The War of the Roses: The Children

by Warren Adler

  “That would imply we’ve already come to some agreement.”

  “Maybe we have and don’t know it.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed, lifting her glass. He lifted his and tapped hers. Then they drank.

  “This is beyond belief,” he told her. “I’ve been avoiding this moment forever.”

  “So have I.”

  “To tell you the truth I’m very confused by it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are we getting too personal?”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “I think I better order,” he said.

  She listened while he made elaborate inquiries of the authentically Italian waiter, showing his own expertise, soliciting Victoria’s approval of his choices. He ordered rotelle al vitello, ossibuchi al pomodoro, and anatra all’arancia.

  He looked at Victoria and winked.

  “Cartwheel pasta, veal shank with tomato, and roast duck with orange sauce.”

  “You seem to know a lot about Italian food,” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d be impressed,” he replied, thinking of Evie, sensing the need to provide her with a historical perspective of himself. Better sooner than later, he decided. “My mother was a great cook and a caterer.”

  “Was?”

  Calculating her interest, he plunged forward.

  “She was killed. My father as well.”

  She appeared stunned and for a moment offered no comment.

  “You are good at it, Josh.”

  “Good at what?”

  “Getting people’s attention.”

  “I was hoping it would get yours. You said you wanted to clear the air,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of smog to dissipate before you can get a clear picture of my character.”

  “So do I.”

  He was overwhelmed with this sudden compulsion to recount his family tragedy. It was, after all, the fundamental experience of his life, the quintessential reference point. There was no way of truly knowing him without knowing these circumstances.

  “I was twelve,” he said, watching her face. In it, he could see pity begin, which worried him. He didn’t want to inspire sympathy, only knowledge. Know me, he urged silently, offering a pun to take the edge of the sentimentality. “It was the die that cast me.”

  She smiled and nodded. Then, after a short silence, she prodded him.

  “How did it happen?”

  “The chandelier fell on them.”

  She looked at him with an expression of disbelief. Her lips formed a nervous smile.

  “You’re pulling my leg. I was expecting a sob story.”

  “It is,” he said. “The line between comedy and tragedy is a thin one.”

  “So which one is this?”

  “Both.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “That was the official explanation.”

  “And the unofficial?”

  Although he needed to tell it, he could never get to the root of it. Why had his parents turned on each other with such unmitigated ferocity? What had transformed their once-loving relationship into hate and horror? Why had it taken such a tiny spark to set it off? Had the fuse been set at the very birth of their relationship? Or before? Could such an affliction be inherited?

  He had thought about it obsessively from the moment of his and Evie’s discovery of their parents lying lifeless under the smashed chandelier. No explanation could ever satisfy him. And here he was seriously contemplating such a commitment to a woman he had been with less than an hour. Scared? He was petrified.

  Nevertheless, he told her the story with all its subplots and meanderings as if she needed to know it with the same attention to detail that he needed to tell it. He went through it incident by incident, including what he had seen with his own eyes or heard later.

  He told her of his father running over his mother’s cat Mercedes, his mother feeding his father pâté made from his beloved dog Benny, his father adding a powerful laxative to his mother’s elaborate dinner for her fancy guests and causing immediate diuretic havoc, his mother’s locking his father into his sauna in an attempt to create a human roast, his father’s binging on their rare and expensive wine collection, the deliberate mutual destruction of their carefully chosen antiques, the obliteration of their elaborate Staffordshire collection, their dogged hate-inspired fight for turf within their own scrupulously decorated and proudly self-designed home. Skirmish by skirmish, battle by battle, he squeezed out the painful story of their domestic war and the Armageddon finale under the deliberately unscrewed chandelier.

  It was, he told her, pure hatred run amuck as his parents destroyed their coveted possessions one by one and eventually themselves. As he told her this, he could barely keep his inner hysteria under control.

  She had listened in silence, mesmerized.

  “Beyond belief,” she whispered when he had finished.

  “There was nothing Evie or I could do to stop it,” he sighed.

  “What could young children do?” she said, her eyes misting.

  “It’s something we think about often.”

  “You were helpless children, innocent bystanders.”

  He had told her the story, knowing it was a reconstruction based on the biased and limited observation as seen through a child’s eyes. What she really needed to know, he had decided, was its impact on him and how it would color any relationship established between them.

  “Losing one of them would have been bad enough,” she said finally, when it was obvious that he had emptied himself. “But both together. You both must have been basket cases.”

  “We were,” he said. “My sister Evie and I. She’s four years older. Fortunately, we were raised by devoted grandparents.”

  He told her about his sister, then paused and their eyes locked.

  “Evie’s got her problems,” he sighed dismissively. He’d leave that story for later.

  “And you?” she asked gently.

