If I could only slow the reel down while I was at work or with the kids and my best friend Paul, and speed up the dreaded few hours Ira was home, my whole life would be made.
I quickly grilled Ira a steak and defrosted a caponata, my grandmother’s amazing onion, potatoes and red pepper dish, upon which he frowned. But my home-baked (actually, the hotel’s in-house baker’s I’d passed off as my own) apple pie shut him up almost instantly and he was happy. Until I’d decided to strike the iron while it was hot (mainly while he was home) and talk to him once again about the major root of our arguments.
Life was becoming too hectic and expensive here in the States. Working hours were longer than down-time. Our work/life balance was unbearable. I wanted to go back to my family’s homeland, Tuscany—and at one time it had been our common dream. Tuscany would be our haven, the place we’d planned to move to for a life change. We’d always wanted to buy an old stone farmhouse with haylofts, granaries and tobacco towers, and spend our time restoring them before renting them out to paying guests. We’d produce wine and olive oil and I’d swap my job as manager of the uber-luxurious Farthington Hotel with hanging laundry and sweeping out rooms, because they’d be our rooms, our property. And our children would see more of us. Us. What a nice ring it had.
I have never suffered having a boss very well, so to me running my own business felt like second nature. Even the kids had grown up under the idea of Tuscany.
I’d stay at home and run the business, bake pies, buy a couple of dogs (or maybe not—Ira’s allergic), and see the kids play in the open fields. Ira would oversee the crops and boss everyone else around. We’d been determined for that to happen one day. Back then Ira used to say, ‘Wow, yeah, absolutely.’ Then he switched to ‘Someday,’ to finally just a lame smile without a comment. And lately the smile had disappeared, too.
He’d have to crack sooner or later. So to get the ball rolling again, I suggested we enroll the kids into an Italian language and culture course.
“Italian?” Ira folded his paper over and sighed his usual sigh that always began an argument. “You’re not still going on about Tuscany, are you?”
“Why not? We’d be so much happier. Why shouldn’t we do this?”
“Because this is America! Nobody leaves America.”
“Yes, they do. Lots of people are returning to their homelands.”
“Italy is not our homeland.”
“It is mine.”
“And when was the last time you went to Italy?”
“Every year up until I met you,” I challenged. “I still have family there.”
But Ira was shaking his head, completely closed to the possibility. Which wasn’t fair. This was my life, too. And the children’s. I wanted a more genuine existence. I didn’t mean cows and sheep for Christ’s sake, but at least some open spaces where we could go bike riding and for walks in the afternoon, where the sun shone ten months of the year. Like one of my mother Marcy’s size four Versaces, the city lifestyle here was too tight for me. I needed space to breathe.
“It’s out of the question,” Ira said finally, throwing his paper down, and I followed him into the bedroom where he began to rummage through his drawers.
I rested my hands on my hips. “Why? Why is it out of the question?”
“Because I will never move to Italy. I’d hate it and the children will hate it as well. Just accept it so we can get on with our lives, okay?”
It would’ve been easier to just give up and cry in frustration. But I was a strong woman and a mother of three (yes, I’m counting Ira). “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said, feeling my patience slowly strengthening again.
He watched me warily, his hand buried in a neat pile of socks.
“I’ll forget about Tuscany—for now—if you agree to let the kids take Italian lessons.”
He groaned. “Is this one of your tricks, Erica? Because it won’t work.”
“It’s not a trick. All I want is them to learn the language. That’s all I ask.”
Ira stalled.
“What difference does it make to you?” I urged him in earnest. “I’ll be the one ferrying them back and forth to lessons anyway.” I didn’t mention I’d also be paying their tuition because then he’d get defensive about income again. Tech.Com still wasn’t doing very well (actually, it was a bottomless money pit), but he never wanted to talk about it.
“Don’t you remember, Ira? Don’t you remember our dreams?”
But Ira shook his head. “It was only ever that, Erica. A dream. It’s time to wake up. Besides, have you even thought about me? About my company? Or am I expected to ditch everything and chase you around the globe?”
“Would you?” I asked hopefully. “Like you said you would, once upon a time?”
“That was a very long time ago, and our lives have changed since then.” After demolishing my neat piles, he found his favorite pair of socks and then began to upturn the second drawer in search of a pair of briefs.
“Changed for the worse,” I muttered, and when he glared at me I added defensively, “You’re always saying how you hate Boston.”
“That’s only when I’m stressed!”
I raised my evil eye at him. “You’re always stressed. And you’re really getting on my nerves. I can’t remember the last time you and I had a laugh together or a decent conversation.” Nor could I remember the last time he’d kissed me, the last time I’d felt any love vibes flowing between us.
“That doesn’t mean that I have to bury myself in the Tuscan hills.”
It seemed as if Ira would rather drive nine-inch nails into his skull before agreeing to Tuscany. That could easily have been arranged.
“Listen to me, and listen good!” I snapped, scaring even myself. “The only reason I want to go is because I still cherish those dreams—as opposed to you! It’s not just about money or careers! I see the kids only a few hours a day and it’s not enough! Before I know it, they’ll be off to university!”
