Because of Jane Austen

Elizabeth Vondrak

The day Lili first discovered Jane Austen movies, I was relieved, even psyched. The first was Pride and Prejudice, Keira Knightly version. Lili had found this one on her own. After one evening with Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, she was hooked. And I’ll admit, I took advantage of her new addiction, stuffing her proverbial pipe with every Austen adaptation I could find—Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Emma. I was happy because Lili was finally happy again. It broke the dry spell of several chaste weeks—a previously unknown phenomenon in our relationship––and my wife was giddily ripping clothes off me like she was Lizzy Darcy getting her freak on on her wedding night. 

Before this revelation, Lili had been having a rough time at work. She’s a medical device sales representative. She’s also blond, beautiful, and a former Patriots cheerleader. Did I mention her last name is Valentine? Despite the cliches, Lili is really good at her job. She has this crazy ability to memorize tons of facts, numbers, and technical information and make it all sound as exciting as a Red Sox World Series win. She was the top sales rep on her team two years in a row. The day she was passed over for a promotion, she uncovered the two reasons rumbling around the office having to do with why she didn’t get it: 1) No one that gorgeous could actually be smart enough to take on the duties of regional manager; and 2) With a body and face like hers, she needs to stay out in the field and let them do what they do best, generate sales. Things went south from there.

The depression hit hard, and it was something completely uncharacteristic of Lili, a woman who would normally dot her i’s with hearts. I, on the other hand, can be a moody bastard, and if the Pats or the Bruins lose, you better stay clear of me. But not Lili, a perpetually glass-half-full kind of girl. I think that’s why she has more friends than anybody I know—you can feel better just by standing next to her. When our friends started getting married, she spent more time (and money) being a bridesmaid than anyone. And not just bridesmaid, but the maid of honor. She’s got a gazillion Facebook friends and they really are that—friends, not just your typical collection of forgettable former classmates. Needless to say, I was more than shocked when she started calling in sick and spending the day in bed, not showering, not even brushing her teeth, littering the bed with Doritos and M&M’s. She even quit knitting, a passion of hers that she learned from her nana when she was little. Part of the reason she never had great grades in college was because she spent more time knitting than studying, making booties and blankets for the crisis pregnancy center near campus. 

So, during that time, I made dinner, cleaned the apartment, and did the laundry. I gave pep talks, telling her everyone in the office was either jealous or just douchebags. It was them, not her. I’m also in sales, security software. Talking, cajoling, that’s what I do. I might not be a brain surgeon, but I was the social chair of my fraternity and the winner of B.M.O.C. (Big Man on Campus) award two years in a row—an unmatched feat. Freshman year, when I was failing my composition class, I even managed to convince the teacher to pass me. I met Lili in that class. Actually, I met her at a party during orientation week, but I always felt it was in comp class when I really met her. When I first looked at her with sober eyes, I felt my legs turn into slushies and my tongue harden to the same stiff state as the breakfast sausage in the cafeteria. 

As I sat in the instructor’s office, he asked, “What’s going on, man?” meaning “Why the hell are you failing my class?” I looked at the guy, a wimpy grad student, who was about as big as my younger sister, wearing wool socks and Birkenstocks. I told him, fake tears threatening to spill over onto my cheeks, that I’d gone to an all-boys prep school, and now, with all these girls around, I was drowning in estrogen, absolutely unable to focus. I even said I was a virgin. The guy nodded sympathetically and gave me an extension for my portfolio and ultimately a C-. Never mind the fact that I was actually a public-school kid who had been pulling all-nighters, engrossed in Mortal Kombat tournaments, and had slept with Lili after that party during orientation week. So, I’m a good talker, but this time, as I worked to convince my wife to cheer up, I might as well have been speaking Farsi.  

“Maybe they’re right,” she said. “Maybe I’m nothing but a blonde with boobs. Graduate from the bottom of the class, along with the defensive line.” 

“You barely graduated because you barely studied.” 

Her pout wasn’t budging. 

“How could a bimbo talk about heart disease like she’s a cardiologist at Mass General and be a top salesperson two years running?” 

“Then how come I’m not a regional manager and Jim Ludovich is?” 

“Because no one’s threatened by Jim Ludovich.” 

“But they’re threatened by me? Me, who has pictures of kittens in her cubicle and knits during conference calls?” 

Around we’d go. I’d eventually leave her in bed and trudge to the kitchen to eat my delicious lasagna or broiled rosemary salmon by myself. 

But then one evening, as I was standing in the hallway outside our apartment, contemplating turning around and going to one of the bars in Washington Square instead of entering this house of gloom, Lili flung open the door. 

