A Good Divorce
John E. Keegan
New York
I thank the many people who helped me—critics, sources and supporters—Dennis Adams, Rebecca Brown, Greg Forge, Sharon and Jim Langus, Neil McCluskey, Diane Norkool, Marty and Judith Shepard, Marlene Stone, Bruce Wexler, all of the Rosses, Figys, Dowlings, Hills, Cawleys, Nealeys, Shanti and Riley, my brothers, my parents who lived a long and loving marriage, and especially Carla and David who have been more than any father deserves.
The triggering event for this book is true. I lost the marriage with the woman who is the mother of our children, she found a wonderful and lasting relationship with another person, and we built a good divorce. The story and the characters, however, are fiction, what Ray Bradbury calls gentle lies wishing to be born, the imagining of how it could have been.
JEK
For Mom,
Betsy Ross Keegan, 1922–2003
Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.
Rainier Maria Rilke Letters (1910–1926)
1.
On Sunday, I drove home from the ocean, constipated, still holding onto the last meal I’d eaten before Jude broke the news. And I feared what she’d told the kids.
We’d met in a psychology class in our senior year at the University of Washington in the early sixties. I’d taken the course as a lark; she was minoring in psychology. The first time we walked over to the HUB after class I bought her coffee and the people in the next booth asked if we played bridge.
“Why not?” I said. It couldn’t be any more perplexing than Jung.
With her textbook Goren and my cow town bluff, we had a little trouble communicating at first but Jude made a small slam in clubs and we won the first rubber. I was in heaven that spring. This sophisticated, big-city woman was interested in a kid who’d worked in the sugar beet plant and played basketball for the Quincy Jackrabbits. She thought there was something trustworthy about a man who grew up in a town with a grid street pattern and lived in a dormitory.
“We’re going to have a big family,” she’d told everyone when she found out she was pregnant.
When I reached the front door of our house on Broadway, I didn’t know whether to knock or just go in. In the hope that our impasse was temporary, I slipped my key into the door and listened to the tumblers engage, all the while praying she hadn’t changed the locks. Derek was on the floor petting Magpie, the kids’ Labrador with dalmatian paws, and he looked up at me like I was an apparition. Jude had told them. A column of sunlight teeming with floating dust specks shone from the side window to Derek’s rectangle on the rug.
“Hey, buddy, where is everyone?”
He stood up, out of respect it seemed, and brushed the dog hair off the front of his pants. Normally he would have given me a hug, but he seemed uncertain of the rules. “Mom’s out in back.”
I was still wearing the same clothes I’d left for work in on Friday, except that now the pants were creaseless and my wingtips were speckled with mud. I was grateful the kids hadn’t seen me flattened against the sand in the rain like a page of newsprint. I’d promised to take them to the Bumbershoot Festival at the Seattle Center that weekend, and in my panic to get away it hadn’t even occurred to me to bring them to the coast. Unconsciously, I’d already conceded them to Jude.
Derek drifted close and I gathered him in. He buried his head against me the way Magpie did when you snuggled her, and his knuckle-whitened hands clung to my jacket pockets. I had to concentrate to keep from crying.
“I better talk to your mom.”
He let me go out the back door alone.
I’d replayed our last Friday together a thousand times. Everything had seemed normal enough. Jude skipped rope in the middle of the kitchen like a prizefighter while I ate my breakfast. She was training for a half-marathon and, after that, a triathalon.
“Thirty-four,” whap, “thirty-five,” whap, “thirty-six.… Can you take your nose out of that newspaper for half a minute?” Whap, step. Whap, step.
“Sorry. It’s just that .…” I was two days behind in the newspapers and trying to finish Thursday’s Times so that I could see the headlines of Friday’s Post-Intelligencer before leaving for work. It was a game I played. Jude thought I was too linear.
“Just what?” Whap, step.
“It’s hard to talk when you’re jumping up and down like that.” I found myself chewing toast to the rhythm of her jump rope. She was a metronome.
“I thought you wanted me to lose weight,” she said.
“That’s your mother.”
“You said my butt was getting loose.”
“I said I liked something to grab onto … I was just … it was a compliment.” I sipped my Instant Breakfast to wash the crumbs down.
“You’re just more subtle than my mother,” she said. Whap, step. Whap, step.
I shook my head and folded up the paper. She once called me an emotional archive because I revealed nothing unless someone else looked it up. Here we were in the era of alternative lifestyles and movements—everyone wanted to go somewhere else other than where they were, people were Moonies, Hare Krishnas, Zero Population Growthers—and her husband wasn’t moving. Jude’s movement was the liberation of women. She was passionate on the subject.
“Are you in the office this afternoon?” she said.
Jude thought men were so lucky. It didn’t matter what they looked like, because they had the correct anatomical equipment. Two pregnancies had spread things around, but if you’d asked me that morning I’d have said she was still a turn-on. She was tall, with copper-colored hair that she used to blow dry when we were first married so that it crowded her face and framed her full rose lips. I could still remember the first time she let me hold the weight of her hair in my hand.
