The Breakup

by Debra Kent

I’ve appropriated half the basement for a small office and I consider this a good sign: I’m considering starting a private practice from the house! I bought an iMac, printer, scanner, and small computer desk, a cordless phone, halogen lamp, and a clock radio. I checked the classifieds and found a used copy machine for only seventy-five bucks! The woman who sold it to me—the office manager at A-1 Realty—assured me it worked perfectly. Roger was poised to give me grief about spending the money, but I dead-panned that I wanted to work from home “so I can be closer to you, my darling.” He squinted at me suspiciously but kept his mouth shut.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 22

  I’ve spent the last few days trying to get in touch with my inner Martha. I’ve finished decorating the tree, hung the lights, made Christmas lanterns from gourds, created an enormous fresh fir wreath for the front door, scrubbed out the parakeet’s cage, reorganized the pantry, pulled out my old sewing machine, and made Pete a big red sock to hang over the fireplace.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 27

  Roger has made it clear that he wants to have sex tonight. He arranged for Petey to have a sleep over. He announced that he’s making grilled salmon and fresh bread and my favorite salad (spinach, chilled asparagus, goat cheese, and raspberry vinaigrette). He cleaned the house. This is Roger at his most romantic. I couldn’t be less interested. What the hell am I going to do?

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 27, continued

  As I’d expected, Roger had orchestrated the entire evening as a prelude to sex. He came up behind me as I rinsed dishes in the sink, and I felt nothing but revulsion and an urge to squirt dishwashing liquid in his eyes. But I lolled my head back and let him press against me. He plunged his hands into the soapy water, resting them over mine as I sponged the dishes, and it reminded me of that sexy scene in Ghost where Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore play with the clay on the pottery wheel. Except that Roger wasn’t Patrick Swayze, I wasn’t Demi Moore, we weren’t in love, and it didn’t feel sexy, but wet and disgusting. I stared at the bits of asparagus and gray salmon skin floating in the water and felt dinner inch its way back up my esophagus. I tried not to gag as Roger kissed the nape of my neck.

  While Roger licked my neck, I pictured the condo on Lake Merle. It was probably one of those woodsy developments, pretty cedar units nestled into the trees. I bitterly remembered the times I’d suggested buying a summer place on Lake Merle. I thought it would be the ideal weekend retreat. I wanted to get a little boat and teach Pete to sail. “Buy a place an hour away from home? What kind of vacation is that?” he’d sneer. “Besides, the lake’s polluted anyway. PCBs. That factory in Windsor.” All that time, he owned a condo right there on the supposedly polluted lake. A condo we could have enjoyed as a family. I wanted to scream.

  Roger pulled my hands out of the water and patted them gently with the dish towel and raised them to his mouth. “This can wait,” he said, sucking my fingers, one by one. “Let’s go upstairs.” As he led me up the steps, my mind desperately searched for a plausible excuse. I could say I had a stomach flu, or a migraine. But then he might suspect something. Roger knew I was usually ready for sex. Even when I was mad at him for coming home late, or coming home drunk—even in the midst of the Alyssa affair—I’d rarely pass up an opportunity to have sex. I’d never understood women who wouldn’t have sex unless everything was absolutely perfect: They had to be happy. They had to be in love. They had to be in the mood. They had to be romanced. Sex wasn’t about sex, it was about emotional attachment. Two hearts beating as one. As far as I was concerned, love and romance were nice but not necessary. Sex was a biological function, a release, an explosion of pleasure. As soon as you start putting conditions on sex, as soon as you start intellectualizing it, you’ve ruined it.

  Tonight my philosophy was put to the test. First came the strawberry massage oil. He licked me from my toes to my eyelids, spending a good ten minutes in between—utterly nauseating. When he finally began thrusting inside me, I felt nothing but rage. I clawed his back and bit his shoulder, which he naturally interpreted as animal lust. “Oooh, baby,” he groaned. “You’re wild tonight.” He never knew it was hate, not lust, that made me want to tear his flesh away. When he climaxed, I started to sob. He stayed inside me and whispered, “Oh, sweetheart.” He rolled off me and reached for my hand. “That was incredible.” He kissed my hand. “You are incredible, you know that? A beast!”

