Wrongful Reconciliation
A Budge Moss Novel
Peter Svenson
New York
for Anne
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This story is a sequel to my earlier Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall, and should not be construed as anything other than what it is: a purely fictional tale. None of my characters are based upon actual people, and for readers who might be tempted to think otherwise, the central character bears absolutely no resemblance to me.
Chapter One
When a man moves in with a woman, he must insist that she give him a room of his own. A man needs his privacy so he can pick his nose and break wind and read his e-mail and access the odd pornographic website and also get some thinking done. He alone knows he must nourish his identity behind a closed door; at times, he’ll want to retreat just to ponder the direction his life is taking. Sometimes he’s filled with inspiration, eager to chart a new course. Other times he’s angry at the world and doesn’t know exactly why. Often he just needs to goof off and stare into space, for only by doing so can he alleviate the pressures that arise from cohabitation.
When a man is in his room, it should be universally understood that he is not available. He can’t be Mr. Helpful (“Let me do the dishes tonight, honey”) or Mr. Supportive (“You were so right to demand a refund”) or Mr. Unctuous (“Hey, did I ever tell you that scarf matches your eyes?”). The foolhardy interrupter may discover a decidedly different personality, a Mr. Autistic or even a Mr. Tourette’s—no parenthetical examples needed. If this is the personality that confronts the privacy invader, it is best to apologize, shut the door gently, and leave. The man emerging later will almost always be cleansed of his grandiose plans, his work or non-work ethic, his sour mood, his philosophizing and pent-up prurience, and be prepared to resume the cheerful pas-de-deux that characterizes an amicable live-in relationship.
The author Budge Moss, 55, long-term student in the School of Hard Knocks but soon to graduate with a degree in Divorce, has moved in with Matty Klein, a well-heeled widow who prefers not to quantify her age with a number. They hit it off sexually right from the start; both were sufficiently starved for intimacy, which, by mutual agreement, soon broadened to include a more well-rounded companionship: dinners, movies, long walks, and day trips to regional wineries.
Until this rather sudden change of domicile, Budge was living in a run-down rental cottage in Rock Hall on Maryland’s eastern shore, where he had arrived in a state of emotional and financial exhaustion following his wife’s desertion, from which he has only recently recovered, thanks to Matty and a small advance on a hastily written, patently autobiographical novel that is, by his own admission, nine parts therapy and one part literature. To hear him describe it in his occasional journal, it is:
… something I put together in the course of four months, so gossamer in its disguise that I kept having to retype my central character’s name from that of my own. Note to reviewers: this skinny potboiler should probably never have been published. Self-serving in tone and content, it is mostly solipsistic logorrhea. If it offends the hell out of you, it’s because I myself was in an offended state of mind—I had been dumped and my amour-propre was shot. Please don’t skewer the book any more than necessary.
But I see that I have an even more important plea to register. Note to acquaintances and neighbors: please don’t smother me with lawsuits. I didn’t mean to describe you in chilling—or broiling, as the case may be—detail. I needed to invent fictional characters, but my creative faculties had gone numb, so I had to use actual people. At this juncture, I can only beg forgiveness and trust that your view of yourself doesn’t coincide with what I saw in you. If you take me to court, I will, of course, hotly deny any of this.
Budge’s defensive posture illustrates the tough times he has been through. When his wife left him, he hit rock bottom. He loved her deeply, never suspecting that she didn’t or couldn’t reciprocate that love. Subsequently, he grew well acquainted with the stages of grief and the successively lower plateaus of poverty. Although things are just now easing up, he can’t quite forget the harrowing recent months.
I got down to almost nothing—a laptop computer on which to pursue my métier, a few sticks of thrift store furniture, a used car that I couldn’t afford to put gas in, a low-maintenance cat. Some days, the cat ate better than I did.
