by Nicki Reed
‘It is a divorce, Dad.’
‘Don’t joke with me, son. A marriage needs a million little things to work. What’s going to happen when you’re not sharing a bed? Sometimes in our relationships we don’t know things are adrift until they are.’
Now for some reason I’m thinking about Titanic, the movie, and how Kate wouldn’t move the fuck over and let Leonardo share her piece of wood.
‘Dad, don’t worry about us,’ Mark says. ‘We’re united and there will be no distractions.’
No distractions. I’m nodding along when Crazy Beautiful and her slow-boiled dog pop into my head. She was enough of a distraction for Mark to not tell me about her. She was enough of a distraction for him to keep her number in his phone so he could ‘mentally prepare’.
‘Promise you’ll talk every day?’ Cath says.
How come nobody else has gone on about this? Everyone’s so struck by the boldness of the plan that nobody has mentioned us. I hadn’t thought of it. But I can’t think of everything. That’s why I need a campaign manager.
‘I said, promise you’ll speak every day.’ Cath wants the actual words, an out-loud verbal agreement. For someone so chambray, she’s bossy.
‘We promise to speak every day.’ We say it together like kids and it reminds me of making the Brownie Promise. I promise that I will do my best…
‘Good,’ Cath says. ‘Now who wants what?’
Worry has killed my appetite. Crazy Beautiful is one thing. I don’t love it, I’d delete her if I could, but I trust Mark. Still, what if we get good at not being with each other?
‘You’re not eating, Ruby?’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Well, don’t think too much. It’s bad for the consciousness.’
Where does Cath get this stuff? I watch Mark talk with his dad and his new stepmum. Keith is happy, Cath has slotted in, and Mark has a mother figure he’s been missing. She’s not his mum, and she doesn’t know him like his family does, but Cath’s free with her hugs and he enjoys the attention.
Keith pulls me out of my head.
‘Roo, come and see where we’re going. We’ve got it all drawn up in the study. Three months from Friday, we’ll be in Broome.’
There’s a map of Australia on the wall and it’s so big you have to stand back to see the whole thing. It has drawing pins and photos and business cards and black texta trails all over it.
‘And, like last time, don’t expect a postcard. We don’t want to be worrying about home and we don’t want home worrying about us. We’ve done our wills, all the legal business is sorted.’
‘Dad, don’t tell me it’s filed under D for Dead,’ Mark says.
‘Okay, I won’t tell you.’
‘Mark can move in the week after next,’ Keith says, giving my shoulders a squeeze. The bloke’s too strong by half and I’m sure my shoulderblades grind together.
‘So it’s settled then,’ I say. I stretch my back into a working position, roll my shoulders.
Mark looks at me, shrugs. ‘So it is,’ he says. ‘The week after next I’ll finally get some peace.’
I might as well join in, even though I think it’s the dumbest game in the world. And suddenly, maybe, divorcing the man I love seems to be the dumbest idea in the world. ‘Yeah. Week after next I’ll get the bed to myself.’
‘Bring on the week after next,’ Mark says.
7.
‘Do you know how stupidly hard it is to get divorced in this country, Jus? We have to separate for a year just so some court can say, okay, you two consenting adults are now able to divorce.’
‘Can you step aside, please?’ Justine has a box marked BOOKS in her arms. ‘Whereabouts?’ she says.
‘You’ll have to ask Mark.’ I’m holding a box of his footy trophies. ‘Yeah, and if you’ve been married for less than two years, like you and Stu, or Keith and Cath, they make you go to mediation.’
‘Ah, ha.’
Keith and Cath have moved all their clothes into the spare room so that Mark feels less like a visitor. They reckoned almost a year is too long a time to feel like you’re camping out. They’ve set up Mark’s old room for Celeste: a Disney Frozen lamp and a purple quilt with stars don’t go that well with Mark’s vintage aeroplane wallpaper.
‘The first time Mark got divorced, from Peta, the year had already passed. They filed the paperwork and got on with their lives.’
‘Right.’ Justine dumps the box on couch.
‘So you apply, if it’s all above board, you can come back a month and a day later, and if nobody objects, they grant you the divorce. Apparently, most couples don’t even show up for that part.’