  “No, Roger, you’re the beast,” I told him.

  “I guess I am. But you inspire me.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “You know, I think this was like a new beginning for us, don’t you?” I made some kind of noncommittal noise—hmmm—and he went on. “We can put everything behind us. Just sweep it out the door. Start fresh. New year, new marriage!” I made more vague noises. I knew if I waited long enough, he’d fall asleep. In three minutes Roger was snoring like an asthmatic pig. I slid out of bed and used Pete’s bathroom to shower off his stink. Then I went downstairs to watch CNN.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 28

  Roger wanted to have sex again this morning but Pete came home early so Roger went shopping for more clothes. In the meantime, I attacked the file cabinets in the basement but found nothing useful. Pete had a friend over, a neighborhood boy with the cruelly incongruous name Hunter. Despite the macho appellation, the child is afraid of everything, including the parakeet. Pete pulled out his Pokémon cards, Wishbone videos, puzzles, checkers, Lincoln Logs—anything to engage this child. The boy was an amoeba! He wouldn’t play with anything, I invited Hunter only so Pete could have someone to distract him while I searched Roger’s files. I felt guilty. They would have more fun if I’d taken the time to guide them. When Pete went over to Hunter’s house, he always returned home with some crafty little thing. They made picture frames out of twigs and twine, Christmas trees from pine cones. Hunter’s mother, Lynette Kohl-Chase, created topiaries and elaborate family scrapbooks and mosaic bird baths. She had hand-painted all the tiles in her kitchen, thirty-eight of which were decorated with farm animals in a kind of French provincial style she copied detail for detail from a home decorating magazine.

  She made me want to retch.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 29

  Since I neglected Petey yesterday, I made it up to him tonight by playing something like seventy-two rounds of Candy Land before bed. Eventually I had to stack the deck just to end the game; I made sure Petey had Snowflake Queen Frostine and prayed neither of us would get stuck in Molasses Swamp or lost in Lollipop Woods. After I’d finally gotten Pete settled for the night, I accidentally stepped on the game box and flattened it, and Pete started screaming and hurling his pillows to the floor. I know he was over-tired and probably pissed off at Hunter, but the tantrum scared me. I’d never seen him so angry over something so minor. Now I’ve got to tape up the corners of the box, and I have no idea where I put the masking tape. My house is a friggin’ mess. Oh, crap.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  December 30

  Still on Prozac, still no change, except for a weird taste in my mouth, and a slightly nauseous feeling— which actually isn’t such a bad thing if it helps me lose weight. I know that some people gain weight on this medication. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones who actually loses a few pounds!

  Martha Stewart be damned, I ordered pizza for dinner. Too tired to cook. Ran out to my parents’ house. Pete wanted to come, but I made him stay home with Roger. I don’t think either of my parents could handle having him tearing around the house right now.

  Started hunting for the gold bullions while Roger was asleep. Poked around behind some ceiling tiles in the basement. Nada.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 4

  I am going to hire Omar’s investigator. I am sick of playing Sherlock
. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  I called the number Omar had given me. L.T. Investigative Services. I pictured a paunchy guy in a short-sleeved dress shirt. L.T. turned out to be Libby Taylor. She sounded young enough to be one of my baby-sitters. At first she said she couldn’t see me until next week, and my heart sank, but her secretary Dave mentioned a last-minute cancellation. She asked if I could be there in twenty minutes. Her office was on the south side of town. I knew a shortcut. I made it in a ten.

  Libby Taylor, P.I., looked only a little older than she’d sounded. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a bright red Old Navy sweatshirt. She was shorter than me. She had the kind of naturally curly hair that needed nothing more than a quick toweldry in the morning, and features that required no cosmetic enhancement. Clear skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, small bow lips. Libby offered me a cup of green tea and a chocolate chip cookie. I felt comfortable with her but her youth made me nervous.

