The Archivist Read Online Free Page B

poisonous plant. Curious, no?”
    She was still staring at me, and I knew the time had come to draw the line.
    “Listen,” I said, “just what do you want? I’ve shown you some priceless portions of our Eliot collection. You are extremely lucky to have seen these things. I’m sure your work will be better for it.”
    Her gaze didn’t flicker, and I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
    “I want,” she said, “to read the Emily Hale letters.”
    Thus was our battle formally joined, after diversionary skirmishes.
    “Sit down,” I said, pointing at the large table in the center of the room. We both sat — on opposite sides, our arms on the smooth surface, our hands crossed in what might have looked to an observer like prayer.
    J UDITH AND I SPENT the first few years of our marriage in what I would now call poverty, though at the time I didn’t perceive it as such. Our furniture was shabby, but each of us had a desk. Mine, the larger of the two, also served as our dining table. I’d never been a hearty eater; a bowl of soup at lunch and an omelette in the evening was enough for me, and Judith never complained. She did most of the cooking, and she could stretch a small chicken into several meals.
    I was attending graduate school in library science, paid for by a small inheritance I’d received upon my father’s death. Neither of my parents would have approved of a librarian’s degree, but I’d made up my mind, and they weren’t around to dissuade me.
    Judith worked as a legal secretary for a small midtown firm. My inheritance covered my tuition, and books and food for us both. Judith’s salary covered rent. She used her lunch hour as writing time, and sometimes she stayed late to type her poems on the high-quality second sheets of her firm’s letterhead. I could always tell when her day had been too busy for a proper lunch-break: she would come home, find a pen and a pad of paper, and immediately lock herself in our bedroom for an hour, to make up for her lost time.
    Judith shared her poems with me reluctantly, and by an un-spoken agreement we kept our discussions of them to a minimum. I sensed that she found my comments distracting even when they were praising. Perhaps — no: in all likelihood — she knew what I really thought of her poems. The truth was that while I found them very well crafted, I was unnerved by them.
    Many of her poems drew on Old Testament stories and situations. One of them dealt with the seduction and murder of the general of Nebuchadnezzar’s army by the biblical Judith. After reading it, I wanted to know why Judith — my Judith — had written a poem about her namesake.
    She said she’d wanted to imagine what it would be like to serve God in an extreme way, without any withholding.
    For such a risk, God hadn’t promised Judith very much in return, I said.
    Flesh-and-blood Judith laughed and said my Christianity was showing. But I could tell I’d wounded her. Not long after this incident — which wasn’t long after we were married — she told me that I seemed scornful of Judaism. We began arguing.
    I don’t think I’m scornful, I said. But why is it that for Jews, faith is always so questionable? I can understand doubt, but doesn’t Judaism take doubt too far?
    Christianity takes grace too far, Judith said. Like it’s guaranteed — which it isn’t. We’re here for the repair of our breach, to restore grace. That’s our job. It’s pretty natural to have doubts in the face of such a job, isn’t it?
    It all sounds complicated, I said. Too complicated.
    Our argument culminated in an uncomfortable silence. Later, in bed, it was resolved in tenderness. But I knew we were both shaken by it.
    When Eliot’s “Four Quartets” came out, after the war, Judith devoured it. She would sweep the apartment’s splintery floors while reciting her favorite verses aloud:
History may be servitude, history may be freedom.
I remember reading to her from