Lily Wins the Argument

Ethan walked into the large, dimly lit living room with the manner of a man uncertain if he was entering a birdhouse or a room packed with dynamite; he was prepared for either. The minor argument during lunch hadn’t come to a clear end, leaving the question of whether Lily was inclined to continue or let it go. She sat in an armchair by the tea table, her posture stiff; in the subdued light of a December afternoon, Ethan’s glasses didn’t help much to read her expression.

As a way to ease the tension, he remarked about the soft religious glow. He or Lily would often make such comments between 4:30 and 6 on winter evenings; it was part of their married routine. There wasn’t a customary response to it, but Lily provided none.

Maximus lounged on the Persian rug, enjoying the firelight without much regard for Lily’s mood. His lineage was as purely Persian as the rug, and his fur was reaching its peak beauty in its second winter. The page-boy, who had a penchant for artistic names, had christened him Maximus. If left to themselves, Ethan and Lily might have chosen something simpler like Cat, but they weren’t insistent.

Ethan poured himself some tea. Seeing that Lily remained quiet, he readied himself for another attempt.

“My remark at lunch was more of a hypothetical,” he said. “You seem to be taking it personally.”

Lily maintained her defensive silence. The bullfinch filled the silence with a tune from the last drama they had been watching. Ethan began to feel a bit down. Lily wasn’t sipping her tea. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. But Lily was never reserved when feeling unwell; she’d often declare, “Nobody knows the suffering I endure from indigestion.” It was one of her favorite lines, though lack of knowledge could only have been due to not listening. There was enough information about her indigestion to fill a book.

Yet, Lily didn’t seem unwell.

Ethan began to think he was being treated unfairly; naturally, he began to make concessions.

“I suppose,” he ventured, taking a central spot on the hearth rug next to Maximus, “I might be at fault. If it’ll make things better between us, I’m willing to strive for a better life.”

He wondered vaguely how that would be possible. Temptations came to him, tentatively and without insistence, like a neglected paperboy asking for a Christmas tip in February for no better reason than that he hadn’t received one in December. He had no intention of yielding to them any more than he intended to buy fish knives or fur scarves that are advertised year-round. Still, there was something impressive in this voluntary renunciation of potentially lurking misdeeds.

Lily showed no signs of being impressed.

Ethan looked at her nervously over his glasses. Being on the losing side of an argument with her was nothing new. Losing while on a monologue was a new humiliation.

“I’ll go get ready for dinner,” he declared, trying to inject some sternness into his voice as he reached the door.

At the door, a final pang of weakness made him make one more plea.

“Aren’t we being a bit silly?”

But Lily still said nothing.

Maximus stretched his velvet paws and hopped onto a bookshelf right under the bullfinch’s cage. It was the first time he’d seemed to notice the bird, but he was carrying out a long-held theory with mature precision. The bullfinch, who had fancied himself a king, suddenly shrank into a third of his usual size. He began to flutter and chirp frantically. He had cost twenty-seven shillings, not counting the cage, but Lily made no move to intervene. She’d been deceased for two hours.