A Changing Marriage

by Susan Kietzman

  “I can’t wait.”

  “I can’t wait until they’re in college.” Both women laughed. “I have an idea,” Sarah said, looking at her watch. “What would you think about taking the kids to McDonald’s for lunch?”

  “My kids would be absolutely thrilled. Robert will do anything for French fries.”

  “Jeremy, too. He’ll pee on the potty if I stand over him with a couple of fries in my hand.”

  Karen groaned. “Don’t get me going on the potty thing. We’re not having a lot of success.”

  “They’re young. We’ve got time.”

  “That’s not what my husband thinks. Bob says there’s no reason for Robert to be wearing diapers, now that he’s going on three.”

  “Jeremy’s just starting to get the hang of it.” Karen nodded her head. “Vincent’s impatient, too. He hates hearing about Jeremy’s accidents, so I don’t tell him anymore. Not that it should matter to him one way or the other, since he’s at the lab twelve hours a day.”

  “You, too?”

  “Oh yes,” said Sarah. “And then he comes home exhausted. Guess who’s in charge of the children for the evening?”

  Karen sipped her tepid coffee. “You’re telling the story of my life.”

  “That’s just chapter one. So, are you game for lunch?”

  “We’re in.”

  Bob stopped for a quick burger on the road between meetings. The first meeting had gone as planned; Tasty Apple had been receptive to his suggestion of increasing inventory to match the boost in production. Bob, who personally researched their numbers, had put together an impressive PowerPoint presentation, citing why an increase in their standard order by seven percent would yield them the cushion they needed. Since Tasty anticipated a five percent growth in product that year, Bob pointed out, the extra two percent in packaging would give them the ability to immediately ship out a bumper crop. If the fall harvest did not turn out as expected, a marginal increase in packaging would not be problematic to store. As everyone in the room already knew, the Tasty Apple container, when collapsed, took up just slightly more space than a couple of flattened cereal boxes. The people at Tasty were good customers and had been for years, so Bob was not surprised by the positive outcome of the meeting. The next one would be more difficult.

  The Gallant brothers owned a regional chain of high-end grocery stores and were considering pushing paper bags instead of plastic. It seemed at first like a backward idea in a world where plastic bags were king. But, as John Gallant had said on the phone to Bob the week before, their college-educated customers were beginning to question the use of plastic bags, according to the Gallants’ latest survey. While customers certainly knew paper came from trees and were quick to indicate their distaste for overzealous deforestation, they were equally quick to proclaim an inherent and growing distrust of chemical companies and the effect the manufacture and disposal of plastic bags had on the environment. Plus, Gallant said, if they could print their logo onto the paper bags with a vegetable-based dye, their customers could compost the bags. The call had taken Bob by surprise; Ed Felder usually handled the five-pound grocery sack accounts in the western part of the state. Ed was on vacation, which meant that Gerry Osbourne usually filled in. Instead, Bob was asked to handle it. Perhaps, Bob thought as he wiped ketchup from his upper lip with a napkin, this was a test.

  He stopped at a mini-mart a few miles from the Gallants’ office building to use the men’s room, where he brushed his hair and his teeth and washed his hands and face. He changed his shirt and retied his tie. There was nothing he could do about the wrinkles in his suit, yet they could have spawned as easily from an office chair as a car seat. Bob didn’t like to give the impression that he was going from one meeting to another, marketing his wares like a door-to-door salesman. The image of the traveling salesman had been tarnished over the years by sordid stories, most prominently of expense report padding and quick stays with questionable company in roadside motels. Bob did everything in his power to portray himself as a clean and honest sales representative; his image was as important as his product.

  John and Arron Gallant had done their homework. They knew what kind of bags they needed. They knew how to print their logo on the bags. They knew how long it would take Forester to get the bags to them, and they knew precisely how much they should cost. They also knew what two of Forester’s competitors would charge them, which was a little less than what Bob had calculated the night before. Had they called James at River Paper? James was their top salesman and would have told them anything to strike a deal. Had they already met with James? Rather than ask, Bob told the Gallants he would meet the competitors’ prices and beat their deadline. The paper bag inventory at Forester was piled to the ceiling; Bob knew they could ship out by the end of the week. The printing was the only issue, but Bob figured he could push it through. Tammy still owed him a favor for misspelling a customer’s name on ten thousand cardboard boxes. (Bob had spent almost two thousand Forester dollars in dinner reservations and theater tickets to right that wrong.) What Bob didn’t know was John Gallant had also researched sales reps. Bob had an unblemished reputation for service as well as sales, which is why Todd Martin had waited until Ed was on vacation to request a meeting. If anyone at Forester could make it happen, it was Bob Parsons. The deal was sealed with a handshake.

  Bob waited until he was outside of the building to allow the huge grin he had been stifling to take over his face. This was just the kind of deal he needed in his portfolio to jump up another notch. He couldn’t wait to tell Todd the details. He also couldn’t wait to tell Karen. He knew it would be difficult to tell the whole story with the children talking and needing Karen to do things for them. Maybe they could go out. Bob took his Forester cell phone from his briefcase and called home. He smiled when he heard his wife’s voice. “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Hi, honey. Where are you?”