This is a writerly exaggeration culled from a private paragraph. Budge’s situation, lackluster as it was, could never have been considered desperate. His cottage happened to be situated right beside the beach in the historic waterfront community. The rent wasn’t cheap, but he always managed to pay it on time. True, he had to cut out some frills, but as a single man, he permitted himself few to begin with. Still, solvency was a week-to-week consideration, for this was the first time in his adult life that he couldn’t count on another person’s income to bridge the payless stretches.
Matty Klein, on the other hand, is financially secure, thanks to the estate of her deceased husband. She paid her dues by being his caregiver for five years when he should have been in a nursing home, during which time she had no social or sexual life to speak of. When old Harold finally died—prostate cancer, preceded by diabetes and dementia—she developed a second wind. She began reading The Wall Street Journal. She enrolled in investment seminars. Whereas Harold had been a laissez-faire mutual fund buyer, always losing his shirt in a declining market, Matty created a personally tailored stock portfolio. Exhibiting preternatural shrewdness, she posted profits in the very first quarter following his demise. And not only this, but she also reconfigured the paperwork to qualify herself for every tax break possible. Widowed, she didn’t have to downsize; she kept the Mercedes and the mansion in the gated community outside Chestertown, twelve miles to the north.
This home, surrounded by a landscaped acre primped by lawn-care professionals and picturesquely visited by deer, soon became a mecca for Budge. Although he was ensconced in the humble bayside cottage and enjoying the unwavering affection of his pet, he yearned for a standard of living such as he had known in his married years.
Comfort is a relative thing. A bed, a desk, an armchair, a cat rubbing my leg as I write. A view out the window of moody Chesapeake Bay with its sliver of distant shoreline. What more could I ask for? A lot more, that’s what! In the not-too-distant past, I owned a sailboat, a motorcycle, a Jacuzzi, a bidet, Oriental rugs, walk-in closets, a screened-in porch with a wet bar, even a rose garden. My wife and I had arrived at the pinnacle of upper-middle-class possessiveness. I took it all for granted as my mind focused upon such intangibles as sensual gratification, intellectual curiosity, and the pursuit of literary fame, for these were the things that really provided me comfort, knowing that everything else was in place.
When this cushy existence was knocked asunder, I had to start from the beginning again, like a kid fresh out of college. True, there are benefits to simplification—as Henry David Thoreau preached—but continuity of comfort isn’t one of them.
Ever the professional, Budge’s writerly perseverance saw him through these months of adversity. He’d put in his daily quota of two or three double-spaced pages, plus his journal entry (usually inspired by a couple of post-nap beers), and then, satisfied that he’d had a productive day, he’d close the windows and lock the door and make a bee-line toward Chestertown in his old Toyota Corolla. He had grown to despise his loneliness. Not only did Matty cook for him—mouthwatering Mediterranean cuisine with a smattering of Tex-Mex—but she also provided him with everything else that was sorely lacking in his parsimonious lifestyle. At her house, lounging on the divan in her cathedral-ceilinged “great” room that could easily swallow up Budge’s entire
cottage, they sipped wine and nibbled hors d’oeuvres. They often read poetry to each other; he read Walt Whitman, she read Edna St. Vincent Millay. Then, after dinner but before the hour got too late, they climbed the carpeted staircase to the master bedroom where they grappled naked on a sultan-size bed with freshly changed sheets. It wasn’t quite as good as marriage, but it was damn close. And after the terminal caress and smooch, after she indicated affectionately but firmly that it was time for him to leave, he put on his clothes and tiptoed downstairs, grabbing whatever leftover she had wrapped for him in the refrigerator, and closed the front door gently so as not to disrupt the alarm system. Jackknifing himself into his rusty, yet trusty hatchback, he motored the dark highway back to Rock Hall enveloped in the lingering aura of their exertions.