  Libby saw me eyeing her diploma, a law degree from Yale. “Both my parents are lawyers, and, frankly, they’re both miserable, whether or not they’re willing to admit it,” she said. She bit into a cookie. “I always wanted to be an investigator. I’m good at it, and I enjoy it. Studying law wasn’t a total waste. Comes in handy on the job. And people seem to be impressed by the diploma.” She seems to have a good track record. She gets steady referrals from the top six corporate and family law firms in the state. She’s worked on everything from extramarital affairs to insurance fraud, but her specialty is digging up buried assets.

  “How do you feel about digging up buried gold?” I asked her.

  She laughed. “Aye-aye-matey. If you’ve got the treasure map, I’ll bring the shovel. But I’m afraid I don’t have a parrot.”

  “No, I’m serious. I have reason to believe that my husband has gold hidden somewhere in the house. Bullions.”

  “Then we’ll find it.” Libby wasn’t smiling anymore. I told her about Roger’s affair with Alyssa, about Diana’s allegations, about the hidden file I’d found in the basement. Libby listened attentively, asked a few pointed questions, and typed notes into a laptop. Her young face was compassionate, earnest. “Your husband did you wrong, Ms. Ryan. And I have no intention of letting him off the hook.” She stood up, a signal that our meeting was over. “I’ll send you a letter with a game plan and my fee schedule. Take a day to look it over, and we’ll talk again.” She extended her small hand and gripped mine confidently. “I’m so glad you chose to speak with me.”

  On the way out I met Dave the secretary, who must have been in the bathroom when I’d arrived. He was a magnificent creature in a body-hugging black ribbed sweater and snug black jeans. “Have a great day, ma’am,” he called out. How I hated that word. I don’t care if it’s supposed to be a sign of respect. It was dowdy as a housedress and I refused to wear it.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 5

  I went online and ordered this special cream designed to plump up lips. I read all about it in one of those celebrity style magazines. Apparently all these beautiful actresses use it to keep their lips looking young and juicy. It was forty dollars for a tube the size of a Polly Pocket but it’ll be worth every penny if it works.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 9

  My new computer is too slow. And I think the lady at A-1 Realty lied to me. The copy machine doesn’t work.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 10

  I got two estimates to repair the copier. Lakeland Office Supply said it would cost $280. Executive Business Machines would fix it for $295.50. That’s like four times more than I paid for the machine. Then I remembered Kevin, the sweet guy who handled most of the repairs at my old workplace—he fixed fax machines, copiers, computers, you name it. He even fixed one of the toilets after someone (I say it was my former boss Cadence) tried to flush down a sanitary napkin. Kevin is fast and cheap and he guarantees his work. He’s rather cute in a scholarly way, as I recall. But how would I locate him? I never knew his last name. He was always Kevin-the-repair-guy.

  I phoned Filomena, the receptionist at the Center, who told me in her characteristically world-weary way that she had been promoted to office manager. She gave me Kevin’s number and I wished her well. It wasn’t until after I hung up that I realized my hands were shaking. Calling the Center was like making contact with a ghost. Or, more accurately, making contact with the living. Filomena was in a world of movement, growth, and adult conversation, a world of elevators and proposals and new clients and business lunches. I was the dead one now.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 11

  The lip-plumping cream arrived today! It smells like oranges and coconut. I can feel it working already!

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 12

  Now I feel really guilty. Petey begged me to invite over Hunter-the-Blob again. I dialed the number and handed Pete the phone; I wanted to avoid talking to the ever perky Lynette, didn’t want to hear how she was sponge-painting the basement. After a few moments, Pete waved the receiver at me. “Hunter’s mom wants to talk to you.”

