Part 4 (1/2)

Ruth shot Ira a ”take that” look. They rarely achieved anything substantial in counseling, but there was the occasional validation. And she'd always been afraid of what might happen if they just gave up and stopped going.

”Look, I love my wife,” Ira said. ”I wouldn't have stuck around for fifty years if I didn't.”

Ruth's mouth gaped open at the left-handed compliment. ”Lucky me,” she said. ”I feel so honored.”

”I don't run around. I'm not looking for some little chickadee on the side.” Ira continued addressing his comments to the counselor as if Ruth hadn't spoken. ”I work because that's what men do. And because there is no such thing as too much financial security, especially in today's environment.”

He turned to Ruth now. ”And I've never heard my wife complain because there's too much money in the bank. Or because she can buy too many clothes or tchotchkes for the house. Or give too much money to charity or to the grandkids.”

He paused and Ruth knew exactly what was coming next just as she knew how he liked his oatmeal in the morning and what he preferred in bed.

”I built and run a successful bagel company. I am the Bagel Baron. And I'm tired of hearing her complain about it. What am I going to do on some cruise s.h.i.+p out in the middle of the ocean? Or on some tour of drafty old castles in England, for chrissakes? I'm only seventy-five, which I hear is the new forty. Am I really supposed to move to Florida with all the old altakakas. Or sit around the house all day making chitchat with a woman I've been talking to every day for the last fifty years?”

”Poor you!” Ruth said. ”Your horrible, demanding wife expects you to spend some time with her when you've been generous enough to stay with her all these years. Where do you want me to pin the medal?”

”Now, let's just calm down and try to . . .” Dr. Guttman's tone was both reasonable and conciliatory as he began to lay out how they might proceed. Ira was looking at his watch again, impatient to get back to the thing he cared about most. And that thing wasn't her.

For the first time Ruth saw the futility of expecting someone else to solve their problems. What were the chances that someone else, even a trained someone else, could convince Ira to notice her again? They'd been having this same conversation for years and it had gotten them nowhere. She was tired of being reasonable. She'd had it with understanding.

”You know what,” she said to the two of them. ”I'm done with this.” She scooted away from Ira's familiar bulk. ”You're a nice boy,” she said to Dr. Guttman. ”I'm sure your mother's very proud. But for once my husband is right. This is a waste of time and money.”

One of Ira's bushy gray eyebrows sketched upward. She absolutely hated it when he did that.

”Mrs. Melnick,” the psychologist said. ”What exactly do you want from your husband? Maybe if you offer a specific thing you want him to do we could start from there.”

”What do I want?” she asked. ”I want some attention and some of his time. I want him to at least pretend that he wants to be with me. Not act as if I'm the lucky winner in the stayed-married sweepstakes.”

”But specifically, what can he do to demonstrate these things to you?”

Ruth thought about this one. There was no one thing she wanted. How did you quantify an amount of attention, a level of interest? She had filled her days with volunteer work, mah-jongg, and ballroom-dance cla.s.ses, which she loved and which made her feel almost like a young girl again. Next week she'd start belly dancing! She'd spent so much time at the Magnolia Ballroom that she'd come to think of Melanie Jackson as another daughter; it broke her heart how hard the poor thing was trying to put on a brave front.

Ruth looked at the psychologist and then turned to really look at her husband. Ira didn't look bad for seventy-five. He'd thickened through the middle like she had, and had lost several inches from his once-towering frame. His shoulders were no longer quite so ma.s.sive, and his hair, which had once been a thick, wavy black, was now a much spa.r.s.er iron gray. But he had a vitality about him still; the air of confidence that had initially attracted Ruth to him was still intact.

”He can come to some sessions at the Magnolia Ballroom with me. They have practice parties every Friday and Sat.u.r.day night and there's a lesson for the first hour. He could at least try one of them.”

The doctor's eyes widened in surprise. Ira's closed in exasperation.

”Do you see what I'm dealing with here?” he said to Dr. Guttman. He turned to her. ”When have you ever seen me dance, Ruth? You knew from the day you met me I wasn't a dancer. And I don't see any reason to start now.”

Ruth was tired of begging for sc.r.a.ps of attention, tired of being made to feel that everything else in his world was more important than her. ”I'm the reason, Ira,” she said. ”Me. And I don't see why this should be a problem now that you're forty again. Are you too old to learn a new trick?”

”You see?” Ira railed, looking for backup from the other male in the room. ”You see how unreasonable she is. What does the fox-trot have to do with love? How will learning to . . . cha-cha improve our marriage?”

”Well, it's obviously . . .” Dr. Guttman began.

”It's a symbol of your interest in me, you schmo,” Ruth interrupted. ”A way to spend time together. And if you can't be bothered to do that, then the specific thing I want from you is a divorce!”

A dead silence followed her p.r.o.nouncement. Ira looked completely nonplussed. Dr. Guttman looked like he might want to call his mother. Ruth was more than a little surprised herself.