“I thought I heard you,” she said. She was still in her flannel pajamas, but she was smiling. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, her tongue minty fresh.

 “That’s a nice surprise.” 

“I know I’ve been a drag lately. Let me make it up to you.” 

Later, as we sat at the kitchen table eating delivery pizza and drinking Sam Adams, dizzy with postcoital hunger and euphoria, I asked, “So you’re feeling better?”

 “A little.” 

“It’s been so long since you’ve been in the mood. You were in the mood, right? That wasn’t just for my sake?” 

She winked, her cheeks fat with pepperoni pizza. 

“What changed?” 

“I watched this really great movie. I guess it cheered me up.” 

“Have you been watching delivery boy porn all day? Because if that’s the case, I’m not complaining.” 

She tossed a crumpled napkin at me. “It was a sweet romantic movie with Keira Knightly.” 

“Love Actually?” It was one of Lili’s Christmas movie requisites. That and The Charlie 

Brown Christmas Special. 

“Pride and Prejudice. You know, like the Jane Austen novel.” 

I knew, barely. Required reading in a lit class my sophomore year, but being the good fraternity man, I turned a paper from the house files instead of writing my own. No professor could expect me, future two-time B.M.O.C., to have time to read a 300-page novel and write a ten-page paper when I had freshmen candidates to torment during rush. 

“Never saw it. Or read it. But keep watching if it helps.” 

I would come to regret those words. 

Lili returned to showering and working like normal. But the moment she got home and finished dinner, she was in front of the TV, knitting needles clicking furiously, engrossed in whatever drama befell the young ladies of Jane Austen’s world, and, once the movie was over, she was on me like a pair of finely stitched breeches. I’d never cared so much about the Napoleonic Wars and the ballroom rituals of Regency England. At work I’d scroll through Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, searching for more Jane Austen movies. If I couldn’t stream a movie, I’d look for it at the library—me, who hadn’t been in a public library since my mom took me to story hour. The BBC specials were the best, the story told over several episodes so, for several nights, Lili had no problem getting her fix and I had no problem getting mine. 

But despite Ms. Austen’s prolific-ness and the BBC’s and Hollywood’s fascination with her work, I eventually ran out of movies. What to do? How about Bridget Jones’s Diary, a modern retelling of Pride and Prejudice? It even had Colin Firth, just like the 1995 BBC adaptation! Brilliant! 

But no. When the movie ended, Lili simply put down her knitting needles and walked away to the bathroom. 

“What’d you think?” I called after her. 

“Okay.” She turned on the water. 

“Just okay.” 

“Yeah.” She was brushing her teeth now. 

“What was wrong? No bonnets?” 

She spit. “Maybe. It just didn’t seem as sweet, you know, like really romantic, like the original.” 

Lesson learned. 

I thought I’d struck gold when I read the description of Bright Star, a period piece (check) with a love story (check) that was even based on a true story! The poet John Keats has a three-year affair with his love and muse, Fanny Brawne, until his tragic death at 25. The filmmakers even used his poetry and their real love letters. You couldn’t get any more romantic than that, right? Lili was certain to get as randy as a bunch of British sailors after months of chasing the French around the high seas. 

But no. 

Just as the consumptive Keats was to leave for Italy and Fanny was offering herself and he was nobly refusing to sully her honor with fornication, Lili turned to me, eyes watery, and said, “He’s going to live, right? You know I can’t stand a sad ending.”

 I did?

 “Jane Austen is so great because everyone lives happily ever after. There’s always a wedding. Please tell me there’s going to be a wedding.” She looked positively stricken. 

“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t we pause here for tonight?” I grabbed the remote like I was 

the one with dying and it was the only thing that could save me, and pressed stop. 

“It’s late.” 

“But I want to see what happens.” 

“A wedding of course. Happily ever after.” 

“I thought everyone died of consumption.” 

“The Italy thing worked for a lot of people. You know how everyone goes on about the Mediterranean diet.” 

“You said you’d never seen this.” 

“That lit class sophomore year. I remember everything worked out for Keats.” 

“Then let’s finish it.” 

“I got an early meeting. We can save it for tomorrow.” I gave her my most charming Hugh Grant a la Sense and Sensibility face. She sighed and held up her knitting needles to examine her latest project, an infinity scarf for the old Asian lady who pushed a shopping cart up and down Beacon Street. “I would utterly appreciate it.” This I said with my best posh English accent and off to bed we went for a wee bit of bodice-ripping fun before going to sleep. I didn’t even mind when she called me Mr. Keats. 

But that evening was the beginning of the end. 

