Wrongful Reconciliation

by Peter Svenson

  At times I despise myself for being so aloof. Why am I so mentally uncooperative, when I should be more accepting of this very pleasant existence? Why put up a fight? Let the friggin’ gate roll back! Let the lawns be fertilized until they’re blue! Let the air conditioners hum like metallic locusts! Why can’t I be less critical of every facet that only makes my life easier?

  But someone’s got to do the dirty work of creativity. Someone’s got to look at this gated community crapola and see it for what it really is. See it as a twenty-first-century warning of worst to come. See it as a pernicious example of environmental and social degradation. See it as an exercise in exclusivity that will only widen the gap between rich and poor. See it as nothing less than a harbinger of the downfall of America.

  I realize I shouldn’t equate Matty with all of this, and I don’t. She’s a nice person who just happens to live here. I can’t expect her to see the forest through the trees. She’s been awfully good to me, etc., etc., and as accepting of me as any woman has been or ever will be. Perhaps that’s why we get along so well.

  Budge puts down the bound journal. He’s written a substantial enough entry for the day. Further fulminations can wait until tomorrow. He looks out the window at the very scene he just described. Next door, a minimum-wage immigrant worker on a riding mower circles around and around, scalping an already clipped lawn. Feeling a sudden sickening of spirit, he wonders if maybe he should get his head examined. He’s got so much going for him—why does he let this bother him? He knows he should cultivate an indifferent attitude, but he’s incapable of doing so. As the man circles obstreperously, spewing bits of grass that scintillate in the sunlight, the fog of the mower’s exhaust drifts along the hedgerow. Budge despises it and everything it stands for. The longer he watches, the worse he feels.

  His discomfort, of course, is rooted in something deeper than mere eco-hypersensitivity. He is grieving over the loss of his marriage. Still grieving, after all these months—and for what? In the realm of the irrational, there is no explanation. Contrary to all behavioral indications—and so much water over the dam—he still misses his wife. He persists in having no idea why she left him. Although she spelled out her reasons, they failed to convince him, so strong was his attachment to her. He clings to the notion that a second chance, if she’d grant him one, would set things aright between them. Where does this leave him vis-á-vis the present? Poking along, living a half-life (rent-free, thank heavens), sharing the bed of a much older woman. The ambience he enjoyed in his married days seems far, far away. No, it wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it made more sense. This doesn’t make sense, living here in a community of strangers whose prime preoccupation is the hired care and feeding of their patchwork of greenswards.

  He turns from the window, vowing to drop all negative and depressing thoughts. Matty is out playing golf, or maybe she’s shopping—she always tells him where she’s going, but he doesn’t always listen. He decides to sit down at the computer and check his e-mail.

  As he awaits the dial-up connection, he muses hopefully that he’ll hear from somebody—anybody. He is rewarded with a freighted inbox—some junkmail, a couple of his old pals who live in distant cities, and—wonder of wonders—his wife!

  What can this mean? She hasn’t communicated in ten months, not since the day before she arranged to have her possessions carted away—that black morning when he witnessed the liquidation of their household. Has she belatedly realized she’s forgotten something? Skipping the other communiqués, he clicks to open her message.

  “Hi Budgie,” it begins. He pauses to savor the nickname she alone used.

  At this late date, having not heard it for so long, it sounds suspiciously like she’s addressing a parakeet. Yes, dear reader, I was her budgie. I lived in a gilded cage, warbled my little heart out, cocked a disdainful eye at the world, and shat on a paper-lined tray. She taught me to eat birdseed right out of her hand. Once in a while, she let me fly around the room, but she’d coax me back to my little gated community of one, draped nightly to keep out drafts and light.

  Budge slowly reads her message:

  “Guess you’re surprised to hear from me. I’m kind of surprised to be writing you, considering how long it’s been since we were last in touch. Here’s the scoop: I’ve just spoken with my lawyer. She suggests that you and I hash out some final details to save money. Let me know if, 1) you’re agreeable to this, and 2) the name and address of your lawyer.”

  On the last line, her name appears by itself.

  What am I to make of this, her first overture in months? Is it a plea for cooperation, or just a blandly couched notification? The “Hi” and superannuated nickname throw me off balance. Her mention of lawyers makes me quake with fiduciary terror. She knows damn well I have no lawyer—how in hell could I afford one?

  Just what is she after? She always had an enigmatic side, but now she leaves me completely at a loss. I feel as if I don’t know this person anymore, this helpmate who forsook her vows and walked away like it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Well, I’ll play it cool and reply in similar fashion.

  “Sure, I’m agreeable. What details are you talking about? I thought we settled everything months ago. Regarding the lawyer, I haven’t got one and don’t intend to. Can’t yours alone do the necessary legal work? Cheers, B.”