This life of shuttling between the hovel and the manse went on for a considerable period of time. From their first date, Budge and Matty had agreed “not to rush things,” so there remained a tentativeness to the relationship. It gave Budge a kind of dual reality, the workmanlike writer versus the workmanlike lover, for he took both commitments seriously. He’d finish with one and take up the other, mindful that Matty thoroughly approved of his dedication—she herself was a dedicated person. She was always there to greet him at the door, always delighted to see him, and as they hugged in the foyer under the dimmed chandelier, with the aroma of garlic and olive oil wafting from the kitchen, he felt her physical want, and it did wonders for his self-esteem. Similarly, his cat Ragu was delighted upon his return to the cottage, no matter how late the hour, and when he picked her up and clasped her to his bosom, stroking her head and scratching behind her ears, she purred so loudly that it melted his heart. He was glad to have brought his pet with him to Rock Hall. Dispassionately, his wife had offered to take Ragu when they split up, but an inner voice had warned Budge that she’d probably take the little tabby straight to the animal shelter and have her put to sleep. No, Ragu would stay with him! And so the cat’s uninterrupted presence helped to assuage his hurt and loneliness, and now, when another woman had entered his life and his time with Ragu was no longer unlimited as before, the feline remained as faithful as ever, expectant of the scoop of catfood he’d dispense as soon as he walked in the door.
Within three months, Matty was occupying every third evening or so. Only rarely did she visit him at Rock Hall, and he tacitly understood her logic: her home was so much more spacious and luxurious, not to mention cleaner. He didn’t mind doing all the driving. The change of scene recharged his authorial batteries. At her place, he really relaxed. In so many ways, then, she was an ideal girlfriend.
I rapidly acclimatized to her weltanshauung—the neatness, the tidiness, the fresh vacuum tracks on the carpet, the spotless floor tile. No litter, no clutter in a solar system of furnishings, each with an immutable orbit. The big octagonal coffee table was the sun; Earth was her late husband’s overstuffed recliner (surprisingly comfortable, even with two aboard); Mars—no, make that Venus—was the divan; outer planets were side chairs and end tables. Everything had been here since the Big Bang of moving in fifteen years ago. Her home was a time capsule of harmony and good taste. Whatever her other talents, she was a housewife by profession, a conservator of the familial status quo. No wonder she preferred that I join her, instead of the other way around.
There was only one hitch to this otherwise idyllic situation—and it really wasn’t a hitch at all, but a realization of a difference that could be construed either as a mountain or a molehill. It gradually became apparent to Budge that Matty was older than he had originally thought she was. She was definitely older than him—by how much, he couldn’t figure out. Budge thought it best not to broach the subject, and Matty—naturally—didn’t volunteer information. Obvious clues revealed little. Short of stature, she was unhunched by osteoporosis. Her hair was honest-to-goodness gray, perkily coiffured. Her face bore its share of wrinkles, but she golfed, so the attributive cause was—at least partially—sun damage. She had tiny vertical creases above her upper lip—she confessed to being an ex-smoker. The backs of her hands were parchment-like and covered with liver spots. But aside from these and other run-of-the-mill depredations, such as a little hardness of hearing, she was the picture of health. Her sense of humor was infectious, she was full of pep, and she had an endless appetite for sex.
Naked, she was as fine as any woman I’ve been with. Her ample breasts lolled fetchingly, as pale and plump as any I’ve had the pleasure to fondle, cradle, suckle, and so forth. Her ribcage was nicely sculpted, her stomach had just the right pliancy (her navel just the right depression), and her hips, like her shoulders, were delicately boned and well-toned. She didn’t have much of an ass, but her thighs were well-rounded. Her legs were shapely—with fewer varicose veins than my own—and her feet were troopers of the first order. She kept herself scrupulously clean; she frequently took two showers a day.
Sexually, she knew how to please a man. She instinctively understood when to be passive and when to be aggressive. She was multiple orgasmic—something I had never experienced in a woman before—yet patient as I toiled toward my own fugitive climax. She needed only a modicum of stimulation to torch off her fireworks, one starburst after another, while I needed time and friction and pressure and—above all—concentration, or I’d wind up being too pooped to pop. Afterwards, she’d be physically discomfited when I withdrew. She could seemingly harbor a stiff prick forever! Rolling off her and lying at her side, I couldn’t help but marvel at this enigmatic dynamo I had just made love to. She was inevitably ready for more, but sensitive enough to acknowledge that I—huff, puff, huff—had reached my limit.