She did come by the office that afternoon. She never came to the office. She hated the extravagance of the marble, brass, and blown glass in the reception area. She’d had it with the haves. To her, the law had become the playground of the propertied classes, the aristocracy of orthodontia and uplift bras.
“I can’t do it anymore, Cy.” She was sitting in my grey overstuffed client chair when she announced it. “Our marriage has become a yoke I have to get off my back.”
I fiddled aimlessly with my ballpoint pen. My throat was as stiff as the leather sandals in the back of my closet that I hadn’t worn since law school. I’d need a shoehorn to force words through it. Her leaving was the implied threat of every argument we’d ever had. The prospect of divorce gave power to those encounters. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“You don’t like to talk about heavy stuff before going to sleep. Remember?”
She was right. I hated it when she unloaded on me at night and then, unburdened, fell fast asleep while I stared at the ceiling until I had to get up and read a book or do push-ups. “What about the kids?”
“I could use a break from them too.”
“I meant, have you said anything to them?”
“Not yet.”
When I reached the backyard, Jude was kneeling on the grass in her cutoffs, her back to me, stabbing the trowel into the flower beds, pulling the weeds, then shaking the soil off the roots and tossing them into a cardboard box. My shadow reached her before I did. She turned, shading her eyes with a green-gloved hand.
“When did you get home?” She said it like it was still Friday and everything was going to be the same as always. Better. She was wearing one of my old dress shirts, with the sleeves rolled up and the shirttail tied aroun
d her middle. There were streaks of mud on the front and a dab like a cat’s paw on her cheek.
“Just now,” I said.
“Did the kids see you?”
“Derek. Justine must be in her room.”
She motioned me closer. “I can’t see you against the sun.” I squatted on my haunches almost knee-to-knee with her and she lowered her hand. “It’s been a little traumatic around here.”
“You told the kids.”
She puckered her lips. “Justine’s in a big funk about it. She’s hardly spoken to me since.” She shook her head and studied me. “How are you doing with it?”
“Shitty.”
“Me too.” She reached out and I pinched a single finger through the glove. There were little plastic nubs on the material and I could feel the pad of her finger where a hole had worn through. I wanted to launch into the speech about how this was a good wake-up call, how it had forced me to do a lot of thinking about the changes I needed to make, about how I wanted her to forgive my obtuseness. All the stuff I’d imagined at the ocean.
“I missed you, Jude.”
She lowered her head and let her hand fall away to her thigh. I couldn’t see her eyes but there was a sadness in the slump of her shoulders and her green-gloved hand was limp. I felt stares in the back of my head and turned around to see Justine watching us from behind the curtain of her bedroom window upstairs. Derek, who must have been sitting on the sink, was watching from the downstairs kitchen window.
When Jude and I announced our engagement, people said it would be the perfect marriage. Our kids would be so smart. We’d breed perfect little Americans, future CEOs and mayors. The kids had turned out fine. Fortunately, neither of them had my big ears. Derek inherited Jude’s copper coloring in his hair and his freckles. Justine was darker-complexioned but she had her mother’s flair for standing her ground. Both of them had a dash of my clumsiness and crowded teeth. But the bloodlines that coalesced in the offspring had coagulated in the parents.
I stayed for dinner, which consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato rice soup and potato chips. It was a solemn affair. Everyone seemed to be weighing their words, trying to deal with the reality of it but at the same time not wanting to set anyone off. Between comments, there was nothing but the crunching of potato chips, the chinking of spoons against the bowls, and the slurping of soup.
“Where are you going to live?” Justine asked.
“Probably at Warren’s,” I said, knowing that I hadn’t even told my brother what had happened yet. As usual, Justine was ahead of me. The kids loved Warren.
After another long pause, Derek spoke. “If Dad’s gone, who’s going to make up bedtime stories about three-legged dogs?”
“You’ll still see your dad,” Jude said.
More spooning and slurping.
“Will we still be able to afford my braces?” Justine asked.
“I thought you didn’t want braces,” I said.
“Da-ad,” she said, drawing out the word as if to underscore my thickheadedness.
Jude asked me to stay until the kids were in bed. We took turns tucking them in. I told Derek the thimble version of how Odysseus wandered around after the siege of Troy, escaping the one-eyed Cyclops and Circe, and finally returning to the kingdom of Ithaca and his faithful wife, Penelope. Justine, who we’d baptized along with Derek just in case heaven was really only open to Catholics, hated going to church, but she told me she’d been praying that her mom would change her mind about our marriage, a definite bright spot in the evening.
Jude poured us each a glass of Chardonnay and we sat at the kitchen table in the nook that was surrounded by single-pane windows on three sides. She took out a manilla folder labeled “Divorce from Cyrus” on the tab, and I was curious why she had added the “from Cyrus” part.
“I don’t like this any more than you do,” she said, “but we can’t just leave everything up in the air. The kids are starting school in two days. I think we owe them some stability.”
“Isn’t it a little sudden?”
“It’s not like this is the first time we’ve talked about it,” she said, biting her lip, and then taking a sip of wine as if to wash something down. She put two fingers on the back of my hand and rubbed the veins that ran like catacombs between the wrist and the first set of knuckles.
“Nothing we do tonight has to be forever, right?”
