“Are you talking about you and me getting back together again?”
“No, I’m talking about you and me driving out to California together. If you want to, that is. We’ll totally play it by ear, take one mile at a time, be on our best behavior.”
“And the return trip?” inquires ever-practical Budge.
“I’ll stake you a flight. San Francisco to BWI. I’ll be flying back later on, because I’ve got a new car on order from a dealer in Annapolis.”
New car on order. Pay for my return ticket. Undoubtedly, she’ll spring for meals and motel rooms, too. She must be raking in the dough these days, with plenty to spare. No hangdog writer to support, no family health insurance premiums skimmed off her paycheck, no hungry-man grocery bills.
But what prompts this invitation? It’s not love, it’s not charity. She has to be angling for something else.
“You want another driver, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s basically it.”
“I figured as much,” he says.
“Oh, don’t be so skeptical. We took some good trips together, you and I. Some long ones too.”
“Yes we did,” he concurs. “I’ll never forget that summer we drove across Canada.”
A stupid time to be waxing nostalgic, I chide myself. Why do such utterances fall from my lips? Why can’t I put a clamp on my supportive attitude? This bitch has done me no favors. And to be honest, I had forgotten about driving across Canada—until just now. Don’t be gulled into loquaciousness, old man! Don’t let her unlatch your tongue.
His wife claps her hands together with delight. “That was some trip, wasn’t it! Remember those marvelous glaciers we saw?”
Budge struggles to say nothing and barely manages to do so.
“But, no, there’s more to it,” she continues. “I’d like to be your friend, Budgie. I don’t see why people getting divorced have to be each other’s worst enemy. I think we owe it to ourselves to talk this thing through a little more, and I figured this might be an opportune time.”
Budge watches her closely as she speaks. He hears what she is saying and it makes perfect sense—sure, why the hell not, what does he have to lose?—but something holds him back from committing himself. Can he really trust her? Not a word out of her for ten months, then all of a sudden, this invitation. And not just any invitation, but an invitation to five or six days of enforced intimacy—full days of driving and nights together in motels. There’ll be sex involved, he’s sure of it. Mentally, he reviews the other considerations: the divorce about to be finalized, the living arrangement with Matty, the emotional distance he has already achieved. Traveling with his wife might mean an about-face to all that—at the least, legally speaking, a setback to the non-cohabitation requirement—and yet, renewed proximity to her could be a good thing. It could lead to a reversal of the whole sorry business.
Studying her beautiful and possibly surgically enhanced features, he mulls his current situation. There isn’t a whole lot to mull, when he gets right down to it. Not much is going on in his life. A relationship of convenience. An upstairs room overlooking a despicable subdivision. An onerous work schedule and a paucity of income due to the continued elusiveness of literary success. The numbing fact that he is five years away from turning sixty.
True to form, Budge voids his reservations one by one. This attractive creature sitting across from him, this woman he once loved more dearly than life itself, is daring him to make a clean breast of the bitterness, like she herself is evidently trying to do. Her proposition is tantalizing. It is an offer of mutual benefit—an admission, perhaps, that neither she nor he can manage this transition period without each other’s support. Can they lift themselves together? Can they banish these persistent, wound-licking, post-breakup blues? It just might be worth a try. Get over, once and for all, the residual pain. End the whole episode on a higher note.
“Do you really think we can pull it off,” he asks. “Hit the road again, one last time?”
She reaches for his hands and he lets her take them. The physical contact is astonishing.
Touch after so long an absence is a magical elixir. Look how easily we lock each other’s fingers! Look how quickly the bad memories fade! This is what we’ve been missing all these months. The healing propensity of skin on skin. Clearly, this woman—okay, I’m sorry for calling her a bitch—and I have unfinished business.
Budge’s ruminations are cut off as she politely withdraws her fingers. “I don’t see why not,” she is saying, unleashing, by way of substitution, enough labial wattage to melt the last of his reservations. “I’m game if you are.”
Well, putting it that way, how can I say no? Who am I to reject such an offer of comradeship, especially from a woman I know so well? She sincerely wants me along as backup driver. Okay, I’ll commit. It pretty much guarantees that we’ll have more than comradeship—this woman is no shrinking violet. I’ll get to enjoy her physically again—hell, this alone will be worth the trip. I’ll have to do a little fibbing on the homefront, but that shouldn’t prove to be too difficult. I’ll bill it as a personal retreat, a solo getaway, a necessary recharging of the artistic batteries. Possibly Matty has a golf tournament or something to coincide with my absence.