The next morning as I stood humming in the shower, it smacked me like a calf skin glove daring me to a duel: What was I going to do about that bloody sad movie? Fortunately, Lili had Zumba that night, so I’d be home first. I would tell her I’d tried to cue up the movie, but there was a message telling me it’d been pulled from the site, a licensing problem. A lawsuit. A bloody shame. She could knit and watch The Bachelor like normal women, and then the next three days she’d be traveling around New Hampshire and Maine for work. Hopefully, by the time she got back to Boston, she’d have forgotten about poor John and Fanny. 

But what about me? I’d be back to the movie drawing board. I couldn’t stand the thought of her depressed again, days of moping and flannel. And, I’ll admit, I couldn’t stand the thought of no sex again. I considered abandoning movies and looking online for a Regency costume instead. Maybe she’d dig that—her own man in stockings and a puffy shirt. I wondered how long my sideburns could grow in three days. What a romantic gesture! Maybe she’d even call me by real name— 

Smack! The glove again.  

I realized that Lili wasn’t the only one with an addiction! I was like a junkie prostitute ready to do whatever it took—tight pants, ruffled shirt, a ribboned ponytail—to get my fix. But I was addicted to my wife. She was addicted to the 19th century! All my blood seemed to rush to the soles of my feet; I wondered if I should sit down on the shower floor. I was scared that our marriage was in trouble. No, I told myself. She’s still recovering from the promotion disappointment. By the time she got back from her sales trip and a few days off the bodice and breeches crack pipe, she—we —would be back to normal, having sex just because, not because of Jane Austen. 

For the next three days, I played the bachelor. Went out for beers after work with the singles crew. Ate frozen dinners. Barely communicated with my wife. Her texts explained she was busy with meetings or dinners and was just exhausted and needed to go to bed. I didn’t think much of it. She worked hard. Good for her! 

When she got home late Friday night, she was a sight for my bachelor-weary eyes.  Despite being the fraternity man that I had been, it was always Lili’s company I preferred. No bros before hos for me; not that Lili was a ho, far from it, as faithful and honest as any Elizabeth Bennett or Fanny Brawne. When I was with her, I felt like I could be honest, real. Like the time right before we were leaving for my fraternity’s biggest party of the year, an homage to Animal House, and I got the call that my grandpa––who’d been more of a father to me than my own deadbeat dad––had died suddenly of a heart attack. I spent the rest of the night in my toga costume crying in her lap like a little kid. She was my best friend, my soul mate.  

So, what happened next really scared the shit out of me. 

After a long hug and kiss, I took her suitcase and carried it down the short hallway to our bedroom. I knew Lili well enough to know that she always insists on unpacking right when she gets home. She’s kind of a neat freak. Her knitting bag was always in pristine condition, as if ready to pass a military inspection. I put the suitcase on the bed and unzipped it for her. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “Why don’t you set the table for dinner. It smells awesome.” 

I made pasta with my famous marinara sauce. “Everything’s ready to go,” I told her. The sauce was simmering on low, the wine uncorked, the table set. A quickie before dinner would be no problem, just had to empty that suitcase and put it away. I picked up the plastic hotel laundry bag, thinking I’d take it to the closet in the hallway that held the washer and dryer, but something underneath the bag, nestled on top of her flannel pajamas, caught my eye. “What’s this?” I asked as I picked up the Zip-Loc bag and its hot-pink contents. 

“Nothing” Lili said as she instantly grabbed for it, but I pulled it out of her reach.

“Just a new device.” 

“Is that a rabbit head?” 

“It’s for pediatric use.” She stuck out her hand again and I pulled away again, and just then I must’ve hit the ON switch because the rabbit was twitching like he was having one wicked seizure.  

“Turn it off!” she pleaded. 

I found the button and Mr. Rabbit stopped moving. “You sell defibrillators,” I said. “What the hell is this going to do? Tickle someone’s heart into beating?” 

“Give it to me.” 

I took a big step back, my shoulder blades bumping against the wall. “Aren’t I enough anymore?” 

She rolled her eyes. “There was this store near the hotel. Jenny, you know, the girl who transferred from New York, she bought it for me. As a joke.” 

“So, you’ve never used it.” 

She was quiet. Almost frozen. Have I also mentioned that Lili is incapable of lying? Finally, she said, “I needed something to help me fall asleep.” 

“You kept telling me you were so exhausted that you couldn’t even talk to me on the phone.” I looked at the rubber rodent. Some guys might be turned on by the thought of their girlfriend or wife cozying up with this thing, but that had never been Lili, and with all that had been going on—the depression, the movies, now Mr. Rabbit—I was feeling like maybe he and I were the same in her eyes.  

