Wrongful Reconciliation

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by Peter Svenson


  “Oh, Sweetheart, you’re impossible! Look at me, I’m drenched in sweat. You’ll at least have to let me take a shower first!”

  With this woman, there are no excuses. She does not say no. She never says no. She’s categorically opposed to saying no, no matter where we are and what time of day it is. We could be sitting on the deck or sitting down to dinner, and when the suggestion of lovemaking pops up, we run with it rather than rule it out. With us, intimacy begins as easy repartee—the randy author and the randier homemaker—and concludes as serious reckoning. Not that we’re sex maniacs or anything, but we honor this natural extension of whatever happens to be engrossing us at the moment. Ideally, we’d act on the urge any old time, but obviously we don’t—and can’t. Still, a limitless sexual horizon beckons us, and that’s damn nice after what I had gotten used to.

  In this instance, Matty does indeed take a shower, but lovemaking is postponed, by mutual agreement, until after dinner. Matty has promised to prepare one of his favorite meals, chicken Kiev, and she needs plenty of lead time. Moreover, she relies on Budge’s help in the kitchen, so his first order of business is to uncork a bottle of wine and break out crackers and cheese. Pursuant to these and other chores, he realizes how hungry he actually is. A full day of writing—or at least sitting at his desk and trying to write—never fails to leave him famished. Temporarily, then, the atmosphere of sexual urgency recedes, although he knows that he only has to walk over to Matty and put his arms around her to rekindle the flame.

  The dinner prepared and the table set (always linen napkins, always sterling flatware), he ferries the serving dishes and lights the candles. Then he seats her—a regular requirement in the household, most likely initiated by old Harold himself—and takes his place opposite her. She reaches her hands across the table to take his in a brief silent grace. Mindful of the steaming food, he holds his forearms high as he clasps her fingers. She bows her head and closes her eyes; he doesn’t.

  I would never admit this to her, but I get a weird thrill from watching her pray. She does it without affectation or sanctimoniousness. She gives the impression that she’s led a long life of suffering and thankfulness, and something compels her to make this display of devotion—these piercing few seconds of concentration as her brows knit—before the man who now shares her home and food and bed. I feel as if I, too, should lay on the piety or humility or whatever it is, but I can’t. Instead of lowering my head, I tend to raise it. The pre-gustatorial moment has me poised in readiness; my stomach is rumbling and my salivary glands are already at work. I’m thankful, of course, thankful as any man about to tuck into a lovingly home-cooked meal, but my guard is up. I don’t quite trust the reality of it all. Won’t the whole bountiful shebang come crashing down? It did last year.

  This passage illustrates, in addition to Budge’s decidedly nonreligious slant, the extent of the scars left by the breakup of his marriage. Despite the truly good situation he finds himself in today, he can’t forget the the life he led for years. It was a long—if unfruitful, in the Biblical sense—union, but it hadn’t been all bad. His wife and he, of similar age and education and background, had so much in common that their intellectual give-and-take frequently verged on the superlative.

  We shared a rapport that grew positively telegraphic. In so many aspects of our personalities, we were identical twins. Our tastes in music, art, and literature coincided perfectly. If something in the newspaper interested her, she’d bring it to my attention because she knew it would interest me. And vice versa. Whenever we traveled, our eyes and minds were one; if we stood on the railing of a ship or peered out the window of a jetliner, we’d marvel at exactly the same sight. We provided each other with a most rewarding companionship in this respect. I used to tell her that she thought like a man—meaning it as a compliment—and she’d praise me for having the capacity to see things through the eyes of a woman. We were truly halves of a whole.