“I’m in,” he says.
His wife’s smile broadens. Scrutinizing her face, he can tell that she has accomplished everything she set out to in this hastily arranged meeting at the pizza parlor. He is proud to still retain the power to make her happy.
“When were you thinking of leaving on this trip?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
“Honey, I’m thinking of going away for a few days.”
As important an announcement as this is, Budge times it carefully. He and Matty are lying post-coitally in her big bed, cozy and spent and gooey and prone to free-association. Through the open window, he hears Ragu caterwauling at an interloper—most likely a feral cat come to plunder her food bowl. He makes a mental note to give Matty instructions on dispensing cat food in his absence.
“Oh? Where will you be going?”
“Maybe up to Boston to hang out at my former college haunts, maybe look up some old pals and professors.”
Having chosen the time and place for his announcement, Budge is now ad-libbing. He knows he should come up with a better lie, but he can’t. Lame as it sounds, it is the only thing that pops into his head.
“You graduated nearly thirty-five years ago, sweetheart. You think they’d still be there?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know. Maybe I just want to revisit the locale.”
Budge is aware of the transparency of his whopper. Just the fact that he’s said three maybes makes it suspiciously aimless, as if he is taking a journey with no real destination in mind. Matty must know by now that her lover’s personality is not wishy-washy. If he sometimes speaks hesitantly, choosing the right words, he will ultimately express exactly what is on his mind. His zodiac sign is Aries; he wears his likes and dislikes on his sleeve. He can be picky, critical, opinionated, even cynical, but he is always definite in his plans. And if she knew him better, she would understand that he doesn’t give a damn about his distant collegiate past. If anything, he makes only disdainful reference to his undergraduate years—and never, ever considers going back.
But having said the lie, Budge feels compelled to embellish it. “Yes, it has been a while since I’ve seen my old alma mater. I’m sure there have been a lot of changes.”
If Matty suspects something, she doesn’t reveal her thoughts. “I’m sure there have been, darling. Would you like me to come with you?”
Gotta scramble here. Gotta show that my leaving has nothing to do with her—which, in point of truth, it doesn’t. Yes, I happen to be shacked up with her on a more-or-less permanent basis, but I need to extract myself temporarily for a Very Important Mission: the delivery of a car to California in the company of a person I was married to for twenty-six years. If I’m about to
cause some collateral damage, I’m truly sorry. Professionally, this is the kind of break I’ve been waiting for. There will be so much to write about that I’ll have to keep my journal at the ready at all times (except when I’m driving). I foresee a whole new genre of American fiction: unexpected travels, revisited relationships.
“Well, I was really thinking of going by myself. Not to escape from you, honey, or anything like that, but because I need some time alone. Creatively, I feel like I’m running on empty right now. I won’t be gone long—maybe a week—and when I come back I’ll be sufficiently renewed to tackle that new writing project I was telling you about.”
Wonder what the odds are of my never coming back? What if I decide to homestead in the Golden State, with or without my ex? Would Matty just toss my belongings out on the curb? How long would she wait for me? Could Ragu be air-freighted across country in a pet container?
“Which new writing project is that, darling?”
“The one about the writer who decides to live on a tugboat for a year.”
“Oh.”
As Budge’s vocal cords continue to wing it, he feels guilt welling up inside. He would like to tell Matty the truth, but he figures he can’t because she would never understand the delicacy—for lack of a better word—of the situation. He deems it best that she not know anything at all, lest she be hurt and lose her trust in him. Yet he doesn’t want to leave this good woman in the lurch, because he knows in his heart that she deserves better. She has been kind to him, she has treated him with consideration. Months ago when his emotions were still raw, she listened to him rant and rave about what a terrible person his wife was. Yes, he would like to tell Matty the whole truth now—that his wife wasn’t all that bad, that extricating himself from his deep love for her has been an incredibly difficult process, that this opportunity to spend a few more days with her seems vitally important, not only for his own future happiness and hers, but theirs as well.
“Honey, I won’t be gone long. And when I get back, maybe we can plan up a little getaway of our own. Just the two of us. We could take the ferry to Cape May, or spend a couple of nights in Philadelphia. Something low key and within my budget. That second installment on my advance ought to be due any day now.”
“Do you have enough money to travel on right now?”
Again, Budge has to think fast. Undoubtedly, she would loan him a couple of hundred dollars if he asked her. But no, he doesn’t want her money. That would only add to the guilt and duplicity.
