I wasn’t exactly crying poor, but I guess I’d been dropping strong hints that I was on the verge of insolvency. Not that I was getting tired of our arrangement—far from it!—but I had to cut back expenses, and the most practical solution, as I saw it, was to go live up some creek or cove on an abandoned boat. I had already begun scouting the local marinas for a dilapidated hulk that nobody wanted. Seaworthiness wasn’t necessary; all I needed was something with a cabin or cuddy in which my cat and I could hunker down to get out of the rain. If I had to pump the bilge twice a day to keep the old tub afloat, I could handle that. If I had to chase the rats out, I could handle that, too. What I couldn’t handle, I said, was the prospect of going into debt with no means of getting out from under.
“Well, Sweetheart,” she said (we were already using terms of endearment), “have you thought about getting a part-time job?”
“I have no time for a part-time job.”
“But you don’t want to starve. You also need to pay some kind of rent.”
“Not if I live on a boat! Hell, they’ll pay me to take it off their hands. Once I’m aboard, I’ll grow my own food.”
“On a boat?” she asked with raised eyebrows.
“Sure! I’ll rig up gardening boxes on the deck and gunwales!”
She looked at me quizzically.
“I’m more resilient than you think!” I said. “Why, I can live on next to nothing! I’ll catch fish and crabs for supper. I’ll grow lettuce and tomatoes hydroponically, string pole beans on the rigging. As for transportation, I’ll sell my car and make do with a bicycle—I don’t mind pedaling! If I’m forced to pawn my laptop and write in longhand for the rest of my life, that’s perfectly okay with me. And if I can’t afford ink, I’ll concoct my own with berries—or blood!”
Budge’s histrionics must have appealed to Matty’s maternal instinct, for it was then that she offered a more elegant solution to his continued existence.
Actually, I didn’t go into that ink-made-with-blood business, but I did let her know that significant changes were in store for me, and that I would face them squarely and creatively. She looked at me in that merry, saucy way of hers and burst out laughing.
“Budge, you’re too much!”
“Whaddya mean?” I grinned. We had developed a knack for kidding each other—a lovers’ levity predicated upon not taking anything too seriously. Sensual gratification, after all, was the only thing that mattered. At moments like this, it amazed me how well we were hitting it off.
“I’ll say it again,” she said.
“Say what?”
“Why don’t you just come and live here? Why all the torture and self-flagellation?”
She caught me off-guard. I was a little embarrassed for not having heard her the first time. Who was accusing whom of being deaf?
“Well, I want to do the right thing,” I replied, “and not inflict myself upon you. I don’t want to be a burden or a charitable cause. My money problems don’t mean the end of the world, not by a longshot, and I wanted to let you know …”
“I know, I know. Do you think I’m blind? I can see plain as the nose on your face what you’re going through. Give it some thought, honey. Leave that miserable cottage with its cockroaches and ants and spiders, and come live with me. Bring your cat, too.”
Matty’s offer made perfect sense, and Budge, for all his exaggerative posturing, had the presence of mind not to turn it down. He did mention, right off the bat, that he’d need a room of his own. Matty assured him that, given the size of her domicile, he could have two or three if he so desired.
Chapter Two
As it turns out, Budge’s designated lair is the largest spare bedroom on the second floor of Matty’s abode. The twin beds remain in place but the bureau and end tables are moved elsewhere, so there’s space for his old desk and swivel chair. The closet is at his disposal and so is the bookshelf. As long as he keeps his things tidy—which by no means comes naturally to an author redrafting works in progress—he is able to function without feeling claustrophobic. He situates the desk beside the window which gives a view over the side yard. This lets him witness the incessant preening of the neighbors’ lawns, so it behooves him to keep the sash shut to minimize the noise. From downstairs, Matty’s classical music station filters upward with an umpteenth Italian Symphony. Budge finds that he can block out most of that by simply closing the door. Isolating himself thus, he can actually get some writing done.
