."
        "You can do it. He doesn't expect you to know everything at once. Give yourself time."
        "Should I quit?"
        "Aren't you listening? You'll do fine."
        About that time Gene applied for the Navy's Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island. Often I would find myself thinking, Please, please let him be accepted so that I can leave this lab. I didn't know if my thoughts were directed to fate, the Navy, or God.
        But the thoughts were answered; on the four-month anniversary of our marriage Gene received news that he had been accepted. I immediately quit my job and he left for Newport. I joined him a few weeks later.
Shortly after my arrival I became pregnant.
        Gene and I were pleased. In my pleasure my misgivings about marrying Gene were replaced by such a great affection for him that I almost forgot that I didn't love him. I now desired to be a fine wife. It seemed natural for a future mother to desire that. It also seemed natural not to drink, and I stopped without giving it a thought. Without the fights over the drinks, our marriage improved and we were reasonably happy as we waited for the baby.
        To prepare for the day when Gene would be commissioned and I would be the wife of an ensign in the United States Navy, I read The Navy Wife by Pye and Shea. In it I learned that I would be expected to adhere to correct etiquette, to develop "social graces," such as bridge, dancing, and golf, 1 and to become a "loving, loyal, and competent wife." Pye and Shea wrote: "There is not a shadow of a doubt but that such a wife is one of the greatest assets to a man in the naval service." 2
In a section defining the ideal naval household, the authors focused on the duties of the competent wife:

        Depending upon your hours of rising and the time of breakfast, after which you see your hero off to work, two hours should give you ample time to do your daily routine housework thoroughly. Of course, if you stop to finish a detective story or go back to bed for an extra nap, remember to deduct it from your leisure instead of skipping your household duties. . . .
        Dinner should be a restful meal, gracious and peaceful and not interrupted by frequent trips to the kitchen. A weary husband may enjoy a cocktail or highball before dinner, or it may be equally restful for him to have a quiet talk with you as an unhurried companion. Sometimes he may like to listen to the radio, and make informal remarks on the news to you. Even if you don't agree with his views, save your comments until after dinner. A good meal improves a man's disposition. You can make this before-dinner interlude a period of charm and relaxation to which your husband will look forward if you plan intelligently. Have your domestic machinery so well-oiled that you can take it easy before dinner.3

