by Joy Fielding
“So, it’s all my fault,” Victor concluded.
“I’m not saying that.”
“What are you saying?”
“Forget it.”
“Incidentally, do you know where you’re going? We passed the turn-off three blocks ago.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” She stopped the car.
“You were too busy yelling at me.” She turned the car around, found the right street and made her turn.
“You always turn corners that fast?” he asked accusingly.
“It wasn’t fast.”
“Took the curb off the sidewalk. How fast are you going anyway?”
“Victor, who is driving this car, you or me?”
“I just asked how fast you were driving. Can’t I ask you a simple question? Jeez! Starting with your mouth already. Can’t help yourself, can you? I mean it would really kill you to have one nice evening.”
“I don’t believe this,” Donna muttered, feeling the tears start behind her eyes.
“Christ, Donna,” he yelled, as she slammed her foot on the brakes inches before a stop sign. “Where are you looking? You almost drove through that stop sign!”
“I didn’t though, did I?”
“You trying to kill us?”
“I stopped,” she said, starting again.
“What were you thinking about?!”
“Victor, you’re making me a nervous wreck, will you please shut up!”
“Oh, it’s my fault you almost missed the stop sign!”
“Nobody said it was your fault!”
“You’re yelling.”
“You’re driving me crazy! Will you just let me drive?”
“What—so you can kill us the next time?”
“I’d be fine if you’d just shut up.”
“Stop yelling at me!” he shouted.
“Shut up!” she screamed in return, the words exploding upon impact with the air. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
She drove through a red light.
“Jesus Christ, are you crazy?! You are trying to kill us,” he yelled. “Pull over. Did you hear me? Pull over!”
“I didn’t see it! I didn’t see it!”
Victor reached over her, grabbed the wheel and steered the car to the side of the road. “Get out of the car.”
“Victor,” she cried, the tears she had been pushing back erupting now with double force. “I didn’t see the lights!”
“I know. And you didn’t see the stop sign. And it’s all my fault.”
He pulled her out from behind the wheel. She shook his arm free. “Don’t touch me,” she said, trying to wipe her eyes.
He looked at her, suddenly calm. “Oh, is that what this is all about?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t have to almost kill us to get out of sleeping with me tonight. I’m getting used to the word no.”
Donna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Over and over in her mind she replayed the words. She still couldn’t get them to make any sense.
“I didn’t see the red light!” she cried out in desperation. “You were yelling at me about the stop sign and you wouldn’t drop it and I started yelling and got so upset I missed the stoplight! It had nothing to do with sleeping with you!”
“It’s all my fault,” he said sarcastically, shaking his head. “I’m the one who drove through the stop sign and the red light.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh? So you’re willing to concede that you were driving. Interesting.”
“I was trying to.”
“And I wouldn’t let you. Is that it? Get in the car, Donna. Or do you want everyone who drives by to think I’m beating you up? Is that part of the plan?” They walked around the car in opposite directions and got inside, Victor now behind the wheel, Donna, shaking, at his side.
“You are beating me up,” she said as he started the car. “Just that the bruises don’t show.”
“You’re crazy,” he said to her. “Sometimes I really worry about my son’s safety.”
“What?”
The word came out in a hoarse whisper, Donna’s voice finally giving in to battle fatigue and shell shock. She started to cough and continued until Victor pulled the car to a sudden halt.
“What are you stopping for?” she asked through her tears.
“We’re here.”
“Here? You mean we’re still going to the party?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I certainly am. Late though we are.”
“I look a mess.”
“Par for the course these days.”
“Victor—”
“Don’t start in on me. I’ve had enough for tonight. Now,” he paused, choosing his words deliberately, “I am going inside. You have two choices. You can either come with me and try to have a good time, abhorrent though I know that thought is to you, or you can stay out here and sulk like a little girl. I’ll be embarrassed of course, but I’ll deal with it. Either way,” he added, getting out of the car, “I’m going inside.”
Donna felt herself being lifted out of the car by the force of her own panic. Maybe she had been trying to kill them. Who knew anymore? Certainly anything would be better than this. Certainly at this moment, she wanted to die. Then she thought of Adam. Her beautiful little boy. And she knew she didn’t really want to die at all. She wanted Victor to die.
The realization made her gasp for air.
“What’s the matter now?” he asked her.
No, please, please. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. “Victor, please can we talk?”
“You’ve said enough.” A familiar refrain.
“Please.”
“Wipe your eyes.” They reached the front door and Victor rang the bell.
Danny Vogel, looking every one of his forty years and more, answered, a drink in his hand, his beer belly protruding over his obviously new Gucci belt.
