I thought I might wear Stephen down with the anger, but to my surprise he held out, and the next week we went to a movie, leaving Elliott with Jeannie. I wanted at least to call, to see if anything were wrong with the baby, but Stephen wouldn’t let me — I was astounded by the power his will had over me — and when we got home everything again was fine. The following week we went through another cold, unhappy meal, but then Stephen said there was a business dinner coming up, and I would have to be there with him. The next week, he said, we would go out one night by ourselves, and another night to the dinner. We would, he said, have to find a proper baby sitter from now on, because it wasn’t fair to keep asking Jeannie when she had her own family to look after.

I attempted limp disobedience. I did not try to find a sitter, refused to consider it, but Stephen sabotaged me again. The seventeen-year-old daughter of one of the men he worked with would sit for us, he said firmly. There was no problem, she was experienced, knew about babies and would be fine. She was available until eleven o’clock on weeknights and indefinitely on weekends. She would be perfect, he said. There was something chilling and impersonal in his voice, as if he were announcing a new policy to an employee, that frightened me. It did not sound to me like Stephen, and I wondered at the difference.

I had to admit Karen was a nice girl, if terribly young, and she listened patiently while I told her everything I could think of about Elliott’s habits and needs. I let her carry him, holding my breath, but she handled him competently if not as lovingly as I would have liked, and I left with Stephen less anxious than I had been before.

That night he allowed me to call home. Elliott, said Karen, was fine, had eaten well and was asleep. I asked her to please check him while I was on the telephone, make sure he was all right, because one of my biggest fears, although I did not tell her this, was that I might walk into his room and find him not breathing. Sometimes in the quiet of the night I would stand beside his crib, not breathing myself, trying to hear the tiny catches of air in and out of his lungs; or I would put my hand flat down on his back to feel the rise and fall. Karen sounded puzzled, but she did as I asked. He was well, of course.

Three nights later, at the dinner party, the end came, quietly, oddly and finally. I found myself watching the people and listening, and it seemed too remote for me to take a part in it. I did not care. I heard Stephen, confident and brisk, talking business with the other men. It dawned on me at last that there was more in his life than what I saw, and more places in him than those I knew. I was not in this world of his; I was far away from all these people; I was very quiet.