The Divorce Express

by Paula Danziger

  CHAPTER 21

  Rosie’s gone.

  Her father just picked her up.

  He seemed okay. It’s hard to tell the first time I meet someone. I just kept remembering how he acts to Mindy.

  Mindy. My father.

  I have to deal with my mother at the moment. That’s enough to think about.

  I go into the kitchen.

  My mother’s sitting at the table, drinking another cup of coffee.

  Pouring a glass of milk, I join her.

  She asks me whether Dad and Mindy are going out, kind of casually, but in a way that I know she’s really interested.

  I shrug. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t say anything. I’ve learned not to get in the middle.

  Then she says, “Phoebe, remember how upset I was when Duane and I broke up?”

  Remember? How can I forget? That’s all she’s talked about lately.

  Continuing, she says, “One of the problems was that we never could spend much time together when you visited. I didn’t want you to get upset because he wanted to stay here, and I know it made you uncomfortable. But now Duane and I have talked it out and I want you to get to know him better . . . to like each other. He’s very important to me and I want to continue the relationship. He wants to be with me and I want to be with him.”

  The phone rings.

  It’s for her . . . . Duane.

  While she’s talking to him, I make my getaway.

  Going into my room, I want to tear everything apart.

  How can she say that I’ve got to do something that I can’t?

  I pick up a stuffed animal and throw it across the room.

  It hits the wall.

  I pick it up and hug it to me. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not sure if I’m sorrier for my stuffed animal or for me.

  When my mother gets off the phone, I call Dave.

  Something in my life has to stay the same.

  I hope that he still cares.

  I call him.

  He still does care, a lot, he says.

  I’m really glad that I don’t have to depend on my parents for everything.

  CHAPTER 22

  My opinion of Duane hasn’t changed.

  I have to sit at a Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant, watching the two of them and pretending to listen.

  I can’t believe that she’s picked him, that he’s so important to her.

  He is though. I can tell. My mother acts like Sunshine Anderson when she’s around Duane. Sunshine is this kid in my homeroom who is really good at lots of things, sports and schoolwork. But when she’s around her boyfriend, Ray, she acts like she can’t do anything. That’s what my mother’s doing. I know that she can do lots of stuff by herself, but when she’s with Duane, she lets him make all the decisions. And he treats her like a precious china doll.

  Maybe it’s the difference in their ages. She’s thirty-six. He’s forty-eight, almost half a century old.

  I just don’t understand it.

  The waiter brings dessert: pumpkin pie.

  Duane starts talking to me about his children. “For a while Duane junior wanted to be a musician, but now he’s found himself and he’s in business with me.”

  “If he’d stayed a musician, would you have said that he’d found himself or would he have been lost?” I ask, taking my fork and stabbing it into my pumpkin pie.

  The pie’s lousy, not half as good as the piece I had on the bus. I’m beginning to think that everything about Woodstock is better.

  My mother flashes me a warning look.

  I’ve gotten to him. I can tell.

  He frowns and says, “No. The arts are all right if you can make big money, but most people can’t. Let Duane junior’s music be a hobby. People have responsibilities to meet.”

  I think about the wonderful painting my father’s doing. Doesn’t he have a responsibility to pursue that talent? He thinks so. So do I. I stab my pie again, pretending that it’s Duane senior.

  He continues. “My daughter, Beatrice, is very happy. She’s married to an orthopedic surgeon and has a beautiful daughter, with another baby on the way.”

  Two thoughts enter my brain at the same time. Duane’s a grandfather. My mother is going out with a grandfather who wants to stay overnight with her. I didn’t even think that grandfathers had sex anymore. I also think how much I want to tell him that my father goes to a chiropractor, that he’s nervous about the traditional medical profession.

  Looking at my mother, I can see how tense she is getting, so I decide not to say anything.

  Sometimes I think that I spend more time protecting my mother’s feelings than she does protecting mine.

  Duane turns to her and says, “Honey. Don’t forget. Sometime this weekend, I want you to go for your fitting.”

  My mother nods, smiles, and then explains to me. “Duane’s already picked out my Christmas present. It’s a mink coat.”

  She just bought herself a sable coat. How many creatures have to die for my mother? That does it.

  I say, “My father and I think that killing animals for fashion is barbaric and unnecessary.”

  “Dreamers. Idealists.” Duane pats me on the hand. “Don’t you wear shoes with leather?”

  I can see that my mother’s really upset.

  I hope that every time she wears that stupid coat, she thinks of this talk, so she can never totally enjoy it.

  Duane pays for the meal and we leave the restaurant. The doorman gets us a taxi.

  As we head toward home I hear Duane say, “Don’t worry, dear. We can work this problem out.”

  So now I’m a problem.

  What makes me angriest is that my mother doesn’t even defend me.

  When we get back to the apartment, Duane says good night to me. I go into my room and shut the door. They’re mumbling out there.

  My mother walks in a few minutes later and says, “We’ve got to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Yes, there is.” She’s very upset. “I want you and Duane to get along. It’s very important to me. You are both very important parts of my life.”

