Rope by Katherine Anne Porter

Rope

Katherine Anne Porter

On the third day after they moved to the country he came walking back from the village

carrying a basket of groceries and a twenty-four-yard coil of rope. She came out to meet him,

wiping her hand on her green smock. Her hair was tumbled, her nose was scarlet with sunburn;

he told her that already she looked like a born country woman. His gray flannel skirt stuck to him,

his heavy shoes were dusty. She assured him he looked like a rural character in a play.

Had he brought the coffee? She had been waiting all day long for coffee. They had forgot it

when they ordered at the store the first day.

Gosh, no, he hadn’t. Lord, now he’d have to go back. Yes, he would if it killed him. He

thought, he had everything else. She reminded him it was only because he didn’t drink coffee

himself. If he did he would remember it quick enough. Suppose they ran out of cigarettes? Then

she saw the rope. What was that for? Well, he thought it might do to hang clothes on, or

something. Naturally she asked him if he thought they were going to run a laundry? They already

had a fifty-foot line hanging right before his eyes. Why, hadn’t he noticed it, really? It was a blot

on the landscape to her.

He thought there were a lot of things a rope might come in handy for. She wanted to know

what, for instance. He though a few seconds, but nothing occurred. They could wait and see,

couldn’t they? You need all sorts of strange odds and ends around a place in the country. She

said, yes, that was so; but she thought just at that time when every penny counted, it seemed

funny to buy more rope. That was all. She hadn’t meant anything else. She hadn’t just seen, not

at first, why he felt it was necessary.

All there was to it. She thought that was reason enough, and couldn’t understand why he

hadn’t said so, at first. Undoubtedly it would be useful, twenty-four yards of rope, there were

hundreds of things, she couldn't think of any at the moment, but it would come in handy. Of

course. As he had said, things always did in the country.

But she was a little disappointed about the coffee, and oh, look, look, look at the eggs! Oh,

my, they're all running! What had he put on top of them? Hadn't he known eggs mustn’t be

squeezed? Squeezed, who had squeezed them, he wanted to know. What a silly thing to say. He

had simply brought them along in the basket with the other things. If they got broke it was the

grocer’s fault. He should know better than to put heavy things on top of eggs.

She believed it was the rope. That was the heaviest thing in the pack, she saw him plainly

when he came in from the road, the rope was a big package on top of everything. He desired the

whole world to witness that this was not a fact. He had carried the rope in one hand and the

basket in the other, and what was the use of her having eyes if that was the best they could do

for her?

Well, anyhow, she could see one thing plain: no eggs for breakfast. They’d have to

scramble them now, for supper. It was too damned bad. She had planned to have steak for supper.

No ice, meat wouldn't keep. He wanted to know why she couldn't finish breaking the eggs in a

bowl and set them in a cool place.

Cool place! If he could find one for her, she’d be glad to set them there. Well, then, it

seemed to him they might very well cook the meat at the same time they cooked the eggs and

then warm up the meat for tomorrow. The idea simply choked her. Warmed-over meat, when

they might as well have had it fresh. Second best and scraps and makeshifts, even to the meat!

He rubbed her shoulders a little. It doesn't really matter so much, does it, darling? Sometimes

when they were playful, he would rub her shoulders and she would arch and purr. This time she

hissed and almost clawed. He was getting ready to say that they could surely manage somehow

when she turned on him and said, if he told her they could manage somehow she would certainly

slap his face.

He swallowed the words red hot, his face burned. He picked up the rope and started to put

it on the top shelf. She would not have it on the top shelf, the jars and tins belonged there;

positively she would not have the top shelf cluttered up with a lot of rope. She had borne all the

clutter she meant to bear in the flat in town, there was space here at least and she meant to keep

things in order.

Well, in that case, he wanted to know what the hammer and nails were doing up there?

And why had she put them there when she knew very well he needed that hammer and those

nails upstairs to fix the window sashes? She simply slowed down everything and made double

work on the place with her insane habit of changing things around and hiding them.

She was sure she begged his pardon, and if she had had any reason to believe he was going

to fix the sashes this summer she would have left the hammer and nails right where he put them;

in the middle of the bedroom floor where they could step on them in the dark. And now if he

didn't clear the whole mess out of there she would throw them down the hell.

