The War of the Roses

Ann was fully aware of her unrequited feelings for Oliver, which prompted even more caution on her part. It was, she knew, downright dangerous to poke one's head above the shell holes of no-man's-land. Even the humor of it, the sheer illogic of the process, paled as the days wore on. By force of will, she maintained an observer's distance, while inside she seethed with a profound and exasperating curiosity.

Every movement in the house became a signpost, every unguarded look a nuance, every stray word a symbol of some impending action. At night she would go over what she had observed during the day, attributing motives, calculating advances or retreats.

She wondered if they observed her inspection and when she felt anxious about this, she retreated further into her pose of indifference. Even the children seemed to have given up. At first they had been slyly trying to effect a reconciliation, but that had quickly dissipated in the face of their parents' obvious unrelenting hostility and they assumed an air of grudging acceptance and, finally, tolerance.

'My parents have simply gone crazy,' Eve told her one night. The announcement seemed in the nature of an epiphany and Ann noted that Eve was spending more time with her friends, less time under her scrutiny. It was pointiess, she decided, to attempt to maintain a more rigid discipline over the children at a time of such trial. Josh found solace in basketball and other sports and, since he had not lost contact with his father, he seemed to be maintaining a business-as-usual equilibrium.

Sometimes she felt uncomfortable about her inspector's role. It took effort and concentration. And, of course, she had to hide her own interest. Was it possible for Oliver to see in her an alternative? The question gnawed at her and filled her with guilt.

'You're awfully quiet,' Barbara remarked one day.

'I hadn't realized,' Ann responded.

'I suppose I can't really blame you. The way things have altered around here.'

It was her first real attempt at self-justification to Ann, who listened quietly, deliberately averting her eyes so they would not betray her. 'Who can possibly understand but another woman who has undergone the same experiences? You can never really transfer your outrage. The house, in my opinion, is fair compensation. He can have another one just like it in a few short years. Maybe sooner. I can never have it again unless I marry. Then the whole cycle starts again.'

Although she was working harder, she seemed more beautiful than ever, glowing, in fact; a quality totally incongruous, considering her "plight."

'I'm not competent to judge,' Ann replied, remembering the undeclared war of her own parents' married life. She had rarely seen even the most primitive gestures of respect between them. They seemed to survive on a diet of mutual hate. 'I'm not a good one to ask about married life. My background is very traditional,' she lied.

'I know. The husband pulls down a paycheck and the wife cooks, cleans, and fucks.' Ann had also detected that Barbara had gotten harder, more vocal and intransigent.

Between Oliver and Barbara communication was, in the early days of the new arrangement, nonexistent. Sometimes it was unavoidable, and Ann would hear scraps of conversation that always disintegrated into a rising crescendo of vituperation.

'I'll pay all electric and gas bills that can be attributed to normal household operations. Not to your business activities. Those you pay for.' He had confronted her in the kitchen late one evening. Ann, who was helping to baste a roasting goose while Barbara prepared a batch of baking dough, quickly faded from the scene, far enough to be out of their vision but close enough to hear.

'How can you calculate the difference?' Barbara asked sarcastically.

'I'm having a man come in from the electric and gas companies. If necessary, we'll put in separate meters.'

'What about the power from your workroom and the sauna?'

'I take no profit from that.'

'But I help pay for it.'

'Would you like to charge me for the use of my room as well? The cost of my electric blanket?' 'If I could, I would.'

'And I don't appreciate your fudging on the food bill. Thurmont agreed that you would keep those charges separate. There's no way the family can use six pounds of flour and three pounds of butter a week.'

'And what about the orange juice? I know you filched a carton of orange juice the other day. It could only have been you.' Barbara had asked the question so innocently of each of them, including the maid. Ann had wondered about the intense probing.

'I admit it. It was a damned mistake. I used it for screwdrivers. I ran out.'

'I've been meaning to tell you. Those juice cartons on the ledge are ugly.'

'It's my ledge.'

'And I don't see why you have to lock up the liquor cabinet and the wine vault.'

'What's Caesar's is Caesar's,' he said facetiously, the logic deteriorating.