Part 1b of "God Said..."

He went to the kitchen and fed the dogs. He opened the freezer and examined the dinners Ruth and Arthur had prepared. Roast beef with asparagus and noodles, matzo ball soup, chicken with potatoes and brocholli, something casserole-like. He took the container of soup and set it in the sink to thaw. He wandered aimlessly around the house, he turned on the television, caught ten seconds of a Judge Judy commercial, and switched it off again. Then he remembered Lydia's boxes in the foyer. He managed to carry two of the three upstairs to Lydia's study, then retrieved the the third.
Aaron looked around the room; he was not used to being in here. Little traces of her were still here: on her desk was an open pack of Pall Malls, a teacup and saucer (Aaron picked these up to take downstairs with him), and her reading glasses lay on top of her date book. Had she been planning to kill herself for very long? For a moment he imagined Lydia carefully choosing the exact day and hour that her life would end, and writing it in her date book. Was that why it was on the desk? Perhaps she was in here on the morning she did it, opened the date book to see if she had appointments that day and then...? Aaron reached for the date book, then changed his mind. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would sort through the boxes from her office at work, he decided, and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Storms arrived at Midnight, with lightening that lit up the entire house and thunder that sounded like God had given a bass drum mallet to a three-year-old. Rob and Danny had jumped onto the bed and, despite the heat, were hiding under the covers. Aaron lay motionless, gazing up at the ceiling but not really seeing it. Lydia had never been suicidal during their time together, he thought. She had never been completely opposed to the notion, either. He recalled a party they had attended some five years before, where Lydia got into a heated discussion on the subject of suicide with a priest.
"Why shouldn't one have the right to decide for oneself when their jaunt is over?" she had asked.
"The choice of when we die is God's, not ours,"said the priest (Father Flannagan?), a tall, robust man in his fifties. "Usurping God is damnable offense."
Lydia frowned. "I've no use for that rubbish."
"Whether you like it or not, Professor, it was the Lord who gave you the gift of life."
"But that is exactly my point!" Lydia exclaimed. "When I receive a gift it is mine to do with as I choose, is it not? If you were to give me a CD and I in turn use it as a frisbee, that is my right."
Father Flannagan's lip curled. "'Rights' are man-made. However, your little scenerio at least illistrates the utter stupidity of throwing away one's life." With that, he wandered off to mingle with other people. Lydia said very little for the rest of the night, Aaron remembered. She had found a chair to sit in, chain smoked, spoke only when spoken to, and otherwise appeared to be completely lost in thought.
When they were driving home that night she had said softly to Aaron, "I'm sorry I'm so stupid."
"What are you talking about? You're brilliant!"
Lydia snorted.
"Really, I loved the CD-as-a-frisbee thing. I might use it in one of my classes."
"Oh Aaron, do shut up."
"I'm serious! That'll generate some great discussion. I'm teaching an Ethics class next semester, it will be perfect."
Lydia considered this. "I suppose suicide is one of the usual topics in that sort of class," she said.
"Bingo." Aaron reached over and touched her thigh.
"What does your lot think of suicide?" she asked him.
"You mean the Jews?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's not considered to be the best idea in the world," he said. "But I don't remember ever being told that it's specifically prohibited."
"I see."
They rode the rest of the way home in silence. Aaron remembered watching Lydia very closely that night: the exactness of the way she took off her jacket, arranged it on a hanger and hung it in the hall closet; how she talked to the dogs, as she did every night- while on the floor using the body of one as a pillow and straching the other behind the ears. He had been afraid that night, by Lydia defending suicide and those who choose to do it. It scared the hell out of him: him, a professor of Philosophy who taught an Ethics class every semester and had heard thousands of debates on the subject of suicide. But his wife had just defended the taking of one's own life, passionately. His wife, who was far from the most joyful person who ever walked the Earth.
However, Lydia seemed very much herself that night: somewhat introspective, a touch absent-minded. Aaron had sat on the edge of their bed and watched her, wearing only a bra, with a nightgown draped over her arm and a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, pacing back an forth across the bedroom. At night she always decided on or "got a general idea" of what she would wear the next day. Later, while she was brushing her hair, she saw him in the mirror, watching her.
"What is it?" She padded over the the bed and pulled back the sheets.
He'd shrugged. "Are you okay?"
"I'm perfectly content. Why do you ask?" She slid into bed beside him and switched off the lamp on her nightstand.
"You were talking about killing yourself tonight. It scared me, is all."
"I never said that," Lydia replied, yawning. "I just believe that if one chooses to, one may decide when to die." Aaron saw her shadowy form turn and face him. "I'm not going to kill myself," and then she had put hands on either side of his face and kissed him, full on the lips, before turning over and falling asleep.

The bedroom was lit up again for an quarter of a second, and Danny, shaking, tried to bury himself in Aaron's armpit. When the divine bass drum sounded once more, Rob decided he felt safer under the bed. Aaron, ignoring the trembling greyhound who was trying to crawl under him, turned his thoughts to Cheryl. Lydia had known about her. He remembered back in January, when Cheryl had called him at home on a Saturday. Aaron had gone to services at Mikvah Israel that morning, and came home to find Lydia on the telephone, in the middle of taking a message.
"Hold on a moment, he's just walked in the door. Aaron--" She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand. "there's a student of yours on the tellephone. She's got a query about the essay you assigned in class yesterday."
He had known immeadiately that it was Cheryl; it had been two weeks since he'd last given a writing assignment. Taking the receiver from Lydia, he kissed her cheek. "Thanks, hon," He had not really thought much of the look Lydia had shot him over her shoulder as she left the room: a mixture of confusion and curiousity. Not suspicion, surely, he'd told himself as he talked to Cheryl (she wanted to rendezvous on Sunday rather than that afternoon), Lydia had no reason to be suspicious about anything. He found her in the kitchen, cleaning out the pantry, when he hung up the phone.
"What's her name?" Lydia asked him, without looking up. She posed this question in the same way she might have asked "Will you have tea?" or "Could you walk the dogs?"
When he found his voice again, he said "Ch... Cheryl." He swallowed. "Her name is Cheryl." Where had that shame come from? He had no reason to feel this way.
Lydia, still not looking at him, began taking everything out of the pantry and putting in on the floor. "Where did you find Cheryl?"
"What are you doing to our pantry?"
"It's filthy and cluttered. I'm cleaning it. Re-arranging. Answer my question, Aaron."
"She was in my Intro class last fall."
Lydia turned and looked at him, her brow wrinkled. "A student of yours? You ought not have done that. It's bloody foolish; could cost you your job if you're not careful." She fumbled in the pocket of her sweater for her cigarettes. "I can't believe you'd risk that," she said, find her pack and extracting a cigarette.
"Don't worry about it, Lydia. It's fine."
She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, making the red tip glow brightly. "I'm taking the dogs for a walk," she said, climbing over the piles of cereal boxes, the bags of dog food, the sacks of flour and sugar, and walked past him into the living room, whistling for the dogs.