  I took the phone from Petey and tried to sound cheerful. “Hi, Lynette,” I said, fake-breezily. “I guess the boys are cooking up a plan, huh?”

  “I don’t think this is going to work,” she said. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically tight. Something was wrong.

  “Oh?” I said, trying to stay calm. “Why not?”

  “Valerie, I’ll be honest. Whenever Hunter comes back from your house, well, he’s always a little offthe-wall. Do you know what I mean?”

  I pictured Hunger vegetating on my sofa. Is that what passes for off-the-wall in the Kohl-Chase household? “Really? Tell me more,” I said, trying to sound like the caring-yet-detached therapist I used to be, instead of the hysterical, guilt-stricken mother I am now.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Valerie, but it’s my impression that the boys just aren’t properly supervised.” I bit my lip and waited. “Did you know, for instance, that they played with matches in your backyard last week?”

  “What? No! Of course I didn’t know! Are you sure?” I knew she was sure. Lynette Kohl-Chase was always sure.

  “Apparently they were trying to build a campfire.” She paused. “And did you know they tried to carve boats out of Ivory soap using steak knives?” I suddenly remembered seeing scraps of soap on the kitchen floor. I hadn’t given it a second thought— just another piece of crap on my floor, what else was new? Now I felt like disemboweling myself. Pete goes to her house, and they build gingerbread houses. Hunter comes here, and they play with steak knives and matches. What could I say? I was a horrible, neglectful, pitiful excuse for a mother and we both knew it.

  “No offense,” Lynette went on, “but I think it’s best if Hunter stays home today.” She paused. “Of course, Pete is always welcome here. In fact, we’re building an igloo on the deck if he’s interested.”

  I wanted to say, Oh shut the hell up, Mrs. Perfect-Mother-and-Homemaker-Who-Makes-Me-Want-to-Hurl-My-Guts-Out. Instead I told her Pete would rather stay here. “We’re making double-chocolate brownies,” I lied. “From scratch. Pete’s favorite.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” Lynette chirped. “Maybe some other time.” I’m sure she knew I was lying. I’m sure of it.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 13

  I woke up this morning with a rash around my mouth. It looks like I have a mustache of red pimples. It itches, and it’s hideous, and I feel like crying. I guess my new lip plumper worked, though tumescent is probably a better word to describe what has happened to the lower part of my face.

  As I sit here with hydrocortizone cream slathered all over my face, I’m thinking about what it will be like to be single and alone again, and I’m afraid. The trauma of Roger’s infidelity has left me feeling battered and
shaky. I feel so unsure of myself, my worth, my looks. I don’t know if I have the stamina to put myself “on the market.” Years without love have made me feel unlovable. While I cognitively understand that Roger is a sick bastard, at the visceral level, I can’t help but believe I deserved him. I am plagued by the fear that I’m literally incapable of choosing a good man, or that no good man would want me. In darker moments, I convince myself that no normal man would want a woman my age whose body has born a child, whose belly is striped with faded stretch marks, and whose breasts sag like water balloons. It’s like the real estate market in the suburbs. Why would anyone want to buy one of the 1960s bi-levels when they can get a shiny, new house in a shiny, new subdivision? The old houses sit on the market like relics from another age.

  There’s Eddie, I guess. But he’s not exactly the marrying kind, and not just because he’s already married. Eddie is my first affair, my secret sin, my coconspirator. One day he will be my former lover, but he can never be my future second husband.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 14

  It’s 5 A.M. and I’m sitting here wondering how I missed the clues. Why hadn’t I paid attention? Why hadn’t I picked up on the signs? Before Roger and I got married, I struggled with a cancerous jealousy. But I desperately wanted to be a trusting wife. In therapy, I learned to view my suspicions as infantile impulses, irrational longings that had more to do with childhood wounds than my fiancé’s wandering eye. Instead of stiffening when Roger mentioned a woman’s name, I eventually learned to relax. I welcomed many of those women into my home, served them dinner, laughed with them, trusted them. I was such a sucker!