Oh, all right, all right—could he put them in the closet? Naturally not, there were brooms

and mops and dustpans in the closet, and why wouldn't he find a place for his rope outside her

kitchen? Had he stopped to consider there seven God-forsaken rooms in the house, and only one

kitchen?

He wanted to know what of it? And did she realize she was making a complete fool of

herself? And what did she take him for, a three-year-old idiot? The whole trouble with her was

she needed something weaker than she was to heckle and tyrannize over. He wished to God now

they had a couple of children she could take it out on. Maybe he’d get some rest.

Her face changed at this, she reminded him he had forgot the coffee and had bought a

worthless piece of rope. And when she though of all the things they actually needed to make the

place even decently fit to live in, well she could cry, that was all. She looked so forlorn, so lost and

despairing he couldn't believe it was only a piece of rope that was causing all the racket. What

was the matter, for God’s sake?

Oh, would he please hush and go away, and stay away, if he could, for five minutes? By all

means, yes, he could. He’d stay away indefinitely if she wished. Lord, yes, there was nothing he’d like better than to clear out and never come back. She could’t for the life of her see what was

holding him, then. It was a swell time. Here she was, stuck, miles from a railroad, with a

half-empty house on her hands, and not a penny in her pocket, and everything on earth to to; it

seemed the God-sent moment for him to get out from under. She was surprised he hadn't stayed

in town as it was until she had come out and done the work and got things straightened out. It

was his usual trick.

It appeared to him that this was going a little far. Just a touch of out of bounds if she didn't

mind him saying so. Why the hell had he stayed in town the summer before? To do a half-dozen

extra jobs to get the money he had sent her. That was it. She knew perfectly well they could’t

have done it otherwise. She had agreed with him at the time. And that was the only time so help

him he had ever left her to do anything by herself.

Oh, he could tell that to his great-grandmother. She had her notion of what had kept him in

town. Considerably more than a notion, if he wanted to know. So, she was going to bring all that

up again, was she? Well, she could just think what she pleased. He was tired of explaining. It may

have looked funny but he had simply got hooked in and what could he do? It was impossible to

believe that she was going to take it seriously. Yes, yes, she knew how it was with a man: if he was

left by himself a minute, some woman was certain to kidnap him. And naturally he couldn’t hurt

her feelings by refusing!

Well, what was she raving about? Did she forget she had told him those two weeks alone

int eh country were the happiest she had known for four years? And how long had they been

married when she said that? All right, shut up! If she thought that hadn't stuck in his craw.

She hadn't meant she was happy because she was away from him. She meant she was

happy getting the devilish house nice and ready for him. That was what she had meant, and now

look! Bringing up something she had said a year ago simply to justify himself for forgetting her

coffee and breaking the eggs and buying a wretched piece of rope they couldn't afford. She really

thought it was time to drop the subject, and now she wanted only two things in the world. She

wanted him to get that rope from underfoot, and go back to the village and get her coffee, and if

he could remember it, he might bring a metal mitt for the skillets, and two more curtain rods,

and if there were any rubber gloves in the village, her hands were simply raw, and a bottle of milk

magnesia from the drugstore.

He looked out at the dark blue afternoon sweltering on the slopes, and mopped his

forehead and sighed heavily and said, if only she could wait a minute for anything, he was going

back. He had said so, hadn't he, the very instant they found he have overlooked it?

Oh, yes, well…run along. She was going to wash windows. The country was so beautiful!

She doubted they’d have a moment to enjoy it. He meant to go, but he could not until he had

said that if she wasn’t such a hopeless melancholic she might see that this was only for a few

days. Couldn't she remember anything pleasant about the other summers? Hadn’t they ever had

any fun? She hadn't time to talk about it, and now would he please not leave that rope lying

around for her to trip on? He picked it up, somehow it had toppled off the table, and walked out

with it under his arm.

Was he going this minute? He certainly was. She thought so. Sometimes it seemed to her

he had second sight about the precisely perfect moment to leave her ditched. She had meant to

put the mattresses out to sun, if they put them out this minute they would get at least three

hours, he must have heard her say that morning she meant to put them out. So of course he

would walk off and leave her to it. She supposed he thought the exercise would do her good.

