Love, Carry My Bags

by Everett, C. R.

  Mr. Reynolds remained remarkably calm during Glenn’s rant. I wanted to crawl under the pile of rocks unearthed from the basement excavation.

  “Calm down, Mr. Conroy,” Mr. Reynolds said, his voice smooth and unflustered.

  “Why should I calm down when you’re screwing me out of six thousand dollars’ worth of house,” Glenn yelled. “And this window!” He pointed to the open space. “I ordered a three by four window, not a four by three. Get it right next time.” Wielding a mean index finger, Glenn came close to poking Mr. Reynolds in the chest for emphasis, but stopped short.

  “Mr. Conroy,” Mr. Reynolds started again.

  Glenn jumped in, “Don’t you Mr. Conroy me.”

  Instead of hiding beneath the rocks, I said, “Would you please let Mr. Reynolds speak?” Glenn gave me two evil, accusing eyes that said ‘whose side are you on, anyway?’

  “If you look over there,” Mr. Reynolds said, pointing at a house across the way, “you’ll see that the floor joists extend on the outcropped sections of the home. That’s where your missing hundred and four feet are. The foundation is to spec.” He pulled out the blueprints to prove his point. Glenn showed only a fraction of the humiliation I thought he should have and offered no apology.

  “But the window . . .” Glenn said.

  I saw from the landscape that the four by three opening was a natural fit. The window, as it was, pushed the limits of the backyard’s slope.

  “Our bid didn’t include any extra excavation. This is the largest window we could fit in the space,” Mr. Reynolds explained.

  “I ordered a specific window and that’s the window I want,” Glenn demanded. “If you have to move extra dirt, then that’s what I expect you to do. It’s not my problem if you bid it wrong.”

  Glenn had a suitcase full of type A personality traits. I knew he had some baggage, but didn’t really know what was in it until we started unpacking after our wedding.

  “Glenn,” I said, turning toward him for a semi-private conversation, “does the size really matter?” He looked at me as if I just killed what he cherished most. “I mean, it’ll cost them a lot to change it now, and probably delay closing.”

  “Fine,” Glenn said, gritting his teeth and turning back toward Mr. Reynolds. “We’ll let you off the hook on the window, but I expect a carpet upgrade—no cost.” He stormed off.

  I suspected that Mr. Reynolds agreed to the terms just to get Glenn off his case. He looked at me, pity in his eyes.

  “I like my men hot tempered,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “You gotta know how to deal,” Glenn said after we left, his self-superiority in the air. “They’ll run all over you if you don’t. If you let them get away with one thing, they’ll take advantage of you. Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take two. You’ve got to stand up to ‘em.”

  Glenn had learned different kinds of golden rules: Do unto others before they can do unto you. Screw others before they can screw . . . be mean to others before they can . . . demoralize others before they . . . give others grief before . . . .

  On the ride home, Glenn chattered away as if all was right with the world. I felt nauseous and discombobulated, like not much else could be wrong.

  * * *

  As I packed for the move, I came across the diaries in which I had religiously logged every single day of my adolescent life, nearly a decade’s worth. These weren’t the dull sort of diaries like my Father kept: sunny today, about forty degrees, voted today, Maxwell funeral—ninety in attendance. These diaries were full of my deepest thoughts, feelings, and experiences; adolescent angst, volumes of embarrassment, the kind of thing you wouldn’t want just anyone to get their hands on, no one, actually.

  I flipped to key dates, randomly, in each volume—the nights I was scared to death, home alone at Mother’s house, thinking someone was breaking in, the day Father took me to get Whiskers, the move to Father’s, my first kiss, the day Megan and I skipped school and went to the beach, the time Father ordered me to ditch the toxic boyfriend, my senior prom, the day Whiskers died, the day I went to Australia, my first time (which brought a sadly happy smile to my face), my first date with Glenn . . . . They ended about there. My intricately recorded life history stopped. What if I dropped dead and someone read this stuff? These were things safe for no one’s eyes. They were only safe within my heart. In an attempt to move on, put the past behind me, and keep the intimate details of my life from prying eyes, Glenn’s eyes, future children’s eyes, they found their final resting place in a Madison County, Illinois landfill. I had too much junk to be moving around anyway.