‘Ah, ha.’
‘We’ll have to be there for ours, though.’ I dump the box of trophies and they rattle.
‘Yep.’
‘Justine, is something wrong?’
‘Nope. I don’t understand how it’s going to make any difference. Are you hoping for an amendment, a Ruby’s Law?’
My box flips onto its side and a tumble of shiny, plastic, athletic trophy-men topple out and land on top of each other on the couch. It looks like a golden, muscly, same-sex Caligula.
‘Ruby’s Law. That’s a great idea, Jus.’
‘You think other people might follow you? It won’t be me, Rube.’ When Justine’s angry or nervous or happy, when she’s ‘on’, her freckles stand out; they’re practically 3D at the moment and I swear I could flick one right off her face.
‘It’d be good if other couples did it,’ I say. ‘But I wouldn’t make you.’
‘Nothing would make me,’ Justine says.
Now, that’s a declaration. ‘Because your marriage is too important.’
‘Correct,’ she says.
‘See how I’m right?’
‘Yep, Jus, she’s always right,’ says Mark.
I choose not to hear sarcasm. ‘Thank you, Mark.’
‘Is that it, mate?’ Stu dumps another box of books on the couch. ‘You ready to go, Jus?’ He turns to Mark. ‘We’ve got a dinner at my brother’s tonight. I think they’re going to tell us they’re having another baby. You wouldn’t believe it: last night I dreamed Jus and I had a baby. Neither of us knew what to do with it and eventually it walked into our room, threw a clean nappy at me and said, “You’ll be needing this, then.” I have never been so happy to wake up.’
‘No more leftover pizza before bed, Stu. It gives you nightmares,’ Justine says, wagging her finger.
‘You two are so brave,’ Stuart says, sitting on the coffee table. ‘I love how you give a shit about other people. Initially, I didn’t really see a downside because it’s not as though you don’t love each other. But seeing all the boxes, Mark’s clothes and gear here, it’s a big deal.’
Now there are four of us sitting on the coffee table and the couch is full of books. Cowering underneath the couch is Gumball, looking as if he has had better afternoons and heard better ideas.
‘Yes,’ Mark says. ‘But I’ll get some peace and quiet. This one snores.’
‘It takes one to know one, Mark,’ I say. ‘And I’m a bloody good cuddler, you’ll miss me.’
‘Only for a year. Then I get you back. For good.’
Stu reckons that, since he’s wearing his watch again, he’s on his phone less, getting more done, and he’s more tuned in to real life. He checks the time. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘Come on, Mrs Stu, or I’ll give you a year off and make a statement at the same time.’
‘He would, you know. He believes in you two. I do as well but I’m being selfish. I’m not going to give him up, not even for a minuscule year.’
‘Fair enough, Jus,’ I say.
After we say goodbye to them, we stand about in Keith and Cath’s lounge room looking at each other. They’ve left a welcome basket. Pyjamas, beer, beer nuts to go with the beer, the membership card for their video library and care instructions for Gumball.
‘We better do something about our rings,’ Mark says.
I’m always rubbing my wedding ring with my thumb. I’m doing it now. When it’s gone will I find myself smoothing the empty space? ‘Huh, I didn’t think of that,’ I say.
‘I believe that if you had thought of it, you would have un-thought of this citizen’s divorce immediately. You love your ring.’
‘I love that you chose my ring and I love what it means. I have loved being married to you, Mark.’ Butterflies fling themselves around my stomach and my lips tingle, like when I’m stupidly happy or I’m going to be sick.
‘Same here. You take mine off and I’ll take yours off.’
He has his hand out. I pull his ring up and over his knuckle and the space is white and shrunken. For two years it’s been there, working away on his finger—that’s him and me in his skin, and I love it. I put the ring on the coffee table.
‘Okay, yours.’
It’s a tug. My ring has always been tight; on hot days it’s verging on uncomfortable, but I’ve never minded because relationships can verge on uncomfortable.
‘We might need soap. No…’ He pulls. ‘Here it comes.’