  But with the good news came the bad news:

  Similarity of this intensity, however, had one major drawback: we fought like cat and dog. In instances when we absolutely disagreed—like about money—we both took the position that it was our duty to convince the other. Oh, we were stubborn! She expected me to see her logic and I expected her to see mine. Persuasion led to full-blown arguments, which became patterns of behavior in themselves. If she played bulldog, I played wildcat. When she barked, I hissed. Our separate opinions became infantile declarations. Neither of us would relent. Call it one-upmanship, call it saving face, she and I would stomp off, each utterly dismayed by the other’s pigheadedness. After a few hours of reflection, though, I’d be ready to go the route of contrition. She wouldn’t, but I would. I wouldn’t exactly grovel, but I’d prepare to apologize. If the hour was late and she’d gone off to the spare bedroom in a huff, it was up to me to knock tentatively on the door and sweet-talk her into rejoining me in the marital boudoir. Penitently, I’d admit to seeing things her way. Then, as subtly as possible, I’d endeavor to change the subject. Glum and annoyed as she might be, her foremost instinct was to pick up an intellectual trail—she had a rigorous mind and wasn’t afraid to use it—and so I’d switch to a neutral topic. Environmental degradation, world hunger, subcontinental illiteracy—she loved to speculate on calamities in the making. This would lead to yet another free-ranging, all-encompassing discussion. I’d be extra careful to stay in her good graces, avowing full agreement—vigorously nodding my head—and adding irreverent asides. She would eventually respond to my humor, and then it was like old times again, and she would even be amenable to lovemaking as long as I was snappy about it.

  But being the perennial patcher-upper wasn’t easy. It took its toll on Budge’s sense of self-worth. Professionally, this inaugurated an era of trying too hard.

  The money business overshadowed everything, though. She expected me to produce a bestseller. She didn’t say it in so many words, but her attitude showed it. She had hitched her star to the next Tom Clancy. In her eyes I had—that dreaded word—potential. And once I hit the bigtime, cash would come rolling in. There’d be movie options, reprint rights, translations, lecture fees. Soon we’d be swimming in wealth, sunning ourselves and rubbing shoulders with the beautiful people.

  Yes, I was expected to be the goose that would lay a succession of golden eggs. Her job, as helpmate, was to incubate them. She saw to it that I had a quiet place to work and was amply provided with amenities. Birthing blockbusters, I could be neither interrupted nor distracted—except by her. Mentally, she chained me to my desk. It was a step beyond publish or perish; it was publish to rave reviews and phenomenal sales, or perish as a husband.

  Needless to say, this put a lot of pressure on me. Augmented by my natural will to succeed at my craft, it turned me into a workaholic. I pumped out prose from a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir, but I was in too big a rush. I wasn’t crafting for the ages; I worked strictly for the do-re-mi. And what did I have to show for this authorial spewing? Three novels that were remaindered within a year of publication (royalties never fully covered their advances). Two collections of short stories that sank beneath the critics’ radar. A how-to book on winemaking that was eclipsed by a competitor with better photographs. A history of the Boer War that titillated an academic or two, but was deemed too esoteric for the general public. A few forgettable articles for travel magazines.

  All in all, an oeuvre suitable to an inconsequential man of letters. Inside, it hurt me to be considered a hack. What hurt, too, was the fact that whenever I brought in any money, it was literally spent the next day. My wife had limited skills for thrift and an inexhaustible wish list for apparel and furnishings and entertainment. She was bringing in a weekly paycheck—which was, of course, spent too—but the very steadiness of her income made mine all the more ephemeral. In retrospect, I don’t think that my contribution ever quite mattered. It vanished in the line-by-line haze of our monthly credit card statements.

  As my ‘potential’ steadily
shriveled, my wife’s trusted dream turned bitter. She worked for a living while I merely dabbled at word processing. The frustration level rose; at some point, her love flew out the window while mine hardened into a defensive shell. She began parceling out her attention when I needed it more than ever.

  Oh, what a stupid way to dismantle a marriage …

  “Aren’t you hungry, honey?”

  Matty’s voice startles Budge. The journal—not written by hand but dictated in his brain—would continue in this vein of self-confession, but is now abruptly shelved.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about something.”

  “Care to share it, sweetheart?”

  “Nah, it wasn’t important.”

  “Well, pick up your fork. Don’t let the food get cold.”

