My husband's hearing, it would appear, is somewhat flawed. Only somewhat – because he hears some things perfectly. And that's why I think he's
trying to drive me crazy. Don't laugh. Remember the movie "Gaslight?" The one that had Ingrid Bergman in it and she was a rich heiress and she was married to Charles Boyer and began to suspect he was trying to drive her
crazy and contacted a policeman played by Joseph Cotton?
Of course, there are a few small differences between our situation and the movie. For one thing, I don't look a lot like Ingrid Bergman. OK, OK. I don't look
anything like Ingrid Bergman. And I'm neither rich, nor an heiress. And my husband is taller and darker than Charles Boyer and he doesn't have a French accent. And I don't know any police officers who look like Joseph Cotton. But
other than those few minor points, the situation is exactly the same. I'm convinced of it.
Take the mystery of the television, for example. This is a man who plays certain types of music at a level approaching pain. This
isn't so bad when it's Motown, which I'm certain is what they play in Heaven. But he likes beach music, which is what I'm sure they play in Hell. (I apologize to all you beach music lovers, but Miss Grace has worn out her welcome
with this Carolina transplant.)
And my darling hubby will put on a beach music CD, crank up the volume and make me want to rip those tams right off those heads, kick sand in their faces and erase that little red book for
all times.
Or he'll be kicked back in his recliner, watching a football game or a John Wayne movie with the volume set just below bellow and we'll decide to watch a movie together. I'll come in and sit down and he'll start
the movie – and I'll sit there for 15 minutes, watching people move their mouths with NO SOUND COMING OUT. And my husband will sit there looking like he's following every word of it.
I'll watch him, nodding and acting like
he hears every blasted thing they say, but I know it's a lie because he's got the volume turned so low that only a dog could hear it. And I will say, very sweetly, "Can you hear that?" And the love of my life will sigh and pump up
the volume and look at me as if to say, "You poor thing. Your hearing isn't what it used to be is it?'
And five minutes after the movie's over and I walk out of the room, he'll crank the volume on that sucker up into the
stratosphere.
All I can say is, where's Joseph Cotton when you need him?
