Taciturn ...Some People You Just Can't Reach

Failure to Communicate

I'm condemned to silence, living in the echo chamber of my own thoughts. My wife won't speak to me.

Maybe I should do what Yoko Ono once suggested—make a tape recording of the Moon and play it when I’m sad—or do what one pathetic actor did and collect bits of discarded tape from studio floors—the ones with nothing on them—take them home and listen to them at night.

All right, I’m sulking, but I’m entitled—Cat doesn’t love me.

I can endure anything but her silences.

Yell at me—throw dishes—channel Elaine Bobbit. Ouch! Okay, maybe not that—but at least speak to me, damn it!

Speak to me or leave my sorry ass.

She’s up in her room decomposing—not literally, but doing the opposite of me.

I’m a writer—I’m here at my laptop sorting out words and she’s in an entirely different frame of reality.

It’s not all relative, Einstein.

It does make a difference if I’m on the train leaving the platform, or the platform’s leaving me—maybe not in Geneva where Cat’s from, but here in the real world where people have to make a living or die.

“You do tend to rant, Martin.”

Thus spake Zarathusa—well, not Zarathusa, but Zina, my agent.

“I know I tend to be impassioned, but if I had my druthers…”

“You don’t—” she interrupts, “You have Cat and she’s taciturn—get used to it.”

Why do women get away with saying stuff like that? If a man cuts to the chase, he’s insensitive.

“I can’t get used to it!” I pound the piano keys and Zina jumps.

“Damn it, Martin—why are you such a prima donna?

“I’m not. I’m no temperamental artist—I’m being honest. I’m tired of Cat ignoring me and not even making small talk—Do you even know how lonely I feel?”

She shrugs.

“Who’s the woman in your relationship? Be a man, Martin—you’re acting like wuss.”

“I resent that, Zina—you know tomorrow’s my birthday and Cat hasn’t even acknowledged it. I drop hints all the time and she ignores them.”

“You ignore me when I give you advice.”

“That’s different—you’re my literary agent, not my wife."

I try a different tack.

"You know what animals do in the wild? They chatter to each other. The noise of the chatter is reassuring. When they go silent, it means there’s danger. So, I’m telling you, Zina, Cat is as silent as a pharaoh’s tomb and therefore, my marriage is in real danger.”

Her brow furrows as if in deep thought and then suddenly she brightens.

“I’ve got an idea, Martin—why not take her out on a date tonight? Go somewhere she really enjoys—like the opera. I’m sure you’ll see her attitude thaw toward you.”

I had to admit; it was an inspiration—seeing as I had nothing better in mind, I decided to go along with her suggestion

Two hours later I was pacing at the foot of the stairs. It was six-thirty and the curtain went up at eight. Cat still hadn’t come down. The grandfather clock chimed the half hour. I was about to call up again, when the bedroom door opened and Cat emerged.

The sight of her reminded me of all the reasons I was smitten the first time I saw her.

Her golden hair was swept up and secured by a lovely diamond clip. She wore an elegant black gown with a plunging neckline accentuated by the jewelled necklace I gave her for her birthday.
She descended the staircase with all the grace of a princess.

“You look lovely.”

Her cheeks were blazing and she couldn’t repress a smile of pride.

“You look very handsome,” she whispered, as I wrapped the stole around her lovely white shoulders.

I rented a chauffeured limousine for the night and we were whisked to the opera house in style. Heads turned, even among the glittering ladies present. No one compared to her in grace or beauty.

I tried several times during the opera to whisper to her, but she seemed aloof and distant. Afterwards, we went to The Franz Joseph Room for drinks, but she was preoccupied and withdrawn.

Eventually, I gave up, summoned a limo and we drove home in silence.

As we drove through the colourfully lit streets, my heart was heavy.

I loved Cat, I really did. I began thinking Goethe was right when he said; it’s a mistake for a taciturn, serious-minded woman to marry a jovial man, but not for a serious-minded man to marry a lighthearted woman.

I married the wrong woman. I should have married Zina.

There—I admitted it to myself—the thought that had been insinuating itself into my brain ever since Cat and I said our vows. It had been a choice between Zina and Cat.

I had drawn up comparison charts and weighed their mutual advantages and disadvantages—it was a dead heat.

I even took to assigning and weighting points, and then throwing darts at their pictures on my wall. None found their mark.

Finally, I decided Cat was near the beginning of the alphabet and Zina was last—that settled the matter and that was how I took a wife.

I kept Zina as my agent because of practicality. It made no sense to let her go. We could be adult about things and besides business was business.

My marriage to Cat went steadily downhill after that until tonight, when the wheels fell off the wedding carriage. Now there could be no turning back.

We arrived home at ten thirty and I resolved to pour us both a drink and deal with things civilly.

I opened the door for her and as expected, she turned and headed wearily upstairs.

“Oh, Cat,” I called after her, “Could we have a drink in the parlor? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I’ll just put away my stole and be right down.”

I sighed and walked into the darkened parlor and flipped the light switch.

“SURPRISE!”

All our friends surrounded me laughing and singing a torturous rendition of Happy Birthday. To say I was shocked was an understatement—I was speechless.

“SPEECH, SPEECH,” went the chant.

I turned and saw Cat standing in the doorway, an elfin grin on her face.

Standing beside her was Zina, her dark eyes gleaming.
I had nothing to say.

Suddenly, I lost my frame of reference.

Since that night, I’ve concluded, Einstein was right.

It doesn’t make a difference if you’re on the train leaving the platform, or the platform’s leaving you.

A departure is a departure—it wasn’t Cat who left me, but I who left Cat.

The good news is in the future, I see no shadow of another departure from her.

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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