The Breakup

by Debra Kent

  I suppose that Roger’s sudden interest in expensive clothes was one sign, though I didn’t realize it at the time. And the introduction of new sexual positions. Then there was the female rapper sex music— once I borrowed his van and when I turned the key in the ignition, hip-hop music boomed at full blast: “I like it hard and thick and I like to lick/I like it in my butt and I like to strut . . .” At first I thought it was the radio, then I realized it was a CD. I found the case under the seat. It showed three busty girls in sequinned thongs. I couldn’t believe Roger was listening to this kind of music. He thought Snoop Doggy Dog was a cartoon character. I guess I should have paid attention.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 15

  In my ongoing effort to appear normal, I agreed to go with Roger to Starbucks last night, to meet Wade and Melanie Rosen, a couple I’ve known for years and always enjoy, but rarely see since they started raising race horses two years ago. Wade is a lovable panda, and Mel has a bizarre sense of humor—she once joked about starting a company that did theme funerals. “You know, we could do a luau funeral. Or a Mexican fiesta funeral. Our slogan would be, ‘We put the fun in funerals.’ Get it?”

  After eleven (childless, I feel compelled to point out) years of marriage, Mel and Wade are still wildly in love. If I didn’t like them so much, I’d hate them. In fact, I might kill them. After I killed Lynette Kohl-Chase. “Hey! Have you checked out Paradise Suites?” Mel asked, dipping a tongue into her latte. My throat tightened. As far as the Rosens were concerned, Roger and I were stable and happy, and I wasn’t about to disabuse them of that notion.

  “No! Tell us!” I said, faking interest. This couple’s vigorous sex life was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

  “Oh! You guys! You’ve got to try this place,” Wade chimed in. He was stroking his wife’s curly brown hair. “Mirrors everywhere. Free dirty movies. And a hot tub to die for. Shaped like a heart.”

  “So’s the bed. A great big heart!” Melanie exclaimed. “What a weekend! I think I lost ten pounds from all the exercise!”

  Wade ran a hand over his wife’s plump belly. “You’re gorgeous, with or without the ten pounds.”

  Melanie tittered. “I may be chubby, but I can sure please my hubby!” The next thing you know, they’re making out. I wanted to cry. Here I am, sitting there with my future former husband, while this sweet, rotund, deliriously happy couple necked like teenagers. They weren’t just lovers, they were best friends. I pictured them sitting on twin rocking chairs on the nursing home porch. She was his little hotsy-totsy. I WANTED TO BE SOMEONE’S HOTSY TOTSY, DAMN IT! Wade grabbed his wife’s cheek and said, “Isn’t she a doll? Don’t you want to eat her up?”

  “Actually, we should probably leave that task to you, Wade,” Roger said, droll as ever. I despised him.

  As we were leaving I thought I saw someone watching me from the corner table. Ben Murphy. He smiled brightly and waved. I waved back, perhaps a bit too wistfully. Then I felt something slide down my pant leg. I looked down. It was black, it was soft. At first I thought, absurdly, Oh! It’s a black kitten. A black kitten was hiding in my pants leg! Then I realized it wasn’t a kitten, it was my bunched-up black underwear, the underwear I wore yesterday, the underwear I forgot to disengage from my pants when I put them on again this morning. I quickly scooped up the panties and shoved them in my bag. Ben didn’t notice. Wade and Melanie didn’t notice. But Roger noticed. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, “You poor, pathetic slob.” And even if he wasn’t thinking it, I was.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 16

  The Prozac must finally be taking effect, because I’m feeling strangely detached from everyone and everything. When I returned home from the health club last night, I found Roger watching the basketball game. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and Pete— who should have been in bed—was sitting on the kitchen floor in his Pokémon underwear eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box.

