The mind has an analogous, though admittedly less documented, response. Emaline Sortiere developed an aversion to her husband of 26 years somewhere in their second year together. Emaline Schlager married Lloyd Sortiere in the fall of 1928. Both were admittedly desperate for matrimony as the age 30 doggedly pursued them. In accordance with their yearnings, the two of them were blind to the premonitions of discord.
Lloyd was deceptive, though without the intention to be so. A man of few words and simple pleasures, he often gave the impression of being a sage. In truth, he was little more than an old, often sad, child. His inner waters were murky with unhappy tempests while his surface presented undisturbed. During their courtship, Emaline admired his affective consistency and Lloyd admired her talent in the kitchen.
Emaline was inconsistent to a fault. On a drive in his Chevrolet in the spring of 1927, Emaline vented at how "crusty" Bach's Organ Fugue in G Major sounded. When asked for clarification, she answered, "I think organs are simply dreadful instruments. So brash and abrasive!" In the winter of 1927 when the same fugue flowed in over the dining room radio, Emaline pleaded with Lloyd to buy her a phonograph of that "wonderful music."
Their marriage began as a symbiotic relationship. Emaline would tend to all things domestic; Lloyd would provide for all things material. So long as he kept her well-stocked and properly ornamented and she kept him well-fed and properly dressed, all was well. She could imagine that he wanted to be with her in a way the romantics wrote of in their poems. He could imagine that she wanted to nurture him in a way his alcoholic mother never managed to do.
All self-loathing people have disdain for their own company. Some self-loathing people have greater disdain for the company of others. Though neither understood it, only Lloyd belonged in the second camp. It due to this constitutional difference that he could stomach his dull, tedious work-life, and she was given to fits of depression in their dull, tedious home-life.
On a foggy early summer morning in 1930, the mind of Emaline Sortiere forged an aversion to Lloyd that would cast a pall over the rest of her life and sour what little sweetness was available in his. Lloyd had for the past month been putting in long hours at the office on a project not worth disclosing to persons outside the workplace. Emaline initially tried to make the best of her superabundance of time. She marked several items of off the "rainy-day list," including sewing a different set of curtains for the guest bedroom (canary yellow with little green star bursts throughout) and repairing a pocket in her favorite winter coat (long, black and red tartan). She picked up and put down several of the outdated magazines around the house. The diversions were insufficient to keep a nagging sense of disappointment at bay. This is not how marriage is supposed to be. He needs to be with me.
Emaline had been anticipating a pleasant Saturday and dropping hints about going on a picnic. Unfortunately for her, Lloyd had a major deadline and a callous boss looming. Early Saturday morning after he covertly crept out of bedroom, Lloyd wrote a brief apologetic note and promised to return in time for dinner. Infuriated upon discovery of the note, Emaline resolved to make a picnic lunch for herself and to go to the city park without him. Not thinking clearly about how far off lunchtime was, Emaline took to making a sandwich and introspecting. Wondering how it was the idyllic marriage she had patiently waited for all her life had eluded her despite the bold-faced fact that she was now married, Emaline sliced through the tip of her left index finger as well as the heirloom tomato. Shades of red mingled together on the wooden cutting board as she shrieked. Gripping her hand tightly with the other, she cried to release the torrent of pain and commiserate the ruination of her once beautiful hands.
My pointer! The pointer is the most important finger! It will be so ugly now! Damn! Damn! Damn! It's all his fault! If he would have stayed with me today, I wouldn't be so wounded! Oooooo! If he would have come home at a decent hour a few times during the workweek, maybe I wouldn't have needed to go on a picnic so damned much! Am I to be blamed for being lonely? A woman can't keep herself company--her husband is supposed to. People aren't supposed to be alone! He was so much more caring before we married!
Gripping the finger tightly within an increasingly bloody white dishtowel, Emaline collected herself and walked next door. She proceeded to ask her neighbor to take her to the hospital, where she received a topical anesthetic, stitches, and a bandage. Later that evening, she refused to explain to Lloyd the reason for the gauze on her finger. Her fingertip scarred over as did her heart.
Ever since, the mention of Lloyd's name prompted Emaline's blood pressure to rise. A nearly imperceptible grimace darted across her face whenever she heard his voice. Seeing the initials "LS" on the backs of certain models of automobiles made her left eye twitch with rage. Emaline blamed Lloyd for everything wrong with her life, except for her red hair--whose fault was her fair-skinned father's. Doors squeaking, nails chipping, boredom pervading, breasts drooping, paint fading--all were the products of Lloyd Sortiere. In their subsequent interactions, Emaline would vacillate between yelling at Lloyd and ignoring him. Lloyd stayed loyal to her because through it all, she never stopped making dinner.
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