Part 2 (1/2)
I told Frances, ”Look, I hate this. I do, but I will never stand in your way. If this is what your life requires, I'll support that and let you go. I just want to be sure first, both of us, that this is the correct choice. If you could just give us another month-”
”It's been eight years. Another month won't matter. I know it won't.”
She wore her serious expression that always p.r.i.c.ked my soul-lips slightly parted, downturned, and her head tilted just off-center, hair falling across her face. I thought of Yeats' ”O Do Not Love Too Long”: But O, in a minute she changed - O do not love too long, Or you will grow out of fas.h.i.+on Like an old song.
I weighed my response. So much to say, but it was a delicate balance. She was in bloom, vivid and fresh, her scent sending out a call for all admirers to come, see, taste. Her skin looked as if our slightest contact would raise the hair on my own. A thin, low-cut, loose sweater, leaning forward on her forearms, as if she felt more comfortable with herself, her s.e.xuality, than at any other time in her life. I didn't want to watch that wither. It killed me that I wasn't the one to have woken her up, but now that she was awake, I would not be responsible for putting her back to sleep.
I said, ”Okay. Yes. I see.”
”Please...I'm not trying to hurt you.” She reached across, took two of my fingers gently. ”The last thing I wanted was to see you suffer like this. But I thought you realized. We're not the same people as we were before. My G.o.d, Mick, we've shared so much. I'll never forget any of it. But I can't help this feeling that there is so much more I have to do, and I can't do it with you. Haven't you felt the same? Don't you think I'm holding back your writing?”
Of course. Abso-f.u.c.king-lutely she was. She had made me happy, but I had made some sacrifices. All for her. And I would've done it again over and over, no matter how many times we ended up in exactly the same spot-at the breakfast nook, ending our marriage.
But I said, ”No, sweetie. Never. But don't let me stand in your way. If this is what you need, I'll do what it takes for you to have it.”
Her eyes squinched. Tight, rosy cheeks as she smiled, nodded. ”Thank you. I'll always feel love for you, you know.”
”I...” Had to leave her on a good one. One that would bounce around in her head, make her doubt her choice late into each night for months and years to come. ”I've loved you more than I've ever been able to put into words. As soon as I think I'm close, I find my love has grown beyond even that.”
”Oh, Mick.”
She squeezed my fingers. I squeezed hers. I rubbed the top of her hand. It was the closest we'd been in weeks. The most honest moment I'd ever felt. A shame to end, but to end like this was encouraging. There was more to us than bones and blood and muscle. We truly had souls, and for all the damage we could cause to each other on this earth, the ability to heal, rise above, and forgive was worth our mortality.
We sat quietly for several minutes until she looked down, eased her hand free of mine, and cupped her fingers against each other.
She said, ”So...when will you be able to leave?”
”I'm sorry?”
”How long will it take you to find a place to stay?”
I couldn't answer. I was thoroughly confused. She was the one who left. She was the one moving. ”I don't understand, sweetie.”
Met my eyes again. ”Are you joking? I thought we'd...Mick, I'm keeping the house.”
After swallowing hard and pressing down the ache rising in my stomach, I said, ”Like h.e.l.l you are.”
A half hour later, I was pacing in front of the fireplace, Frances on the couch. She sat on the edge with her knees together, one hand on each, like she was just waiting me out.
”You left. What...what was I supposed to think? You wanted out. I wanted to stay right here.”
”You're right, I left. To give you time. Don't say you believed I was going to move in with him. Divorce is hard, Mick. Very difficult on both of us, I know. I never intended to jump right into another co-domestic situation.”
”You can f.u.c.k him over there, can't you? That's not enough? You want to bring him here, too? f.u.c.k on our bed?”
She was too calm for this. ”It's just a bed. Don't be so crude. What happened to you being okay with this?”
I was tempted to bring up the photos Octavia had shown me. The threesome, the student, the abortion. I mean...our possible child. A voice in the back of my mind whispered Save it for court.