  This in itself is nothing new. Once basketball season commences, everything else can go to hell as far as Roger’s concerned. What is new: I didn’t really care! Sure, it all registered when I walked in: Pete. Awake. Underwear. Cocoa Puffs. The thing is, I didn’t feel anything, as if I’d been anesthetized, which sounds unpleasant, but is exactly what I’ve needed. For once, I had no interest in arguing with Roger. I just led Pete upstairs, tucked him in, jumped into the shower, and went to bed.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 17

  Libby Taylor’s letter came this morning. Her fee is $250 a day. She said she’d have the job completed in ten to twelve business days. She wanted $500 now, and the balance after she turned in her report. I called and gave her the go-ahead. Now comes the hard part. Waiting.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 18

  Yay! Keven is a genius. He fixed my copy machine. Total cost: sixty-five dollars and he threw in an extra toner cartridge. He also told me he could upgrade my computer so it would run programs like Napster. I invited him to stay for a cup of coffee and he agreed without hesitation. I hinted at the deteriorating state of my marriage, and he admitted to a string of unhappy relationships with women. I noticed he was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. I probed a little and found out that he dropped out of Michigan in his senior year—he was a philosophy major—and never finished his degree. He wouldn’t say why. He’d always had a knack for building and fixing things, so he went into business for himself. “I still read philosophy,” he said mildly. I refilled his cup. “It’s a hobby, I guess.” I noticed that his eyes were the loveliest hue, a golden brown, like amber. I thought I could lose myself in those eyes. It was so nice to have a man in the house.

  As we spoke, amidst his high-tech clutter, with the sunlight streaming through the blinds, I watched his smooth hands circle the coffee cup. He seemed like a man with secrets, a man who nursed some deep and tragic wound, and while this should have repelled me, I found it intensely attractive. I wondered what his secret might be.

  Eddie called to insist that there’s no reason to wait for Libby’s report. He wants to come over and help me search the house. Pete has a Tiger Cub pow-wow this weekend at Wesley Woods, and Roger is supposedly attending a writers’ retreat. I told Eddie he could stop by Saturday, around noon. I suspect he has more on his mind than gold.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 21

  Eddie and I spent all afternoon and most of the evening searching for Roger’s hidden stash of gold bullions. We removed the ceiling tiles in the basement: nothing. Using a metal detector and stud finder, we scanned the drywall and floorboards: nothing. We looked behind the circuit breaker box in the garage: nothing. We pawed through every drawer in every dresser and cabinet in the house, through every box in the basement and garage, through every shelf and shoebox in every closet. No gold. I’m beginning to suspect Diana fabricated everything.

  I did, however, find the missing Austrian crystal necklace my father gave me on my sixteenth birthday, my Miles Davis CD, the power drill chuck key, a Norton Utilities disk, Pete’s preschool class picture, and my favorite leather gloves. We also found Roger’s stack of Hustler magazines. Six years’ worth. If these had been my husband’s only deep, dark secret, I would have been stunned. But compared to everything else I now know about the man, I just shook my head and laughed.

  As I write this, Eddie is sleeping on the couch. Despite my recent exhortations on the joys of unencumbered sex, I wasn’t in the mood tonight. I should be able to screw with impunity now. I’ve got nothing to lose. But I couldn’t locate even the tendrils of arousal. Maybe it’s the Prozac, or maybe it’s the fact that Eddie started to look a bit too comfortable in my house, walking around in his underwear and drinking orange juice straight from the carton. He seemed settled. I wanted him to go away. When he started tugging at my clothes, I suggested he go back to his wife.

  �
��I can’t,” he said. “I’m supposed to be in Chicago. At a convention.”

  “Plant guys have conventions?”

  Then the phone rang. “Put my husband on,” said the voice on the other end. I froze. “Look, I know he’s there. Just put him on.”

  What was I supposed to tell her? That her husband couldn’t come to the phone because he was busy convincing me to go to bed with him? “I’m sorry. Who’s this?” I said, stalling. I could hear kids shrieking in the background.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Mrs. Ryan,” she snarled. “I saw his truck in your driveway, okay? Now put my husband on the phone.” She was talking loud enough for Eddie to hear. He pantomimed wildly: No. I’m not here. Tell her I’m not here.

