To My Ex-Husband Page 5

  Suddenly I had to get rid of it. I didn’t want to appear to be the sort of person who didn’t take care of things any more than I wanted to appear to be the sort of person who didn’t take care of her body, who let herself go. I moved the vase of irises from the center of the mantle to the end of the mantle, where the crack was. It gave the room a casual, unself-conscious, if disturbingly asymmetrical, look.

  Then I noticed the books on the bookshelves. A couple of them were reference books that had little numbers on the bindings, books that I had never returned to my college library. Not wanting to appear sloppy or disorganized, I tossed them, along with the carpenter’s level and the hammer that I’d neglected to put away weeks before, into the chest that I’d been using to store Christmas ornaments and blankets. The little secret was safe so long as he didn’t open the chest.

  Next, I took the Linda Ronstadt record off the turntable and replaced it with The Marriage of Figaro, figuring on the strength of instinct that he was less a popular-music fan than a classical-music fan. Then, in deference to our telephone interview, I left the children’s tennis rackets plainly in view. (If he had little in common with me, he might at least, as a selling point, have something in common with them.) By the time the doorbell rang, everything that could possibly be offensive had been removed. An exception might have been made for Dickens. (I didn’t know if he was an animal person.)

  I answered the doorbell with an optimism borne of confidence. I had dressed simply but elegantly. My hair, having done nothing to betray me, bounced buoyantly like the locks in a shampoo ad. I looked as terrific as I was ever going to look, and Annie, fortunately, was not around to tell me that I could have doubled as the headmistress of a girls’ boarding school. Sid would be pleased.

  What I had neglected to consider in this whole process, despite the odds, was this: What would please me?

  The man could not have been nicer, if overly proud of his car, a red BMW convertible, which purchase I imagine was the result of a middle-aged testosterone rush. At least it hugs the road at 75 mph, which is more than I can say for my neck. I’m glad the top wasn’t down. I’d have looked like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, after her hair-raising ride with Jack Nicholson.

  We had dinner in Chinatown, where I stunned him with my voracious appetite, which he accepted graciously, even appreciatively, as “amazing.” I have to say, it’s nice to go to dinner with someone whose first words upon sitting down aren’t, “How about splitting an appetizer?”

  Nevertheless, “Emily Pomerantz” is not to be. I couldn’t say why, exactly, but there’s a sadness in his face that I sense is bone-deep. We said good night awkwardly, with a handshake. As he drove off, I wondered just what you say when you’re certain, beyond any doubt, that this will not go anywhere, ever; that your feelings do not warrant a second date. What is the best way to convey that?

  Trust Harvey to come up with the answer. “You say, ‘I’m pregnant by my father, and we’ve decided to keep the child.’”

  FEBRUARY 14

  Valentine’s Day, a day of cinnamon hearts and lace, sweets and sweethearts. I peruse the personals, searching for something that speaks to me, something singularly appropriate, like this:

  Single male—with crow’s feet, “passion handles,” and rapidly receding hairline—who has been known to get winded flossing his teeth, seeks female counterpart. If you are a self-proclaimed “true centerfold,” a “fiery brunette,” a “Dolly Parton-type blonde,” a “Vanna White lookalike” or a “warm, vital, vivacious vixen” with great legs who combines beauty and brains, or are, in any manner of speaking, a perfect “10,” you have no business answering this ad.

  Respondents should be cuddly without being well-endowed and be able to claim at least a few wrinkles and gray hairs. Nice legs acceptable; varicosities and spider vines preferred, plus a healthy supply of cellulite. You should have a nice, warm smile, but periodic periodontal difficulties are acceptable. Anyone under doctor’s orders to “keep moving” has an edge. The prescription can be used as a metaphor for life.