        For the most part, I believed the book and vowed to fulfill its ideals.
        After Gene was commissioned, he was sent on brief billets to Kansas and California. Then our baby Donald was born. When Donald was a month old we were transferred to Great Lakes Training Center in North Chicago, Illinois.
It was December, and the complex of concrete Navy apartments to which we were assigned was as drab as the month. Our ground floor apartment had two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen with an eating area, and a small living room. The black tile floor with white streaks flowed through the apartment like an inky lake with whitecaps? The day we moved in I had been without a drink for eight months.
        On Sunday morning, a week after our arrival, we walked to Wilbur and Mollie Lowes' for brunch. They lived in the same complex and Wilbur worked with Gene. Wilbur met us at the door with a hearty handshake, brought us to the living room (which was a duplicate of ours, even down to the black tile) and called his wife. Mollie, a stubby woman, trotted out from the bedroom, smiling and panting and running her fingers over her thin hair, which clung to her head like a cloche. She and Wilbur led us to the living room couch, then Wilbur brought us tall glasses of tomato juice with lemon slices floating on the top. I knew at the first swallow that they were Bloody Marys.
        I thought about my eight-month abstinence from liquor and the ensuing good relationship between Gene and me. I should give this back to Wilbur and ask for straight juice, I thought. But I didn't. Soon I felt relaxed and happy and sensed that the drink was a prelude to a great visit. One drink won't hurt a thing, I thought. I've abstained for months and tomorrow I'll continue abstaining. This drink's just a brief hiatus, like a split second plucked from a day.
        In the hour before brunch, each time my glass was empty I held it out to Wilbur. By the time we sat down to Eggs Benedict, I was drunk and verbose. I complimented Mollie on her lovely food, shining windows, smart dress, and beautiful hair. A grim look entered Gene's eyes. He probably doesn't like thin hair, I thought.
        I felt marvelous. I was planning to stay the entire afternoon, but immediately after Mollie refilled our coffee cups, Gene said, "We've got to go. I've got to go through some papers from work."
        "Can't you do them tonight?" I asked.
        "No, they can't wait."
        I knew they could wait, for Friday, when Gene had brought them home, he had said that he had a couple of hours of paperwork. He would have plenty of time tonight. "They can, too," I said.
        "These can't."
        "That's not true," I said.
        "Muriel!" he snapped, and I gave up.
        The minute we got out on the Lowes' stoop, Gene confronted me. "You're drunk."
        "I'm not."
        "You were gushing all over Mollie."
        "I was being kind." I felt misunderstood, like a saint mistaken for a bank robber.
        "You were drunk."
        "I was being friendly. You've got a rotten attitude. If you don't straighten out and get friendly, you'll lose every friend you've got."
        Gene exhaled in a rush, then spun around, stepped off the stoop, and strode rapidly along the sidewalk. I hurried along behind him, never quite catching up.
        Late in the afternoon after I had slept off the drinks, I went to Gene at the kitchen table, where he was working on his papers. I said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get drunk."
        "I thought you were abstaining."
        "I am."
        "I wish you would. I don't want to go back to the way it was."
        "We won't."
        "There's Donny to consider."
        I started to cry. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt him. I love him."
        At the sight of my tears he pulled me into his lap and said, "I know that, darling."
        The next morning snow spilled from an iron sky and brushed against the window. I was on the living room couch, and Donny was lying in my arm, sucking his bottle. Standing, I balanced the bottle under my chin, leaned over, and switched on the radio to catch the weather report. I sighed. Four inches had fallen and four more were predicted. I walked to the window. Snow rimmed my bicycle and spread like a sheet across the courtyard; the forecast was probably correct.
        I watched the flakes and remembered how I had gushed over Mollie's food and windows and thin hair. I winced. Even if Mollie and Wilbur were the kindest people in Illinois, they were bound to think I was a screwball. I can't face them again, I thought. Great Lakes was a large base; maybe I could skirt them the next few years.
        Then I remembered the Bloody Marys, the relaxed feeling, the happiness--really exhilaration, as if I were a bird dipping through sunlight. I looked at the drab sky. With a few drinks it would light up, and it and I would be more than we were.
So I decided I would have a few drinks now and then. Just a few so that I could be a good mother--and a good wife. A few would not upset Gene. I glanced at the swirling snow, wondering if I dared drive to the liquor store. I shouldn't take Donny out, I thought. But I had to, because we had no liquor--not even a can of beer.
        We went and I bought a bottle of Jim Beam. I skidded only twice, and both times I slid into the curb and did not damage the car. At home I put the Jim Beam in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
That night while Gene and I played cribbage in the kitchen, I watched the clock on the wall. Eight seemed a good hour for a nightcap or two. At eight, I laid down my cards, walked casually to the sink--as if I were going for a glass of water-bent, and lifted the Jim Beam from the cabinet. "Like one?" I asked offhandedly.
        "Where did you get that? I thought we were out."
        "I found it when I unpacked. I forgot to say anything." The lie came so easily.
        "You said yesterday was an accident. You said you're stopping."
        "I am--mostly."
        "What does 'mostly' mean?"
        "I mean mostly I'm not drinking. I don't think a drink or two a day can hurt me."
        "If you can keep it there."
        "I will. Do you want one?"
        "No thanks."
        We finished the game and I fixed another drink. Until Gene went to bed, the two were all I had. But then I went at the bourbon in earnest. My reality took a lovely turn and I went from unpretty to pretty, from unintelligent to intelligent, from insecure to secure and I loved myself.
        I became ethereal. My mind bubbled with creativity and I brought a pen and paper to the kitchen table. I would write a cookbook filled with exotic recipes, ones no earthling could cook, because the ingredients would be stored in the above and beyond plane where my thoughts were. Only certain people, ones like me, would understand the book. At one point I wrote, "Puree six elf's whiskers, three hairs from a thirteen-eyed fly and six ounces of pulp from a loopola, a fruit which tastes like a banana, but looks like a doughnut. Served on toast, this blend will please the finicky eaters in your family."
        While I poured bourbon after bourbon, recipes tumbled from my mind onto paper until I blacked out. In the morning I awoke to a faint cry that rose in volume like an oncoming freight. I thought, What? What? Then I realized that it was Donny crying from his bassinet beside me. Pushing up onto my elbows, I blinked at the dresser lamp, which glowed with the strength of the sun, then sat full up. My stomach rolled. I had a terrible hangover. Donny was beating the air with his hands. His face was red and wrinkled like a walnut. Apparently, he was hungry.
        While I lowered my legs over the side of the bed, Gene walked in carrying a bottle of milk. He wore white boxer shorts and a white shirt. A diaper was slung over his shoulder. "It's about time," he said.
        I glanced at the clock--7:00. "About time for what?"
        "For you to wake up."
        "I always wake up at seven."
        Gene bent, lifted Donny from the bassinet, and pushed the bottle into his mouth. "What was going on last night?"
I strained to remember, then recalled the bourbons, the recipes. "Nothing much that I know about," I said, not anxious to tell him the truth.
        "Really?" he said, his face flushing as it did when he was angry. "Nothing much, you say. Nothing much, and while Donny screamed for his middle-of-the-night bottle, you lay six inches from his head like a dead woman."
        "I was tired. I stayed up late."
        "Look, don't lie. You were drunk. I don't have time for this." He handed me Donny's bottle. "I need to get ready for work."
        I took Donny and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get that way."
        "What if you'd been alone with Donny? What if there'd been a fire?"
        My stomach took a tumble. "I won't do it again."
        "I hope not," he said and took the trousers of his uniform from a hanger. He pulled them on in choppy, angry movements, then left the room.
        Because Gene was upset, I stayed sober for two days. But on the third day, after dinner, I had a few bourbons. I was exhausted from housework and I needed the relaxation. Anybody would, I thought.
        From then on I drank every night and Donny's middle-of-the-night cries sailed past me and woke Gene.
        One morning Gene found a stack of my recipes in the kitchen. "You write these stupid things?" he asked.
        "Sometimes."
        "Incredible."
        "I don't mean to write them. I'm trying to stop."
        "Stop? That's a nonsensical statement."
        "I mean I'm trying to stop drinking so I won't write them."
        But I didn't try to stop drinking. I wasn't, as I had hoped, a loving, competent wife. The cycle of my drinks, our fights, my sorries and Gene's forgiveness was fully in effect. He began to put in longer hours at work, as if forgiving was taking something from his pride which had to be replaced by high job performance. Though I dimly understood, I was too hooked to stop drinking. And I assumed he loved me too much to leave me.

1 Anne Briscoe Pye and Nancy Shea, The Navy Wife (New York, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1955), p. 191.
2 Ibid., p. xii.
3 Ibid., p. 139,140.