  “Why do you have to act that way with him . . . like he’s right about things?”

  “Because I think he is most of the time. Just because he doesn’t agree with your views doesn’t make him wrong.”

  “Why choose him?” I want to know.

  “Look, Phoebe. When I married your father, I thought he had the same views I did, that he wanted the same things out of life that I did. Well, he didn’t . . . but Duane does. I’m sure of that. If you don’t like a lot of what Duane thinks, then you don’t like a lot of what I think.”

  “I don’t understand how you can like him,” I say.

  “Well, I do. I love him. And you don’t have to understand. You just have to accept it.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Then you’ve got a real problem.”

  “So do you.” I try to stare her down.

  She stares back. “I seem to have a problem no matter what. All day long I’m in charge of a lot of people. I make important decisions. It’s a lot of responsibility, which I like. However, when I come home, I don’t like to walk into an empty house. I want someone to care about me, hear about my day, go out to dinner. You’re not here to do that . . . and anyway, even if you were, Duane would still be important to me. He’s a nice man. He respects my opinions. We go out and have fun.”

  “You also like his money.” I sneer at her.

  She looks like I’ve slapped her. Then she gets angry. “You selfish little brat. You certainly like having money, too, and the things it can buy . . . . Let me tell you something—I make enough to support myself well. A good thing too—since your father certainly isn’t in any position to help . . . . Yes, Duane does have a lot of money. That’s nice, but it’s not everything. He offers me love and caring and companionship. He also wants things to be good with you. But you refuse to see that. Since you’ve
moved to Woodstock, you’ve changed so much, I hardly know you. It’s like you’re always judging me and everything and everyone about me. And there’s no way for me to win.”

  Her saying that makes me feel bad. I don’t know whether I was right or wrong about what I said about the money. All I know is that I don’t like Duane, and she’s choosing him instead of me. And why does everything with her have to be either winning or losing? I hope that I’m not like her.

  My parents are so different, and yet I’m a part of both of them. It’s so hard to know what I want, what I think.

  She looks at me. “I care about you a lot, Phoebe. You’re not fair. Give this a chance.”

  She says I’m not fair. What about her?

  As she walks out the door she says, “Duane will be staying here tonight. I don’t want to hear one unpleasant word out of your mouth.”

  I stare as she leaves.

  Maybe she’s right . . . . I have changed since I moved. But I’m not so sure it’s as bad as she thinks.

  This is definitely a Thanksgiving Day that I’m not going to forget.

  It could be worse.

  I could be a turkey.

  CHAPTER 23

  I’m trying to like Duane. I really am, I think, as the three of us ride to Port Authority.

  I even made a list of his positive points: He doesn’t smoke cigars . . . . He doesn’t pick his nose . . . . He loves his grandchild . . . . He’s not a mugger . . . . He really loves my mother.

  He’s just not my kind of person. Nothing’s wrong with hunting as a sport, he says. Even my mother agrees with me about that. The cafeteria actions were wrong, he tells me. “Children should be seen, not heard.” Also he hates it when people show emotion.

  It was hard waking up in the morning knowing that I was going to see Duane at the breakfast table.

  It’s worse knowing it’s going to be a permanent situation.

  They’re going to get married.

  My mother and Grandpa Duane are “tying the knot.”

  I hope they tie the knot around each other’s throats.

  Doesn’t she care at all what I think, how I feel?

  The man’s a real creep.

  I hate him.

  We arrive at Port Authority and go down to my bus. Rosie’s already there.

  Duane’s trying to be so nice to me. “Let us know when you get your Christmas list made up. The things your father can’t afford, we’ll get for you.”

  I’d like to put a hit man on that list, one that would do away with Duane . . . . The things that my father can’t afford. He makes it sound like my father’s a real failure. Well, I’d like to see Duane paint, or consider my feelings the way my father does. That would show him who the real failure is.

  I hate Duane. I think I even hate my mother. Not totally. I mean, she is my mother and all that, but I really don’t like her much.

  My mother looks so happy, I could throw up. How can she be so happy about something that’s going to make me so miserable?

  When they told me last night that they were getting married next month, they also let me know that they’d be living in Duane’s apartment and selling ours after it goes co-op. She can make a good profit on it.

  Selling our place, the apartment I’d lived in since I was born, where I come to now.

  They’ll be living in a luxury building on Sutton Place. I guess lots of people would be happy about a move like that, but I’m not. I know our neighborhood, the doormen, a lot of the people. Even though I’m only in New York part-time, I don’t feel like it’s strange territory. Now I’m really going to feel like a visitor, not a real part of my mother’s life.

  It’s going to be very strange. I’m going to have to go to an apartment that I won’t feel at home in to be with a stepfather I hate (Plastic Pop, I’ve started calling him in my head) and deal with a mother who thinks only of herself.

  In the beginning I used to make lots of excuses for her because she was my mother. I guess the truth is that if she were just some person on the street, I wouldn’t want to know her, but she’s my mother. And the court’s given her joint custody.

  I wonder what would happen if I refused to see her, whether I would have to go to jail?