  FEBRUARY 15

  Nina showed up late yesterday afternoon, just as the sun was going down and taking my spirits with it. I opened the door with my customary enthusiasm, expecting to see a meter reader, and there she was, standing proudly, almost officially, like a messenger from Western Union in six inches of melting snow and smiling broadly as she extended her arm, presenting me with a gorgeous piece of heart-shaped mocha cake.

  Nina. My valentine. Women and the art of friendship.

  MARCH 4

  Is it possible to have an illicit relationship with your husband? I ask because it is a bit bizarre, running into you at parties, and having these flirtatious little moments with you, hanging around in doorways, exchanging meaningful glances over the rims of our wine glasses. If I didn’t know anything about you, I’d be intrigued. I’d go home and call Nina, tell her in weighted, breathy tones that I’d met someone.

  In fact, that sort of sexy, fifty-something woman with the gray hair, the violinist who lives in your building, asked me whether I knew you. She seemed interested. I said you were my husband. “Ohh,” she said, her eyes following you around the room as we spoke. “We’re separated,” I said.

  Her head spun back in my direction. “Really?” She was fascinated, less by you than by the fact that we were friendly enough to be at the same party. She thought there was something rather exceptional, even admirable, about that. Maybe the word she was looking for was “civilized.” No “Correspondent,” no third party, just two nice people who like each other, even love each other, but want different things and so don’t live together, but flirt—on a good day, when they’re not feeling angry or hurt.

  I said I would be intrigued. Except that I know what this is all about. We’re off-limits to each other now, and interested because of that. Are we suddenly going to be like other couples, who fall into bed when the husband comes over on Saturday to fix the garage door? I don’t know why we should be any different; I just know that I want to be. Forgive me, but I see it as so much masculine maneuvering. I can still bed her, that kind of thing. I have actually heard those words. Yes, it takes two to participate. Usually, one is vulnerable, the other horny.

  MARCH 15

  About my birthday. I was touched that you called to ask whether I’d had a nice time. It was truly one of those occasions that filled me with a sense of being lucky, and rich. I find my friends more reassuring than anything I can name, not because they say sweet and flattering things to me, but because they don’t. They’re absolutely straight—and generous and funny and kind. Harvey made me the most exquisite garland of wildflowers and grasses. All night, I wore my garland and drank champagne and felt like a vision from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I felt secure and safe and loved. It was hard to leave. The party was a reminder that, in spite of much evidence to the contrary, I am capable of doing something right. I have chosen these people to be my friends.

  On the way home, my car loaded with the little treasures that only people who know you well would think of, I thought of you. I wanted you to have what I have, wished you had had the time, or taken the time, to cultivate more close friendships. I’m alone, but I’m not lonely. It seems to me that you are lonely, and that is the difference between the lives we are making for ourselves. It’s a difference that hurts me. It’s not what I want for you, and though it isn’t for me to say, I don’t think it’s what you want for yourself, either. And yet the decisions you make set you apart, and alone. Years ago, Harvey told me people really do get what they want. A simple, truthful statement on the surface. I’m still trying to understand how it works.

  p.s. The other night when I stopped by with some of your books, I noticed an envelope on your desk. The handwriting was unmistakable: You’d had a letter from Esther. I didn’t bother to mention it at the time, but I’d been wondering about Esther. I sent her a book for Christmas, but never heard anything from her. Now I know why. She’s your friend,
I mean that’s the way it seems to have divided up. I got Nina and Stephen and Harvey and June. You got Esther. That’s nice, I thought. I can afford to let go of Esther. It isn’t that I won’t miss her; I will. I’d miss her just for the books. She always found the greatest books, slightly bizarre, the characters on some kind of an edge, like Housekeeping. For some reason, I could never get into the last few that she has sent us, the Annie Dillard, for instance, or the Isak Dinesen. Ask her how she liked the Fay Weldon book I sent, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil.

  APRIL 5

  How long did you think it would be before Nancy would say something? A secret of that magnitude, and you confided in Nancy, a.k.a. Gossip Central, before you told me. The woman is a walking bumper sticker. All I had to do was mention that I’d noticed when I went to your apartment that you’d had a letter from Esther. “I think it’s really nice that Nick is corresponding with Esther,” was what I said.

