The time he slapped her hand. This was long into their marriage. She was sick with a stomach flu and he was spoonfeeding her soup from a bowl. They were at the dining-room table. The kids couldn’t have been in the house or else they would have come when they heard him yell and her crying. He held the spoon to her mouth and her hand jerked up and knocked the spoon to the floor, some of the soup splattering his face. “Damn you,” he yelled, and slapped her hand. Then: “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to do that. I swear I didn’t.” She looked at him as if she was about to cry. Then she cried. Some of the soup had got on her neck and he wiped it away with the cloth napkin on her lap and then wiped his face. “Do you want me to wipe your neck with a damp towel?” he said, and she shook her head and continued crying. “I’m really sorry, Gwen. I’ve never done anything like that to you before. With Maureen, once, when she was around two and got out of her stroller and I caught her just as she stepped into the street, and I slapped her hand and told her what she’d been slapped for so she’d know not to do that again. I regretted slapping her that one time. I’ve told you. I should have made my point in a nonphysical way. But this with you is much worse. Please say you forgive me. I don’t know where it came from. For sure not some up-till-now hidden animosity to you that even I didn’t know was there, and I promise it’ll never happen again.” She stopped crying and wiped her eyes with her napkin. He picked up the spoon, went into the kitchen and washed it, and came back to the table. She pointed to the floor. There were a few drops of soup on it — he thought that was what she meant. He went through his side pants pocket for a paper towel — there was usually one there; wasn’t any, and he wiped the drops up with his handkerchief. He held up the spoon and said “Here, let me get you some more soup. It’s light, more like a broth — it has a little miso in it; brown rice miso, the kind you like — and you need liquids in you and nourishment.” She shook her head and looked away from him. He put the spoon back on the table. “I understand,” he said. “You’re angry at me now, and for good reason. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. And that I did it when you were still so weak and feeling so lousy. I’m so ashamed, Gwen. But you’ll forgive me sometime for it. Isn’t there something I can do for you?” She pointed to the spoon. “You want me to resume feeding you,” and she shook her head. “You want to feed yourself?” and she said “Let me, but I can’t reach the spoon.” He gave her the spoon, moved the bowl closer to her, straightened out the place mat under it and said “Excuse me, I’m sure you don’t want me sitting here, so I should probably leave you alone for the time being. If you want something, just yell for me.” He got up. She put the spoon into the bowl, brought it to her mouth, swallowed the soup and put the spoon in the bowl for some more. “It must mean you’re getting better,” he said. He went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water and drank it. “Like me to put on some water for tea for you?” he said. She didn’t say anything or look at him. “I’ll be in the living room,” he said, “reading.”
