I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
The Question
Dear Livy,
So many times in those first few months, I dreamed of kissing you.
So many times over the years since, I have lived my dream.
You became my dream the day I met you.
And you have been my dream ever since.
In the winter, the days are shorter.
There are no crops to tend.
Just animals.
And chores around the house.
So Ray Singleton, fresh from the beet factory, sleeps in.
Not much.
Six, maybe six thirty.
And then he awakes.
In his childhood bed.
To the smell . . .
Mama?
. . . of eggs.
Oh.
And oatmeal.
Right.
He attends his facilities.
Dresses.
And goes downstairs.
To see . . .
"I didn't know what you had for breakfast."
. . . his wife.
"Because I've never been up that early."
I know.
"But I made you some eggs and some oatmeal."
Now she cares.
And he just can't bear . . .
"There's no need."
. . . her flimsy attempt at now, just now, trying to make a true and honest attempt . . .
"Just plain eggs. There's no onions or peppers."
. . . at being a caring wife.
He tries to leave, hat on, jacket on.
He's got to get out of this house, got to get away from her.
Got to check on the damned dog, the animals, make sure they haven't frozen to death in a winter they've been at for years and-
"Ray. Wait."
And he turns, dammit, he turns anyway.
Turns because he's promised himself he'd be a good husband.
Just didn't know how hard it would be when he was married to a woman who obviously did not want to be married to him.
He'd honestly thought if they just had time, they could at least become a good team, a comfort, a friendly set.
But that's all been tossed out now.
"I'm sorry that I let Franklin in the house. I did not realize what an insult that would be to you."
And she can't even apologize . . .
That's what you're focusing on?
The damn dog.
. . . for the real problem . . .
"With all the other animals in the barn, that dog'll be fine."
. . . between them.
But sure, let's take care of the dog, of course.
Not me.
Not us.
Not what you've done.
"I have something I want to tell you."
And he thinks she's finally come to it.
That she's come to the real issue.
That she's going to tell him about . . .
"My first day here . . ."
. . . him.
". . . I looked in your dresser."
And he's got nothing to say.
In my dresser?
So?
"I can't even explain why I did it."
Because you wanted to know more about the man you agreed to be receptive to marrying, Livy.
It's not that hard to understand.
"I'm sorry."
Now you're apologizing about looking in my dresser?
"You could look in there anytime you wanted. I got nothing to hide from you."
I wish you could honestly say the same to me.
What would I find in your dresser, Livy, my mother's dresser?
Do you have a picture of him?
A love letter?
Because you sure don't have one for me.
"There was a watch. I could hear it ticking."
So now we're talking about a watch?
"I've never seen you carry it."
"It was my father's."
He was a good man.
"Sometimes I wind it up when I want to remember him."
I don't want to wind it up right now.
"I remembered how good he was to my mama."
Who was a good woman to him.
Not like you.
"Kind of husband I want to be."
If you would only let me.
But no.
There you go again.
Grimacing at the very idea of me being your husband.
Do you have any idea how much that hurts, Livy?
Every goddamn time.
But he can't allow himself to say any of this.
Not with the look she has on her face. He can't trust sharing that with her.
The depth of the hurt she's caused him. The gaping wound straight through the middle of him.
So he just keeps talking . . .
". . . no good reason."
. . . about the goddamn watch.
"Just for luck."
Which in and of itself is a type of confessing, pleading, begging.
All I wanted was to be a good husband to you, Livy.
I tried.
From the first day I met you.
I've tried.
And you . . . you never cared.
Not truly.
Did you?
He goes to leave before he says more, before it all comes tumbling out of him, like blood and guts and broken heart all over the clean pinewood floor.
But she stops him again.
"Ray, . . ."
Livy does.
Because he's weak.
Because he lets her.
Just with her words . . .
". . . I made a mistake."
. . . alone.
And he turns, he turns.
Guess you spent all night reading that letter.