  Chapter Three

  In many respects, Budge is content to be situated in another woman’s home. He has weathered adjustments, scaled back expectations, come to terms with disappointments, and generally maintained an upbeat attitude. While his mind often roams back to the failed relationship with his wife, he tries hard to stay focused on the present. He knows he should count his blessings: a roof over his head, Matty’s sexual companionship, his continued robust health, his unalloyed powers of writerly concentration, plus the unwavering devotion of his cat. In addition, he’s got a new book in the works, a novel that may not prove to be a blockbuster (the odds are ninety-nine to one that it won’t) but will still be a respectable offering, one that should enhance his flagging reputation with the critics.

  The average person of Budge’s years would see the advantages of his position and choose not to rock the boat. Budge, on the other hand, is a congenital rocker of boats. Just as he redrafts this current manuscript over and over, now that he has the luxury to, so he redrafts his life. Every nuance is in a state of flux. Nothing is ever quite the way it should be. There is always something to be crossed out, some substitution to be made, some reworking of an essential phrase or phase. As Budge sees it,

  Creativity is synonymous with ongoing acts of improvement. Layers must be peeled away to get at the truth. It’s the old, old mantra: perfection is in the process. Accepting the status quo is a sure sign of stagnation.

  This attitude keeps him from pouring himself wholeheartedly into his new life. He likes Matty, likes everything about her, but he doesn’t feel love for her. Consequently, he can’t quite settle down to the notion that this relationship—this new reality—is supplanting his defunct state of wedlock, difficult and unrewarding as it was. He loved his wife. His feelings for her only intensified with the passing years. He accepted her flaws—took very little notice of them, in fact—and the ship of marriage just steamed along. Even though his wife made him miserable at times, and ultimately left him, he hasn’t quite jumped ship, so to speak.

  Rationally, none of this makes sense. Today, that marriage is only a phantom ship, soon to be officially torpedoed and sunk with the stroke of a judge’s pen followed by the stamped seal of the clerk of court. Moreover, he’s quite sure he doesn’t love his wife anymore (by her actions, he’s quite sure she no longer loves him). And yet, something about the defunct marriage continues to propel him forward. He’s not free of its residual gravity. He hasn’t seen his wife in ten months, but he still feels her presence within him. Matty’s presence, by contrast, hasn’t permeated him at all. When she’s there, she’s there, and when she’s not, she’s not. Although he is grateful for everything she shares with him, his heart keeps its distance.

  Accordingly, he spends long hours in his room with the door shut. Much of the time he’s trying to write and needs the privacy. Or he’s napping and doesn’t want to be disturbed. At other times, though, he just wants to be alone. He prefers to avoid merging with the new reality. No matter how much he respects and admires Matty, she remains, in his view, a retired matron with country club connections. Budge actively fights the notion that he might slip into that easygoing lifestyle.

  This is what I fear the most, surrendering myself to The Way Things Are. Turning into a complaisant burgher who stands, apron donned, at the backyard barbecue and dispenses high-fat homilies. Letting my finer attributes grow so lax that my restive nature evaporates. Oh, put me on Prozac, Mr. Businessman! Relax me to the point where I’m happy as a clam—and about as interesting. All I really need to do in this world is consume, consume, consume.

  And so I rail against the anti-art. I rail against the terrible suasion of the middle class that steamrolls sensitivity into more and more copycat asphalt. I hate to think how much originality has been co-opted by corporate sloganeers (no, you didn’t think of it first, they did). Among the multitudes these days, there hardly exists a thinker who can express something new. At best, we are tweakers, personalizing what isn’t ours to begin with. Faddists, friend-sters, fakers—we fool ourselves into believing that we are the coolest, hippest people ever to have walked the planet. Where have the bona fide creative minds gone? Gone south, that’s where! Gone farther south than the South Pole. Gone for good, now that we no longer have to rely on brainpower.

  Believe me, the temptation to shut up is strong. Conformity makes for such a dreary surround that I contemplate never writing another word. Let me segue into early senility with a faraway look in my eyes and a thin smile on my lips! Let me never reveal the essential person! You’re looking for the author Budge Moss, you say? He packed up and vacated the premises some time ago—and left no forwarding address.

