Splitting the Difference

by Tre Miller Rodriquez

How pitch-perfect would Cuba be for the one-year anniversary?

  I call my mother-in-law and ask if she’d consider Havana for March 15th if I can find a legit way to go?

  There’s a long pause before she says yes and I’ll look into visa options.

  * * *

  After work tonight, I pick up a bottle of pinot grigio and head uptown, where Mariana is hosting an impromptu dinner party for some L.A. friends. The guests are a lively group of the usual New York suspects, plus a foreigner or two. We eat in the drawing room, balancing plates of traditional Greek food on our laps and making civilized conversation. But when the wine bottles start emptying, politics are introduced and words like Marxist and conspiracy and control are bandied about.

  Last autumn I was campaigning for Obama, spending my Saturdays calling independents in Ohio and Florida.

  This year?

  I haven’t followed anything and leave the room at the first sign of a debate.

  Upstairs on the terrace, the view of Central Park West sweeps me back to last fall, when a few of us gathered here after Fashion Week parties. I had called Alberto, who’d just gotten home from the office, and invited him to join us.

  He’d wearily asked when was I coming home?

  Not sure, I said. It’s a gorgeous night and we’re having prosecco. Can’t you come over?

  Tré, I’m exhausted.

  But Mariana’s firefighter friends are here and I’m helping her

  host . . . you know, it’s September 11th.

  Please come home, Tré.

  When I stumbled in four hours later, he was livid.

  What the fuck, Tré? he shouted from the bedroom.

  The blood rushed from my head to my feet.

  You know I have a huge presentation in Texas! You know I need to be on my game and can’t sleep without you here. But do you give a shit about me? Or stop to think how your actions affect me?

  I won’t insult you by making excuuses, I slurred, but really, I am sorry. Sorrrrrry I stayed out and that you couldn’t sleep . . . that was selfishhh of me.

  You’re sorry? he said, in the Cuban accent that came out when he was really happy or really not. No, I’m the one who’s fucking sorry. Why should you be? You’ve apparently had the night of your life! At least I hope it was the night of your life. I hope it was fucking worth it.

  It wasn’t.

  I slept on the couch that night.

  He left for work the next morning without a glance in my direction and booked me on a flight to California the same night. Said he couldn’t stand the sight of me and couldn’t deal with distractions this week. He sounded serious enough to change the locks.

  I was starting a job at a new PR firm the following week and L.A. wasn’t how I wanted to spend the downtime, but as instructed, I packed and left for the airport before he came home from work.

  At my parents’ house, I traded the sick feeling in my gut for prayer and meditation and Pilates. Gave up smoking and committed to a drinking hiatus. That week, I realized what other wives usually know by Year Three: marriage ain’t all about you. Gotta consider your spouse in daily decisions like what time you leave the office or what you make for dinner or if you RSVP for weekend things when, really, he’d just rather stay home.

  Yes, Alberto embraced me when I returned from California, but I’m not sure he ever forgave me. And while the next six months became one of the best chapters in our marriage, I never escaped the sense that I was one lapse in judgment away from divorce papers.

  I attended plenty of parties that winter, but I never came home late.

  Or drunk.

  That week in California gave me a glimpse of life without Alberto and it scared the shit—and the vices—out of me.

  Yet here I am, one autumn later: drunk on Mariana’s terrace again.

  * * *

  On our last anniversary together, the traditional gift was leather. We had plenty of riding crops, so he got me a baseball game—Boston at New York—and I got him a Ferragamo billfold and his name flashed on the scoreboard.

  He squealed when he saw the scoreboard.

  He looked at the billfold like it was a pound of tofu.

  But I have a wallet, he said. My orange Burberry.

  Yes, I said, and sometimes you travel light and give me your license and Am Ex.

  Yeah, he said. So you can hold it.

  Damn, I thought.

  Well, I said, I checked the return policy beforehand: They do refunds.

  Last anniversary, the shirt and tie I bought him went back to Hugo Boss. So did the Paul Smith shirt for his birthday the year before. Ditto the Etro shirt last Christmas. And so on and so on.

  Hell, I said, half smiling, I didn’t get it right this year either.

  He laughed, opened his arms, folded me into a hug.

  It’s okay, he said. I’m hard to shop for. I’m the first to admit it.

  As last Christmas approached, I paid more attention to his off-the-cuff remarks.

  Started a list in October but crossed off most of it because he had a habit of mentioning something he needed and coming home with it two days later.

  In November, we made a deal that $200 was our limit on gifts for each other: we’d save our dough and spend it on our annual Christmas–New Year’s trip to Quebec.

  As I wrapped his gifts last year, I felt silly for how practical they were: an oversized calculator (he hated using the one on the computer); a pair of discontinued Bodum espresso glasses (to replace the four our housekeeper had broken, one by one); and a monogrammed espresso bathrobe (to replace the tired white one he’d had forever).

  To my complete amazement, all three gifts elicited smiles and non-patronizing laughter.

  See, he said, you have been listening. And you got it right this year.

  * * *

  Tony Papa’s out of surgery, says my mom from a waiting room in California.

