“As soon as someone packs my—”
“An hour,” J.T. interrupted. “Pick us up in an hour.”
He dropped the telephone then sat up. “An American wife packs her own bags and her husband’s. Oh damn, my head. You can get started while I take a shower.”
Aria had no intention of obeying him. She called room service and ordered herself bre
akfast then picked up a magazine that carried photographs of Mr. Gary Cooper.
Minutes later, J.T. snatched the magazine from her hand. “What is this trash? Where did you get this and why aren’t you dressed yet? You ought to have half the bags packed. Listen, Princess, if you want to be an American, you better make an effort to learn. How many of the history books did you read last night?”
“The same number that you did. If you think that I am going to pack your suitcases—”
She was interrupted by a loud knock and a call of “Room service.”
When he saw that she had ordered only one breakfast, he was furious. He said she had no idea what it meant to be a wife and she pointed out that she couldn’t order for him as she had no idea what he liked to eat. He said it was obvious to him that she wasn’t really interested in being an American or in helping her country.
That made Aria stop arguing. Very calmly, she went to the telephone and ordered a second breakfast, the particulars of which he dictated to her with an air of smugness that she hated.
She kept trying to remember how she had come to be under this detestable man’s rule and how important Lanconia was to her, but it was difficult. He sat at the table and ate while she tried to pack all their clothes, eating her eggs while packing. He ate; she worked. He read the newspaper; she worked.
“Why do American women do this?” she muttered. “Why don’t they revolt?”
“Are you ready yet?” he asked impatiently. “Why does it always take women so long to dress?”
She looked at the back of him and imagined hitting him with a suitcase. Her mother’s lessons in princesslike behavior had not prepared her for this.
The telephone rang and it was a soldier saying their transportation was downstairs.
“Does an American wife also carry the luggage?” she asked innocently.
“If her man wants her to, she does,” he answered. He called the bellhop and they brought a cart for Aria’s many bags.
They were given transport on an army carrier, but this time there was no attempt to make the interior luxurious. J.T. dozed in his seat, opening his eyes only now and then to make sure Aria was reading the history book he had brought with him. He quizzed her on Christopher Columbus and then on the Pilgrims. She answered all his questions correctly but he didn’t give her one word of praise.
When she started on the third chapter, he fell asleep, so Aria removed one of her movie magazines from her purse and placed it in front of the history book. She might have succeeded if she hadn’t leaned her head back and also fallen asleep. The book fell open on her lap.
“What is this?” J.T. demanded, startling her awake.
“It’s swell, isn’t it?” she asked, half awake.
To her surprise, she saw J.T. almost smile but he seemed to catch himself. “You’re supposed to be reading about Colonial America,” he said softly. The noise of the plane enclosed them and their heads were close together.
He was quite good-looking from this distance. “Isn’t there more to America than history?”
“Of course. There’s entertainment.” He nodded to her movie magazine. “But you’ve seen that. And there’s family. Maybe I can explain how the American family works.”
“Yes, I would like to hear something besides history.”
He thought for a moment. “Everything in the American family is absolutely equal, divided fifty/fifty. The man earns the money; the woman takes care of the house. No, wait, it’s not really fifty/fifty, it’s more sixty/forty or perhaps seventy/thirty since the man’s duties carry a backbreaking responsibility with them. He’s the one who always has to provide for his wife and children. Whatever they need, it is his duty to give it to them, to make sure they want for nothing. He works day after day at his job, always giving, always there with that check, asking little in return but giving much. He…” J.T. stopped and straightened in his seat. “Well, you get the picture. We men do very well at holding up our end, even while you ladies spend your afternoons drinking tea.” He sighed. “And war is our duty too.”
“I see,” Aria said when he had finished, but she didn’t see at all. “By ‘take care of the house’ do you mean that if the roof leaks she fixes it?”
“No, of course not. She calls a roofer. I mean she cleans the thing, washes the windows and such. Cooks. Of course she doesn’t fix the roof.”
“She washes windows? What about floors?”
“She cleans all of it. It’s not such a big deal. After all, it’s only housework. Anybody can do it, even a royal princess.”