  Budge’s dissatisfaction with the status quo takes many forms. He tends to be critical of everybody, including himself. When he scrutinizes his face in the mirror, he is vaguely repulsed by what he sees.

  The eyes are sullen, untrusting. The sunken cheeks never outgrew their predilection for zits. Blanched wires of hair and beard, punctuated by unkempt eyebrows, give the visage an antediluvian cast. The mouth, curled in an appraising smirk, hints of disreputability …

  Naked, I step onto the bathroom scale and am ashamed of every pound gained. My chest droops unman-fully, ditto for my paunch. My thighs and calves appear knotted and stringy, no longer well-muscled, no longer worth revealing in a pair of shorts. My once shapely feet are disfigured with callouses and toenail fungus. I eat sensibly, sleep well, exercise daily, and look where it’s gotten me!

  Yet despite what the mirror deadpans, I persist in regarding myself as a twentysomething stud who’s just happened to have accumulated a few wrinkles.

  His strongest criticism, however, seems to be reserved for Matty—not for her per se, but for her reticence about her age. He has convinced himself that she is quite a bit older than she’s letting on, and it is beginning to irritate him. Why won’t she level with him? What’s the big deal, anyway? The mirror also reveals her as she is—hardly a spring chicken—so why can’t she answer truthfully when he asks how old she is?

  I’ve questioned her point blank on repeated occasions, and she turns coquettish, evasive.

  “Now why do you want to know that, honey?”

  “I just do,” I say with total candor. “It’s a reciprocity thing. You know I’m fifty-five, so why shouldn’t I know how old you are?”

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart. In your vast experience, you must have heard of such a thing.”

  “Oh, that’s meaningless.”

  “C’mon, sweetie, give me a kiss. Everything will be revealed in time.”

  “I’m serious, Matty. What’s keeping you from telling me?”

  “Nothing,” she laughs. “Nothing at all. I just don’t feel like telling you right now.”

  Playfully, she diverts Budge’s quest, and, not wanting to be rude, he goes along. The subject is changed, but inwardly he’s more determined than ever to find out the truth. Her reticence hangs like a cloud over his appreciation of her, both in the kitchen and in the bedroom. It throws his affection out of kilter. Try as he might, he can’t put the idea out of his head. For all her attention and kindness, she’s not completely on the level.


  This age-concealing business is getting me down. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I need to know the answer—preferably, straight from the horse’s mouth.

  Budge attempts to pry out the truth in roundabout fashion. He couches the question tangentially by asking her, for example, what period of popular music influenced her teenage years. Was it the Beatles (his)? Matty shakes her head. Was it the earlier Elvis? Again, she responds negatively. It was earlier still, she tells him—the big band sounds of Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey. Well, this is a start: it suggests that she belongs to his parents’—bless their departed souls—generation.

  Doggedly, Budge pursues similar lines of inquiry. What about movies? Again, Matty’s memory shines forth; she vividly recalls the original Bogart releases, not the revivals. He makes note of the correlation, convinced that he’s getting closer to the truth. What about cars? Does she remember the Edsel? Of course! The Studebaker, the Tucker, the Cord? Sure she does!

  Her innocent reminiscing builds his case. She even goes one step farther: she retrieves an album of old photographs and shows him a picture of herself with her brother and parents posed on the running board of the family car.

  “That’s me, honey. I must’ve been seven or eight. Get a load of that outfit!”

  Budge scrutinizes the lacy chemise tied with a big bow (the occasion was her first communion), and her brother’s knickers, but the car itself is the real giveaway. It is an ancient vehicle indeed—wooden spokes, bolt-on fenders, rumble seat—a Maxwell. Budge feels that he is closing in on the truth about Matty’s age. He continues to probe, albeit clumsily.

  “So what year was this photo taken? Was the car new?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. As I recall, my dad bought it used. What a jalopy, huh!”

  The word jalopy is also a clue.

  Damn, she’s old. Old enough to be my mother!

 

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