  And? How’d it go?

  He has to come back for tests next month, but the doctor’s optimistic.

  Thank God, I exhale. And thank you. Give him my love?

  Done, she says.

  * * *

  As October creeps toward November, the panic that’s been dormant since early August returns. How and where do I spend the stupid holidays?

  I can’t fathom going to Barby’s alone for Thanksgiving this year. Or flying to California to spend it with my relatives. Both places will underscore Alberto’s absence, which means I’ll drink before noon and be a grief mess by dinner.

  My solution?

  Go to London—where there’s no Thanksgiving.

  Maybe I’ll get in touch with the Aussie, maybe not. I’ll go to Hyde Park, see the Tate, meet up with old friends, and dance to house music in the West End. I’ll design a trip that reminds me of why I’m thankful, rather than what’s missing.

  But the shine from my London plan wears off this morning when I arrive at the office.

  My department director just announced her resignation.

  I want to be happy for her—in-house at Bloomingdale’s! congrats!—but her new job means I’m losing my biggest ally at this agency. She gave me a glowing review before It Happened and has had my back since It Happened. She doesn’t ask why I can’t work on my wedding anniversary or vibe me when I leave early for a lawyer meeting. These sorts of gestures are rare in New York PR firms, and rarer still at sorority-esque shops like this one.

  There’s already a frenetic scramble to assign people to the accounts where she was most visible to clients, but I know I’m in no headspace to replace her. If Alberto were here, he’d kick me for not making a play for her position. But if Alberto were here, he wouldn’t need to.

  I wash off the day with a hot shower before slipping into Alberto’s monogrammed bathrobe. When I exit our bathroom, an overwhelming scent of c
heeseburgers has filled the apartment. I rush the kitchen, half-expecting to find Alberto in his underwear eating at the counter.

  The kitchen is devoid of food-delivery bags.

  No pans on the stove, no dishes in the sink.

  The trashcan is empty.

  Me and my wet hair stand between the kitchen and living room, looking for a rational explanation of the phantom meat.

  We find none.

  * * *

  Alberto hated Halloween.

  He dressed up the first year we were married, but made it clear that he would not be doing it again.

  And the famous Village parade?

  Go with your girlfriends, he said. I don’t like clowns.

  Two Halloweens ago, when I was Sally from Cabaret, we had a fight in this apartment that haunted me even before he died.

  He had decided he’d rather stay home than go to a costume party in Brooklyn, so I got ready at our place and met up with two girlfriends. Around 2am, I texted to let him know we were now at loft party in the East Village.

  Come. home. now.

  I’m hanging with Mariana, Roberto, and everyone else, I reply. I told you I’d be home late, baby.

  I’m not asking.

  After the fifth text, I turn off my phone. Whether I go home now or four hours from now, he’ll be pissed. I decide to stay and face the wrath later.

  And wrath there was.

  The verbal kind.

  The written kind.

  The not-talking-to-me-for-a-week kind.

  The wrath was so memorable that a year later, in a gesture of conciliation, I sat out Halloween for the first time—ever.

  This year’s Halloween will invariably mean reliving our 2007 fight.

  Sleeping in one of his shirts.

  Waking up to our empty apartment with swollen eyes.

  Fuck that noise.

  I’ve heard Savannah puts on a good Halloween party, so I text one of my West Coast girlfriends and ask if she’s ever been to Georgia.

  When do we leave? she replies.

  I spend the rest of the night on Amazon.com, in search of the perfect Elle-vis costume.

  * * *

  Thank you for the prayers, says Tony Papa.

  What did your doctor say? I ask.

  He doesn’t think I need chemo, he answers. Seems like surgery got all the cells.

  Hallelujah!

  Hallelujah indeed, he laughs. I’m thinking of celebrating my extended warranty on life by coming to New York.

  Come!

  Maybe for Thanksgiving, he says. With my girl.

  I’ll be in London, I say. But you’re both welcome to stay at our place—er, the apartment—all week.

  Thanks, he says. May have to take you up on that.

  Our conversation nudges me toward booking my hotel in London, and since I’ve already done the research, I make the online reservation for the Baglioni today. Only after zooming in on a map do I realize the hotel’s close proximity to the Royal Albert Hall. When I share this information via text with my mom, she replies gushingly about the history of Albert Hall: Queen Victoria dedicated the cornerstone to her husband, Albert, who died at forty-two years old.

  Are you effing serious? I text back.

  I never kid about history, she replies.

  * * *

  As a native Californian, I spent my formative years in traffic listening to NPR. One of my all-time favorite programs is “This American Life,” and today’s archived podcast involves a challenge among NPR’s staff: from all the ridiculous show ideas your families have suggested over the years, find one that’s actually viable and produce it.

  One of the producers chases an idea her mom once pitched after attending “a hilarious funeral.” But now the mother can’t remember why the service was funny: she only knows that she “nearly busted a gut.” The producer gives up on her mom and calls the National Funeral Directors Association of America, hoping to find someone with “a few funny stories about death.” Anecdotes range from a funeral director getting caught stealing a tie from the deceased before cremation and another fellow who wanted “Silent Night” played at his service.

