The War of the Roses

He stood up and walked toward her, leaving his cigar in the ashtray. She saw his shadow loom close and caught the whiff of his musky cologne. For a moment she felt herself bracing for a physical onslaught. For some reason, she was certain, he had decided to make a pass. He didn't, merely standing over her, looking down, underlining her helplessness.

'I don't think that's fair,' she said.

'Fair?' He stopped abruptly and she wondered if she had headed him off. She was annoyed that he had not made a pass. Maybe being fair game is what she really wanted, a real declaration of independence. With the exception of Josh and Oliver, she had no idea of what other men really looked like, felt like. That, too, wasn't fair.

'Are you going to lecture me about "fair"?' he said.

'I can't lecture you about something that doesn't exist.' She enjoyed her jab at him. He offered a wry half smile, a broad hint of his arrogance. She was not intimidated.

'You think it's fair for me to have devoted nearly twenty years to his career, his needs, his wants, his desires, his security. I gave up my schooling for him. I had his children. And I devoted a hell of a lot more time to that house than he did. Besides, the house is all I have to show for it. I can't match his earning power. Hell, in a few years he'll be able to replace its value. I'll just have cash. Well, that's not good enough. I want the house. I want all of it. It's not only a house. It's a symbol of a life-style. And I intend to keep it that way. That's fair.'

During the outburst his eyes had never wavered from her face and when she was through he offered her an unmistakably approving smile.

'Well,' he said, 'we have here a live one.' He bent down and whispered in her ear, 'Do you mean it? Or is it merely indignation talking? In the real world indignation collapses first.'

'It's real as shit,' she hissed, surprised at the extent of her firmness, wondering if it was really the way she felt inside. Was it possible that her resentment had been so deep? In the night, especially that first night, the guilt had come charging up at her, blocking out everything but her own imagined perfidy. She had called her mother in Boston and that hadn't helped one bit.

'I don't understand what you're saying,' her mother had exclaimed after what Barbara knew was a long, garbled explanation. Hell, I don't need her approval, she had told herself. Of course they would think her mad. Everyone, including her children, might think her mad. In the cavern of her empty bed, she wasn't quite sure. All the resentment seemed to get screened through the lonely darkness and all that crawled into her mind was what one might call the good things. Oliver had been so supportive of her desire to get out and do something. Anything. He had been the principal motivator behind the kitchen, urging her on to the pursuit of the commercial possibilities of what she once believed was merely her pedestrian housewife talent. So he must think that he has created a monster. He was always someone to lean on, to be protected by, steady and sure and knowing and handy and decent and loving. A good provider. A good father. A good son. So, then, why was she doing this to him? She had barely been able to get her doubts through the night. The next night she took a Valium and things were better. Last night it had been still better. She was beginning to agree with herself again.

'Up to now, Barbara,' Thurmont said, intruding on her thoughts, 'I would have thought you'd be the usual twenty-four-karat cliche, the I-just-want-out syndrome. The sad bleat of the unfulfilled woman. The beaches are strewn with their bloated corpses. They left home with empty purses, hot crotches, and high hopes. Fools. The lot of them. They didn't have to leave home empty-handed. They didn't even have to leave home.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'It's possible, Barbara. We might be able to pull it off. But that will depend on you. He'll buck, of course. It'll be one hell of a mess. Dog eat dog.'

'I won't move. I want it all.'

'It will mean time. My time. Your time. Pain. Arguments. Anguish. Inconvenience. Is it worth the candle?' 'Damned straight.'

Thurmont looked at her with satisfaction. 'You've got pluck, lady.' he said happily, relighting his cigar.

In his words she read: I love messy divorces.

'It's my house. I worked my ass off for it,' she said.

11

That morning he had started to pack, filling a suitcase in fits and starts. He went down to the library and fondly touched his Staffordshire figures, lifting a Littie Red Riding Hood, a Garibaldi, a Napoleon, caressing them fondly as he replaced them on the mantel. Then his fingers lovingly slid over the intricate carving of the armoire. He remembered how happy he had been when it was delivered to the house.