As for Ragu, she also seems to have adjusted to the move from Rock Hall. The first day or two, she cautiously perambulated the house foundation and its shrubs, examining for scents that might or might not be of interest. Her curiosity requited, she’s been content to park herself upon the cushion of a deck chair with a view similar to what Budge sees from his window, only a story lower. However, instead of gazing outward in the throes of creativity, she sleeps.
Things are going pretty smoothly in the new digs. Moving out of the cottage was accomplished in only three trips by car—quite a contrast to earlier relocations. In the old days, my wife and I were so surfeited with possessions that we figuratively moved heaven and earth! When I think of the boxes, bookcases, clothing, kitchenware, appliances and furnishings and accumulated collectibles, I go crazy with Dumpster lust. Why did we surround ourselves with so much crap? We had each other—wasn’t that enough? And the houseplants! She wouldn’t part with a single aloe or African violet or begonia or geranium. They came with us wherever we went, upright, isolated, duly watered. To her, these mute chlorophyllic companions, infrequently blooming for all the care she lavished upon them, were personalities in their own right and could not be abandoned. In retrospect, I see that she ran a houseplant orphanage. But who was I to talk? I ran a similar orphanage for old books and magazines and literary supplements.
Nothing beats a breakup for sifting out the dross. My material needs are so much simpler now! Having managed on my own for months, I’m determined to continue this leaner lifestyle. A true artist should concentrate only on his work. Cast off the anchor, heave overboard all unnecessary freight! Anyway, Matty already has one or more of anything I might require.
As Budge writes these words, a wave of Emersonian resolve washes over him, but just as quickly his mind returns to his failed marriage. In two months, it will be ended for good: a judge’s signature on a court order. In the meanwhile, he has the luxury to wallow—thanks to the privacy of his new quarters—in memories. He was married for a total of twenty-six years.
Ten years trying unsuccessfully to conceive a child, followed by ten years weighing the pros and cons of adoption, but eventually declining because of our all-important careers, then six years of unspoken disenchantment as we slowly drift apart. That’s twenty-six years in a nutshell, not an easy pit to climb out of. Childless by fate, we made selfish children of ourselves, so engrossed were we in our separate validations. Hers made sense but mine didn’t—at least not according to her. My stab at the bigtime petered out, my earning power flatlined. I was victim of a cruel law of inverse proportion: the more I wrote, the less I published.
But why am I giving excuses at this late date? What happened was neither her fault nor mine, but the way things end up when change weighs inexorably upon a long-term relationship. The passing of youth left us in the lurch; we were trapped in middle age, dealing with one disappointment after another, and although we were two independent-minded people, I continued to be the more quixotic one. Furthermore, I was no shirker when it came to defending my artistic self.
“So, you won’t get a job?”
“No, why should I?” I replied. “I already have fulltime employment, and I’m entitled to the same relaxation time as you.”
“But we have bills to pay, and you’re not contributing.”
“I can’t help that right now. I swear to you that it’s only a temporary condition.”
“Get serious! You expect me to believe that? After all these years? The fact is, we’re living beyond our me
ans …”
“Like hell we are,” I interrupted. “We’re just a bit overextended right now, that’s all.”
She looked at me and shook her head sadly. “You don’t get it, do you? We can’t pay our credit card bill this month.”
“So we’ll carry a month-to-month balance. That’s what credit cards are for.”
“We’re spending more than we’re bringing in …”
“Then let’s cut back a little,” I suggested. “Let’s forego some frills—restaurant meals, tickets to the symphony, out-of-town weekends, all those ridiculous Christmas and birthday presents for your nieces and nephews.”
I shouldn’t have mentioned that business about her nieces and nephews because it only infuriated her.
“No, I will not live like that,” she yelled. “I will not be strapped.”