  These are not funny stories.

  WBEZ Chicago should’ve called me.

  I’d have told them the one about Alberto being late to his own funeral.

  The morning of the service, I had practiced my eulogy for Ramses and Jeanette before taking a cab to the funeral home on Bleecker and Sixth. I was scheduled to meet Alberto’s family at 2pm for a private viewing before going to the church.

  In the lobby, the funeral director had informed me that I was the first of my party to arrive.

  Like it’s a dinner reservation.

  I shook my head and walked wordlessly toward the viewing room.

  Amelie, the only civilized person who worked there, had stopped me.

  Why don’t you wait a few minutes so I can turn on the memorial video? she says. Alberto’s flowers are already at the church and it might be too sad in there today without music or pictures.

  Bless you, Amelie, I say, and head back to the lobby.

  When I call my sister-in-law, she tells me their car service arrived late and they’re sitting in traffic.

  Are you close by? I ask.

  Tré, we’re still in Jersey. We’re not even in the tunnel yet.

  Okay, I say, so I’ll wait for you guys.

  I’m on my second cigarette when Barby calls.

  Listen, we’re still in traffic. I don’t think we’ll make it there in time. The driver is taking us directly to the church.

  I flick the cigarette away, angrily.

  Are you saying I have to do this alone, Barby?

  I know. I’m so sorry.

  You’re telling me I have to say good-bye to him, take his glasses off, put the croquetas in the coffin—alone?

  Tré, I don’t know what to do. We’re barely going to make it to the service by 3pm.

  Who cares about 3pm, I hear myself saying. Fuck 3pm. It can start late. It’s not like it can start without us. Or without him.

  We’re gonna have to meet you at the church—

  Barby, can you pass the phone to Hilda? Please?

  A pause.

  My mother says she’ll meet you at the church.

  Fine, I say, then you’re gonna stay on the phone with me while I go back there and say good-bye to him. Because I can’t do this alone, Barby. And I can’t believe you’re telling me I have to. So hang on, I say, let me grab the croquetas.

  I ditch my coat, pick up the bag, and head toward the viewing room.

  Are you with me, I ask.

  I hear muffled sounds before Barby, in a determined voice, says You don’t have to do this alone. We’ll be there. Give us twenty.

  I stop walking.

  Seriously?

  Seriously, she says.

  Thank God, I say, and ask her to call when they’re a few minutes away.

  I leave the croquetas with Amelie, tell her that the family is running late and to please hold everything until they get here. And I mean everything, nodding in the direction of his coffin.

  Outside, I realize I have actually have twenty minutes to kill—ugh, wrong word—twenty minutes to have a drink before I have to say good-bye. At this moment, twenty minutes feels like a get-outta-hell-free card, and I nearly skip to Da Silvano.

  I order myself a Peroni and place a Chivas neat, Alberto’s standard drink, beside me.

  It’s 2:36pm.

  His funeral was supposed to start in twenty-four minutes.

  But it won’t!

  Alberto—the man who was late for everything—is gonna to be late for his own funeral.

  Alberto would appreciate this detail more than the suit we chose, more than the piano h
ymns, or the four-hour playlist with his music. I want to share the moment with someone, but a call to my parents goes to voicemail. Ditto for Nikki and Fico and our friend Naumann. I nearly post it on Facebook but worry that people might take it as a cue to show up late too. So me and my cliché drink the Peroni until Barby calls to say they’re pulling up to the funeral home.

  We embrace in the lobby, link arms, and, for the third time today, I head toward the viewing room.

  The flowers and pictures are already at the church, I whisper. So I’ve been warned that it might seem sadder than yesterday.

  They nod as we enter the room.

  Amelie underestimated the sadness.

  The emptiness.

  The harshness of the spotlights on his coffin.

  They tighten their arms against mine as we approach the casket. When I hear Barby’s sobs, I hear myself saying that it’s just his shell. The essence of Alberto is not what we’re looking at, not what we’re sending off.

  Just his shell, she says, trying it on for size.

  It’s just his shell, she repeats loudly. She nods and leans into her husband.

  I just can’t believe it, Hilda cries. Cannot. Believe. It. I see him there, and I know it’s real but . . . oh, why Albertico. Why.

  My throat tightens.

  I want to press Ctrl + Z.

  Undo it.

  The words comfort my mother run through my head in the same tone that Alberto would say call my mother.

  I—I’m so sorry, Hilda. Seeing him like this . . . it’s not what he wants you to remember.

  I hold my mother-in-law until her shuddering subsides.

  Thank you, she says, taking a deep breath.

  She approaches the coffin and wordlessly places a rosary over his hands.

  Barby tucks photos into his jacket pocket and crosses herself.

  I add the croquetas, one yellow rose, and remove his red statement glasses.

  I’m keeping these, I whisper before kissing his head. I love you, Alberto.

  We’re already exiting the viewing room when I realize I want to be the last person to see him—not one of the funeral home jerks.

  I’ll meet you outside, I whisper to Barby.

  I set down my purse and return to the casket.

  I stand on the kneeling bar and reach for the coffin’s lid.