  “On the way back to my office. I just scored a big deal.”

  “That’s great,” said Karen, wondering if the telephone ring had woken Robert. She’d meant to turn off the receiver in the master bedroom upstairs.

  “It’s really, really great, and I want to tell you all about it when I get home. But I know it can be crazy with the kids.”

  “Tell me about it.” Karen put her hand to stomach. She wished she’d had the sensible cheeseburger that Sarah had chosen instead of the Quarter Pounder with cheese.

  “Let’s go out to dinner, just the two of us.”

  “Tonight?” asked Karen, responding to Robert’s call by walking up the stairs to his room.

  “Yeah, why not? Let’s be spontaneous.”

  “Easier for you than for me.” Karen opened her son’s bedroom door. Robert was sitting on his bed smiling at her, his eyes still sleepy. She smiled back. “It’s almost three in the afternoon. Where am I going to get a sitter?”

  “Call your mother.”

  Karen picked Robert up and set him down on her hip. “She has a life, Bob.”

  Bob slowed for a red light. “Call someone else. There has to be a high school or college student out there who wants to make some money. Offer to pay double.”

  Karen kissed Robert’s cheek. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great. I’ll take care of the dinner reservations, and I’ll pick you up at six.”

  Karen was able to find a sitter on her first try. Jamie Carle, who lived at the other end of the street, was able to come at five thirty, so Karen could get ready for the evening without simultaneously tending to Rebecca and Robert. Late afternoons were the worst. The children were tired, hungry, and moaned at the slightest discomfort. Karen turned the television on at four thirty more often than not. Yet, even when they were sitting on the couch in front of it, they needed her. Could she sit with them? Could she get them some juice and a snack? What was for dinner? When was dinner? Why did Robert have more crackers in his bowl than Rebecca? Rebecca was pretty good to Robert most of the time, but the never-ending late
afternoons temporarily turned all three of them into ogres. Karen often dealt with her poor mood by snacking on cinnamon graham crackers and drinking a pot of tea.

  When Jamie arrived, Robert, who was going through a stage of stranger anxiety, burst into tears, even though Jamie had already babysat several times. Karen scooped him up, kissed him on the cheek, and told him the macaroni and cheese was ready. At that, Robert brightened. Karen set him down at the kitchen table and told Rebecca, who slid in next to him, that she could have dessert when she finished her broccoli. “I hate broccoli,” she announced.

  “I know,” said Karen, who kissed her head. “But one day you will like it.” Karen then turned her back, jogged through the living room, and dashed up the stairs. She quickly undressed and got into the shower, where the warm water instantly relaxed her.

  Being in her house without a child at her side (and knowing that the children were cared for) was for Karen an unusual luxury. She felt free. Because she couldn’t hear them with the water running, it was like they didn’t exist. She fantasized that she and Bob were just married and they were going out to dinner, as they had on many weekends. She pretended she was still working, and that Jennifer had just given her a plum assignment, one that would give her a name in the business. She pretended Bob was going to ask her to go away that weekend, and of course she would say yes. What would keep them home? Karen stepped out of the shower, dried herself, and walked into her bedroom. Even with the door closed, she could hear the commotion downstairs. She walked to her bedside table and turned on the radio. She sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and listened to a National Public Radio reporter tell a story about two brothers who planted trees in California. They were foresters, who prided themselves on accountability and responsibility. They planted trees for the future of mankind as well as the future of their business. The three of them, the reporter and the two men, walked through the woods while they talked; twigs snapped and leaves crunched beneath their feet. It was quiet in the forest, except for their voices and their footfalls, as if the trees were enveloped by a soundproof dome; it was the kind of quiet absent from a house with small children. The reporter finished her story, and Karen looked at the clock. She had ten minutes to dry her hair and dress.

  As promised, Bob arrived at six. He said hello to Jamie and the kids, then called for Karen on his way up the stairs. She was in the closet looking at shoes. She chose a soft leather pair she hadn’t worn since Robert was born. She slid them onto her feet just as Bob walked through the bedroom door. “Are you ready?”

  She smiled at him. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  On the way to the restaurant, Bob started his story. He told it chronologically as he always did, this time beginning with his successful call to Tasty Apple, a customer Karen had been briefed on before. He included names and numbers and dates, diving into the minutiae like an accountant into a tax return, deeply explaining what each percentage and decimal point meant for the customer and, more important, what the statistics meant for him. He had just started talking about the new Gallant account when he drove his new 3 Series BMW into the restaurant parking lot. He turned off the car, leaned over, and kissed Karen on the cheek. Then he reached beyond her to the door handle and pushed the door open from the inside. “Let’s get inside. We’re a little late.”

  Karen got out of the car slowly, as if the physical weight of each number she had heard for the last fifteen minutes had settled onto her lap. She shut the door behind her and followed Bob into their favorite Italian restaurant, where they were seated at a side table next to a window. The hostess lit the glass globe-enclosed votive between them and handed them laminated menus. Karen set hers down and looked at Bob. “It feels so good to be out,” she said, refreshed by the quiet surroundings and the prospect of a fresh pasta dish prepared by others. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “Me too. I couldn’t be in a better mood.”