“Gotta lose weight,” he said instead of hello. “You’re late. We were starting to think you might not make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Donna kept her head down as they walked inside. She kept in Victor’s shadow, reluctant to show her face. It felt puffy and streaked. Not until she caught sight of herself in one of the hall mirrors and saw that despite the swelling around her eyes and her newly red nose, she looked presentable, did she lift her head.
“Happy birthday,” she said huskily, then cleared her throat.
“You have another cold?”
Donna nodded. Victor reached in his pocket and handed her several Kleenex.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Gin and tonic,” Victor answered.
“Scotch and water,” Donna said, wondering why, since she rarely drank scotch and water.
“Coming right up,” Danny said smiling. “Mingle, children, mingle.”
Victor took his cue immediately and disappeared into one of the groups of well-wishers. Donna looked around her. There were about thirty people there, she calculated quickly, not one of whom she wanted to talk to. She didn’t know at least half the people there and had exhausted whatever she’d had to say to the others at the last party they attended.
Whatever happened to those wonderful teenage parties? she found herself thinking as she walked absently through the people, settling finally on a place not far from the bar, where she could observe and yet not have to participate. The kind of parties where you played records and danced and then turned off the lights and necked with whoever was closest by and prayed his braces wouldn’t get caught with yours, and someone always told the story about the two dogs that were “doing it” and got stuck together until someone finally came out and threw cold water over them. Whatever happened to those parties? Why did they always have to grow up into the kind of party where everyone stands around with a drink and a phoney smile complaining about their work and their kids and their lives? Was everyone as unhappy as she was? Was that what married life was
all about?
“Scotch and water,” Danny Vogel said, suddenly beside her. She took the drink and said nothing. “You should see the cake that Renee made for me,” he said proudly. “She shaped it like a giant penis.” He waited for her reaction and continued when he got none. “That’s not supposed to be flattering,” he explained. “She said it’s because I’m a big prick!” He laughed, flattered nonetheless.
“Why do men always feel complimented when women tell them they’re pricks? I don’t understand, is there a special prize for hurting women?”
“Uh, excuse me,” Danny Vogel said, and retreated quickly.
Donna took a long look around the room. It reminded her of the room in which Anne Bancroft had tried to seduce a wary Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, a movie she had seen three times. Anne Bancroft had sat on a bar stool very similar to the one just to her left and lifted her knee provocatively into the air. Dustin Hoffman had stood rather nonplussed a safe distance away. It was that kind of a room. Most of the furniture had been cleared away to make room for the guests; what remained was of the white-and-black vinyl variety, modern and cold. The Vogels’ sense of art was restricted to waterfalls and big-eyed children. Somehow their choice of friends seemed to suit the room perfectly.
She took a small sip of her drink, realized immediately that she hated the taste and wondered who she was to feel so superior to everyone here. Was misery in any way superior to enjoyment? Had she really become a martyr to the cause? If so, what was the cause?
She looked at some of the faces around her. Some were deeply tanned, most were not, native Floridians being much more careful of the sun than those who came only for a vacation. Most of the faces were smiling; some were openly affectionate. Arms intermingled, hands touched, the odd kiss on the cheek was extended. There was obviously a place somewhere for warmth.
But not with Victor.
From time to time, various people approached her. She said nothing to their small talk. Eventually they went away. Danny Vogel made another attempt, muttered something about his child and Montessori schools and finally excused himself when she made no response.
What had happened to them? She took another slow sip of her drink, remembering back to that first drink of Dom Perignon they had shared together. She remembered their whirlwind flight to New York. The lobster boiled precisely seven and a half minutes. She had let him order for her even then.
How exciting it had all been. How attracted she was to him. So excited, so attracted, she’d married him despite growing doubts, the knowledge he had lied to her about his mother.
Her own mother had once advised her to watch how a man treated his mother; it was indicative of how he would behave to a wife. She shuddered, then shook her head slowly, realizing how long it had been since she had even thought about her mother, how long it had been since she’d had time to think about anything except Victor. She was always so on guard. Everything she said; everything she did. What did she say? What did she do?
She didn’t read anymore, at least nothing more demanding than a magazine—magazine mentality, Victor described it. But she simply lacked the concentration to tackle even a Gothic novel, let alone an author like Albert Camus.
She never went to movies. Victor hated them—he boasted often that the last movie he had seen was High Noon, although he watched The Magnificent Seven every time it came on television. At one point in her life, Donna had gone to a movie at least four times a week. Now, there was just no time.
She had given up her job, although that had truly been her decision. She didn’t want anyone else bringing up her child. She wanted those first three years at home, then she would go back to work. No, it wasn’t Adam’s existence she begrudged in any way. He was her salvation. She may occasionally have tired of his demands, of his whining, of his assorted schedules, of not even being able to go to the bathroom without him sitting on her lap, but she enjoyed him, she always loved him.
She no longer loved Victor.
It was that simple.