  My mother says, as I’m getting on the bus, “Next time you come down, we’ll pick out your dress for the wedding.”

  I rush up the bus steps.

  If I say anything to her, it will be to suggest that I wear black.

  Rosie follows.

  She arrived just in time to hear the end of our conversation.

  I throw my bag in the overhead rack, sit in a seat, and start to cry. I hate that. I cry when I’m angry. At least that’s better than my mother, who cries when she wants something.

  Rosie says, “Are they really getting married?”

  I nod and sniffle.

  She shakes her head. “At least I had a while to get used to my father and his wife. Wow, that’s a real shock for you. Do you think they have to get married, that your mother’s pregnant?”

  My mother pregnant, having to get married, that would really be something. “She wouldn’t have any more kids. She told me that once.” I shake my head. “She said it’s because she and Duane are old-fashioned, that they don’t believe in living together without being married, that it wouldn’t look good for their businesses. What hypocrites. He can spend the night, but they can’t live together without marriage.”

  Rosie says, “Look, maybe it won’t be so terrible.”

  So terrible. I tell her about the mink coat . . . Duane junior . . . having to move out of my apartment . . . .

  Rosie says, “I’ve got an idea. Since you’re stuck with the situation, why not make the best of it? Why don’t you give him a Christmas list of everything you’ve ever wanted?”

  I think about that. It would be fun, except then I’d owe him, be indebted. No way.

  Rosie continues. “Some people say divorce kids are lucky. We get chances to travel, different places to visit, more presents. I don’t think it’s always so easy for us. It’s rough sometimes.”

  I agree. “You go to school in one place, but when there are special events like dances, parties, games, and events, you’ve got to miss them because you have to visit the other parent. There are always two places to live, to keep clean. I tried so hard for things to be nice and easy. When both parents needed me to keep them company, I was there.”

  Both of us sit quietly, thinking about all this stuff.

  I remember how awful it was for me when they first separated. Then when they got the divorce. Then there was the move to the country, but that turned out well. I have friends, especially Rosie. And Dave’s real special to me, my first real kind of grown-up caring about someone who isn’t in my family. So I have survived some rough stuff. I guess I’ll make it through this too.

  Maybe Duane’s got so much money, he can have his computer company build a Robot Daughter, one who visits weekends and holidays and does everything they want, without being a “problem.”

  It’s so rotten. That’s the only way it’s going to work out the way they want. I’m just never going to be the kind of daughter she wants, not if I’m going to be the kind of person I want to be.

  Actually I think I’ve come up with a great idea. Rent A Robot Family. The slogan could be “We try hardest—the nuts and bolts of families.” People could rent whichever family member is the hardest to deal with, and the robots could be programmed to do exactly what you want. Then the real people could go on being exactly what they are and it wouldn’t make a difference.

  It’s pretty sad when you think about it, wanting machines to be something people can’t be.

  CHAPTER 24

  “The dynamic duo awaits us,” Rosie says, looking out the window when the bus stops at the Village Green.

  Mindy and my father are holding up a sign that says WELCOME HOME, PHOEBE AND ROSIE.

  As soon as they realize that we’ve seen it they turn the sign around. That sign say
s WELCOME HOME, ROSIE AND PHOEBE.

  “No favoritism allowed,” Rosie says. “Equal billing. Those two are really something.”

  “They are. Something special.” I feel much better.

  We grab our bags and leave the bus.

  Mindy and my father look so proud of themselves.

  The sign is put down as they reach out to hug us.

  I rush into my father’s arms and start to cry.

  Holding me, he keeps asking what’s wrong.

  Rosie fills him in.

  “When we get to the house, I’ll pick up my car, and Rosie and I will go home to give you and Phoebe a chance to talk.” Mindy touches my father’s arm and runs her fingers through my hair.

  We get into the car and drive back to the house. My father keeps reaching over and patting my hand as he drives.

  I feel like I’ve been on a dangerous space-shuttle ride and I’ve splashed down safely.

  As the car is parked in our driveway I say, “Mindy. Rosie. Stay. I want you to.”

  “If you’re sure,” Mindy says.

  “I’m sure.”

  Going into the living room, I sit down on the couch and wrap myself in a quilt.

  My father puts some logs in the stove and sits down next to me.

  Mindy’s sitting on the rocker and Rosie’s cross-legged on the floor.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m sorry I made a scene.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” my father says. “You’ve got a right to your feelings.”

  I start crying again. All weekend I’ve tried to keep my feelings closed up inside. When I tried to show them to my mother, she wouldn’t let me. So now they’re all coming out at once.

  My father hugs me and rocks me back and forth like he did when I was little.

  I calm down. Taking a deep breath, I tell them about the upcoming marriage, how I hate Duane, how I don’t want to go to New York anymore.

  They all listen quietly.

  “So,” I say, concluding, “they can both rot in hell. I’m never going to see them again.”

  “Never’s a long time,” my father says. “It does sound rough though. Look, I’ll give your mother a call and explain that you’re upset and that you and she should talk about it.”