A Happy Story

"What's this story about?" Everett leans over my shoulder. He really wants to ask "when will dinner be ready?" But he will not have it spread about that he is a traditionalist. "It's about a woman," I say as he inspects the contents of pots with an air of disapproval. I continue. "Intelligent. Attractive. Educated. A career is possible if she plays her cards right." Everett has thrown open the refrigerator door, is standing, feet apart, fists on hips, as if silently demanding that certain foods present themselves for his until-dinner-gets-ready snacking. I continue. "But one morning she wakes up to realize that despite her efforts, she is living the same life her mother led. She feels desperate at this idea-" Everett is desperately opening up foil wrappers. Finds one cold pork chop. "-and in that moment, she begins to plan her own suicide." "Why?" mumbles Everett around a mouthful of pork chop. "I thought she was so intelligent." "Maybe she's intelligent enough-" I say to his back as he returns to his armchair enclave, "-intelligent enough to wonder if surviving is worth the trouble." Everett rattles his newspaper. The TV drones. I sweep up crumbs from the table and deposit the abandoned pork chop foil wrapper in the trash can. Slowly I recover my thoughts, make a few scribbles on my yellow pad. "Why don't you ever write a happy story?" Everett says, moments later, newspaper crumpling in his lap. I pretend I don't hear him, wish that I hadn't. "Angel? Didja hear me? Why can't you write a happy story for a change?" I don't even look up. "You know one?" I say. "Tell me a happy story and I'll use it," I say. When I do look up, his eyes are waiting. We look at each other. I smile, feeling some triumph. "Tell me," I say, "and I'll write it." Everett is a determined optimist; I call it self-delusion. I am a realist; he calls it "bad disposition." I say that he pretties up life with pretense. He says that I don't consider the cloud's silver lining. I say you're liable to be struck by lightning standing in a thunderstorm looking for a silver lining. He says I live for bad news. "Tell me a happy story," I persist. "I can't wait to write it." His tongue is working inside of one cheek; maybe he's thinking ... or maybe he's just after a sliver of pork chop caught between his teeth. He seems to regard me with infinite patience and pity. But now, his unflagging optimism comes to rescue his face from furrows of doubt. I see firm determination light his eyes. He will, now as ever, rescue me from myself. I am caught off guard by my own laughter; it comes snorting unladylike from my nose.