  The next box contained black and white stuffed Scotty dogs that Reese had won for me at the fair. Salvation Army could find them a home, but they couldn’t find a home for the necklace, bracelet, or shirt he had given me. I couldn’t let it all go.

  The sealed box, DO NOT OPEN written all over it, had been opened. “Glenn!” I yelled, furor in my veins, “Did you open this? Why did you open this?” My heart pounded like my life had been threatened.

  “I was looking for my drafting pencils.”

  “The box said DO NOT OPEN! Can’t you read?” I fumed like a tigress protecting what’s dear. “It’s not your box. Did you really think your drafting pencils would be in there, all sealed up?”

  “Well, I didn’t know. When I got to looking around in there, I figured I shouldn’t be in it, so I closed it back up.”

  Damn right, you shouldn’t be in it, I growled to myself, giving Glenn the cold shoulder. He had no business being in that box with every letter Reese had ever written to me. Every letter, but the very last one, the Christmas card he sent after we broke up. I wished I had kept it. Those weren’t plain old love letters; they were priceless treasure.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is. I didn’t read anything.” Glenn tried to touch me and I jerked away. “You know, sometimes you can be just like your mother, off in your own little world,” Glenn said.

  His words threw me so far off the edge, I lost my voice screaming, “I AM NOT LIKE MY MOTHER!”

  He could not have been more cruel. His words cut so deep that even he realized he had gone too far.

  “Gosh, sor-ry,” he said, taken aback, “I’ll never say that again. I didn’t know you’d freak out.”

  “I’m not like my mother,” I repeated, calming enough to cry in full force. But I knew it was somewhat true. While I wasn’t hard and fast in my ways with tunnel vision, insisting that everyone believe like me or else be damned to hell, I did share her compliant doormat qualities, gathering deposits from others’ shoes until we could not be recognized as ourselves.

  “I didn’t mean you were like your mother. You’re not.”

  “Then why did you say it?” I shot back.

  “I meant that you just can’t be in your own little world. When are you going to let me in?”

  I didn’t answer. I melted into the floor and bawled for the next twenty minutes, then rummaged through the desk drawer.

  “Here are your pencils.” I dropped the unopened box into Glenn’s lap.

  * * *

  Moving day was not the joy I hoped for. Even the miracle of agreeing upon linoleum, cupboards, and exposed aggregate in the driveway, did not diminish the rest. Between the argument about the square footage, basement window, and ten more similar episodes—including a few directly between Glenn and me regarding upgrades and lighting selections—I didn’t even want my dream anymore. My home. It was a monument to discord, a house divided. Just walking through the door, looking at the chandelier, reminded me of the night he called me selfish because I wasn’t going for the thousand-dollar fixture he had his heart set on when a seventy-five-dollar hanging lamp would do.

  “Hurry up.” Glenn stripped off his clothes and plunged into bed as he yelled, “What’s taking so long?” I heard him fluffing the pillow and slapping his hand on the mattress as if that would speed up my nightly ritual, which consisted of brushing teeth, removing contacts, and usi
ng the toilet. After the first year, I stopped answering.

  CHAPTER 21

  “The one among you who has never done any wrong thing may throw the first stone . . .”

  John 8:7 (WE)

  Dear Camryn,

  I’m sorry wedded bliss is not all that blissful for you. My grandma always told me that things that bother you about a boyfriend before marriage, bug the shit out of you ten times more after marriage. “Spouses tend to be on better behavior before marriage,” she said. I’ve tried to keep that in mind, probably why I dumped the last two blind dates—one after he wouldn’t keep his hands off me, and the other, because he had no goal in life other than skateboarding.

  Other than that, things are great. I’m plowing ahead with my life. Did I tell you I’ll be going back to Australia soon? I miss my host mum, so it’ll be good to see her (and all of the family) again.