Well, he was merely going to get her coffee. A four-mile walk for two pounds of coffee was

ridiculous, but he was perfectly willing to do it. The habit was making a wreck of her, but if she

wanted to wreck herself there was nothing he could do about it. If he thought it was coffee that

was making a wreck of her, she congratulated him: he must have a damned easy conscience.

Conscience or no conscience, he didn't see why the mattresses couldn't very well wait until

tomorrow. And anyhow, for God’s sake, were they living in the house, or were they going to let

the house ride them to death? She paled at this, her face grew livid about the mouth, she looked

quite dangerous, and reminded him that house-keeping was no more her work than it was his:

she had other work to do as well, and when did he think she was going to find time to do it at this

rate?

Was she going to start on that again? She knew as well as he did that his work brought in

the regular money, hers was only occasional, if they depended on what she made—and she

might as well get straight on this question once for all!

This was positively not the point. The question was, when both of them were working on

their own time, was there going to be a division of the housework, or wasn’t there? She merely

wanted to know, she had to make her plans. Why, he thought that was all arranged. It was

understood that he was to help. Hadn't he always, in summers?

Hadn't he, though? Oh, just hadn't he? And when, and where, and doing what? Lord, what

an uproarious joke!

It was such a very uproarious joke that her face turned slightly purple, and she screamed

with laughter. She laughed so hard she had to sit down, and finally a rush of tears spurted from

her eyes and poured down into the lifted corners of her mouth. He dashed towards her and

dragged her up to her feet and tried to pour water on her head. The dipper hung by a string on a

nail and he broke it loose. Then he tried to pump water with one hand while she struggled in the

other. So he gave it up and shook her instead.

She wrenched away, crying out for him to take his rope and go to hell, she had simply given

him up: and ran. He heard her high-heeled bedroom slippers clattering and stumbling on the

stairs.

He went out around the house and into the lane; he suddenly realized he had a blister on

his heel and his shirt felt as if it were on fire. Things broke so suddenly you didn't know where

you were. She could work herself into a fury about simply nothing. She was terrible, damn it: not

an ounce of reason. You might as well talk to a sieve as that woman when she got going. Damned

if he’d spend his life humoring her! Well, what to do now? he would take back the rope and

exchange it for something else. Things accumulated, things were mountainous, you couldn't

move them or sort them out or get rid of them. They just lay and rotted around. He’d take it

back. Hell, why should he? He wanted it. What was it anyhow? A piece of rope. Imagine anybody

caring more about a piece of rope than about a man’s feelings. What earthly right had she to say

a word about it? He remembered all the useless, meaningless things she bought for herself: Why?

Because I wanted it, that’s why! He stopped and selected a large stone by the road. He would

put the rope behind it. He would put it in the toolbox when he got back. He’d hear enough about

it to last him a life-time.

When he came back she was leaning against the post box beside the road waiting. It was

pretty late, the smell of broiled steak floated nose high in the cooling air. Her face was young and

smooth and fresh-looking. Her unmanageable funny black hair was all on end. She waved to him

from a distance, and he speeded up. She called out that supper was ready and waiting, was he

starved?

You bet he was starved. Here was the coffee. He waved it at her. She looked at his other

hand. What was that he had there?

Well, it was the rope again. He stopped short. He had meant to exchange it but forgot. She

wanted to know why he should exchange it, if it was something he really wanted. Wasn’t the air

sweet now, and wasn’t it fine to be here?

She walked beside him with one hand hooked into his leather belt. She pulled and jostled

him a little as he walked, and leaned against him. He put his arm clear around her and patted her

stomach. They exchanged wary smiles. Coffee, coffee for the Ootsum-Wootsums! He felt as if he

were bringing her a beautiful present.

He was a love, she firmly believed, and if she had had her coffee in the morning, she

wouldn't have behaved so funny… There was a whippoorwill still coming back, imagine, clear

out of season, sitting in the crab-apple tree calling all by himself. Maybe his girl stood him up.

Maybe she did. She hoped to hear him once more, she loved whippoorwills… He knew how she

was, didn't he?

Sure, he knew how she was.