October 30: I Don't Know, Wife's Brithday, a Lot of Reminders

Professor Rumfoord said frightful things about Billy within Billy's hearing, confident that Billy no longer had any brain at all.  "Why don't they let him die?" he asked Lily.

"I don't know," she said.

"That's not a human being anymore.  Doctors are for human beings.  They should turn him over to a veterinarian or a tree surgeon.  They'd know what to do.  Look at him!  That's life, according to the medical profession.  Isn't life wonderful?"

"I don't know," said Lily.

Rumfoord talked to Lily about the bombing of Dresden one time, and Billy heard it all.  Rumfoord had a problem about Dresden.  His one-volume history of the Army Air Force in World War Two was supposed to be a readable condensation of the twenty-seven-volume Official History of the Army Air Force in World War Two.  The thing was, though, there was almost nothing in the twenty-seven volumes about the Dresden raid, even though it had been such a howling success.  The extent of the success had been kept a secret for many years after the war--a secret from the American people.  It was no secret from the Germans, of course, or from the Russians, who occupied Dresden after the war, who are in Dresden still.

Rumfoord is not a nice guy.  He's cruel to Billy, and he treats his wife like she's a child.  Of course, Rumfoord is used to being in charge--in the military, the classroom, his marriage, and, now, his hospital room.  He's the kind of person who likes to tell everyone what's wrong with the world because he is an expert on just about every subject.  And his young wife's response to his mini-lectures:  "I don't know."

There is obviously not a whole lot of love between Rumfoord and Lily.  If the term "trophy wife" existed when Vonnegut wrote Slaughterhouse, that is exactly what Lily would be called.  She's like a medal on Rumfoord's uniform.  Something to prove his masculinity and intelligence and desirability.  I hate to say it, but I kind of picture Donald and Melania Trump when I read this passage. 

Today is my wife's birthday.  She never makes a big deal about it.  She doesn't compose present wish lists.  Or draw stars on October 30th on random people's calendars.  Or send out e-mail reminders to her friends and family.  Or insist on wearing a tiara from the moment she wakes up.  She doesn't do anything  to draw attention to herself. 

She is so unlike me.

I'm not saying that I'm like Rumfoord or Donald Trump.  Or that my wife is Lily of Melania Trump.  I'm saying that my wife is beautiful and humble.  She didn't even want me to remind our sixteen-year-old daughter about her birthday.  I told my wife that the only way a sixteen-year-old teenager remembers any occasion is through reminders.  A LOT of reminders.

So, happy birthday to my partner in life.  She is a wonderful wife, loving mother, good editor, and, most of all, a kind and gentle human being.  Unless I do something to piss her off.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his wife.