The War of the Roses

She was sitting in the matching Chesterfield chair, her back stiff, her fingers digging into the hollows just behind her knees. The Staffordshire figures seemed a live audience. He rubbed his chin and shook his head.

'Is there someone else?'

His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. Apparently he had deliberately choked off a sob. 'No.'

'Do you want someone else?' he asked quickly, and she sensed the trained lawyer's mind emerging. 'Maybe.'

'Always be vague under cross-examination,' he had told her once.

'Is it something I've done?' he asked gently, obviously grasping at some shred of hope.

'Not really.'

'Then is it something I haven't done?'

She formed her reply carefully. 'It has nothing to do with your conscious self,' she said sofdy. She watched his face as it mirrored his growing anger.

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' he exploded. His anger was, she knew, unavoidable. She hoped he wouldn't cry. She did not want to show him how unmoved she would be.

'It means,' she responded calmly, 'that you have no control over the situation and probably no blame. It's me,' she paused, shrugged, and tightened the grip behind her knees. 'I don't believe I can stand the idea of living with you for another moment. As I said, it's not your fault...' He started to speak but she held up her hand. 'And any injuries you might have inflicted on me were not done consciously.'

'Injuries?' His voice shook. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

*I know. I wish I was more articulate. But you see I've never had the training .. .'

'So that's it,' he said, finding sarcasm. 'You gave up your life for me.'

'A part of it.'

'I made you quit school. Made you a slave.' 'In a way.'

'And you're - what is the cliche? - unfulfilled.'

'That, too.'

She sensed his rising contempt, steeling herself for what she knew was coming, had to come.

'And the kids? Don't they have a say?'

'The kids will be fine. I have no desire to abdicate my responsibilities in that quarter. And, no, they don't have a say.'

'Jesus.' He squinted into her eyes. 'Is this you?' 'Yes. It's me.'

'Not Barbara. Not the girl I married.'

'Not her. I'm sorry, Oliver. Really sorry. I wish I could do it so it wouldn't hurt.'

There was a long pause as he paced the room. Stopping, he turned away and looked blankly at the tides of the leather-bound books, then circled the rent table and finally went back to the armoire and poured himself another drink. He gestured with the botde, offering a drink. Obviously he had no idea of what was supposed to come next.

'No. Thank you,' she said politely.

He shrugged and gulped down another drink, suddenly jabbing a finger below his breastbone.

'This is playing hell with my hiatus hernia.'

'Take a Maalox.'

He sighed, grimaced, and breathed deeply, staring at her.

'You're a cold-blooded bitch.'

'I'm sorry if that's your perception.' But the label made her uneasy. She was not cold-blooded, nor did she wish to be cruel.

'There is no easy way to do this, Oliver. I'm sorry.'

'Sorry?'

His lips trembled and she sensed that he was holding back more recriminations, making an effort to contain his anger.

'I guess it's an epidemic. All the girls of our generation with your checklist of unfulfilled dreams, lusts, and fantasies. We've busted our asses to make you content. Now you shit on us. We gave you too damned much ...' His voice faded. She had expected that, too. Had gone over all the potential arguments.

'So I guess you want a divorce?' he asked.

She nodded. 'Yes.'

'Not even a trial separation. Fini?^’

'I told you how I feel, Oliver. Why flagellate yourself?'

He shrugged, and a nerve began to palpitate in his jaw.

'I thought I was doing one hell of a job. I thought this was supposed to be success.' 'It isn't.'

'It's going to be a bother,' he said. 'Life's a bother.'

'Don't be so fucking philosophical, Barbara.'

She stood up. What more was there to say? Through her own pain, she felt the bells of freedom ring in her head. Save yourself, the rhythm urged. She supposed he'd move out in the morning.

8

He didn't move out in the morning. He was too disoriented. To avoid another confrontation, he got out of the house at six, before anyone had risen, and slipped into the surprisingly nippy morning. He always walked to the office.

He never took the Ferrari to work. Besides Barbara's Ford station wagon, they didn't own another car except, of course, for Eve's Honda. And whom could he trust with such a work of the automaker's craft? The Ferrari lay tucked in its cozy wrapper, in the garage, like a rare gem. As he walked to work, even on the coldest days, it gave him pleasure to know it was there, sweet-tuned and ready just in case. He took no pleasure in the knowledge today.