The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  “So do I.”

  “I hardly ever spend time with my friends and when I do I always seem to be in a hurry, rushing to get home to do something: cook, take Arthurine to Bible study, laundry, something.”

  “Well you’re not completely alone here either.”

  “I feel like I need to do something I’ve never tried before.”

  “Believe me, I understand that all too well.”

  “Name me one thing.”

  “Oh, I can’t think of anything right now.”

  “Why not? Just one thing. Not ten.”

  “You tell me one while I think for a second.”

  “I’ve got a journal full of things, but for starters I’d like to go skinny-dipping in the ocean and make love on the beach at night. I’d like to get a tattoo. Yes, I would. I’d like to go to the airport with no luggage and just get on a plane to Paris or Rio. Somewhere, anywhere that lights up at night. Now you.”

  “Wow, you’ve given this a lot of thought I see. Okay. Let’s see. I’ve always wanted to learn how to sail. And scuba dive. Drive a motorcycle across the United States. Go on safari with a bunch of guys. Design a house.”

  “So you have thought about it.”

  “In passing. They’re fantasies, Marilyn. And rather far-fetched.”

  “I disagree. Totally. What’s so far-fetched about going on safari? I’d like to do that one day myself. I want to go to Africa in general. We live in California, Leon. What’s to stop you from taking scuba lessons?”

  He’s thinking. Trying to come up with a bullshit excuse. I just know it. “Well, I’ve actually applied to the master’s program at two art schools.”

  “Really? To study what?”

  “I don’t know, mixed media.”

  “Can’t you be more specific than that?”

  “Both programs offer courses in all the things I love or want to learn how to do: from metal arts and glasswork to jewelry-making, and even sculpture. I could learn all about textiles and wood and maybe how to design furniture.”

  “Well, this certainly narrows it down. And what kind of job will the sum of these kinds of classes get you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really care. I haven’t thought about it that far. All I know is that I have to do something.”

  “You are doing something.”

  “No, I’m not. I haven’t done anything except be your wife and raise kids for the last twenty-two years. That’s what I’ve been doing. I think it’s time for me to do something just for myself.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “You want to go back to school, too?”

  “Not really. But I’m seriously entertaining the idea of making a career change.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me that. It’s been going on for some time. But to be honest, I think lately it’s hit home that life is too short to not spend it doing what you really want to be doing.”

  “I thought you loved what you do, Leon.”

  “I used to. But my enthusiasm for my work has waned over the years. I’ve just done a pretty good job of hiding it.”

  “Not as good as you think.”

  “Well, I’ll be honest. I’m mentally exhausted. I have no desire to go any further up the ladder in my field. In fact, I don’t even know what appealed to me about engineering when I think back.”

  “You wanted to design buildings so they were safe,” is all I can think to say.

  “But none of the buildings have ever thanked me.”

  “The people who work in them do.”

  “They don’t even know I exist.”

  “So, what are your options, Leon?”

  “What do you think they are?”

  “I can only speak for myself.”

  “Well, I could just quit my fucking job and go live in the wilderness for a year to find myself. Sabrina would love that.”

  “Be serious. And since when did you start using profanity?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You just said the f-word.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did so.”

  “Okay. If I did, it must’ve slipped out so fast I didn’t realize it. I’m sorry. Anyway,” he says, and gulps down what now has to be cold coffee, “I’m just bored with my life.”

  “So am I. But I’m bored with our life, Leon.”

  “So am I.”

  I’m surprised when he agrees with me on this one. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that for a long time, too,” he says, “but I think we should wait to finish this conversation after Spence leaves.”

  “Why? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I just don’t want you to be upset while he’s here.”

  “What could you possibly say that would upset me so much?”

  “I just think our timing is wrong.”

  “Isn’t it always? Go on and spit it out, Leon.”

  “I probably am going to have to leave.”

  “Your job?”

  “Yes,” he says. “And you.”

  I do not say a single solitary word. I grab my purse, snatch a jacket from the hall closet and storm toward the garage. Leon is trailing behind me.

  “I didn’t mean I wanted to leave today!”

  The chime makes its beep-beep sound before I slam the door shut. I get in my car and raise the garage door as Leon comes charging out just as I’m backing out of the driveway. He stands next to his motorcycle, yelling, “Marilyn, I was just thinking out loud! Come back, please!”

  I feel like running his ass over. But I don’t. I think my tires make that burning rubber sound when I hit the gas. I have no idea where I’m going, but I know I cannot go to work. He wants to leave me? Then go, you son of a bitch! Right now, I just need to be as far away from him as possible. And here I am thinking we’re finally having an honest, heart-to-heart talk, something we haven’t done in years, when he’s probably had his little agenda all laid out for some time but just hadn’t planned on making his announcement today.

  I’m halfway down the hill when it hits me: he’s the one who wants to leave—not me—so why hasn’t he? I slam on the brakes, make a U-turn and whip into the driveway and kill the engine. Through the garage I go, and turn off the chime so there’s no beep when I open the door. I wish I were a burglar or a serial killer because he’d be shit out of luck either way.