She raised her glass and we clinked gently. “To an amicable … and provisional settlement.”
We drank, each watching the other, and I was already missing those forthright, unblinking eyes.
“I have an attorney,” she said, slipping it in quickly, the way a good dentist gives you the needle while you’re finishing a sentence.
“Who?”
“Charles Johnson.”
My wince had to be visible. This wasn’t just a weekend whim. Divorces were all that Charlie did. He was a mercenary. Now that she’d mentioned him, I remembered her telling me that Charlie was also the divorce attorney for her friend Lill Epstein, the leader of the Sunday night women’s group.
“He’s just an advisor,” she said. “I’d like the two of us to work things out by ourselves.”
The subjects on the list she took out of the folder were so rudimentary they were frightening: Kids, Property, Support. Her organization was both impressive and out of character. When the phone company cut off our service and Jude swore they hadn’t billed us, I found the unopened statement as a bookmark in the “Gutters and Downspouts” section of the Yellow Pages, which were under the magazines in the wicker basket by the downstairs toilet.
“Let’s do Property,” I said.
Jude pulled out some pages paper-clipped together that listed our assets and liabilities in two columns, hers and mine. The assets in her column included the checking account, the Smith Barney stocks, and the whole life insurance policy. In my column, she’d listed our savings account, the long-play record collection, the Raleigh ten-speed (which neither one of us had ridden since the gearshift turned to mush), the ’73 Plymouth Fury (which needed a brake job and a replacement windshield), and a loan for three thousand five hundred dollars to Warren Stapleton.
“That’s not an asset,” I said, “he’s my brother.”
“You mean he’s not good for it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It was your idea to give it to him.”
If Jude only knew how much we’d loaned Warren, she might have moved it to her column. He probably owed us three times what she showed. He needed “cold water” when he was in the Peace Corps to bribe the local police and bail out one of his friends. When he got back to the States, he needed his own bail for staging a one-man demonstration in the Spokane City Council chambers to protest the UN’s support for baby formula. In the larger scheme of things, Warren was probably the most humanitarian investment we’d ever made.
I wasn’t in the mood to haggle and pretty much went along with her list as well as the initialing of the furniture. The house wasn’t in either column. It was assumed that I was the one moving out, and without the house it didn’t make sense for me to have a lot of furniture. Jude had such a focused vision as to how life was going to unfold, for both of us. It was like we were getting ready to launch me into outer space and she didn’t want to weigh me down with luxuries. I was numb when we moved to the subject of support and quickly agreed to an amount for the monthly payment. After all, this was at least for the benefit of the kids. The cynical side of me wanted to ask her what had happened to equal rights and women’s lib, but deep inside I still wanted reconciliation. I couldn’t say the division of assets and liabilities in a manner to benefit the wife was out of the ordinary, but it was traditional and, in that respect, unlike Jude.
When we turned to the issue of custody, I came out of my stupor. This mattered. “I’ll take the kids.”
“You’re working full-time. How could you even consider it?”
“You work too,” I sai
d. “And they’re in school. I could have a babysitter till I came home.”
“You don’t have a place.”
“I thought you were feeling smothered by them. The yoke and all that.”
“I know but I couldn’t …”
“I wouldn’t criticize you for it. We could lie to your mom and say they’re still with you.”
She sighed. “Oh, God, I dread telling her all this.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m impressed you would offer.”
“You think I’d screw it up and they’d wither from neglect, don’t you?”
“It’s just that you haven’t had that much practice parenting.”
“I feel like I’m breaking promises to them.”
She studied me and I could tell that she was moved in a way that had seldom happened when we were plain husband and wife instead of putative plaintiff and defendant. “Let me talk to my lawyer,” she said.
I grimaced openly. “Let’s let the kids decide.”
“Cyrus! Derek’s eight, Justine’s fifteen.”
“They’re smart kids. Why not?”
“Let’s settle the dust first,” she said. “Let them stay here until you get a place. Then we can do some visitation and see how it goes.” For as much as she loathed the law, she had quickly become conversant in the jargon of domestic relations. Jude closed the folder and I felt a sense of triumph that we’d managed to get through round one of this more or less intact. It had been so long since we’d seen eye-to-eye on anything.
“I better pack up a suitcase and call Warren,” I said.
She looked over at the clock on the stove. It was eleven-thirty p.m. “Stay ’till the morning. It’ll help the kids digest this better.”
“Which couch?”
She laughed. “I don’t think one more night in the same bed will kill us. Besides, I don’t have any clean sheets.”
When Jude and I announced we were going to get married, her family threw an engagement party in their Queen Anne mansion on Highland Drive. Mom made Dad buy a new blazer and slacks that he stained with grease from a Dag’s Beefy Boy on the way to the Martins. Coming from Quincy, my parents had never been in a house with a dumbwaiter and an intercom. They tip-toed around the Martins’ Mexican ceramics and South Pacific tribal masks like the house was a museum. All their prior doubts about my marrying a Seattle girl vanished once they saw Highland Drive. The Stapletons were commoners and the Martins were the Capulets. We’d been elevated and now, with the separation, they were going to be crushed.
A Good Divorce Page 1