For a long while she had been telling herself that if she didn’t love him deep down (why not up front instead of deep down?), then she wouldn’t get so angry at him, that love and hate were flip sides of a coin and that if she was capable of the kind of loathing she at times felt for him, she must also be capable of that kind of love.
But that was a convenient rationalization, an easy excuse.
When was the last time they had talked without arguing? When was the last time they had discussed haiku poetry? Probably the first time. When was the last time they had looked at each other with trust, not had to search every utterance for possible misinterpretations before speaking?
He was probably as unhappy as she was.
They were both miserable, and they were making their son miserable. Adam, she thought. Victor had been wonderful throughout their son’s birth.
Of course he’d been wonderful, she snapped at herself. Everyone can be wonderful for twenty-four hours out of a lifetime! That wasn’t fair, she knew, but who cared. She was tired of trying to be fair. All right, Victor wasn’t a monster—he had his fine moments, he was kind to old ladies and stray dogs—and he was even a decent man most of the time. Just something was wrong with the two of them. Together. Perhaps it had been the same way with his first wife, she didn’t know. It really wasn’t important. What was important was the way he was to her, and no matter how you tried to judge it, how far you bent over to be fair, the fact was that their marriage was a disaster. If he was to blame, she was crazy to stay. If she was to blame, it meant the same thing. Whoever was at fault, him, her, both of them, the plain truth was that they were making each other miserable, and she was too young to throwaway the rest of her life because she didn’t know what else to do. She knew what else to do.
She had to leave Victor.
The massive rock lifted from her shoulders. For the first time all evening, her nose felt clear, her throat unrestricted.
Victor was walking toward her.
“Are you going to stand here all night? Not talk to anyone?”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“What about?”
She shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. Now isn’t the time.”
“It’s as good a time as any.”
She looked up into his eyes. They were very blue, surprisingly soft. Maybe this was the right time after all. When he was relaxed, when she couldn’t be accused of acting out of a fit of pique. She didn’t know. Surprisingly, she didn’t care. He had asked, pushed for an answer. He would get it.
“I think we should get a divorce.” The words were soft yet strong. Forceful, without being loud. The kind of quiet conviction that comes when one is absolutely certain one is doing the right thing. He understood that quality in her voice immediately, and so he asked for no repetitions or clarifications.
They shared several seconds of absolute silence. “I love you,” he said at last.
“You don’t,” she responded.
“Please don’t tell me how I feel,” he asked, a slight edge to his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Four exchanges and already she was sorry. Of course he was right. She hated to be told how she felt; she shouldn’t be doing the same thing to him. Oh, Goddamn it, did she really have to go through this tortuous thought process every bloody time she said something? “I’m sorry, Victor, this isn’t the time to discuss it.”
“Then why bring it up? A hell of a time to drop a bomb like this on me!”
“You asked.”
He shifted uneasily, keeping one eye toward the other guests and one on her. “You really want to embarrass me, don’t you?”
“No,” she stated simply.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel about you?”
“Feel about me? Victor, you told me you loved me not two minutes ago and already we’re fighting, the accusations are flying. Maybe you do love me, maybe you don’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore how we feel about each other. What�
�s relevant is that we can’t live together. We can’t, and you know it.”
“I don’t know it.”
She shrugged, about to say “I’m sorry,” but stopped herself and said nothing.
“What about Adam?” he asked.
Immediately, she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a buzzer like a smoke detector ringing endlessly in alarm behind her ears. Just as a horse senses when its rider is afraid, so she knew Victor had intuitively felt her fear. Though her voice remained soft, it had lost its strength, its conviction was now forced.
“What about Adam?” she asked in return.
“You’re planning on divorcing him as well?”
“Of course not. I’ll take Adam with me.”
“Oh?”
She stared hard at Victor. This was just a gambit, she told herself. He was using her fear of losing her son to make her stay. But he would never follow through.
“I wouldn’t leave my son,” she said.
“What makes you think that I would?”
Donna felt herself beginning to panic again. She fought for control.
“We’ll discuss it later,” she said, knowing it was futile.
“No, you’re the one who insisted we discuss it now. Let’s finish it.”
“We’ll talk about it at home.”
“Oh? You’re still going to let me come in the house? Very kind of you considering it was mine to start out with.”
“Victor, please—”
“Let me tell you one thing, little lady, so you better listen. No one—not you, not some fancy lawyer, not the courts, no one, is ever going to take my son away from me. I’ll fight you till there’s nothing left of you. And in case you have any doubts that I’m telling the truth, remember that I’m the guy who spent two days in jail rather than pay a parking ticket—”
“A stop sign,” she said numbly.
“What?”
“The ticket was because you went through a stop sign.” The irony of the entire evening hit her like a sharp poke in the ribs, and she coughed up a flood of tears.
“Jesus,” Victor said, trying to block her body with his own.