  I hung up on her. Then I pulled the phone off the cradle and listened as the dial tone changed to a nagging beep and then to a grating alert signal, and then, mercifully, to silence.

  Eddie walked his fingers up my arm, and along my chest. “Come on, Val.” He winked at me. “We could always make believe we’re in Chicago at a convention. I’ll be the horny conventioneer and you can be room service.” Eddie looked warm and delectably rumpled in his flannel boxers; a quick romp on the couch could have been a welcome distraction. He pulled me toward him and kissed me on the mouth, lightly at first, then harder. His hand tightly clenched the back of my neck. I tried to pull away but he held on more tightly. I was having trouble breathing. “Let up a little,” I whispered. “No,” he grunted. Now he had me against the wall. It scared me. I had a sudden recollection of the time I’d impulsively adopted a sleek, stray German Shepherd from the pound. Alone with the dog in my empty apartment, I saw a surliness in his eyes, a look I hadn’t noticed when I’d picked him out. I slept with my bedroom door locked that night and returned him to the pound the following day.

  “I guess you’re not in the mood,” Eddie said finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And there, in Eddie’s eyes, I saw that same surliness.

  “It’s been a hell of a day, Eddie,” I told him. “I’m sure you understand.” I heard my voice quaver.

  He shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the TV remote. “Whatever.”

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 22

  Eddie was gone by the time I woke up, and I knew it was over between us. I’m relieved. Happy, actually. Is that me or the Prozac? Is there even a distinction between the two anymore?

  When I went to retrieve Pete at Wesley Woods, I found him sitting on his duffel bag outside the cabin. His right hand was wrapped in bandages. It looked like a big white lollipop. Apparently he’d scalded himself on a hot metal pot. After that, he couldn’t do much of anything for the rest of the weekend.

  I went into the cabin in search of someone in authority. I found Lynette Kohl-Chase, who just happens to be the new assistant cubmaster. She was in full Cub Scout regalia, the dull khaki shirt and plaid neckerchief knotted tightly at her throat, the navy blue cap and matching navy pants, the kind bus drivers wear.

  “Why didn’t you try to reach me?” I demanded.

  “We did,” Lynette answered, scanning her clipboard. “At 7:00, at 7:03, at 7:05, at 7:07, at 7:10. The line was busy.” She looked at me. “Troop regulations require us to keep a log of all emergency phone calls, and believe me, this was an emergency. Pete was in agony. We continued to try you all night.”

  I almost collapsed when I remembered that I’d taken the phone off the hook after Eddie’s wife called. I can’t begin to describe the guilt and heartbreak I felt then, and still feel. “Poor sweetheart,” she continued. “We made s’mores. He could barely pick them up with his bandaged hand.” I looked into Lynette’s clean, earnest face. I wanted to strangle her with that stupid plaid neckerchief.

  I buckled Pete into the Jeep and popped in the Annie sound track, hoping to lighten the mood. He glared at me in the rearview mirror. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” he asked.

  I wanted to cry. “Oh, honey, I didn’t know you were trying to call me. I accidentally knocked the phone off the hook. It was off the hook all night. I’m so sorry.”

  He just stared out the window. I wanted to stamp it across my forehead: World’s Worst Mother. Pete’s face was stern, like an old man’s. At that moment I sent up a promise to God, a promise to live a cleaner, purer life. I made a mental note to call Reverend Lee.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 23

  Roger called to say he has extended his stay at the writers’ retreat. He won’t get back until Saturday. Yippee!

  Interesting side effect of the Prozac; I can’t stop yawning! Big, jaw-cracking yawns. I can’t stop myself. The other side effect is gas. Lovely. I stopped by my parents’ house, and my father, who slept through most of my visit, woke up long enough to accuse my mother of farting.

  I didn’t feel obligated to confess, and my mother refused to accept responsibility. Dad started cracking up and said, “She who denied it supplied it.” It was so gratifying to see him laugh like that, but he quickly tired himself out and was soon fast asleep again.

