His and Hers

It certainly was a lucky thing Pate had called Aunt Ginny else he’d have forgotten his own wedding anniversary. Five whole years. He couldn’t believe it had been that long. “Grace has been so good for you,” said his auntie. “Tamed you a bit.” Had he been as bad as all that? Yes indeed, worse, utterly insufferable. Well, Aunt Ginny could have his thanks for being so kind.

Pate thought Grace would be at Shillito’s—or caught in Saturday traffic—for a while yet, so there was still time. Racing from hallway to bedroom, he put on a shirt, herringbone trousers, and boots. Then he grabbed his pea coat from its peg in the hallway. The varnished accordion rack was one of Grace’s creations, as were the potted greenery slung at varying levels of the bay window like notes on a scale.

*

Grace dropped her packages on the couch. Sinking into the furry white cushions, she smiled briefly: Hi. She stretched, kicked the navy clogs off, and put her wiggling stockinged toes on a silver cushion on the coffee table. She was exceptionally tall, could look Pate right in the eye, and her slimness made her seem even taller. Sighing dreamily, she folded her bare white arms across small, perfect breasts emphasized by the tight pink sweater. This halcyon posture strangely provoked Pate. The figure of his wife sprawled in the very lap of domesticity seemed so … familiar, but it was not contempt he was feeling. 

“See what I bought.”

She surveyed the lot with a sweep. Pate, stifling an impulse to run to the kitchen, bore the inventory patiently: a silk blouse (on sale), three skeins of yarn, a dress pattern, and half a dozen jam cookies from Ehrmann’s.

“Quite a haul. Are we still solvent?”

“Ha ha,” Grace said. “Hands off the cookies.”

With a glare, Pate stalked off to the kitchen but returned a moment later, clutching a wine bottle, glasses, and the corkscrew Grace bought him as a Christmas joke.   

“Maier’s finest 1974 vintage chilled to perfection in our very own wine closet and served with aplomb,” he bowed.

“Oh, for once you remembered,” she said, springing from the couch and hugging him tightly.

“Avaunt, woman.” He popped the cork, offered the bouquet, and poured the wine with a flourish. “Happy anniversary.”

They chinked glasses.

Sitting hand in hand, they giggled recalling his proposal. They had argued that evening. Pate forgot why but Grace knew. She remembered his outrage when she refused to live in sin. Of course he’d stormed off, furious. But at four a.m., he’d slunk back up the three flights and pounded at her door loudly enough to wake up the whole neighborhood. At first, she refused to see him, finally yielding to quell the ruckus.

He dragged her from the apartment and thus it was that Grace found herself parked at the White Castle in the middle of the night wearing her nightgown and a raincoat. They laughed easily at the memory, sipping, touching affectionately. Their past was a re-run, a bit of camp with which to while away a quiet evening at home. Unlike the future, it had no power to wreck their bliss.

Pate drained his glass. The woman beside him was no stranger, he’d known her forever. And she, fondling his collar, briefly wondered how much happiness a person had a right to expect. Yet each was content: they were not alone. Amazed and grateful and greedy, they kissed.

*

The toppled bottle lay amidst a pink puddle of alarming proportion. From the hallway, Pate winced at the blot on the carpet as he dialed. They’d fallen asleep, Aunt Ginny, but would be right over. No, dinner would not be ruined, it would be delicious cold. He watched Grace buttoning the puffy sleeves of her new blouse.

*

The fried chicken was waxy, the mashed potatoes lifeless and gooey. Aunt Ginny berated Pate for ten minutes (carefully sparing Grace, making him bear the full brunt) before changing the subject.

Another man had shot himself upstairs Thursday night—that’s what happens when you coop up a bunch of old hens and roosters together, she supposed. That made two in one week. Heavens, how she despised such weakness, God forgive them. She crossed herself and daubed the corners of her mouth with a drumstick. Didn’t they all have cozy apartments, and practically for nothing at that? They had Jack Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson to thank for that. Honestly, some people were never satisfied. If anybody had reason to feel lonely, wasn’t it Virginia Delehanty? Since poor Uncle Fred died two years ago this November, hadn’t she had reason to complain? But no moping for her. Life was too short.

Aunt Ginny removed her teeth (“They really hurt”), puckering her lips. She was devout and dimpled and kept her snowy hair severely cropped.

After the cherry cobbler (“Dry,” she frowned at Pate), she marched off to the bedroom—a short walk—and retrieved the package. Grace did the honors, unwrapping carefully to permit recycling.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Grace held up the pillowcases. “Aren’t they lovely? Did you embroider them yourself?”

