D.H. Lawrence’s Love in a Time of Mask Mandate Removal

Ulla took a basket to gather seeds and went lightly through the garden toward the marsh, the chutes of the cattails at the edge of the pond catching the sun and matching the optimism in her blood. Inhaling the late morning air she was suddenly fearful and dug her mask out of her pocket, fastening it across her face. The very air of the pond seemed potentially poisonous. Or life-giving. She wasn’t sure which. She bowed inwardly to the glistening water, giving thanks. But the air she didn’t trust and held her breath till she reached the house.

“The air is fine,” said her husband Brenwall, watching from the hearth as she tore off her mask and gasped for breath. “But be careful of surfaces.”

He was stiff and careful from watching her. Impatiently she dropped her mask and went to the kitchen, where she returned to kneading some bread dough. She called to him.

“There’s nothing wrong inside. It’s out there we need to be careful.”

He wondered where she got her certainty. Not from him, since he wore a mask inside but pulled it down outside, not needing the bother. Except when his brother Garth was around. There was no trusting Garth. If Garth was visiting the air was poisoned from the tops of the hills to underneath their bedclothes.

If Garth would move somewhere else, they could stop wearing their masks, except Ulla was certain there were droplets in the air outside. She had fanciful notions but sometimes she was right. What if he was wrong about outside? He watched Ulla punching and flipping the dough. Would she be offended if he asked her to mask up? Her face was mere inches from the food. Why didn’t she see the illogic of her attitude? Yet he said nothing, heavy with love for her crackpot theories.

“You can take that mask off,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re inside.”

“The medicine board says droplets survive indoors. Even if someone was here last week, their droplets could be living in here.”

“Horse feathers!” Ulla kneaded and kneaded the dough, knowing their talk was useless. Brenwall was like a frightened child, she thought. He wore the mask more out of superstition than anything. Like a talisman that could protect him while government decrees shifted every week. Unless he was right. He knew a lot from handling sick farm animals. What if she was wrong and he was right?

She set the bread to rise one more time. It was safe, wasn’t it? Anything that went in the oven had germs baked out of it. She smoothed the plump, dimply ball.

“Wash your hands!” Brenwall thundered.

“I washed them before!” she cried, turning to face him. His eyes drove like bullets into her skull and she was weak with love for him.

“You could easily infect me with your breath alone,” he said bitterly. “But go about your day.”

She turned her back, hastening to clean the scraps of dough off her hands before her tears started to fall. He was hateful and she hated him. Why would he not read the scrolls of news posted at Marchand’s Pub on Thursdays? CLEARLY he had not read yesterday’s update and his brutish ignorance scraped her insides like a pine tree trunk. She wished he would go from the house and leave her in peace. She ran to the bedroom and lay down, crying softly.

“Ulla! Maybe I’m wrong!”

“Yes! Maybe you are!”

“But you could also be wrong!”

She lay very still. His footsteps grew faint.

I am tired, she thought. Tired of knowing what’s going on while no one else takes the trouble to learn. But… I hope the bread is safe. Did I actually wash my hands? I don’t think I did. Do hands matter or is it surfaces? Did I wipe the bread board? I don’t remember. About breathing he’s ridiculous. Or is he? Why will he not wear a mask outside? I don’t like to be near him when he comes in.

Brenwall rode his nag harshly while anger clashed inside him like knives. She was unreasonable. It was his job to protect her but she pushed him away and it roused him to fury. He was glad of the unfiltered air pouring into his lungs. Ulla would warn him of its dangers and it would make him want to slap her beautiful white face.

He saw his brother Garth riding a tall mare down the path towards him. Garth was wearing a mask. Brenwall saw his brother resettle the criss-crossed ties that went over his head and held the mask firmly in place. What a song and dance he made about everything. It was all for show because he lay with prostitutes and was no cleaner than they were.

“Now you’re here, you might as well have dinner with us,” Brenwall called. “Ulla isn’t speaking to me.”

“Is it because you endanger everyone by going around like this?” Garth pointed to his brother’s bare face. “God love you, you never cared for anyone but yourself.”

“That’s the word from the unwashed, is it?” Brenwall jabbed. “Lie down with fleas, get up an idiot. There’s no need for a mask outside.”

“Some say that, but some have gotten sick just walking past another.”

“So says Ulla too. The pair of you can ride into the sunset obeying the stupidest part of the mask mandate.”

“And you can die in your selfish ignorance. I won’t stop you.”

They rode side by side, comfortable even in their arguing. Brenwall knew Ulla would welcome Garth because of the gulf between them. It pleased her to make up to Garth in front of her husband, who would sit heavy with anger while she danced and flirted. He wouldn’t allow Garth in his house except that the game seemed to excite Ulla and later she’d throw herself into his own arms with special intensity.

But that was before, Brenwall brooded. That was before they’d all grown afraid of each other and kept themselves separate with invisible metal armor. As they approached the house, he saw Garth reach up to loosen the ties of his mask, while he found his own crumpled one and fitted it snugly over his nose and mouth. He was about to spend the evening with two people who believed they were safe without masks. If they were right, he would just be uncomfortable for no reason. If they were wrong, he might die. If he was right, they might die. If he was wrong, he wouldn’t die but he couldn’t remember if they might die. But they might be right.

He hoped there was plenty of mead.