  Budge presses the send button, satisfied that his response matches the tone of her missive. This puts the ball back in her court. Giving the matter no further thought, he goes downstairs to grab some lunch. Exercise will have to wait. From Matty’s well-stocked refrigerator he extracts a bowl of homemade pea soup, sandwich fixings, fruit cocktail, and some leftover ravioli. A writer’s appetite is always in inverse proportion to the amount of writing he gets done. Having accomplished little this morning except for the abovementioned splenetic jottings, Budge wolfs down his food. You’d think he hadn’t eaten in a week! Devouring the cold food in solitude, he chews with his mouth open—to better savor the mouthfuls—and freely indulges his habit of gastric venting. Were it not midday, he’d quaff a few beers, too, but he wants to keep his mind sharp for the afternoon’s writing session—that is, after his nap.

  Finished, he tidies up the sink and countertop, not failing to convey all soiled utensils to the dishwasher. This chore he willingly performs because he knows that Matty has a fetish about cleanliness, unlike his wife who could be slapdash in the kitchen.

  No matter whether she cooked or I cooked, I always cleaned up. Her presbyopia, I think, limited her awareness of drips and spatters and smears. In the name of culinary inspiration, she’d make a godawful mess, subordinating me to restore order. At first I found her creativity charming. We worked in tandem; I admired the way she flung spoons and saucepans around, the way she scattered vegetables and herbs far beyond the chopping block. I’d wipe and scrub and scour and smile. She was a regular Julia Child and I was her assistant.

  This got old, though, when we began bickering as we cooked. The hour or so in the kitchen together, once an opportunity for laughter and loving communication, became a time-slot for the daily airing of grievances. Her catalog of complaints multiplied exponentially, and I contributed defensive rebuttals as I sullenly eradicated her messes. It’s a wonder we didn’t experience sour stomach from the meals we prepared.

  It isn’t a pleasant memory for Budge, and it leads to other reminiscences.

  I don’t suppose she ever understood the importance of culinary cleanliness. I mean, she never even washed her hands. If I hadn’t jumped in and provided the elbow grease, she might never have lifted a finger. It would have made an interesting experiment: left to her own devices, would she have gridlocked the countertop with dirty kitchenware and reduced us to eating at McDonald’s?

  At this juncture, Budge should be thankful that Matty is a homemaker of an entirely different stripe, but he is not thinking of Matty at all. His mind is locked on his soon-to-be ex-wife. He visualizes her face and permed coiffu
re. She was the type of woman who would never let her hair go gray. She had good bone structure and she knew it, and she may be even more attractive now if she’s gotten that facelift she was always talking about. He was proud to be seen with her in public. Cornily put, she was his pride and joy. He knew that other men—and women—envied him. Even now, just the fact that she has communicated again sends shivers down his spine. Their years together boomerang back, making him fair game for memories.

  He naps for a little over an hour, then he’s at his desk checking his e-mail. His wife has written back.

  “Hi Budgie, thanks for replying. My lawyer said that if you choose to waive legal representation, that’s your decision, but just remember that my lawyer is working for me, not you. Let’s meet and discuss, okay?”

  Meet and discuss? Why in heaven’s name would she want to see me again? I thought the whole point was to get rid of me.

  Budge ponders the message. It strikes him that his wife is sending mixed signals; on the one hand, she seems to be girding for a fight—over what, he has no idea, since their voluntary separation agreement divided their assets months ago—but on the other hand, she’s appealing for his company.

  What I’m mainly confused about is this: do I want to see her again? Could I stand seeing her again? Will I go weak at the knees at the sight of the woman I loved faithfully for so long? I need to keep up my guard, I can’t let her seduce me. I’ve come light-years from that relationship, and I’d be a fool to even contemplate drifting back.

  Matty, you old golfer and gourmet cook, wait till I get you in bed tonight! I’ll hold you tighter than ever before, and kiss and caress your wrinkled skin with such intensity that you’ll beg me to enter you and pound away to my prick’s content. Together, we’ll summit the peaks of ecstasy, and maybe watch a little late-night television when we’re done. I won’t let the past interfere with the present. I know I’ve got it good here with you, despite the fact that at times I can’t stomach these sterile surroundings.

  Clearly, Budge is of two minds. The sudden contact with his wife has energized him—but for what? Why is he even bothering to consider her proposal? He could just say no. Better yet, he could say nothing. He doesn’t have to get involved in the least. There’s no e-mail protocol that says you have to reply to every message. Budge ruminates the pros and cons. In his brain, he projects an abysmal tête-à-tête, a shouting match of dredged-up recriminations, and then, just as swiftly, he conjures a sweet rapprochement of joint avowals of renewed love. Which will it be?

  Fool! Undoubtedly neither, but a stupid, awkward, supposedly businesslike attempt to tie up loose ends. An ill-advised meeting of virtual strangers who have nothing to say to each other. Her curiosity is getting the better of her, that’s all. Remember, she’s the type who attends high school and college reunions. She likes to gawk at human deconstruction. It’ll amuse her to see how much older you look, how much more lined your face has become. Hell, she probably wants to show off her newly tautened skin and glamorously highlighted hair. Tell her no, goddamn it!

  But Budge doesn’t heed his own advice. He hits the reply button.

  “How about the pizza parlor in Elkton, the one we used to go to, which should be about halfway between where you live and here? Let’s say tomorrow at six o’clock. Please confirm.”