  Take care,

  Megan

  * * *

  For the second time in a week, I called in sick. Days off for mental health became a necessity. I hated my job and hated my boss. She kept doing my ‘monkey work’ over again because I didn’t do it ‘right.’ Control freak. She even had the balls to tell me I didn’t dress well enough for the job and shorted my raise because of it. Wearing anything other than current trendy fashion commanded demerits in her book. Sunday best wasn’t even good enough for trained chart-making monkeys who never interacted with external customers. Anxiety-ridden trips to the toilet punctuated the days I had come to work that week. Nerves commandeered my body, doubling me over in pain. It was the same excruciating and debilitating experience I had had many times after running home from the bus stop in middle school. Back then, fear had filled my shoes. Child abductions and rapes, robberies and murders had been on the rise in Mother’s neighborhood six years in a row. After a full-blown sprint, I’d nervously fumble with the house keys; then bursting in the door, I’d frantically lock it behind me and dash to the bathroom. Uncontrollable tremors in my panic-stricken legs made those episodes in my adolescent years the only difference from this latest disquietude.

  I hated my marriage too. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling texture. One stalactite caught my focus and the rest blurred. Glenn showered, dressed, and left for work before dawn. I was alone to wallow in depression. My life wasn’t what I had envisioned at all. I never consciously created my personal master plan, yet I knew this wasn’t the visage. I didn’t want to wake to a flaccid penis in my face, Glenn saying, “Here fishy, fishy.” I didn’t want to be groped while making dinner. I didn’t want to be expected to make dinner. Better than being pressured to strip in the car, I still didn’t want my bra undone, slipped out through my shirtsleeve, and thrown across the room for a ride on the ceiling fan while I made lunch. I didn’t want a full breakfast, eating out on weekend mornings, or be expected to make Glenn one if we didn’t. “My mother always cooked us breakfast,” he had said. Did I look like his mother? In my childhood, Father had always set Mother’s breakfast on the table each morning: cereal, fruit, milk, and place setting for her to sit down to. He may not have been attentive and helpful enough at home, but this was one thing he did do for her.

  I didn’t want to go antique shopping on days off. I didn’t want to watch dirt track races every Friday night and urgently pray for rain so I wouldn’t have to go. I didn’t want to literally be Glenn’s constant companion with no free time of my own. He encouraged me to go out and party with friends—something I wasn’t interested in, but when I tried reading a book at home instead, he jiggled my arm, blurring the print, or kicked whatever I was reading, or just plain took it away. Support for reading did not exist. I didn’t want to dance in country bars—or any bars. I didn’t like them or the smoky atmosphere. I didn’t want to breathe in Glenn’s rancid farts, forcibly held underneath the bed covers. I didn’t want to sleep with windows open and a ceiling fan on every night no matter how cold it was outside. I didn’t want sour nothings whispered to me during sex—‘nice beaver’ and other perverted, unromantic sentiments which he intended to be turn-ons. I didn’t want girlie magazines under the bed alongside wadded-up, dried cum-encrusted socks.

  I didn’t want to be Glenn’s personal secretary, servant, social director, full-time cook, entertainment coordinator, tart, maid and accountant. My prior feelings of being needed turned into feelings of being used.

  My mind wandered, picking up crumbs. Why couldn’t Glenn have told the Greeks to go to hell if he couldn’t bring a non-Greek to the dinner dance? Why had fitting in with the Greeks been more important than fitting in with me? Why couldn’t I have asked myself these questions then?

  I didn’t want my life as I knew it. This was not a looming civil war. This was my personal revolutionary war.

  My breaking point was imminent. If I didn’t act, I was sure I would die sooner rather than later. Part of me already had. I used to think Glenn’s ex was an insensitive, abhorrent bitch—cheating on him. Now I thought she may have been thrashing about, grasping for life.

  Nervously, I penned my divorce requests. In my view, I was fair, splitting what we acquired together and requesting to take what I had come in with. I knew this would be hard on Glenn; I tried making the arrangements palatable as possible.