  He’s on the phone. “She left out of here angry as all hell,” he’s saying. “Yes, I told her. No. I just said I was tired of the job. No, she didn’t understand. I tried. I’m not sure. No. I can’t just leave. Because. It wouldn’t be fair to her. Or my mother. I was just trying to be honest with her and I can’t believe it actually slipped out. I don’t think she’s devastated. More pissed than anything. She’s a strong woman. No, I’ve told you before, I don’t. Yes, I’m sure. Everything in time. This was just dreadful timing. One of my sons is home from college. He went snowboarding with his friends. The condo. Yes, the girlfriend is wife material. Look, I’ve gotta go. I need to think. No. Not tonight. I’ll try to call you later. I hope she’s all right.”

  I walk into the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. “I’m fine,” I say. “Call the bitch back and tell her you’re coming right over, because I’m not going anywhere, Leon. You said you wanted to leave. So leave.”

  “I didn’t mean today, Marilyn.”

  “Oh, so what am I supposed to do, wait until it’s convenient for you? Is that it?”

  “Marilyn, I’m sorry.”

  “Leon, if you don’t get out of this house in the next ten minutes, I’m going to do something I might regret.”

  “I just meant that a break might do us both some good. I’m going through something, Marilyn, and it scares me.”

  “Tell that to the bitch on the phone! Is she your secretary?”

  “No.”

  “Does she work in your office? Of course she does, and I bet she’s
what, in her fucking twenties?”

  “Thirties.”

  “Oh, an old bitch, but not quite as old as me, huh?”

  “Marilyn, this is all wrong.”

  “I’m looking at the clock, Leon!”

  “I’m just going to get my jacket. Marilyn, please, please understand that I didn’t mean this quite the way it came out. I swear it,” he says, as he puts on his brand-new leather bomber. He stops in front of the door and when he sees what must be flames shooting out my nostrils, he takes the hint and leaves. I hope he gets on that stupid motorcycle and rides off a fucking cliff just like Thelma and Louise did. But when I hear him revving up its engine and then taking off at what sounds like breakneck speed, my heart drops because I know Leon doesn’t know how to go fast around curves.

  Chapter 13

  The doorbell rings and I just about jump out of my skin. It couldn’t possibly be Paulette or Bunny because they always call first. Plus, I haven’t had enough time to even consider what just happened here to think about what I’m going to tell them. Please don’t let it be those Jehovah’s Witnesses because I am not in the mood for explaining why I don’t need to hear The Word. Especially this morning. But then again, if it is them, maybe I should just invite them in for tea because Arthurine should be hopping off of her mall van any moment. Let her deal with them. And they can debate as long as they want to about whose God is the holiest.

  I turn the knob slowly, prepared for battle, but by the time I step out in front of the door my demeanor changes. “Gordon?”

  “Good morning, Marilyn! Forgive me for just dropping by like this, but I just bought a house not three blocks from here and as I’m driving down the street I see your husband’s card in the ashtray and for some reason I pull it out only to discover that I’m right in front of your house. I’m not kidding. So I figured this was a sign, and I just took a chance and rang the doorbell. How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” What else can I say? Plus I’m in shock. Never in a million years would I have thought Gordon King would be on the other side of my front door on any morning. Jehovah may very well have had something to do with this, I don’t know. “Come on in,” I say, stepping away so he can enter.

  “Seriously. I don’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Hello,” I say, hoping this is a dream and I can do anything I want to in it. If this be the case, then I want Gordon to read my mind and come closer. I want him to wrap his arms around me like warm vines. I want him to make me forget about every tragic event that’s been interrupting my journey. I want him to kiss me slowly and deeply. I want him to make love to me at an angle, on those stairs behind us, so that as he’s finding his way inside, I’ll slide up so high I’ll be able to look down on my world and see it clearer. I want him to dust my heart with hope. Wipe away the cobwebs covering my soul. Open all the clogged-up drains where my energy has been trapped. And then I want to flood. I want him to be the river I seek.

  When my eyes are wide open, I want him to ask me what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-three years. I will tell him the truth. I will not apologize for being a housewife. I want him to be the man to ask me how I’d like to spend the rest of life. What am I willing to do to make the last third of it even more vibrant and fulfilling than the first two. “Finally,” he’ll say. “You’ve found your center. Now, let’s try this again, but this time we’ll get it right. It’s the reason why I’m in your dream. But wake up. Because I’m here, right now.”

  I close the door. “You’re not intruding,” I say. “Do you drink coffee?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  I don’t bother answering. He looks good to me even in work clothes. He’s wearing a black bandanna tied around his head like an Indian to keep his locks from falling in his face, I suppose. “Where’s your house?”

  “You can’t miss it. It’s the ugliest one on the block. I got a good deal on it and since I’ve got a little time on my hands, I’m already getting quite a kick trying to make it like new. Might take me about a year or so, but it’s okay.”

  “You’re not a principal anymore?”