  Budge knows there is no recalling a sent e-mail. Even if he had second thoughts, he’d be loathe to follow up with an explanatory cancellation. Once his mind’s made up, he’s not one for waffling. No, he’ll stick with his decision. He will not let this temblor upset his calm existence within the gated community. He’ll consent to see her again—just this one time—because he’s quite sure nothing will come of it other than a stab at closure, which might prove to be a good thing.

  I see it as an appeal on her part to effect what I’ve been wrestling with all these months: to bid a formal good-bye. To take leave with sincere best wishes, and move on with as clear a conscience as possible. I should give her more credit; she knows as well as I do that our life together ended ten months ago. This isn’t a plea to stay in touch or remain friends or anything like that, but to sever the connection now and forever. When we walk out of that pizza parlor to separate cars headed toward separate destinations, our minds will be at ease. The past will be firmly in its place. And who knows—maybe she’s involved with another person just as I am. One last meeting between us will set the record straight.

  Oh, I know I’m writing garbage, but I feel the need to justify my temporary egress from this abode. I won’t spill a word of it to the mistress of the house, but let its salutary effect trickle into our new life together. Although Matty’s the one who’ll reap the benefit, there’s no need for her to know the petty details.

  Budge continues in this Pollyanna-ish vein for as long as he can stand himself. It’s not like him to go mushy with romantic altruism. Tiring of this train of thought, he shifts from the present back to the past as he now vividly recalls snippets of his long married life. The trips they took together, the time they went to Paris, the time they hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The time they drove to Tadoussac in the province of Quebec and watched the whales cavorting in the St. Lawrence. He concludes—not for the first time!—that their marriage wasn’t so bad after all, even though it ended on a sour note. Perhaps his wife has reached the same conclusion. Maybe she’s heartbroken over the loss of him. As dumpee, he always assumed he was the one who got hurt the worst. Could he just have been feeling sorry for himself?

  Someone’s gotta do the leaving. Someone’s gotta absorb the pain of causing the other to cry …

  He notices right away that his words have lyric potential, so he shifts to the purlieus of creativity. The joy of invention trumps the onerousness of memory. He spends nearly an hour composing verses to fit a bluesy three-bar format, humming as he writes.

  Somebody leavin’

  Someone stayin’ behind,

  Somebody cryin’

  Someone walkin’ down the line.

  Who got the most pain?

  I can only tell you ’bout mine.

  Why you do this

  Why you do this to me?

  Why you causin’

  So much hurt and misery?

  Don’t you see, woman,

  This ain’t the way love s’posed to be.

  Later, he’ll test them on his old flattop guitar. Before he was married, he did quite a bit of songwriting. Some of his tunes were recorded, but nothing with the writing credit B. Moss ever charted into the top ten. Despite repeated effort—and outlay for travel to Nashville and Los Angeles—his shot at the big-time remained as elusive as ever. It finally occurred to him that every other person in every other town across America is a songwriter, and success carried the same odds as being struck by lightning. He was lucky to get out of the profession before he got hooked on its paraphernalia of failure, that boozy, drugged despair so vaunted in lyrics of self-description.

  His prose, both fiction and nonfiction, proved to be more marketable. He didn’t have to rhyme in stanzas and conform to a stereotype. Furiously, he pursued this freer, more rewarding craft, harnessing words and ideas from the artesian well of his brain. He wrote and rewrote his several books, one right after the other, and in the course of those first modest successes he met and married his wife. But that, too, was a long time ago.

  Now he’s come to an odd pass. After nearly a decade of failures and rejections, he’s having a new book published, a slender novel of barely concealed autobiography, yet its birth is wholly owed to the death of his marriage. Coincidentally, he’s about to meet his wife one last time. Can there be fodder here for a sequel? Ever analytic, Budge’s mind considers a dozen storylines.

  They meet, they mesh, they mash, they mope. They flee, they fly, they fry, they fall. They woo, they whomp, they wait, they weep. In a crazy way, I’m having fun testing the possibilities. It could be a story about grand emotions that turn into picayune fixations, or maybe the other way ar
ound. It could hinge on forgiveness and rekindled ardor, twisting (many chapters later) into mistrust and betrayal—make it a Gothic tale! Or it could be taken straight from life, reporter-fashion, and served up in a series of terse diary entries (“Tuesday, rained all day, we stayed in bed and fucked”). It could include segments of copacetic togetherness as well as knock-down-drag-out fights. It could roil with the essential absurdity of the human experience, one-day-at-a-time mayhem compiling into an infinite sum of meaninglessness. No moral, no happy or unhappy ending, no catharsis—just a twilit void. Oh, the endless combinations! I find myself truly warming to the task.

  When reality—Matty’s call for him to help with dinner—intervenes, Budge’s mind has long since returned to ex-marital matters, the whole nine yards, as it were, and steeled himself against all possible outcomes. He acknowledges the risks he will be taking. He knows that life and art do not necessarily agree. A haunting inner voice warns him of disaster, but another voice booms confidently that he has made the right decision. At this point in his life, he can talk himself into anything.

  Chapter Five

  “Where are you off to, honey?”

  Matty has stopped Budge in the hallway, noticing his clean shirt and slacks—not his usual work-at-home attire.

  “Uh, nowhere. Just thought I’d run to town.”