would
confront the accuser.
My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one
to hold me and tell me I’d be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was.
Ryan had told me it was none of my business.
Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were
far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.
Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid
coming off a tantrum. I’d accomplished nothing and felt drained.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone
messages.
Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry,
calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and
Ted were leaving for London?
Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I
decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.
Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though
it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a
makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy’s soccer years. The house is painted,
the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond
normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no
obligation to protect area real estate values.
I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me
of that.
A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the
drive.
When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”
“Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.
The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its
mouth.
I circled to the front and rang. No response.
I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn’t use
it.
Though we’d been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still
stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an
intimacy I didn’t want to imply.
But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I
wanted my cat.
I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.
“Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete,
surveying me from top to bottom.
I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I’d donned for the morgue at
six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.
“I thought you’d be at work.”
I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a
quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I’d die of humiliation.
“Why aren’t you at work?”
He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close,
as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”
I didn’t want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It
would call in an expert.
“I came for Birdie.”
“I think he’s free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my
great-aunt’s chandelier.
“How about a drink?”
I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many
of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.
“You know what I mean.”
“A Diet Coke would be nice.”
While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up
the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.
Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms,
reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We’d nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to
adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I’d watch the
honeysuckle come and go through the “window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those
had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and
confront the accuser.
My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one
to hold me and tell me I’d be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was.
Ryan had told me it was none of my business.
Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were
far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.
Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid
coming off a tantrum. I’d accomplished nothing and felt drained.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone
messages.
Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry,
calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and
Ted were leaving for London?
Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I
decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.
Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though
it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a
makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy’s soccer years. The house is painted,
the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond
normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no
obligation to protect area real estate values.
I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me
of that.
A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the
drive.
When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”
“Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.
The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its
mouth.
I circled to the front and rang. No response.
I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn’t use
it.
Though we’d been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still
stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an
intimacy I didn’t want to imply.
But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I
wanted my cat.
I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.
“Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete,
surveying me from top to bottom.
I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I’d donned for the morgue at
six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.
“I thought you’d be at work.”
I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a
quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I’d die of humiliation.
“Why aren’t you at work?”
He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close,
as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”
I didn’t want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It
would call in an expert.
“I came for Birdie.”
“I think he’s free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my
great-aunt’s chandelier.
“How about a drink?”
I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many
of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.
“You know what I mean.”
“A Diet Coke would be nice.”
While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up
the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.
Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms,
reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We’d nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to
adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I’d watch the
honeysuckle come and go through the “window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those
had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and
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