It’s off. I look at my hand. Empty, it could be anyone’s hand. The two rings are lying together on the coffee table. ‘No wonder The Girls keep theirs in a drawer. This sucks.’
‘Leave them with me,’ Mark says. ‘I’ll find somewhere special they can live for the year. Somewhere safe.’
‘I suppose I should go,’ I say, and pat my pocket for the car keys. I’m keeping the sporty Volvo and Mark’s going to use his dad’s sensibly silver Camry. ‘Let you get on with it. Don’t you think this is exciting, Mark? It’s like camping in different tents.’ I’m trying to sound positive: if you think it, you will be it, right?
‘In different suburbs.’
‘Boydy, we’re making a difference.’ I can feel it.
‘Give me a big kiss before you go, wife. Soon to be ex-wife number two. What is it with you Wheeler women?’
‘What is it with you Boyd men? You and Keith. You’re great blokes and I’m so lucky to have you. Whether you’re in the Kimberley, or ten minutes down the road, you men are the best. Maybe, we’ll have a boy. Another in the line of brilliant Boyd blokes.’
I kiss Mark lightly on the lips. The kiss deepens. Of all the kisses, in all the places we’ve been in Melbourne, we have never pashed in his dad’s lounge room.
Hours later on the phone with Mark.
‘This is like that scene in When Harry Met Sally when they’re in bed watching the same show on TV. It’s a split-screen scene because they’re actually in different beds in different houses. You remember that?’
‘Have I seen that movie?’ Mark says.
I look at the phone. Who the hell over thirty hasn’t seen When Harry Met Sally? And here I was thinking I knew everything about him.
‘Well, that’s your homework, Boydy.’ We’re watching a re-run of House. ‘I remember this. He cuts the woman’s leg off and it turns out she was going to die anyway from a blood disease.’
‘And you don’t even get to see the leg coming off. Let’s see what’s on ABC1. Ready? Change.’
‘Rake.’ Another re-run but worth it.
‘That’s more like it,’ he says. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’m smack in the middle of the bed. It’s weird being in bed by myself.’ I’m almost by myself. I have Mark’s towelling bathrobe in bed with me because it smells like him and it’s heavy, like a person. If he decides he wants it back I’m going to pretend I’ve never seen it, what bathrobe?
‘Are you okay?’ I say. ‘Are you in your old room?’
‘Nah, I’m in Dad’s bed. I’ve got to get new sheets, though. Try to get more bachelor pad than “Waiting for God”.’
‘Mark, that’s terrible.’ I laugh anyway. ‘Still, a Winnebago isn’t a bad place to wait for God. And you’ve got a big photo of me on the bedside table?’
‘Sure have. I’ve got our wedding photo and the one of you on your bike at Bulla. I love that photo. Did you lock up?’
‘Of course, Boydy.’ Did I?
‘Ruby, do you know how many times I’ve come home in the middle of the night and found the front door unlocked? One time it was wide open. So don’t say “of course”.’
Bossy, over-protective, truth-telling, handsome man.
‘God, I miss you,’ I say. His bedside table has nothing on it but dust and the space in the wardrobe shows how many clothes he took. ‘It’s been what, five hours?’
‘I miss you, too. But it’s okay, we’re doing it for the bigger picture.’
‘There’ll be no winning until Ruby and BJ can marry and I’m sure I’ll be in my grave before that happens.’
‘You can change your mind,’ he says.
He sounds hopeful but I hate taking backward steps. ‘It’ll be good for us, because, Mark, it’s going to be a hardship. I have to go now.’
He has a beautiful voice, especially on the phone, ‘Good night, Ruby. I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’ I can hardly say it because the lump in my throat doesn’t want me talking. I hang up and cry the tears that have been stinging my eyes for the last few minutes.
8.
I spend the train ride to work trying to write a two-sentence citizen’s divorce statement. Something I can say without it starting with, Wait, but, no, or, This is going to sound a little crazy. Anyhow, it’s avant-garde, not crazy. Avant-garde means the forefront of a new art, political, social reform. I looked it up. Still, you don’t get to call yourself avant-garde, somebody else has to or you look like an artless wanker.