  Nancy leapt at the opening. “Well,” she said. “You’ll have to ask Nick about Esther.”

  So I took her up on it. And now I know about Esther. But it was Nancy’s moment in the sun, all right. She basked like a snake on a riverbank, her tongue flicking at the opportunity as though it were a fly.

  As the messenger, Nancy’s an easy target. Nancy, my former best friend, Nancy, who disguised her essential misery with her immense charm. She never forgave me for not being fat.

  I shouldn’t pick on Nancy. It’s just that I don’t even know where to begin. I suppose I should be sitting here trying to figure out why, trying to understand, to make sense. Why has this happened? What did I do?

  Isn’t that what women do? In the end, they blame themselves. Somewhere I read that—that women see themselves as the cause when things go wrong, whereas men blame something external, some other person, a malady, an ulterior motive, the weather.

  But right now I’m not interested in any of that. It’s after 4 A.M. I can’t sleep, can’t imagine sleeping ever again, and I don’t care about blame, or if blame is even an appropriate issue. All I want to know is, what was it like with you and Esther? What did you do to her, what did she do to you? If you’d kissed Esther, if you’d held her close, that knowledge would be enough; but that you traveled inside her body, straight into forbidden territory, makes my stomach turn.

  Some would say I’m punishing myself, trying to visualize all this. But I want to know, I really do. Does she like the same things I like? Is she anything like me? My husband leaves me after twenty years and doesn’t, until many months later, tell me the whole truth, doesn’t tell me he was in love with someone else, had been for two years, had a secret agenda. He isn’t the man I know, he’s some other man.

  You can’t imagine how disorienting this is. If I could have named a single quality of the man I married, the person who has been at the center of my life for two decades, that word would be “integrity.” Even in the tiniest ways, you were someone who never compromised himself. You had that core of wholeness that could not be cracked or chipped. A truly solid man. You were capable of being boring, stubborn, compulsive, irritating, judgmental, oblivious, and, occasionally, of having bad breath. But a word like “dishonest” could not possibly have applied. That integrity was your draw. It was the thing that made me the most secure, the thing I could depend on. Some women compensate for their own insecurities by marrying money, someone warm and loving, perhaps, but prosperous absolutely.

  I married you because I knew, with a certainty that I’d have bet my life on, that you could be trusted. I married you because you were not like me. I was whimsical and impulsive and given to waves of elation and despair. I might fly away and self-destruct. You would keep me grounded.

  This feels like a rape; the betrayal is that profound. It really would have been so much better if you had died. I heard a woman express that very sentiment once at a dinner party. “It’s always best when your first husband dies,” she said, stabbing a smoked oyster with a toothpick. It was delivered as a simple statement of fact, and I accepted it with a single knowing bark of a laugh. Certainly I had wished as much for my mother’s sake. When, more than ten years later, he did die, it was too late. So much of her had already been trampled to death.

  Now I see why, among other things, I seemed “just fine,” as everybody said. Nina told me that it was amazing, I was going through all this stuff, but that I looked better than ever. True, I’d managed to have good days, but there had been some bad ones, too. I was on a roller coaster that I learned to let take me whichever way it was going. And yet, beyond it all lay a challenge, an enticement that I couldn’t identify, some sparkling pool of untested water collecting on the horizon, like a diamond in time. A day might come when I would grab it and run.

  And now this pain, searing and endless. There’s nothing else like it. I keep thinking, It could be worse. Peter or Annie could have died.

  My reality has been turned upside down. How could I have been so out of it? The lecture tours, the stopovers in Denver. What about the times Esther visited us? How did you stand my presence—by praying that I would fall backward down the cellar stairs?

