The Sounds Of Silence - A Yakkity Wife And The Key To A Happy Marriage

Henry Townsend was a patient man, a good husband, a dutiful father, and a scratch golfer - all of which he had carefully orchestrated to make his marriage work. 

The demands on his time were significant, particularly since he had a responsible job which kept him at the office after hours and on weekends.  He had been faithful, as far as most men can be, and found that
lovers simply were low value-added.  Yes, he enjoyed the company of attractive young women, but it always wasn't long before their demands became insistent - the old saw, 'When are you going to leave your wife?' was unfortunately the case.  Life was infinitely too complicated for anything but the occasional drop in the bucket, a discreet cinq-a-sept with understanding women. 

Henry's wife Joanna was a scratchy type, although he saw no particular signs of it when he was dating her at those many years ago.  She had been serene, thoughtful, and somewhat guarded in her emotions - a delightful reprieve from the tempestuous Alice who shook the rafters with her demands for attention, a spoiled child and not surprisingly a sexually hungry one, an appetite that appealed to Henry's desires for more than the serial mothering he had had at the hands of Margie, Usha, and Esther.  

The affair didn't last long - there was only so much Sturm und Drang that Henry could take - but he was sexually satisfied. He had been strummed, plucked, and played until he could manage not a note more and wanted only to read the Sunday Times alone with a good cappuccino and an almond croissant. 

Things and men being what they are, happiness has never been an affair of simple pleasures.  Henry missed the hunt, the conquest, and the delightful spoils of war, and met Joanna at the bar of the Oak Room at the Plaza one rainy September afternoon.  She was alone, sitting quietly amidst the clatter and Happy Hour cheer, but was pleased to be noticed by a youngish man with a boutonniere - a small affectation, a conversation-starter, a playful trifle that was good for starters. 

Henry found the young woman the perfect middle ground - halfway between the rapacious Alice and the string of mothers left in the queue - and before long they were an item.  They sounded like a New York Review of Books personal - SWF seeks likeminded SWM who loves morning walks in the park, reminiscing over old books, charming but self-confident, a lover of baclava and onion soup - but not enough can be said about complementarity. 

It was only much later in their marriage that she became scratchy - the usual offenses, hair in the sink, the toilet seat up, erratic left turns, etc. Henry was complaisant at first - par for the course when one gets married - but as her insistence grew and she became more quacky and impatient, the blush was off the bloom of the rose. Not quite the 'How many times have I told you to...' hectoring, but with a tone and measure he hardly recognized.  

Now, husbands have always found ways to deal with these niggling intrusions into their manhood.  Some do a 'Yes, darling' and do nothing.  Others will pee on the seat, and still others will simply capitulate in order to stop the complaints which always seem to come out high pitched and nasal.  Why do they do this? Henry wondered.  Life would be so much simpler if they simply modulated their tone, used a different register and backed off a demi-quaver on volume. 

He - men in general - could care less whether the seat is up or down.  Most look at it as target practice - peeing through the opening to see how accurate you can be.  A few misses off center? No big deal, it will dry; and as far as her facial powder spilled around the faucets? No problem there either.  A little sluice of water will do the trick. 

Some men when faced with long hair or makeup on the sink, bring it up with their wives, showing that two can play that game; but again, true to form, their wives turn it right around and use it as yet another excuse to hammer them for their absent bathroom etiquette. 

Most women, especially in the feminist era, want recognition, respect, and consideration from men.  They want to be validated as individuals, valuable in their own right, and seek no less.  Savvy men always give the impression of listening, but it is always in one ear, out the other.  They are less interested in what a woman has to say or who she is than will she sleep with them. 

Therefore, the one tried and true method to stop the carping, hectoring demands is not only to ignore them, but to ignore the woman who says them.  A stony silence, a moody indifference, a barely concealed hostility, a strongly conveyed sense of irrelevance.  'You never express your feelings', they say, and that is exactly what the strategic husband wants to hear.  In his immured silence, he is not only agreeing with her - it's none of your business - but giving the message that she, all of her, is a trifling business in the first place. 

It works.  Women will always come around given enough time.  They will revert - that after all is their nature - and the peaceful interlude is worth the effort.  This, despite Henry's reluctance to treat the woman he was still fond of with such dismissiveness and indifference, was the proven way to resolve the issues; and within a few weeks, she was quiet on the toilet seat and the hairs in the sink, and had graciously and generously treated him as she once had. 

However, in the mind of many women, Henry's behavior would be considered borderline misogyny relying as it did on old stereotypes and male patriarchy; but marriage is a battleground after all, and all the territorialism, self-defensiveness, aggression, and drive to dominate - the heart and soul of human nature - is as predominant in marriage as in any other social engagement.  Or to put it simply in yet another old saw, 'All's fair in love and war'. 

In many cases, men do not have the patience to stonewall, and just say 'Fuck it, I'm out of here' not divorce necessarily but Saturday mornings with Lisa from Accounting or a 'golf weekend' with her on the beach at Rehoboth. That will get the message across loud and clear, but risks are there.  The savvy husband has to know just how far he can push the truth so that the wool will remain over his wife's eyes.

'I hope it doesn't come to that', Henry mused during one of their good periods, preparing for his wife's inevitable recidivism, and decided for the time being to stay the course of the cold shoulder. 

Theirs, surprisingly enough, was a good marriage.  While not exactly George and Martha in Albee's play Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? a couple who flay each other to the marrow to rediscover whatever it was that drew them together, Henry and Joanna played out the drama in the same way but with far less blood and guts.  'Marriage is the crucible of maturity', Albee wrote.  Without its confines where the bare facts of human nature are raw and exposed, we will never grow up. 

So be it.  The Townsends soldiered on to a ripe old age, a time when nothing mattered other than their own demise, so they kept their distance but did so conveniently and without upsetting each other. 

What more can one ask?  We seem to need each other in some kind of arrangement, so singlehood has never been an option. 'Gird for battle', should be included in the marriage ceremony as well as 'In sickness and in health'.