  The Gallant story continued. When the waitress returned five minutes later and filled their water glasses, Bob was not ready to order. And when she returned five minutes after that, Bob was at the story’s crescendo, running through the numbers with the speed and persistence of an auctioneer. He was just about to spring the amount of his commission check on his wife and was, therefore, still not ready to focus on anything but his story. Karen looked up wearily at their server. “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay.”

  “And I’ll have a Heineken.”

  After the server left, Bob smiled at Karen and asked if she was ready. “Ready for what? More numbers that mean nothing to me?”

  Bob’s smile faded. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What do you think I mean by that? You asked me out to a nice dinner and have been doing nothing but spewing obscure figures at me since we drove out the driveway.” Karen looked at her watch. “Twenty minutes ago. I know these margins are important to you, Bob. But they mean very little to me.”

  “I thought you’d be interested in the numbers. They represent what pays our bills and feeds our family.”

  “I’m very aware of your salary and how hard you work for it.”

  Bob picked up the menu and looked at it. “Meaning we talk about it too much.”

  “Sometimes,” said Karen, softening.

  Bob put down his menu and looked at her. “What are we supposed to talk about?”

  Karen took a sip of water. “We could talk about me. We could talk about my day.”

  “Your day?”

  “Yes. You used to be interested in me and what I was doing.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and didn’t even ask them about dinner. Bob waited until she was gone, then reached across the table and took his wife’s hand. “Of course I’m interested in what you’re doing.”

  “Well, it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like you’ve lost interest in everything but your career.”

  Bob sat back in his chair. “Do you really mean that?”

  “I’m frustrated, Bob. I have the most difficult, boring, underappreciated job in the world, and nine times out of ten you don’t really want to hear about it when you walk through the door at the end of the day.”

  “I always ask you how your day went.”

  “With the same level of sincerity and interest as the supermarket cashier who says, ‘Have a nice day.’ ”

  Bob took a sip of beer. “I think I’m a little more invested than the cashier at the grocery store.” Karen shrugged. “Look. You’re so bored and unappreciated, go back to work.”

  Karen picked up her wineglass. “That’s so easy for you to say.”

  “It’s easy for me to say because it would be easy for you to do.”

  “And just put the kids in daycare, right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bob, glancing at the menu. “They wouldn’t know the difference.”

  Karen put her glass down. “That is perhaps the most insensitive thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Bob put the menu back down on the table. “I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t know it, Bob. You appear to have no idea, no grasp of the numbers—the minutes, the hours, the days—behind caring for and raising our children. You continue along the same path you were on when we were first married. My life, on the other hand, is drastically different, and not necessarily in a good way. And it’s a life you don’t seem to want to participate in, until the children are asleep and you’re lying next to me in bed.”

  “Oh here we go,” said Bob, lifting his Heineken. “Let’s talk about how I want sex all the time and you don’t.”

  “No, let’s talk about how you used to cater to my every need and how now you only cater to yours.”

  Bob sipped his beer. “You sure know how to spoil a nice night out.”

  “Ditto.”

  They were quiet. The waitress returned and stood next to their table, black leather encased pad in hand. Bob looked at Karen. “Are we staying?”

  “We sure are. I’m going to
eat a dinner I didn’t make, and someone else is doing the dishes.”

  Bob put his napkin in his lap. Karen ordered the ravioli with pesto, and Bob ordered a New York strip, medium rare, with a side of fettuccini Alfredo. Bob looked at Karen as soon as the waitress left. “I’m sorry. I have definitely been preoccupied lately at work. There’s a lot going on, and I want to be a part of it.”

  “I know, honey. And I want you to be a part of it, too. I just want you to be a part of our lives, too. I really need your support, and the kids need an involved dad. Robert actually picked up that blue football yesterday and tried to play catch with Rebecca.”

  “No kidding,” said Bob, smiling.

  “She had no interest in playing with him. He was disappointed.”

  “Well, I can play with him. I’ll make a point of doing that this weekend.”

  “That sounds good,” said Karen, taking a sip of wine. “He needs you, Bob. We all need you.”

  Bob reached across the table and squeezed Karen’s hand twice. “I need you, too.”

  CHAPTER 6

  JULY 1998

  Shelley called Karen Thursday morning, just after Bob left for work, and said she needed a grandchildren fix. Karen looked around the kitchen. Eight cereal boxes, all open, sat on the counter. (Robert wanted a little bit of each.) Robert’s bowl, half filled with milk, was on the table. The rest of the milk was on the floor, where Robert poured it, mimicking something he had seen on Magic School Bus, according to Rebecca. Last night’s dinner dishes were still sitting in the sink in water that was now cold enough to have reversed the initial benefits of the hot water soak. Karen intended to get back to them, but had fallen asleep on Robert’s bed instead. “What time?” Karen walked with the phone through the dining room and into the living room.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Shelley. “What time’s good for you?”