Text A

Say Yes

Tobias Wolff

Read the text once for the main idea. Do not refer to the notes, dictionaries or the glossary yet.

They were doing the dishes, his wife washing while he dried. Unlike most men he knew, he really pitched in on the housework. A few months earlier he'd overheard a friend of his wife's congratulate her on having such a considerate husband.
They talked about different things and somehow got on the subject of whether white people should marry black people. He said that all things considered, he thought it was a bad idea.
"Why?" she asked.
Sometimes his wife got this look where she pinched her brows together and bit her lower lip. When he saw her like this he knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he never did. Actually it made him talk more. She had that look now.
"Why?" she asked again, and stood there with her hand inside a bowl, just holding it above the water.
"Listen," he said, "I went to school with blacks, and I've worked with blacks and we've always gotten along just fine. I don't need you coming along now and implying that I'm a racist."
"I didn't imply anything," she said, "I just don't see what's wrong with a white person marrying a black person, that's all."
"They don't come from the same culture. Why, they even have their own language. That's okay with me, I like hearing them talk." "But it's different. A person from their culture and a person from our culture could never really know each other."
"Like you know me?" his wife asked.
"Yes. Like I know you."
"But if they love each other," she said.
Oh boy, he thought. He said, "Don't take my word for it. Look at the statistics. Most of those marriages break up."
"Statistics." She was piling dishes on the draining-board at a terrific rate. Many of them were still greasy. "All right," she said, "what about foreigners? I suppose you think the same thing about two foreigners getting married."
"Yes," he said, "as a matter of fact I do. How can you understand someone who comes from a completely different background?"
"Different," said his wife. "Not the same, like us."
"Yes, different," he snapped, angry with her for resorting to this trick of repeating his words so that they sounded hypocritical. "These are dirty," he said, and threw all the silverware back into the sink.
She stared down at it, her lips pressed tight together, then plunged her hands under the surface. "Oh!" she cried, and jumped back. She took her right hand by the wrist and held it up. Her thumb was bleeding.
"Don't move," he said. "Stay right there." He ran upstairs to the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine chest for alcohol, cotton, and a Band-Aid. When he came back down she was leaning against the refrigerator with her eyes closed, still holding her hand. He took the hand and dabbed at her thumb with the cotton. The bleeding had stopped. He squeezed it to see how deep the wound was. "It's shallow," he said. "Tomorrow you won't even know it's there." He hoped that she appreciated how quickly he had come to her aid. He'd acted out of concern for her, he thought that it would be a nice gesture on her part not to start up that conversation again, as he was tired of it. "I'll finish up here," he said. "You go and relax."
"That's okay," she said. "I'll dry."
He began to wash the silverware again.
"So," she said, "you wouldn't have married me if I'd been black."
"For Christ's sake, Ann!"
"Well, that's what you said, didn't you?"
"No, I did not. The whole question is ridiculous. If you had been black we probably wouldn't even have met. The only black girl I ever really knew was my partner in the debating club."
"But if we had met, and I'd been black?"
"Then you probably would have been going out with a black guy." He picked up the rinsing nozzle and sprayed the silverware.
"Let's say I am black and unattached," she said, "and we meet and fall in love."
He glanced over at her. She was watching him and her eyes were bright. "Look," he said, taking a reasonable tone, "this is stupid. If you were black you wouldn't be you." As he said this he realized it was absolutely true. There was no possible way of arguing with the fact that she would not be herself if she were black.
"I know," she said, "but let's just say."
He took a deep breath. He had won the argument but he still felt cornered. "Say what?" he asked.
"That I'm black, but still me, and we fall in love. Will you marry me?" He though! about it.
"Well?" she said. Her eyes were even brighter. "Will you marry me?"
"I'm thinking," he said.
"You won't, I can tell."
"Let's not move too fast on this," he said. "There are lots of things to consider. We don't want to do something we would regret for the rest of our lives."
"No more considering. Yes or no."
"Since you put it that way — "
"Yes or no."
"Jesus, Ann. All right. No."
She said, "Thank you," and walked from the kitchen into the living room. A moment later he heard her turning the pages of a magazine. He knew that she was too angry to be actually reading it, but she didn't snap through the pages the way he would have done. She turned them slowly, as if she were studying every word. She was demonstrating her indifference to him, and it had the effect he knew she wanted it to have. It hurt him.
He had no choice but to demonstrate his indifference to her. Quietly, thoroughly, he washed the rest of the dishes. Then he dried them and put them away. He wiped the counters and the stove.
While he was at it, he decided, he might as well mop the floor. When he was done the kitchen looked new, the way it looked when they were first shown the house.
He picked up the garbage pail and went outside. The night was clear and he could see a few stars to the west, where the lights of the town didn't blur them out. On El Camino the traffic was steady and light, peaceful as a river. He felt ashamed that he had let his wife get him into a fight. In another thirty years or so they would both be dead. What would all that stuff matter then? He thought of the years they had spent together, and how close they were, and how well they knew each other, and his throat tightened so that he could hardly breathe.
The house was dark when he came back inside. She was in the bathroom. He stood outside the door and called her name. "Ann, I'm really sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"How?" she said.
He knew that he had to come up with the right answer. He leaned against the door. "I'll marry you," he whispered.
"We'll see," she said. "Go on to bed. I'll be out in a minute."
He undressed and got under the covers. Finally he heard the bathroom door open and close.
"Turn off the light," she said from the hallway.
"What?"
"Turn off the light."
He reached over and pulled the chain on the bedside lamp. The room went dark. "All right," he said. He lay there, but nothing happened. "All right," he said again. Then he heard a movement across the room. He sat up, but he couldn't see a thing. The room was silent. His heart pounded the way it had on their first night together, the way it still did when he woke at a noise in the darkness and waited to hear it again — the sound of someone moving through the house, a stranger.