“After watching Pride and Prejudice on my iPad, I just needed . . . And you weren’t there, and that was.” 

“Why do you need those stupid movies anyway?” 

“They’re not stupid.” 

“Give me a break.” I turned on my British accent: “My darling, I know I’ve just met you at the village ball, but I am now hopelessly in love and beg you to marry me. Do please forgive the gay outfit and the rod stuck up my ass.” 

Tears filled Lili’s eyes. I didn’t care. 

“You’re an asshole,” she hissed. 

“And you’ve got a problem.” 

“Maybe I’m looking at it.” 

“Me or the fucking rabbit?” 

She lunged for the rodent, pulled at my arms, clawed my hands. We knocked over the lamp on the nightstand and ended up wrestling on the bed. She was on top of me, her face red, ferocious.  

“Give me Mr. Darcy!” 

I went limp. She snatched the bag away like a junkie getting the last stash of goods and charged to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I’m not sure how long she was in there, but I could tell from the sound of tissues being pulled from the box and the trumpeting of nose-blowing that she was crying. I slid down the hallway wall and sat on the floor outside the bathroom. What was happening to us? We were best friends, we were in love, we had chemistry—ever since the beginning, that night of orientation week, all through college, the years we lived together after college, during our marriage. She was and has always been the only one for me. Then a thought as dark as a storm cloud gathering over the English countryside but as illuminating as Mr. Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth interrupted my wallowing: Just because she's the only one for me doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m the only one for her. Which led to another equally sobering, if not terrifying, thought: Is ours just another starter marriage?

I stared angrily at the wall opposite me, surprised my eyes didn’t sear holes in the paint or my heart’s pounding didn’t crack the plaster. Never in a million years did I think we were the type of people who got married after college just because it seemed easier than to break up; those people who would blow their parents’ money on a party, but just give up and call it quits once they’d made some ground career-wise and grown a pair and found someone they thought they were better suited for. That wasn’t Lili and me, was it? Sure, we met before our frontal lobes fully developed, but they had grown together, we had grown together, not like those other couples who’d grown up and apart. 

Finally, she emerged from the bathroom, eyes red and puffy. She slid down the wall opposite me. We sat on the floor, looking at each other. 

“Is it me?” I asked softly. 

She shook her head. 

“Then why the movies? And the rabbit?” 

She looked down at her hands lying in her lap, still holding a tissue. “The whole promotion thing—” 

“Baby, I told you—” 

“Everyone judges me by my looks. No one really knows or respects me.” 

“You don’t think that about me, do you?” 

No answer. 

“Do you?” 

“Not now. But it started that way.” She looked at me as if challenging me to refute her claim. “I want to start over.” 

“What?” 

“Do things like Jane Austen.” 

Bloody Jane. “What do you mean?” 

“What I love about the movies is the anticipation. The characters actually spend time  falling in love, getting to know each other. There’s no immediate hooking up like we did.”

“Are you kidding? The guy proposes to the girl after they’ve spent a couple of afternoon  teas together. They don’t know each other at all. Sure, we might’ve slept together the first night  we met, but we did spend a long time getting to know each other before we got married.” 

“But the woman always turns the proposal down. And then there’s all this time when they get to see each other’s true character and stuff. And if he’s the good guy, the right guy, he’ll do anything to protect the woman’s honor. He woos her. Earns her. And at the end when they do get married, you know they’re going to have the best sex because they’ve been waiting for it, fighting for it.” 

My head hurt. 

“Did we ever even go on a real date? Seems like we met and then were in each other’s dorm rooms all the time.” 

“I’m sorry our relationship was so easy,” I said, with the sarcasm in my voice so thick I’m surprised I didn’t choke on it. “I should’ve cheated on you or broke up with you a few times to make things more miserably enjoyable.” 

“There was never any of the excitement that comes from waiting. You never fought for me. You just hooked up with me.” 

“You make it sound like I took advantage of you. I had no idea I was such a prick and you such an innocent damsel.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying. I was a willing participant. It’s all I ever knew, we ever knew. But now I see things differently—” 

“Because of Jane Austen.” 

“I missed out on something. We missed out on something. A big thing.” 

How had a missed promotion led to this? 

We sat for a moment, staring into our laps. 

“You know I love you,” I said. “More than anything in the world.” 

“I know. I just. . . I want to rewind. To go back to the beginning and do things right.” Just then, I smelled something burning. I ran to the kitchen and did what I could to save the sauce, but it was useless, a scorched mess. We ate cold cereal in silence and went to bed. 