  “Yes and no. I took a year’s leave because I got a grant to research and run an outreach program for adolescent boys. There’s a lot more to it, but I’ll leave it at that. Like I said, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. How’s your husband?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “He’s a nice brother. I like him. Seems really smart and he certainly loves him some Marilyn.”

  I have to stop myself from saying, “Oh, so he had you fooled, too?” Instead I just say, “He is smart.”

  “Your home is really nice. Well, would you look at that?”

  “What?” I say, looking, too. I thought maybe he might have just seen a mouse or something. But he’s walking over to look at a table I sort of redid.

  “What’s all this stuff on here?”

  “Just stuff,” I say.

  “Where in the world did you find a table like this?”

  “It should be obvious, Gordon. Somebody made it.”

  “You?”

  I nod.

  “Get out.”

  “Come on. Let’s go on into the kitchen so I can get the coffee started.” He follows so close behind me I think I can smell his mouthwash. He sits on a stool at the counter. Looks around. I pour cold water into the clean clear pot. Put a few scoops of real coffee into the gold filter. I don’t know if I want this thing to perc fast or slow.

  “Then I suppose you made that light fixture over the table, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Finally,” he sighs.

  “Finally, what?”

  “You found your center.”

  I’m about ready to have a stroke any second. I need to get him out of this house. I’m too emotionally fragile right now to have this man who I used to not just be madly in love with but even married to, in my kitchen, the kitchen in which moments ago my present husband just told me how bored he was with me and our life and that he was leaving me. In fact, I think the son of a bitch is gone. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black,” he says. “Do you make a lot of these types of things?”

  “When I have time.”

  “Leon told me you guys have a daughter and twin sons, all in college. That’s something.”

  “Sabrina is finishing her last year at Cal. And the twins are sophomores at Moorhouse. In fact, one of them—Spencer—is here this week on spring break but he’s in Tahoe snowboarding, and Simeon is playing in a jazz band in Atlanta so he wasn’t able to make it.”

  “This is what I love to hear,” he says, taking the cup I’m handing him as I try very hard not to touch his hand. “So do you sell any of your work?”

  “No. It’s a hobby. I do it because it’s fun and it relaxes me. I give most of it away. In fact, I’m sure I can find something in my workshop or the garage to give to you. I need to get rid of some of this stuff.”

  “I’ll take anything you want to give me,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “You ever thought of selling any of it?”

  “Not really.”

  “You should. Maybe at some of these craft fairs. They’re all over northern California in the summer. And those folks sell some pretty amazing things at all kinds of prices. I’m surprised you haven’t done it.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘yet.’”

  “Well, a lot of things seem to be happening at once and I only seem to be able to focus on one thing at a time.”

  “Welcome to the human race. Do you work?”

  “Part-time at a craft store.”

  “Oh, so you’re still tiptoeing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I just told you this has always been just a hobby. I haven’t had to think about ‘making a living’ before.”

  “So does this mean you have to think about it now?”

  “Maybe. No. I don’t know what I
’m thinking about doing.”

  “I’ll shut up,” he says, taking what seems to be the last sip of his coffee. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t drink coffee?”

  “Not with caffeine.”

  “Menopause, huh?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Come on, Marilyn. I wasn’t born yesterday. I also read.”

  “Is your girlfriend going through it?”

  “Not yet. Your husband told you about Blossom?”

  “Blossom?”

  “Her real name is Ayanna which means beautiful flower in Swahili, but everybody just calls her Blossom. She’s from Kenya but lives in Paris.”

  “Well, Leon was quite taken by Blossom’s petals.”

  He chuckles. “She’s an amazing woman all right.”

  “If she lives in Paris, how can she be your girlfriend?”

  “Who said she was my girlfriend?”

  “You did.”

  “No, I didn’t. You did.”

  Now he’s actually laughing out loud. “You have not changed,” he says, looking at me in a way that is making me feel so comfortable I’m uncomfortable.

  “She imports art, so she travels back and forth.”

  “Did you ever have any kids, Gordon?”

  “Just the ones you didn’t have,” he says.

  I hear Arthurine coming in the front door. Just what I need. I know she saw that black Saab parked out front and she’s wondering whose it is. I can hear her sneakers squishing in this direction. “Marilyn, where are you, baby?”

  “In the kitchen, Arthurine.”

  I look at Gordon. “My mother-in-law.”

  He nods. Stands up. My goodness. I hope Blossom knows what to do with all this. Obviously she must. “Well, now that I know where you and Leon live, I’ll stop by every day! Seriously, I’m down on Sequoia and don’t ask what color my house is because I couldn’t honestly say.”

  “Why, hello there,” Arthurine says to Gordon. She has no idea who he is, but apparently he just turned the wattage up a few amps for her.

  “How are you, ma’am. I’m Gordon King. An old friend of Marilyn’s and just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m Arthurine and don’t let me run you off. Stay!” She’s actually leaning her back against the doorway, and it looks like she’s about to plié because her right toe is pointing and her heel isn’t touching the floor.