  I picture you two tearing across the room, flying into each other’s arms every time I went off to the bathroom or to turn the chicken. Ninety seconds here, two and a half minutes there. The image is almost comical. Scramble, scramble, kiss, kiss and then, quick! Here she comes!

  How does the busiest man in America have time to leave his studio? Or did you walk out on your students? Why wasn’t it some stringy-haired postgraduate groupie, or a model from a life drawing class, some faceless female I couldn’t appreciate your interest in? It’s a bit ironic, all those times we played the Who-would-you-marry-if-I-died? game. Somehow, there’s very little satisfaction in knowing that I always had it exactly right.

  Where did you go when she was here, whose apartment? A hotel? One of those tasteful places with gold faucets and a hundred-and-fifty percent occupancy? If you weren’t the busiest man in America, you were the poorest. See how you’ve managed to overcome the two revolving reasons why we could never do anything. Emily, please. I have to work. Emily, please. We don’t have any money. Isn’t it amazing, the obstacles you can overcome, obstacles as insurmountable as time and money, when you’re in love?

  When I’m not thinking about this, I’m thinking about how stupid I feel. Or maybe it’s naiveté. Whatever it is, I seem to have raised it to an art form. I always was that way. Even as late as college, when other girls were saying things like, “He only wants her for one thing,” I thought, what? What’s the one thing? People tried to explain it to me, and I still didn’t get it. “Why,” I said, “would anyone want to do that with someone he didn’t like?”

  This morning I saw Dr. Bloom on what you could call an emergency basis. He just looked at me and, in that voice that’s so soft, so smooth, it’s as if he’s swallowed 3-in-One oil, said, “Nick’s behavior makes a lot more sense to me now.”

  I love that voice, am hypnotized by it. But without even realizing it, I’ve come to associate it with bombs falling. The smoother the voice, the more terrible the discovery. My body prepares; it knows. My chest heaves, moisture oozes through my skin. My hands fly up in front of my face to break the fall. Please. I don’t want to know.

  I recall that voice speaking to me last June, when I told him that you’d gone to bed one steamy night with your jockstrap on. It didn’t matter that I wanted you to take it off. “You’re going to sleep with that on?”

  I got the same weary response that I always got when I wanted something. Emily, I’m tired. Emily, I just want to go to sleep.

  Sleep, with these poor, pink little buttocks bound in a veritable highway system of thick, sweaty gray elastic. “It has to be,” I told Dr. Bloom, “one of the ugliest articles of clothing known to man.”

  He laughed. He’s not above letting me have fun with a story. Then he looked at me solemnly and said, in his 3-in-One voice, “I think that something is bothering Nick.”

  I
keep thinking about that night at Isabel’s. I wish I’d known it at the time. I wish I’d known that of all those women, I had the best story of all.

  APRIL 9

  Nina has spared me. She refrained from saying, “I told you so.” What she said instead was, “On some level, I knew it all along.” It was that “on some level” that I was grateful for. What I thought she meant, of course, was that she knew there had to be someone. She knew there had to be more to your leaving than just, “We want different things.” But it was worse than that. She knew all along that it was Esther.

  Funny how you lock something in your mind without knowing why, a single word spoken in a certain way, a mood, a facial expression. The shutter clicks, and there it is, forever. I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday, a sweltering August weekend that Esther came for a visit. I’m not even sure what year it was, just that it was unbearably hot. She had just arrived, and was standing in the dining room. She had a book, something by Susan Sontag, and she was telling you about it—and it was clear that she was talking to you, as if I weren’t even in the room. I remember the look, an unmistakable look, lovely and exclusionary. It was a look of love.

  There was a shy, breathless air about Esther at that moment, no doubt because she had just arrived, and there you were, right in front of her, literally taking her breath away. I even remember the way she stood, her left knee bent, her foot lifting ever so slightly off the floor. She was tense, excited, her rotten little toes curling in her shoe.

  “Some of this is very difficult,” she said, opening the book and turning to the place she had in mind.