  In the kitchen, I admitted that I was the culprit, and told her about the Prozac. She was clearly disappointed. “You don’t need pills,” she said. “You just need a divorce.”

  “But I’m miserable,” I told her.

  “Of course you’re miserable,” she responded. “Who wouldn’t be, married to that creep?” Then she started speechifying: Life is supposed to be hard, there are no quick fixes, drugs are bad. I’d heard it all before and wasn’t in the mood to hear it again.

  “I gotta go, Mom,” I told her. I gave her a hug. “Kiss Dad for me when he wakes up, okay?”

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I will.” Then she whispered, “No more pills, you hear?” I just shook my head and left.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 24

  Last night I dreamed that Libby Taylor’s report came in the mail. It looked like my Visa statement, page after page of charges. On the last page it said, Debit: $649,000. Roger was destitute. Instead of the million-dollar settlement I’d expected, I actually owed the IRS $649,000! I woke up crying. I switched on the light and ran to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I forced myself to say aloud, “It was a dream.” But I never went back to sleep.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 25

  It’s amazing, really. The things I used to ruminate about—how Pete’s going to handle the divorce, how I’ll survive being single—now just pass through my head. It’s like transcendental meditation. I notice the thoughts, but I don’t fixate on them. I have decided to ignore my mother’s anti-Prozac admonitions: Westerners are the only people who seek to avoid suffering. Other cultures accept pain as a normal part of life, but Americans have this crazy idea that we ought to be happy all the time.

  So what’s wrong with wanting to be happy? What makes this American notion less valid than any other notion about happiness? I say, why not take a cultural relativist approach to the question of happiness: Some cultures seek to accept it, others seek to avoid it, nobody’s right and nobody’s wrong. It’s all cultural, and it’s all relative.

  Now I may finally have a 20-milligram tool to help me feel some measure of happiness, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try it.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  January 27

  Our parakeet died. I found him facedown in the cage. Pete cried until he threw up, a reaction that surprised me given the fact he didn’t seem to like the bird. Pete demanded a formal burial. It’s been unseasonably warm, and some of the yard was almost swampy after all the rain, so I told him to find the spade in the garage and we’d dig a little grave by the blue spruce. The ground turned out to be harder than I’d expected, and I was ready to abandon the project, but Pete started bawling, so I forged ahead.

  Lynette, who apparently starts with a fresh font of goodwill every day while I contin
ue nursing my grudges against her, spied me from her deck. “Aw, did the birdie die?”

  Pete nodded mournfully, wiped away a tear with his bandaged lollipop hand.

  “Can I help? We’ve got a fence post digger. Works like a charm. Even on frozen ground.” The next thing I knew, Lynette was at my side with her contraption, drilling away.

  We all heard it: Clang!

  “Darn it!” Lynette said. “We must have hit a rock.”

  We peered into the hole. I tried to stop Lynette from reaching in, but it was too late.

  “What the heck is this?” Lynette was bending over the hole. “Oh dear. I hope it’s not another little coffin. This isn’t some kind of pet cemetery, is it?”

  “No. Definitely not,” I answered. The bird had been our first real pet. Roger had never allowed animals in the house. He claimed to be allergic, but I eventually realized that he was fearful. When Pete brought home the class gerbil from preschool for the weekend, Roger insisted we keep it in the garage, where it died of hypothermia.

  We did have a goldfish once, won it at the county fair. It died the same day, as soon as we transferred it from the Baggie to a real fishbowl. Pete insisted on burying it. Roger sent Pete to bed, promising that he’d put the fish in an Altoids tin and bury it under the blue spruce. I found the fish the next morning, floating in the basement toilet. Apparently Roger had forgotten how unreliable that basement toilet could be. Now I knew that Roger had indeed buried something under the blue spruce, but it wasn’t a dead goldfish in an Altoids tin.

  Lynette dropped to her knees and stuck a gloved hand into the hole. “Jeez, this thing is heavy,” she said, grunting as she pulled something out of the clay soil. It was a strongbox.