Finding out he didn't really care.
Not enough to help you raise that baby.
Not like me.
"And which mistake would that be, huh?"
And now you're all ready and willing to come back to me.
Make it work.
Because I'm safe.
Because I'm a sucker.
"Bein' with him?"
Because I'll look after you.
Because whatever he told you when he got you into this position you're in now, whatever words he spoke, I truly love you.
And he never did.
"Or marrying me?"
And she doesn't answer.
She doesn't have to answer.
He knows the answer.
That it's both.
For her, it's both.
And it hurts so much, it just hurts so much.
Her silence, or her lies, or her truth, it would all just hurt so much he doesn't know if he could bear any of it.
"Would it be easier if I left?"
Or the next thing she says.
Easier on who?
Easier on you or easier on me?
Because you've been wanting to leave since you got here.
All I've done is want to love you.
And you haven't been able to stand it.
Not one single time.
Her hair is down and wavy and flowing.
Her eyes are dark and searching and full of sorrow and shame.
And Ray Singleton still loves her, he still damn blasted loves her.
And it hurts, it hurts so damn much.
It hurts more than he thought anything could hurt.
It hurts almost as much as it did when Daniel died.
The guilt.
The shame.
The feeling that he had done wrong.
That he could have, should have, done more.
Stepped up.
Instead of stepping aside.
And he reaches up.
And takes off his hat slow.
He had begun to believe that the fault was partially with him.
That he hadn't made any grand gesture toward her.
Relied on quiet, simple, daily acceptance and love to show her how he felt.
So maybe, she just needed, maybe . . .
She doesn't retreat when he approaches.
Not when he reaches out clumsy, uncertain hands.
And catches her soft face carefully between them.
Her eyes stay on his when he draws his face down to hers.
Not pulling away when their lips touch.
Once, twice.
No, she didn't pull away.
She pulled forward, wrapping her arms around him.
Soft sigh issuing from deep in her slender throat.
She pressed her lips more to his, pressed her body closer to his.
And he knew it had been the thing she had needed to open up her heart.
Open up her heart.
And let go of the past.
"Ray, I love you."
A gesture, a simple gesture.
"I love you and I'm sorry for hurting you."
And Raymond Singleton knew . . .
"Please forgive me."
. . . everything was going to be alri-
He breaks the kiss, raising back up.
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
Well, . . .
Because, more than seeing it, . . .
. . . that's that then, I guess.
. . . he feels it.
Nothing.
From her.
Livy.
She hadn't pulled away, no, of course she wouldn't.
She knows her duties as a wife, bound to him by marriage.
She wouldn't have denied him anything more than verbal or physical hesitations, had he ever pressed the issue.
She let him do what he wanted.
But she hadn't returned his affections either.
He looked into her eyes and saw nothing there.
He kissed her lips and felt nothing there from her.
Four and half months of him loving her every moment and doing everything he could provide, allow, and support.
And nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He's poured everything into her every day, hour, he's been with her.
Never said no, with allowance of dog, in his hurt.
And none of it has meant anything to her.
She doesn't care.
She has absolutely no feelings at all whatsoever for him.
Why?
What is it about him that makes him so unlovable to her?
She doesn't owe him love because he gave her home, made her his wife, given her safety away from the shame of an out-of-wedlock baby.
And why isn't the man who did this to her held responsible for his part in these circumstances?
It takes two to tango, my mama always said.
I didn't even know what tango was.
'Til I borrowed her dictionary and looked it up.
She doesn't owe him anything.
He just wants to know.
What he's done wrong, other than not been the man who had wooed her and abandoned her?
What has he done, that she can't love him?
Or at least . . .
"Is there anything you like about me, Livy?"
. . . liked him enough to accept him as he is.
And he lets her go.
Grabs his hat.
And walks out of the house.
And refuses to let his tears fall . . .
"Look after her, Franklin. I'm sorry I yelled at you."
. . . on the floorboards of the porch.