by Mike Ramon
HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND
1: Man and Wife - the Latter
When Carla looked back on the sad wreckage of her life, on those quiet, empty nights when Ben slept in the den and she slept alone in the vast expanses of a bed shared with no one, she couldn’t quite put the pieces together so that they made any kind of logical sense. The numbers didn’t quite add up, and no amount of rearranging them could do the trick. She would draw the covers up to her chin against the night chill and stare at the window, a neat square of bare moonlight in the darkness of the room. Sometimes she would cry, but mostly she didn’t; the time for tears had passed, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she had the right to cry.
In the mornings she would cook some eggs and bacon, or pancakes for the kids; if she didn’t feel up to cooking, she would just pour them some cereal. They accepted whatever she gave them without complaint, for which she was grateful. Whatever she made for breakfast, Ben wouldn’t touch it, waiting until she was done to make his own breakfast. It had been like that for the last three weeks, ever since the night of the confession, when she had acted on some idea of honesty and a fresh start, and the reaction to which had not been what she had expected. But what had she expected? She couldn’t really remember.
After breakfast she would drive the kids to Oakwood Elementary, where David was in the fifth grade and Lynn was in the second. If things were running according to schedule, Ben should be gone to work by the time she came back, but lately, just to be sure, she wouldn’t go straight home. Instead she would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts for a coffee (lots of cream), or the Val-U-Mart for a pint of strawberry milk. She would drive home slowly, taking the long way, and she would arrive to find an empty house, quiet in an awful way.
During the long hours of the day when she didn’t have the kids to look after she had nothing to do but clean the house (even if it didn’t need cleaning), watch TV (even if there was nothing good on), or go mad (the most tempting option of the three, but not really practical). When David had come along it had been decided that she should quit working and stay at home, so the kid (and later, kids) would always have a parent around for them. The decision had purportedly been mutual, but now, upon further reflection, Carla didn’t remember ever explicitly agreeing that it was a good idea. What was done was done, however, and it was far too late to change it. She imagined that people weren’t exactly clamoring to hire a thirty-nine year old woman who had been out of the workforce for twelve years. Maybe it was this emptiness in her days, this unique loneliness that had led her to what she had done. Or maybe she had just been selfish--she still wasn’t certain.
So she spent her days cleaning or watching TV, and trying not to go mad, and when school ended she brought the kids him and helped them with their homework. Then it was time for dinner, which (like breakfast) Ben would not eat, making himself his own little meal, a turkey sandwich, or a Hungry Man. When dinner was finished, he would give Lynn a kiss on her forehead, he would give David a brief hug, and he would disappear into the den. The kids would look after him when he closed the door of the den, and then they would look at Carla, seeking an answer to a question they didn’t know how to ask, an answer she didn’t know how to give. The kids would take turns in the shower, and then she would put them to bed. Then it was time for the terrible walk to her own bedroom, the loneliest mile. And she would lie there staring at the window, and try again to put the pieces together. But still they never quite fit.
2: Man and Wife - the Former
In the morning he would lie on the couch in the study for a time after waking, wanting to prolong facing her for as long as possible. Right around the time he heard her rooting around in the kitchen and the kids starting their first quarrel of the day, he would throw off the blankets and stand up, stretching out his stiff back. He would pile the blankets crudely on the couch without bothering to fold them, and slip out of the den. He would rush upstairs and jump in the shower and then, with a towel rapped around the lower half of his body, he would take advantage of the opportunity to have the bedroom to himself. He would close the door behind him before searching in the closet and in drawers for something to wear.
Then it was down to the kitchen, where (if he had timed it right) Carla would be finished making the kids breakfast, and he would make himself something, maybe some scrambled eggs, or maybe an English muffin topped with two strips of bacon and a slice of deli cheese. Right around the time he was finishing his breakfast, Carla would be leaving to take the kids to school. With some time to kill, he would turn on the TV and turn it to a local news broadcast, or maybe to CNN, with an eye on the time. He didn’t want to be home when Carla got back, didn’t want to have to be alone with her.
He had done some thinking of his own over the past few weeks, and what he decided was that he wished she hadn’t told him. He wished she hadn’t done it, but having done it, she shouldn’t have told him. Not ever.
He would turn off the TV, leave the house, and drive to work. At work he would laugh at every joke, and smile, and even tell a few jokes of his own. He would help someone with something they couldn’t quite figure out on their computer, or with the copy machine. He would take a break, have a cup of coffee and a donut, and shoot the shit. And all the while he would be thinking about the fact that he would have to go home when work was done, and he would have to be near her again, to see her and be seen by her. Sometimes his heart would start to race, and he would feel himself begin to flush, and maybe someone would notice and ask him if he was alright, and he would say yeah, I’m just fine. Feeling a bit under the weather, is all.
He would think about Carla and wonder what she was doing right then. Terrible thoughts would rise up in his mind about what she was doing, and he would push them away. He didn’t really believe those thoughts; she said that the whole thing was over, and in spite of everything he believed her.
The drive home would be a slow one, with Ben taking unnecessary turns, making a circuit all around town before finally arriving at home. The kids would be home by then, a buffer between Carla and him. He would make himself something to eat, and sit at the table with his family. Lynn would talk about her day at school, long tales that didn’t really go anywhere, but which Ben liked to hear nonetheless. David would let them know that nothing really happened at school, as far as he was concerned.
When he was finished eating, Ben would wash his own dishes quickly, knowing that Carla would probably re-wash them later, and he would go into the den where the couch awaited him, with its not-so -springy springs, and with that mysterious bar that seemed to press up into his back no matter which way he positioned himself.
He would listen to the sounds of the kids finishing dinner, and the sound of Carla washing the dishes while the kids took their showers, and then he would lie in the darkness of the den, listening to the silence of the house. He would think until thinking made his head hurt, and then he would close his eyes and try to get at least some sleep before it was time to get up in the morning. Eventually he would sleep, and the best days were when he woke up with no memory of his dreams.