  “We all carry strange baggage,” Josh shrugged. “Some stranger than others. I’ve opened mine for inspection.”

  “I guess you mean it’s now my turn.”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “I’m afraid there is no comic relief. It’s got some pretty heavy downside.” She could not stop a nervous giggle. “Although nothing compared with your tale of woe.”

  She told her story and he listened intently, moving his food around the plate, eating little. The part about meeting her father put a lump in his throat.

  “So where do these tales of woe leave us,” he sighed.

  “Who was it that said that if we forget history we’re doomed to repeat it?”

  “Forget? You’ve just seen the scars of my operation and I’ve seen yours.”

  “Well,” she laughed. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s inspect the healthy parts.”

  “That’s a creative way to put things,” he said. Their faces moved toward each other across the table, joining lips.

  “This runs counter to my plans,” she sighed when they parted. The touch of her lips seemed to send shock waves through his body.

  “Mine, too.”

  “Maybe this is a dream and we’ll suddenly wake up.”

  “It’s as good a cliché as any to hide behind.”

  “I’m very frightened, Josh.”

  “So am I.”

  “How do you test these things for authenticity?”

  “Only one method comes to mind,” he answered after a long pause.

  She said nothing, nodding her consent instead.

  The memory of this encounter was vivid. It was, up to then, the all-time happiest moment of his life.

  ***

  After dinner they had gone to his place and made frenetic love.

  “Is this the
n the real thing?” Victoria said in a moment of repose as they cooled.

  “It has all the markings.” He hesitated for a moment. “And we mustn’t let it go away.”

  “No. We mustn’t.”

  “We could gamble. Go all the way.”

  “I thought we just did.”

  “You know what I mean, Victoria.”

  “Are you actually proposing? Good God. Considering what we’ve both been through, how could we possibly trust the institution of marriage?”

  “In this case maybe two wrongs will finally make a right.”

  “I love the way you put things, Josh.”

  “It may never come again, Victoria. I’ve had enough regrets for one short lifetime.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Then it’s settled?”

  “Maybe it was settled before we got to this point.”

  It seemed a natural progression of events, a necessary validation of what they both felt. If there were maybes, then all of them vanished in their frenzied sexual exchange.

  “It sure puts the lie to our little scam,” he said, as they lay entangled in his bed. She appeared suddenly alarmed.

  “What lie?”

  “That one about sexual congress.”

  “That’s the best lie of all,” Victoria mused. “Who can refute it? As we’ve just demonstrated, it requires locomotion.”

  “There are no best lies, Victoria.” Josh told her. “Only lies.”

  “It’s just business, Josh.”

  “Business is also life. You get used to it, soon you can’t tell which lie goes where.”

  “It hasn’t happened yet.”

  “It will. Wind it down, Victoria. Let’s start fresh, clean, and open. If we don’t chop down cherry trees, we don’t have to make the truth an issue.”

  “Why so paranoid about the truth?”

  “The married state demands it,” he said.

  “So this is a firm proposal,” she giggled, searching his face to be certain.

  “Never doubt me. Never. Ever.”

  “I won’t.”

  He propped himself on an elbow and studied her face for a long time. He imagined he could see her thoughts tracking through her brain. Then, suddenly, she lifted her head and kissed him on the lips. They held the kiss a long time.

  “There’s more,” he said after a long silence. He had been thinking about this ever since he had become accustomed to the inevitability of their relationship.

  “More?”

  “We need kids. We need to be a real family. A real family will do the trick.”

  “What trick?”

  “We are both in need of repairs, Victoria.”

  “Two, then. I wouldn’t want an only child. It’s bad enough to be fatherless. But an only child? No way.”

  “Agreed,” he said, holding out his hand. She took it.

  It was another happy moment, and they sealed it with yet another test of authenticity. Later, it was Victoria who spoke first.

  “We’re very vulnerable,” she said.

  “Very,” he agreed, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “We’ll never escape our conditioning, Josh. Never. Means we have to be alert when the garbage we’re carrying starts to seep out of the suitcase.”

  “How will we know?”

  “Probably by the stink.”

  “Whoever smells it first will tell the other that it’s on its way.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll fumigate our souls.”

  “There you go again, saying it in an odd way.”

  “By any other way, they’re still the true words of Rose.”

  “A rose is a rose is a rose,” she mumbled, making a face.

  “What you see is what you get. I’d like all Roses to be like that.”

  “Message received,” she said, patting him on the penis. “Besides, I just love the long stems.”

  His case was her very first resignation.

  How could he have known then that he would be the first to chop down a cherry tree?

  ***

  Lying there beside her, he felt his stomach heave and he pounced out of bed to go to the bathroom.

  “Are you okay, Josh?” Victoria mumbled when he came back.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered.