During the next few days, Lili and I were like two strangers. Or worse, like two married people who no longer had anything to say to each other. We simply didn’t agree. This starting-over thing, it was ridiculous. We were best friends. We were in love. Couldn’t she see how damn lucky we were? The best thing about Mr. Darcy as far as I could tell was that he was rich. 

One night I stayed up late watching the Bruins game (they lost in overtime) and fell asleep on the couch during the post-game commentary. Even though I woke up an hour or so later, I decided to spend the night in the living room. I’d show her. 

The next day I was exhausted, our couch not being the most comfortable piece of furniture, not to mention that I don’t sleep well without Lili next to me. I need to feel a foot, an arm, a touch. Maybe it’s lame, but it settles me down to sleep. I have a body pillow for when she travels. She bought it for me even though I never told her about my sleep issue. That’s how she is, always knowing just what people need. Or was.

At work, I blew a sales call. Then, I missed a meeting. I asked Ted how the baby was doing when it was Mike who had the baby. All I could do was stare at the wedding photo of Lili on my desk and replay her words—start over, do things right—over and over in my head. But how would we do that? We’d been married two years already. We’d been together nearly nine. No wonder I couldn’t sleep well without her: she’d been next to me my whole adult life, like a grown up’s version of a teddy bear. There was no imagining life without her. I rubbed my eyes, again. Then, the ugly thought was back: What if she could imagine life without me? No doubt plenty of guys would do anything to take my place and would be more than willing to fight for her. Her beauty might be what originally attracts you, but it’s everything else that keeps you there, not wanting to leave, unable to leave. I highly doubted the same could be said of me.  

Just then someone handed a memo over the side of my cubicle. Why couldn’t they just email it? Wait. I had an idea. I opened my email, typed Lili’s address, and stared at the blank page computer screen. No. A better idea. I grabbed my coat as I booked it to the elevator. I was going down to the stationery shop across the street from my office building and then the post office. 

That night when I arrived at our apartment, Lili opened the door before I could get my key in the lock. She was holding my letter and its envelope. I recognized the pale gray paper and the bold black ink of the fountain pen, not to mention the envelope’s red wax seal. Behind her on the hall table stood a vase with the arrangement of white roses and lilies (my closest approximation to her wedding bouquet) that I’d sent with the letter: 

My Dear Ms. Valentine, 

I would be most honored if you would accompany me this Saturday evening to dinner at Rialto followed by a movie at the Brattle Theater, and later, if I may be so bold, to stroll hand in hand along the Charles River. I have found myself hopelessly seduced by your charms—your generosity of spirit, your mental prowess in recalling every aspect of the cardiovascular system, your impeccable knitting—and have been rendered incapable of ridding you from my every thought. How I hope you return my affections, for I do sense from you some partiality on my behalf, despite my being at times an utter arse who takes your superior nature for granted and fails to recognize the validity of your concerns. My darling, I would do most anything (within the confines of legality), fight most valiantly, for the treasure of your love. Eagerly I await your reply. 

Yours, 

Mr. J. 

I’d considered saying something about her other, physical treasures but stopped myself. Mr. Darcy would never make a puerile reference. I’d also spent a fair amount of time on Thesarus.com. “I accept. Most graciously.” She tried to control her smile. “May I make one suggestion?”

 “Anything.” I tried not to let my disappointment show. 

“Let’s skip the movie.” 

“An excellent idea! That will allow more time to discuss finding a new place of employment. One that recognizes your many skills and talents.” 

Lili smiled broadly, and we stared at each other like two fourteen-year-olds at a school dance. I think I might even have been blushing. Finally, she leaned in to kiss me. “Ms. Valentine,” I said, stepping back. “I’m afraid your action is rather premature. We have not even had our first outing.” 

Her cheeks blushed a perfect pink. “Forgive me, sir.” 

“Might I suggest a warm embrace instead?” 

“Only if you promise to stop talking like that. I can’t believe it, but I prefer your Boston accent.”

I cupped her cheeks in my hands, absorbing the soft feel of her skin. She wrapped her arms around my waist, and then, after a moment, I took my hands from her face and embraced her. She nuzzled her head against my neck. I’m not sure how long we stood like that, but I do know my senses had never been so heightened, taking in everything from the slight fruity smell of her hair to the warm exhalations of her breath on my skin to the way her stomach rested comfortably against mine. What man wouldn’t fight tooth and nail, claw and fist, for this—for her? I wanted nothing more than to stay like that till death do us part—my wife in my arms, my body charged yet limp, my head floating like it was the first time we’d ever touched.