“That’s because you want to be a hotel manager,” he scoffed, now bunching his fists.
“No, Ira. I’d rather stay home and cook and be a full-time mother. But I can’t. I need to work to support this family.”
Truth was, without my income we’d still be living in that shitty place on the edge of town. And I’d never said anything about how the marriage was sucking my life dry. I’d do anything for my kids. And it really didn’t matter who made more. We were a family. Weren’t we?
Ira knew I was right but didn’t give me the satisfaction. He shrugged. “Find a part-time job, then.”
“A part-time job is not enough! We have the kids’ school tuition, ballet, soccer, school trips and a gazillion other things, not to mention that gas guzzler you continue to drive around town for God knows whose benefit.”
At that, he turned to me, his face red with anger. “We wouldn’t be in this situation now if you hadn’t left Tech.Com to have a baby! If you’d stayed by my side like a proper wife should!”
I blinked. So that was what it was all about? All these years he’d resented my earning enough elsewhere. Not sharing his dream with him. And now he didn’t want to share mine. But I had never had any choice to stay at Tech.Com. We had children to feed and clothe and shelter and protect. I couldn’t keep up with the romantic and impractical notion of the woman who follows her husband to the edge of the earth. Unfortunately I was the only one who saw things clearly. Ira had been blinded all these years by his dream, financed by my job. And now he was throwing all my sacrifices back in my face?
“A proper wife?” I said, feeling my cheeks burning. “I did what I had to do to feed my children, seeing that you weren’t capable.” I bit my lip, because I’d never wanted to hurt him, but knew now I’d been too kind to him. Besides, Ira had never censured himself in order to be kind to me. He was
past delusional if he thought he was right. So, I let him have it.
“Are you a proper husband?” I demanded, getting braver by the second. “The one who hardly glances at his kids anymore when he comes through that door, and stares at the TV set while they’re trying to talk to him?”
I turned my back to him and yanked off my robe, sliding under the covers, hoping he’d get the message the conversation was over.
“I need a shirt for tomorrow,” he said.
“They’re hanging in your closet,” I snapped over my shoulder. For once I was one step ahead of this crazy game called homemaking. Give me a hotel crisis any day.
“My blue striped one isn’t.”
“Well, wear another one then.”
“No. I want my blue striped one,” he insisted, like Warren did when he wanted something unreasonable.
“Then you know where the iron and ironing board are,” I bit back. “I have to get up in five hours.”
With a huff, he stalked off into the bathroom and ran himself a bath.
“Can’t even iron me one damn shirt... too busy with her own life,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
I shouted after him, “My life is to take care of my children any way I can!”
“Our children,” he corrected coolly as he slammed the bathroom door behind him.
“You could’ve fooled me!” I roared back. “I’m the one that plays with them! I help with the homework, give Maddy a bath! Have you talked to your son lately? He’s growing up, you know! But what male role model does he have at home? Huh?”
“Your gay buddy who’s always slithering around here for free meals! Why doesn’t he go back to his supposed villa in Italy and leave us alone?” he spat back through the closed door.
“At least Paul is loving! He doesn’t push them away and say, Yes, that’s nice, now let me watch TV! You wouldn’t even notice them if they painted their faces green! So don’t try to make me feel like a bad parent, because if there is one here, it’s you!”
Are you getting a sense of déjà vu? Then welcome to my life.
“When was the last time you ever left this house without an ironed shirt?” I demanded as I flung the door open. He was already lying in the tub in a mountain of bubbles.
“Tell me!”
He crossed his arms. “Quite a few times, actually. How embarrassing for you.”
I could’ve killed him on the spot. Charged right into the bathroom and smashed his head against the pristine ceramic tiles, a red glob against white. Teach the insolent bastard a lesson.
“For me? You’re the one that should be embarrassed! You don’t even take the trash out!”
“I work like an animal, twenty-four seven, and now you decide you want to go to Tuscany! When are you going to wake up from your stupid dreams?”
Stupid dreams? I pulled out the hairdryer from under the vanity unit and shoved it into the socket and began to straighten my hair. For no reason at all. At every yank, it was like I was trying to straighten out the kinks in my life. Besides, the lovely noise drowned out his voice that went on and on.
I looked down at him and saw a bitter old man who cared only about himself. I saw a bitter old woman who was done trying and fighting. I saw the bitter old woman heave a deep sigh and measure the length of the chord of the hairdryer and gauge the distance to the bathtub. It was enough.
I saw my reflection lift the hairdryer high above his useless body and let go. I saw him jolt, the shock in his eyes as he sizzled, jerked once, twice, thrice, like in a magic formula, and finally slide below the surface of the water, like a sea monster that had finally met its match. It felt fantastic to finally be free.
“Are you listening to me?” he yelled, pulling me back to the here and now.
“I’m done listening,” I replied as I unplugged the hairdryer and wound the cord around it as if it was Ira’s neck. “I take care of you—and our children and this house and everything that comes our way—and I do all this on top of my own job. What the hell do you do? Where are you when your children need you, at parents’ night, track-and-field day, Madeleine’s ballet, at Warren’s big games—at bedtime! Where are you?”