G.o.dd.a.m.n it, now Octavia was in my head.
There was something to be said for putting it all on the table at that moment. A lot to be said for the power of shame.
Or you just show her your ammo, and then give her time to go find the right armor.
I shook my head. Frances looked bored.
”Frannie, that's entirely different. I mean, this is our house. To be fair, I never left. I don't know why I should be the one to leave now. At the very least, and it's not my favorite option, but you're the one who's created this mess-”
”I'm not selling it.”
”Yes, yes, I don't want to either, but if we can't reasonably come to a resolution that satisfies both our needs-”
”We already have. I'm not selling the house.”
I stopped pacing. I knelt in front of her. My hand covering her hand. ”What do you mean we already have? I don't understand.”
Frances sighed. ”Mick, please. You know what I'm talking about. I'm surprised you're even making such a fuss. I'm sorry if you've changed your mind, but I've always thought you were honest.”
I pulled my hand away. I realized at that moment that I would never touch her again affectionately. Bukowski: I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted.
there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.
”You think I've lied to you?”
”No, no, Mick. Maybe you forgot. I'm sorry. Besides, lying about it would be kind of silly, wouldn't it?”
I was speechless.
She said, ”Excuse me a moment.” And got up.
I listened to her steps on the hardwood floor as she creaked up the stairs. I stayed behind, pushed myself off the floor and walked over to the window, a very confused man staring at summer gra.s.s, the breeze through the leaves, wondering what I had done. Drunk with love, had I promised Frances she could have our house? Why would I? The romantic in me would brush aside even the idea of ever parting. I would have painted her an oath of devotion in the rawest of words rather than consider life without her.
We married near the end of graduate school after a couple of years of dating spotted with dramatic break-ups and painful interludes, trying our best to hurt each other in the off-times by wrapping our attentions around other students, critics, visiting writers, professors, as we climbed the rocky face back to our senses, and each other. Frances was willing to give up a return to New England in order to follow me home to Minneapolis. It took some convincing and a long weekend visiting the Cities, but she fell for them as much as I had in my youth.
And, both of us being of mostly upper-middle cla.s.s backgrounds, grinding our way through grad school with a.s.sistants.h.i.+ps and student loans, we chose to forgo a prenuptial agreement and toss the dice on forever, agreeing that in the very unlikely event of a split, we would have the maturity and decency to make sure we each got our fair and equal share.
Apparently I had softened in my view along the way. Plus, we'd have to clarify ”fair”. As in, ”You get to f.u.c.k whoever you want, and you can have the house, too. While we're at it, take a nice chunk of my pay for no particular reason.”
The creaking stairs signaled her descent, and I turned to face her, hands in my pockets. Otherwise I would have wrung them like a wet paper towel. She carried an accordion folder, bright yellow. She was flipping through papers as she walked.
”I'm sorry, Mick.” Still flipping, not looking at me. She found what she was looking for, shuffled it out and handed it over. ”Really, I hope you're not just being difficult here. Don't you remember?”
What was I holding? Legalese, some form of contract, notary stamped and dated last fall. ”What is this?”
”G.o.dd.a.m.n it.” A break in her voice. ”We'd talked all weekend, that cabin on Lake Superior. Things weren't going so well, and we came up with a list of what ifs, don't you remember? You're trying to make me look stupid.”
No, I didn't remember. I remembered the Lake, I remembered the talk. It was brutal, listening to my wife tell me she'd been feeling bored, a little smothered, and so then I laid my own cards on the table-my growing anxiety, the need for more affection, and, embarra.s.sing to say now, bringing in a third for s.e.x, or experimenting with various scenarios to liven things up. A thunderstorm on the Lake, October chill, old quilts and a gas fireplace. The crying, the emotional bleeding. The making up, the longest kisses, and some of the most honest, raw, and vulnerable s.e.x we'd ever shared.