  But he wasn’t fine. There was only one way he would be fine. Tomorrow, he decided. Once and for all, he would make himself fine again.

  Chapter 3

  It was weirdly ironic. Here he was sitting at the very same table in the very same coffee shop that he and Evie had had their discussion only two days before. Only now he was dealing with a different kind of pain.

  “The fat lady has sung, Angela,” he said, noting the power of association. Still, he hoped the reference would put a lighter spin on the circumstances of this meeting. It didn’t.

  “I didn’t hear the song,” Angela said, her cheeks flushing, lips tight as she aggressively leveled her eyes at his face. “All I see is a chicken dancing around with his head cut off.”

  Her outburst surprised him. He had expected reluctant acquiescence, not aggression.

  “We agreed, Angela. When one person wanted out, it was over.”

  “You think I can’t tell when it’s over? Yesterday it wasn’t over. Remember yesterday?”

  They had done it in the back seat of his car in the building garage in the middle of the day. And he had sent her one of his weird stickum notes and offered sweet nothings on the telephone. Two days ago he had sent her flowers.

  “I know this is abrupt, Angela. I’m sorry. I can’t hack it. It’s eating me up alive. Some people are built for this kind of secret life. I’m not. You know my family is my first priority.”

  “Of course, I know,” Angela shot back, raising her voice. A man at the next table turned around. Thankfully, it was mid-morning. The breakfast crowd had ebbed and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet arrived.

  “Keep your voice down please,” he whispered.

  She moved sideways in her seat and lifted her left leg, showing him the “slave bracelet.”

  “Don’t tell me this no longer has meaning, Josh.”

  He looked down and shook his head.

  “Get rid of it, Angela.”

  “Destroy the evidence?” she snickered.

  “Angela, don’t make this any harder than it is.”

  “You are a chicken, Josh. What the hell are you afraid of? We’re co-workers. That’s our cover. Hell, we haven’t had the slightest bit of flack.” She looked at him pointedly while he sipped his mug of coffee. She hadn’t touched hers. “Does your wife suspect?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not a clue,” he muttered.

  “So where’s the problem? I’ll tell you where. It’s in your own head.”

  “I’m sorry, Angela. So far we’re in the clear. Let’s keep it that way. I just can’t take the pressure anymore.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Of course I worry. I don’t want to blow my life away.”

  “I’d love to blow your life away,” Angela said with a wink.

  “I don’t have a priest to tell it to,” he said. “Well, his good times are over. I suppose he knows every little detail.”

  “Just the broad strokes. The sin is adultery. I get forgiven.”

  “I hope you didn’t name names.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s sworn to secrecy.”

  “So he knows who I am?”

  “So what?” Angela pouted.

  “And you wouldn’t get absolution if you didn’t tell him every little detail.” He felt his gorge rise.

  “Look, Josh, I’m just one of many. You sin. They forgive. It’s been working for a couple of thousand years.”

  “He d
oesn’t tell you to stop?”

  “That’s not his job.”

  “What does he say when you tell him about us?”

  “He gives me penance. Lots of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.”

  This had bothered him from the moment she had told him.

  “Hell, he’s only a man.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” she snapped. “If it’ll make you change your mind, I’ll stop going.”

  It was another assertion he hadn’t expected. Looking at her, he saw tears in her eyes.

  “Angela, I’m sorry. It’s over.”

  She started to sniffle, took her napkin and blew her nose.

  “What is this, Angela? It had to end someday. Didn’t we agree? One person wants out, it’s over. You remember the rules.”

  “I love you, Josh,” she whimpered, her eyes red, tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked around him. People were straggling in for an early lunch.

  “Jesus. Don’t say that, Angela.”

  “I love you. I’ll say it anytime I want. You are my need.”

  A bolt of fear shot down his spine.

  “Dammit, Angela. Never say that again.”

  “Don’t worry, Josh. I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Let’s get back to the office,” he said. He stood up, picked up the check, and paid it at the cashier counter.

  In the street, she stopped and looked up at him.

  “No matter what, I love you, Josh.”

  His heart lurched and a wave of anger rolled over him.

  He got back in time for a luncheon conference in the staff dining room. He had expected to be relieved. Instead, he felt depressed and slightly disoriented.

  After lunch he checked his voice mail. He heard Victoria’s urgent message and the food in his stomach seemed to congeal. Was this it?

  Picking up the phone, he called home. No answer. He was panicked. She knows, Josh thought. Either that or something terrible had happened to her and the kids. A form of retribution. He punched in her number, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “What is it, Victoria?” he cried when she answered the call. He heard voices in the background.

  “I can’t talk now,” she said. “I’m carpooling. I’ve got a full house.”

  From that he deduced that the problem might not be about her or the kids. It had to be the one thing he feared the most.