He stared at me and I stared back, my breath sawing in and out of my shaking body. Boy, I could feel it, feel the anger oozing out of every pore, like a dark, thick liquid that had been pent-up inside a barrel for years, fermenting to its most acidic, unbearable point. That was a frustrated, exhausted and murderous working housewife for you. And, boy, did I need to de-stress.
“I come home from work and clean up the mess you’ve left the night before! Then I cook dinner! And do the laundry! And you can’t even iron yourself a lousy shirt?”
He stared at me as it slowly sank in, and I realized I had never given him one of my masterpieces that I had strictly reserved for my poor staff at The Farthington. Maybe I should be my usual belligerent, confrontational self—the self I’d hidden over the years so as not to scare perspective suitors (ha!) away. It sure made me feel better, more in charge; because if I couldn’t be in charge, then I was nothing, nobody.
Ira wasn’t used to this side of me. If only he knew my real thoughts, how many times in my fantasy I’d left him bludgeoned and bleeding to death. I think he was in shock, actually. But, then again, so was I. I had never expected to react like that to what was a normal routine between us lately. But, hell, was I proud of myself.
All these years I had managed to harness my aggressiveness and channel it only into my work, and never onto my family. Truth was, the daily domestic grind was wearing me out, and more often than not I imagined my husband hanging from power lines, his electrocuted body swinging in the wind like forgotten laundry.
The scary thing was that I still found it hilarious. Was my murderous potential finally about to surface? Would I soon pick up an axe and wipe him out, and then laugh about it? Why was I having these delicious fantasies all this time? Was I that unhappy? I was beginning to worry. And then I would go into the kitchen and begin to chop onions, blaming the fumes for my tears.
But then, all the kids had to do was show me their appreciation for something I had done for them or draw me a picture and I was instantly rewarded for all my efforts, and thoughts of bludgeoning Ira to death ebbed, disappearing back into the fringes of my unconscious. Not that I’d ever do something like that, mind you. (Isn’t that what murderers say before they kill someone?) But it’s nice to fantasize.
I left the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and buried my head under the pillows, the beautiful image of his dead body keeping me company.
“You have to do something about that grinding,” he said as he climbed into bed next to me. “It’s annoying. Go see your dentist. Maybe he can fix you. And while you’re at it, go see a shrink so you can stop talking in your sleep.”
“Anything else?” I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Yeah. Do it tomorrow.”
And that, to me, sounded like an ultimatum.
* * *
The next morning as I was getting dressed, he came into the bathroom wearing the damned blue striped shirt. Rumpled and creased.
I sighed. “Don’t be silly. Take that off.”
He obeyed immediately and left it hanging on the doorknob. I brushed my hair into my usual tight bun, so tight it acted as a natural facelift, and applied a thin veil of make-up. I scooped up my coat, only to find Ira sitting on the bed in his trousers and undershirt.
He blinked at me. “Where’s my shirt?”
I blinked back.
“I thought you’d ironed it,” he exclaimed, shooting to his feet, his eyes checking the bathroom doorknob. Boy, was he worried now.
“What, while I was in the bathroom getting dressed, you mean?”
“You told me to take it off so you could iron it
!” he squeaked, in a panic. Now he really was going to be late.
“No,” I said slowly, like you talk to foreigners or stupid people. Not to children, though, who usually understand on the first “No.”
“I told you to take it off because you looked silly in a crumpled shirt—not because I was going to drop everything else because you don’t like your other nineteen shirts. I have to go to work. See you tonight.”
I didn’t even stay to hear Ira’s linguistic masterpiece of a rant, hustling the kids out in front of me, but it was pretty loud. On the way out, I gently closed the door behind me, but not as gently as usual, and smiled.
Chapter 2:
Operation Seduction?
Among The Ten (at least) Things Ira Hates About Erica, the easiest to solve had to be the teeth-grinding. Right? If this marriage was worth it, then why not just put up with the discomfort of a bite for a bit, especially if the reward was possibly a good solid session of marital benefits? If I could get Ira back to how it used to be in the good old days, surely all the other sources of tension in our marriage would slowly melt away? If there was any chance that deep down he still had love for me, I had to do my best to exhume—and resuscitate, eventually—that feeling.
So there I was, in Stage One of Operation Seduction. And if it meant swallowing the bitter pill, so be it. But the horrendous contraption in Dr. Jacobs’ hands was not exactly the size of a pill. It was the size of a Happy Meal hamburger.
“Here, put this into your mouth,” he said as I backed off in horror.
“No thanks, I’m not hungry.” My dentist Dr. Jacobs, who never looked down at me unless I was in his chair, let out a laugh, turning the bite in his hands. “Oh, come on, Erica, it’s not so bad. It’s very flexible and soft.”
“So’s a rubber duckie. Would you sleep with a rubber duckie in your mouth?” I asked, looking at the gob in disgust. I might as well have gone to bed with rollers in my hair and slathered brown cream all over my face.
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 2