The War of the Roses

The problem was that he was giving in to extraneous matters. He must guard against emotions going out of control. He would simply have to weather the waiting period, summon the patience to hold his line. She, on the other hand, had a tougher row to hoe. She was trying to prove that she had been damaged career-wise and, therefore, that her sacrifice had a value equal to the house and all its contents. A judge would have to be mad to grant such a depraved request.

The heat rose in the sauna and he felt his pores open and his body ooze into delicious liquefaction. Nothing was better than a sauna to relieve tension. He felt pain and anxiety slip out of his body.

He had set the sauna to its maximum heat, determined to cook himself into oblivion, so that the cold water of the shower, which completed the process, would shock him into luxurious relaxation. He would return, repeat the procedure three times, then drag himself up to bed and the dead sleep of physical depletion. There hadn't been any new movies to see and he had stayed in the office doing legal research, more to fill up time than out of necessity. He had bought himself a pizza, which had lodged itself somewhere halfway between his mouth and his stomach. She had chosen a poor time for a confrontation.

The wall thermometer indicated a temperature of 200 degrees, but he continued to lay supine on the redwood slats, feeling the sensation of melting, knowing how quickly the icy water would restore him, prod his adrenaline; then he would recede into sweet exhaustion. In the morning he would wake up fresh, able to meet the rigors of the new day.

The sauna, he had always found, chased his depression, renewed him. He watched the little bubbles of sweat ooze out of his pores and he reached out and smoothed the oily moisture over his body. The sauna isolated him in the little redwood room and, in his mind, it became a womb, warm and comfortable. Anguish was not allowed in the sauna.

By the time the temperature reached the red danger point of 220 degrees, he began to play a game with himself. He wanted to reach the furthest point of body heat, then quickly jump out into the shower. The change of temperature would shoot the adrenaline through him, recharge him, obliterate all terrors and anxieties. His body heat rose and he sat up and let the juices that had squeezed out of his body run down his chest and back. The oily liquid oozed out of his buttocks and he slid gently, enjoying the smoothness of the wood against his skin. He knew he was testing himself, pushing his endurance in the heat, if for no other reason than to prove the hardness of his will.

Finally, he was satisfied that he had fulfilled this promise to himself, and he eased himself off the high bench and pushed at the door. It did not open. He pushed again. Still no movement. He braced his shoulder against it and heard a brief creak, but the door would not budge. Making hammers out of his fists, he beat against the door. He began to scream. The sound echoed in the room.

He listened but heard no response. Weakening, he dropped to his knees and put his cheek against the wood slats of the floor, where the air was coolest. He rolled onto his back, with waning strength, and banged the door with the soles of his feet. He felt himself growing faint. He realized then that he had not shut off the sauna. Rising, feeling his weakness, gasping for each breath, feeling the heat singe his lungs, he reached up and switched the temperature dial to off.

Stretching out on the floor again, he tried to collect his senses. The heat, he knew, would drop very slowly. He had deliberately made the sauna tight. The redwood from which it was constructed was the best available and he had carefully fitted the joints. Lying on his back, he tried to shout.

'Please help me,' he cried, but his strength was ebbing and he felt a numbing weakness. It was futile to cry out, he realized, even in his panic. They were two floors above him. He remembered the thump he had heard earlier - one stroke. He had thought it was her fist, a brief act of rage. Now he was certain that she had wedged something into the door crack. He no longer had the strength to move and his chest hurt. Looking upward, he saw that the temperature had begun to drop, slowly. It already registered below the red mark and was heading toward 200 degrees.