”You can't be serious,” Ira said.

”Mrs. Melnick, you can't possibly want to throw away a half a century of marriage? Why don't we . . .” the doctor began again.

”No,” she said, unwilling to take anything back. No amount of talking, nagging, or counseling had made the slightest bit of difference and wasn't likely to. She wanted tangible proof of Ira's love for her. Surely that wasn't too much to ask. ”If my husband can't find the time to take an occasional dance cla.s.s with me, then I don't want to be married to him anymore.”

She turned to look Ira in the eye. For the first time she didn't see the man she'd fallen in love with over brisket at his mother's house, or the father of her children, or the years working side by side with him to build the bagel business that had taken him away from her.

Ruth stood on unsteady legs and hated that she had to wait several moments for her body to finish straightening. Ira might want to believe he was middle-aged, but she knew just how old they were.

She looked down at Ira, who was still sitting on the sofa looking like someone had just landed an unexpected punch.

”I've never been more serious in my life,” she said. ”We take some dance cla.s.ses together or I file for divorce. Betty Weinman's son is a big-time divorce lawyer. I'm sure I won't have any trouble getting an appointment with him.”

”Ruth, come on,” Ira said. ”You've had your little joke. Sit down, let's talk about this.”

”No,” she snapped. ”I'm finished talking. And this is no joke.” She walked toward the door.

”Mrs. Melnick,” Dr. Guttman said. ”This is no way to settle things. Come back and sit down. We still have ten minutes left.”

But Ruth wasn't interested in settling. She was going to have a real marriage again. Or she was going to have a divorce.

”Ira can stay and make sure he gets every penny out of the session,” she said as she swept herself up to her full five feet two. ”I'm not wasting any more of my time on a husband who doesn't appreciate my worth.”

7.

THE DRIVE FROM inside the perimeter of Highway 285 to the suburbs that sprawled around it like the spokes of a wheel took about twenty-five minutes at this time of day. By three thirty P.M. when rush hour began in earnest, the drive to the northern suburbs could stretch into what might pa.s.s for eternity.

The drive up Interstate 75 pa.s.sed largely in silence. Melanie concentrated on the zooming cars and trucks that wove around them. Vivien watched exit signs flash by and studied the occupants of the cars as they pa.s.sed. Almost everyone drove with a cell phone pressed to one ear. In some frightening cases they also texted or checked email while piloting their mult.i.ton vehicles.

When they reached her exit, Melanie slowed. A series of turns took them onto the four-laned Marietta Highway, which was also called Upper Roswell Road or simply 120. In the Atlanta area and its environs, it had apparently been decided that there was no reason to settle for one street name when you could use two or three. If the name had the word ”Peachtree” in it, so much the better.

Here, despite a recent gas crisis and an alleged fear of dependency on foreign oil, vans and SUVs of all shapes and sizes dominated. A large percentage had at least one car seat in the back, most of them occupied. Those who'd already been there and done that displayed college b.u.mper stickers on their rear windows; in many cases more than one. And almost every vehicle bore multiple decorative magnets that proclaimed the occupants' activities, possessions, and affiliations.

Reading them as they flew by, Vivien knew what schools their children attended, how many sports they played, where they vacationed, what diseases they wanted to wipe out, and who they'd voted for as well as where they wors.h.i.+pped and exactly how proud they were to be an American.

”Why does everybody have so much personal information plastered all over their SUVS?” she asked.

”Hmmm?” Melanie asked, her gaze following Vivi's finger to the Ford Expedition in front of them. It sported a cutout family that included a mother, a father, two children, and a dog. Beneath these figures were spheres for an elementary and middle school, the logo for a youth baseball team and a cheerleading megaphone as well as an ”I'd rather be playing golf ” b.u.mper sticker, a Girl Scout trefoil, and an Atlanta Lawn Tennis a.s.sociation magnet.

Melanie shrugged, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. But Vivien was already playing with the opening hook of a possible column. In the suburbs people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves; they put them on the backs of their minivans. She smiled as she fiddled with the wording, relieved. She'd thought it might take a couple of days to come up with a first topic, but they weren't even at Melanie's and she already had a solid idea.

The fall foliage might have faded, but despite a recent drought, plenty of shades of green dotted the landscape. The man-made landscape wasn't quite so impressive. Banks, gas stations, and drugstores dominated the busiest corners. Big-box retailers like the Home Depot, Target, and Wal-Mart edged up to half-empty strip centers each with its own nail salon, dry cleaner, fitness center, or cell phone store. Fast-food chains had apparently mated and reproduced.

There was plenty of everything a family might need. But nothing was as plentiful as the subdivisions they lived in. The newest of these, especially those still under construction, were fronted by signs announcing the price range of the homes inside.

”Why do they tell everybody how much the houses cost?” Vivien wondered aloud. ”Do you have to show a financial statement to look at one?”