This is my best:
Mark and I are divorcing for marriage equality. We feel that we can’t be married while other people in love can’t be married.
The first person at work I try it out on is Maria. Maria Capaldi is the best PA ever and she came with the job. She looks like Sophia Loren if Sophia Loren worked in an office in Melbourne instead of on a film set. It took me about two weeks to stop being afraid of her; everyone else on our floor, and the floor above, still is. Maria is direct, a barometer of what is reasonable, the perfect person on whom to test my two sentences.
I read the statement aloud because I don’t want to confuse myself. Mars stands in the doorway and, as I’m reading, she slides the office door closed.
‘You’re what?’ Maria is the most practical person I know. Her pantry’s labels have labels and her wardrobe is sorted by colour and season. She makes more lists than Peta and that’s saying something. She wears suits—grey, black, navy—and she must have at least ten shirts, different colours, and all Italian cotton.
‘You heard, Mars. We’re getting a divorce.’
Mars takes a seat in front of my desk. I have tired her out and it’s only eight-thirty. Job done. ‘So Peta and BJ can marry,’ she says.
‘And the other homos.’
‘Are we allowed to say that word?’ Mars says. ‘Ruby, you are different and it makes working for you interesting. This is twice as interesting as what you normally come up with.’ She’s still sitting down and Mars never sits for long.
‘Can you help spread it around?’ I look through the glass walls of my office. All those people, going about their Monday morning, on the phone, on the computer, at the printer. Seamus is kicking the photocopier and I’ve asked him not to do that. Kicking it doesn’t fix it and nothing seems to get black leather scuffmarks off the paper tray.
‘Why?’ Mars says.
‘Because I don’t feel like having this conversation fifty times a day. I’d love it if you could mention it in the tearoom.’
‘You want me to gossip about your relationship, even though it’s against company policy. I don’t know.’
As usual, Mars has a point. A good part of our happy, productive, workplace vibe is that we don’t stand around chitchatting about people behind their backs. ‘Mars, could you do it? For me? Please?’
‘And you’re separating?’
‘Yep,
last night was night two without him. It was okay, but you know, it’s quiet. He has heavy footsteps and he never closes a door without slamming it. Plus the dining table was always covered in his legal crap, briefs everywhere, spools of that pink ribbon, law reports. You can come around for dinner now because I have somewhere proper to feed you.’
I keep all my work stuff, the Leaning Tower of In Trays, Mark calls it, on a desk in the bedroom.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if misadventure has a name, it must be Ruby Wheeler. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to the quiet.’ Maria has been divorced for ten years. ‘I talk to my bird a lot. And myself. My bird would say I talk to myself more than him.’
‘I hope I get used to it,’ I say. ‘And I hope the year goes quickly. Still, if we weren’t put out by our divorce it wouldn’t have any meaning. We even said we could see other people.’
‘You did?’ Mars looks up from her notepad. She’s always scribbling away on that thing and, if you get her to take her eyes from it, you’ve won. I hope she isn’t writing all of this down, just the bits of it she can share around the workplace.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I was just seeing how it sounded.’ To think of some woman, beautiful or not, tucking Mark in at night, her toothbrush in the bathroom, her negligee slungacross the end of the bed: no, that’s not for me. ‘Yeah.’ I nod then shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Do you mind if I put it on a bit when I tell them? I’ve joined the local drama group, the First Thursday Thespians, and I’d like to play it like I’m super-upset, maybe get a little General Hospital. Would that be okay?’
Maria is the antidote. Everybody needs a Maria. She doesn’t put through calls I don’t want and runs a ship so tight not even sailors could get in, but she’s fun. Just don’t tell anybody.
‘Go for your life, Mars. When you tell Annette can you let me know? I want to watch.’ If there is a company gossip it’s Annette and I’d love to see how she handles trying to look desperately sad and deliriously happy at the same time.
‘Sure. Now I need you to sign these,’ Maria hands me a manila folder, ‘and approve these, and the list of potential venues for your gala needs looking at because we really should decide by Friday.’ Another folder. ‘Good luck, Ruby. It’s hard being on your own even if it’s your idea. Trust me, I know and I didn’t even like my ex.’