As his visits grew more frequent and their intercourse deepened into something that approximated love, they also began appearing more in public together. The pairing didn’t go unnoticed; between Chestertown and Rock Hall, the small town and smaller town, everybody knew everybody else’s business. Budge’s ears burned as he imagined the wagging tongues.
I couldn’t help but be aware of the stares. People seemed to be whispering, “She’s quite a bit older than he is!” Was our age difference that obvious? What could it have been—eight years, ten years? Maybe a little more? If I was indeed squiring around a much older woman, what did that make me—a gigolo? Matty took the unwanted attention in stride, reminding me of the lunacy of the stereotypical double standard—how it was normal for an older man to date a younger woman, but abnormal for an older woman to date a younger man—and I agreed with her, of course, and we’d have a big laugh over it, toasting with our wineglasses to our continued good health and happiness. What did it matter what others said? She had been lonely and I had been lonely, and now neither of us was lonely any more. The relief must have shown on our faces—maybe that was what captivated onlookers so.
Yet my mind remained uneasy. All my life I had fought the strictures of convention, defying the typecast persona that I, as a creative artist, was particularly unsuited for, but never did I imagine a scenario with this twist. Society plays by harsh rules; people judge you, pigeon-hole you, and never re-evaluate. None of this seemed to bother Matty in the least, so I did my best not to let my discomfort show.
Writers are typically thin-skinned when it comes to public approbation (this is why writers do not make good politicians—Vaclav Havel being the exception). A negative reviewer, for example, is an enemy for life. Having had his share of bad reviews, Budge harbors a rogues’ gallery of enemies in his brain, as do most seasoned authors. So it comes as no surprise that he found himself on the defensive with respect to Matty’s age.
He wrestled with the subject even as he wrestled with her on the sultan-size bed.
I started looking at her a little more carefully. Lying there in the candlelight, precoitally aroused and examining with fingertips and lips, I’d notice how her flesh sagged on her forearms, how it pouched and puckered at her elbows and knees. At the back of her head, her hair was a little thin—I hadn’t observed that before. And that
stroke of eyeliner she applied to the corner of her eyelids was surely intended to minimize the papery crinkles that made her eyes recede in their sockets. Her entire body looked like a roadmap of longevity.
But Jesus! I suddenly reminded myself, what about my mug, what about my wrapper? Wasn’t I in similar condition? A balding graybeard, a deeply furrowed egghead with love handles like a Grecian jug! A walking varicose vein display, hairless from the shins down, due to fifty years of wearing elasticized acrylic socks! White chest hair and thinning pubic hair and a dangly old penis that still rose to the occasion, but had to be coaxed to its seedy thump, more dribble than spurt, and afterwards was as useless as vermiform appendix—for a good twelve hours or more.
Despite Budge’s harsh self-reflections and evident uneasiness, his relationship with Matty expanded to include overnights, beginning on weekends and then during the week as well, at which point it seemed stupid for him to continue paying rent on the cottage. He raised the subject of moving in with her, but she reminded him that they had vowed not to rush into anything. Another three months went by—twelve gasoline-consuming weeks of almost daily trips between Rock Hall and the gated community. He’d arrive at her house in time for dinner and leave early the next morning right after breakfast. His work schedule was suffering, his concentration was beginning to fray. His book advance was mostly spent. Financially speaking, he knew he had to develop a contingency plan, but when he got back to the cottage, the first thing he usually did was take a nap. Throughout this period, though, he remained stoic and upbeat—and well-fed. If Matty was putting him, or herself, through some kind of fidelity test, he would wait it out. The decision, after all, was hers to make.
The day arrived—the day of their ninth “monthiversary”—when she finally screwed up the courage to invite him to live with her. Budge’s journal describes the occasion with considerable candor.
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