The War of the Roses

Ann had lit a fire in the library, selected a book from the shelves, and, while the words swam before her concentrated on picking out his familiar step on the sidewalk and Benny's heralding bark. To calm herself, she opened the armoire and poured some vodka.

She hadn't long to wait. He appeared surprised when he saw her sitting in the library.

'I hadn't realized,' he began. 'I thought you might have gone away as well.'

'Here I am.'

He went to the armoire and poured himself a scotch, turning to look at her. He shook his head and smiled gendy.

'You drop a spark on dry kindling and you get fire,' he said, lifting his glass.

'Nature's way,' she said, smiling.

'You're taking advantage of a peculiar situation,' he warned with mock sarcasm.

'I know.'

'It won't do either of us any good. Certainly not yourself, Ann.'

'So I've been forewarned.' She was surprised at her boldness. He walked to the window and, parting the drapes, looked into the street. Then he turned to face her.

'I feel uncomfortable,' he confessed. 'That last episode nearly unnerved me.' He swallowed hard and his eyes roamed over the Staffordshire pieces on the mantelpiece. 'It took years to collect those pieces.' 'I know,' she said.

His hand swept the air. 'All those beautiful things. This house. I'm not going to let her have it, Ann. She doesn't deserve it.' His belligerence was tangible, aggressive.

He sat down opposite her. 'There's a lot of pain in this process. Some people might think it's self-inflicted. I could walk away-. Say good-bye. Kiss it off. And start all over again.' He looked up at her suddenly. 'I'll bet that's what you think. Walk away and start all over again.' She was shocked at the accusatory tone.

'No,' she said cautiously. 'I'm also a fighter for the things I want.' But he ignored her, still focusing on the cause of his animosity.

'She's just being ornery. A bitch,' he said. 'Maybe it was there all the time. This meanness. But I was too stupid to see it.' He shook his head. 'I can't get rid of the anger. It's like a perpetual flame. Every time I think about it I get mad. Mad at myself. Mad at Goldstein, as if it were his fault that he's putting me through this. Mad at Thurmont because I know the bastard is advising her. Mad at my kids for not taking my side.' He looked at her.

'Mostly I'm mad at myself for not having been what I thought I was.'

'You're too hard on yourself, Oliver.'

'My ego died a few months ago.' He turned away, and she saw the mist in his eyes. She moved toward him and embraced his head, kissing his hair. She felt motherly, incestuous. Opening her robe, she moved her breasts to his mouth.

'Let me love' you,' she begged, knowing he was beyond resisting, aching for comfort.

Her cheeks felt hot and the alcohol had rushed to her head. His body shook with sobs.

'Cry, darling,' she urged, caressing him. She felt the power of her womanhood as she reached for his organ, caressing it, undressing him.

'You're beautiful,' she said. He stood up and the joy of seeing him made her shiver with pleasure. Kneeling before him, she kissed him there. His response was immediate.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

She drew him down to the couch and snuggled beside him. They lay together, hardly moving. She listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

'Thank you,' he said when he stirred again.

He opened the armoire and grabbed a vodka bottle by the neck. Then, taking her hand, he led her up the stairs to his room. She had never been inside it since he had moved into it.

The room was dusty and had a foul, musky odor. It was in complete disarray, with files and papers strewn over all available surfaces. She saw a hot plate on the open desk of the Hepplewhite secretaire and unwashed dishes on the japanned commode. Liquor bottles, some half filled, lay about the room. He caught her expression of distaste.

'What did you expect?'

She embraced him, hoping to soothe him. But he broke away and picked up a Staffordshire figure that stood next to the dirty dishes.

'Queen Victoria,' he said, pointing to the figure. 'Like my life, I guess. A forgery. We got stung in Atlantic City. I keep it around to remind me of my stupidity.'

His tone was ominous and she wondered if she had contributed to his mood. She watched his eyes sweep the room.

'Look what's become of my life,' he snapped.

'It'll pass, Oliver,' she said lamely. But he was not to be placated.

'I have to hide all my personal records in here. I don't want her to overvalue the house. I've had to research all the receipts and insurance estimates. What a waste of time and energy.'

He brought two tumblers in from the bathroom, poured some vodka, then opened the window and brought in a carton of orange juice. He poured some into the tumblers.