“You are not now, nor have you ever been strapped,” I yelled back, stung by her choice of words. To me, ‘strapped’ had a negative connotation, implying severe financial reduction, as if we were candidates for welfare. We were hardly on the verge of impoverishment, nor could we ever be—not with her income. Mine was just icing on the cake compared with hers, and she wasn’t even at the height of her earning power. She had a terrific retirement package, too. Come the golden years, we’d be cruising and golfing and goofing our asses off.
“This is what I don’t understand about you,” she began in a lower tone. “You like all the finer things, and you’re always Mr. Live-It-Up when it comes to spending money, but you won’t make a real contribution. You always manage to put that burden on my shoulders.”
“Aw, cut your lecturing!”
“you’re living off me, admit it.”
Those were fightin’ words! I did not take such an insult lightly. I happened to be married to her, but I was definitely not ‘living off’ her. Accordingly, our dialog devolved. Christ, we were at it again—another wearisome tiff that solved nothing and took a major chunk out of the fund of goodwill that existed between us. Oh, it would have been so simple if I just agreed with her and abandoned my life’s career. Then and there, declare my writing days over and try something remunerative for a change. There was still time to launch a career in insurance or real estate. They hired old guys at McDonald’s, didn’t they? Why didn’t I take the hint and thicken the glue of marriage, rather than dissolve it? What made me so obstinate?
Yet hardheaded as I am, I also believe in compromise. Wearily, I interjected an appeal to reason. “How many times do we have to go over this?” I asked her. “We have so much that’s good in our life together. Can’t we focus on the positive?”
“There you go, weaseling out of the argument!” she erupted angrily. “It’s so typical of you! You’ll do anything to avoid the subject. But I’ll tell you once if I tell you a thousand times—we need more income, and that’s got to come from you.”
I tried another tack. “Cutting back a little here and there is not the end of the world.”
“It’s not what you promised me.”
“Not what I promised you? Life’s vicissitudes and growing older are not what I promised you either.”
My words had no effect on her. She was going for the jugular, as usual, and any attempt to deflect her attack was useless.
“You promised me that we’d never be strapped. Don’t you remember that?”
Wow! Was that ever a figment of her imagination! I can recall saying no such thing—certainly not during that bygone day when we exchanged vows. Love was the cloud on which we would ride forever. I gave absolutely no promises except the rote mumbling of “I do.” She was holding me to a standard she conceived two plus decades in the aftermath, when the marriage ceremony itself was such ancient history that its only link to the present was a mildewed photo album in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. No, I would not be held accountable for something I never said—or at least have no memory of ever saying—no, hell, I never said such a thing, period.
Emphatic as my objection sounded, it only served to increase the acrimony. She glowered at me like I was the biggest liar in the world. I stared back self-righteously. Just about then the phone rang, or the microwave beeped, or some inconsequential domestic interruption diverted our attention. We stalked off into separate rooms, and that was the end of it—a scenario repeated dozens, if not hundreds of times in the course of our long marriage. What I didn’t understand that afternoon, though, was that she was already plotting her departure. A scene like this only confirmed to her what a jerk I was. She had married a creative striver who was now well past his prime, who had become a parasite instead of a provider. It was high time she dumped the pathetic bastard.
Budge grunts with satisfaction, having typed out this harsh snippet of personal history. With a little reworking, it could leave his journal and find its way into a novel. Surely he’s good for one more book about spousal tension and marital dissolution. He presses the “save” icon and proceeds through the shutdown prompts on his laptop. Then, feeling the need to take a breather after so autobiographical a bout of literary exertion, he gets up from his desk and surveys his new quarters.
Less than a garret, more than a bedroom. A good-sized window, mercifully no curtains. Off-white walls, mercifully no wallpaper. The two beds take up a significant portion of the room’s square footage, but I can already attest to their suitability for napping, with or without the lady of the house. Need to ask permission to remove counterpanes—too gaudy. Ceiling fan may be a necessity come summertime—window faces southwest. Carpet is stained and on rainy days reeks of piss, but it doesn’t bother me. Its message is the frailty of the human condition, something I wholeheartedly embrace. This was the room where old Harold, diapered in his last years, was sequestered prior to the nursing home. What was Harold’s is now mine: room, house, woman. Yes, I’m the proud new inhabitant of Matty’s man chamber. Door closes snugly, shuts out world.