Aunt Ginny solemnly assured them the gift had not been purchased with green stamps and then lit a Lucky Strike.

Pate declared how much he liked the golden grain pattern. He was ever so tired of those hideous pink things, those “His and Hers” ones somebody gave them as a wedding present. After five years, you’d think they’d wear out, but they hadn’t.

Stubbing out the butt, Aunt Ginny said she didn’t want to play Canasta tonight because “All In The Family” was on TV after the news. While Grace helped Auntie do the dishes, Pate read the paper. A pale blue haze hunt near the ceiling. He’d have to say something about her incessant smoking. William F. Buckley, Jr. came on the screen and Pate alternately mocked and admired him.

While the women gabbed, he detected an ironic gleam in Grace’s eye and smiled.

Aunt Ginny had seen a program about the Kennedys the night before and little John-John was the cutest thing. When JFK’s casket was carried past, he raised his little arm high over his head and saluted smartly like a real soldier. Aunt Ginny shook her head as Grace told her about the movie Executive Action. When she heard the odds against all eighteen material witnesses dying violently within a year and a half of the assassination were one hundred thousand trillion to one, she gasped.

The CBS Evening News reported more missing White House tapes and showed a film clip of the president addressing the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

“That son of a bitch,” Auntie said.

“I’m shocked,” Pate murmured.

“He ought to resign.” She pounded on her chair arm.

“Well, I hate to remind you,” Pate began.

“How dare you bring that up. How was I to know he was a crook? Not another word. If Fred were alive, he’d turn over in his grave. He was buried in his uniform, you know.”

Before Pate could respond, Aunt Ginny lit another Lucky and said, “Grace, have you seen my recipe for carrot souffle?”

With a wink, Grace followed Aunt Ginny as she waved her cigarette about into the kitchen.

“All In The Family” was Aunt Ginny’s favorite show, next to “Sanford And Son.” This episode was about gun control and Archie went on TV to make a “whad’ya call it,” rebuttal. Everyone chuckled at Archie’s malapropos, though Aunt Ginny seemed a bit quizzical. Then “MASH” came on and Hawkeye was the only surgeon who didn’t catch the Asian Flu, and he and Margaret Hoolihan were in charge and Radar had to help out in the operating room. Mary Tyler Moore’s boss, Lou, was separated from his wife and Mary was in the middle. And Bob Newhart had to lose ten pounds. Aunt Ginny said he certainly had her sympathy, and Pate and Grace nodded. 

Grace thought it was a shame for Suzanne Pleshette to waste her talent in such an undemanding role. “She never has a decent line, even. Now that’s what I call chauvinism.”

Aunt Ginny agreed with her and warned Pate that he’d better not treat his wife that way or she’d know the reason why.

When it was time to go, Pate kissed his aunt (she’d taken her cigarette out and put her teeth back in) and thanked her for the delicious dinner.

“Even if it was cold?”

“I love cold chicken. And thanks for the pillowcases, too.”

Grace advised Aunt Ginny to send a POM telegram to her Congressman—it was worth the two dollars—and then they all said good night six times and Pate and Grace caught the elevator.

Pate disliked his aunt’s mention of suicide, but Grace advised him not to worry.

“Aunt Ginny’s far too tempestuous a person and likes getting in her two cents worth too much for that.”

“You’re right,” Pate agreed. “She’ll outlive us all.”

Life was funny. If he’d known in advance that he’d be a mediocre postal clerk and an old married man at twenty-nine, he said he’d have killed himself.

“You aren’t either mediocre,” Grace chide. “And what about me, for god sake? A housewife. Still, it’s not such a bad life.”

He had to admit she had a point. Someday they might even have kids.

“You’re right,” he said, hugging her as the elevator doors parted.

“By the way, you made a blunder this evening,” Grace said.

“Who, me?”

“The hideous pink pillowcases you mentioned—the ones with ‘His and Hers’— your aunt was the one who gave them to us.”

“What?” Pate halted. “Are you sure?”

Grace nodded.

Pate shuddered and pressed his temples. “Oh God. What a goddamn fool I am.”

Taking his hand, Grace led him through the parking lot to their VW.

“You know, when I was in grade school,” she said, “my sister Jane brought home a photo of one of her little friends. ‘What an ugly child,’ I remarked. The very next day Jane introduced me to the little girl, saying, ‘Grace, this is the one you thought was so ugly.’ I could have choked her, Pate.”

“You’re wonderful,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Let’s go home.”

 © 2025 Rick Neumayer

“His And Hers” won the University of Louisville Forge Writing Contest in 1974 and was first published in Quintessence. It will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you liked the story, I’d love to hear from you.