  The phone rang. It was Glenn, expecting the answering machine, checking for messages. Surprise in his voice when I picked up, he said, “What are you doing at home?”

  “I wasn’t feeling good, so I called in.”

  “If it’s that bad, you should look for another job.” He assumed my sole problem was unhappiness at work. I had tried talking to him earlier about my boss ragging that my attire—though nice—was not up to her personal standard. “What does my wardrobe have to do with my ability to do the job?” I had said to him, expecting some agreement. Instead he had said, “You should dress like a professional.” Hardly words of comfort.

  “Okay.” I said, knowing more words would do no good.

  I was no longer surprised we didn’t agree on most things. We couldn’t even agree on the basic definition of a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship when we were dating. I was amazed I hadn’t seen the problem before.

  “What’s wrong?” Even though he sucked at reading between the lines, he had heard indifference in my voice.

  “Nothing.” Discussing my personal problems with Glenn was pointless. Every time I tried, he told me why I shouldn’t feel that way or how wrong my opinion was. I was tired. “I’ll talk to you tonight. Bye.” I put the phone back in its cradle, then shivered in bed under the covers.

  Seeking counsel and comfort, I called my dad before confronting Glenn.

  “If you are planning to do what I think you are wanting to do,” Father said, avoiding the ‘D’ word, “I think you should see a counselor.” He was careful not to put words in my mouth, but accurately read my thoughts. “And I think you should ask Glenn to see a counselor, if for nothing else than to help him through this.”

  I listened in spite of my tormented state. Why did it not surprise me that my Father was looking out for the man who’d been treating me like shit? Father was sure there was a good person in there screaming to get out, his keeper, unbending, relentless.

  “He’s been through it once before . . .” I heard the sympathy pains in Father’s voice. “I’ve been there. I know what it feels like. It’s the most painful thing I’ve been through. I can’t imagine going through it twice.” Father paused, then delivered a final piece of advice. “I think you should give him a second chance. It sounds like he’s got some issues to work on, but . . .”

  Give him a second chance. My fatherly guidance was crystal clear, but not what I wanted to hear. Why couldn’t he let me own the biggest mistake of my life, wad it up, and throw it all away? I wanted him to acknowledge that I had finally woken up and smelled the roses, discovered they stank, and needed to move on.

  At sixteen, Father told me I was emotionally immature. He gave me the diagnosis, but not the cure. What he meant remained shroude
d in mystery for ten years. I hoped Father would be glad I had pulverized the glasses I had been wearing—glasses not colored rose, frosting over the most obvious signs, but a fierce shade of magenta. The magenta spectacles obscured everything but what I wanted to see. Initially, removing the glasses hurt with the glare of hindsight, but now with unobscured vision, I saw my marriage for what it was. No good.

  I wanted out.

  * * *

  “Glenn, we need to talk.” I spoke words that struck fear in the hearts of men. Glenn sat on the couch, watching the late news with one eye, the other on me. Instead of saying ‘I want a divorce,’ like I wanted to, I delivered my bombshell as gently as possible and said, “This isn’t working out. We are not working out.” I hoped Glenn would agree we were incompatible and want to move on too. My palms started to sweat. My nerves trembled on the inside.

  Sensing something serious, Glenn turned off the television and said, “What do you mean, ‘We are not working out’?”

  “I think we should separate,” I said, lip quivering.

  “Why?”

  “We just don’t . . . click,” I said, being succinct as possible. Don’t click. That summed it up into an ugly little package. The worst package a marriage could come in. We were oil and vinegar. Shake us up and we worked well together, but for a short time. Other than that, a barrier remained, he always on top, holding me down. I realized we would never mix well.

  “What do you mean, ‘Don’t click’?”

  The fact that he even had to ask what don’t click meant, illustrated my point. I sighed inside, already exhausted from the upcoming conversation. “We just don’t get along. I do something you don’t like, you yell. I want to read, you kick my book out of my hand. You want to be on the go all the time. I don’t.” I felt the short list was quite long enough.

  “It’s boring to stay home,” he said.