Budge is always writing, even when he’s just thinking. It’s a mark of a true craftsman in the profession, concocting words that readily string into phrases and sentences, orderly in paragraph form, spelled and punctuated with almost visual precision. He rejects the stream-of-consciousness approach—too verbose, too sloppy. His natural economy with the English language causes him to ruminate methodically; no sooner would he loose a torrent of disconnected thoughts, or run his mouth while speaking, than ‘let it all hang out’ in his writing. This has led to both praise and damnation from the critics, who, on the one hand, laud his efficiency of expression, but, on the other hand, express discomfort at his tendency toward nonstop acerbity. Needless to say, the months of hardship following the breakup of his marriage have only exacerbated this natural gift.
Although Budge’s earlier books have gone out of print, and the one that’s coming out soon is destined—in all likelihood—for a limited readership, his writing skills do not suffer from indolence or disuse. In one form or another, he’s composing literature, even in his sleep. The older he gets, then, the even better craftsman he becomes—a cruel reality that every underappreciated professional knows only too well.
Ignored and unpublished writers are the true saviors of the literary profession. They have no reputations to build upon, no editors to satisfy, no expectations of commercial success. They are just themselves, exponents of Whitman’s “barbaric yawp.” If they create poetry and prose that would be judged as not worth the paper it’s written on, what’s the harm in that? Such unsung literary effort possibly embodies the highest form of artistic communication, where words are meant to be felt and not necessarily read.
No, that’s over the top, and Budge knows it. He certainly would not include himself in that mute category. These thoughts merely illustrate the breadth and seriousness of his writerly empathy. He knows what it’s like to be passed over. He is no stranger to rejection slips. Yet like most writers whose luck blows sometimes hot but mostly cold, his passion for putting together words continues unabated. In this instance, the sentences flow even as he’s glancing
around the room. His off-the-cuff descriptiveness isn’t meant to be a put-down of what Matty has offered him. Rather, it should be interpreted as an exercise in observation, tossed off with the bravura that only a sensitive and seasoned word-spinner can muster. He’s been at his desk—he’s writing again!—and that in itself is a victory. Having moved from his solo digs, he’s embarked on a new phase. For the first time in months, he feels truly at peace, thanks to the generosity of a good woman.
He hears a gentle rap on the door. “Come in,” he says grandly.
Matty walks in, apologizing for the interruption. She’s just come from a round of golf—he can tell by her shorts and polo shirt with the country club logo, and the terrycloth visor that bunches up her hairdo. Her neck and arms glow fetchingly with perspiration. She looks energized and happy.
“Well, you look the picture of health!”
“Honey, I’ve had a terrific morning. The four of us walked all eighteen holes, then lunched at the club. My, that sun felt good! And how has your day been? Don’t tell me you’re going to stay indoors on this glorious afternoon.”
Budge admits that he probably will. He’d like to crank out at least another page or so. He did step outside for a while earlier, he tells her, and he also spent some time on the deck with Ragu right after breakfast.
“I was just petting her,” Matty says. “She seems to have found a favorite snoozing spot on one particular cushion.”
Walking up to Budge, she puts a hand on his arm. “Honey, can’t you take just a teensy break?”
Even as she speaks, Budge feels his resolve ebbing. He’s been at his desk all morning, so why punish himself, why push the word count? On a gut level, she’s reading his mind.
“Well, I guess I could take a nap,” he says, encircling her waist playfully. “Wanna join me?”
He smooches her theatrically on the nape of her neck, tasting the saltiness. She doesn’t pull away, but swivels to give him an affectionate hug.
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 2