“Well, er, I should just be able to swing it. Gas and tolls up to Boston. Like I said, I’m thinking I can crash with some old friends …”
“Have you contacted them?”
“No, not yet. Hey, good suggestion! That’s what I’ll do first thing in the morning before I leave. I’ll e-mail them, let ’em know I’m coming.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I figure I better get on my way soon as possible.”
There in the darkness, with the breeze gently invading the open window, Budge can sense Matty’s confusion. He knows she can’t quite grasp his sudden defection. He feels it in her silence just as he feels it when he touches her. Instead of responding, she turns away.
“Honey, don’t you trust me? Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
Jeez, now I gotta go through this scene. Convince my naked, fucked-out bed-partner that nothing is amiss. Reassert my sincerity, reaffirm my pledge to commitment. Our future together remains vague, and purposefully so—I mean, given the inequality of our union, how can Matty and I project where this relationship of ours is going?
I was hoping we could both drift off without going through a big production. I could sure use a good night’s sleep—tomorrow will be no piece of cake. She needs her rest, too; this is no time to clamber aboard an emotional roller coaster. Oh well, here come the histrionics.
“You’re not telling me the whole truth.”
“What do you mean? What else do you want to know?”
“You’re hiding something from me. This isn’t just about visiting your old school.”
“You’re right, hon,” Budge begins contritely. “Mainly, it’s about getting away and clearing my head. I need to address some old issues. I don’t mean to lay a guilt trip on you or anything. It’s best that I absent myself for a few days, and there’s really no point in dragging you into it.”
The nonsensical flow of words out of his mouth rather impresses his ears. Is he not, in a roundabout way, outlining the truth?
“You’re not seeing another woman, are you?”
Budge pretends to be offended. “Me? Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know why. But are you?”
“Sure I’ll see women, Matty. Some of my old friends and professors are women too, you know. Roughly half the population is.”
“There’s no need to get sarcastic, honey.”
“I don’t mean to be sarcastic, but I have a private inner life just like you have a private inner life. This is something I prefer to deal with alone.”
“Sure you do, honey,” Matty says, sleep now overtaking her inquisitiveness. “Still, it just sounds like you’re keeping something from me. This wouldn’t have anything to do with your ex, would it?”
Can a man retain even a smidgen of privacy? What’s with this female intuition? Better than a lie detector, better than a bloodhound! What are my options—spill the beans? Stonewall? Filibuster? She’s nodding off and I’m fully awake—a cruel reversal of the previous five minutes.
Matty snuggles possessively against him and heaves a small sigh. Budge tenderly puts his arm around her, pleased to note that her body is once again relaxed.
“Yes, I guess it does have to do with my ex, in the sense that I’m still adjusting to circumstances that will be affected by the final divorce,” he begins after a long silence. All at once he realizes there is no need for further circumlocution. Matty is fast asleep.
In the morning, Matty seems to have forgotten the conversation, or if she hasn’t, she makes no further reference to it. Budge appreciates her ability to let bygones be bygones. She is refreshingly unlike his wife in this respect. For years, he lived with ongoing arguments, last thing at night and first thing in the morning, that were likely to continue for days.
Yes, he has to hand it to the old girl. She knows when to leave well enough alone. As she bustles about the kitchen, he packs his clothes and toiletries and writing materials. She is lending him a suitcase, a capacious wheeled affair with extra zip-up pockets. Although he protested that it was too big—and he wouldn’t be gone that long—she said he might as well have the extra space for his dirty laundry and so forth. The “so forth” intrigued him, but he decided not to pursue what she meant. At any rate, there is room for his laptop computer and a couple of unread books from the library, so he packs them too.
Matty is preparing a nourishing breakfast that includes oatmeal (from organic rolled oats, not the instant variety), soft-boiled eggs (brown, also organic), toasted bagels with cream cheese and marmalade, and coffee substitute. Budge slept poorly, as expected, but is sufficiently energized to come to the table with a large appetite. The conversation is affectionate but minimal as he helps himself to seconds and even thirds. He goes over instructions for feeding Ragu—keeping the water bowl full, not more than half a cup of dry food morning and evening. Matty gently reminds him that her family had cats for years and years. She could probably tell him a thing or two.
In every respect, she seems one step ahead of him. She has already filled his water bottle. She has prepared two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches on sprouted grain bread for the road. With them, she packs a generous square of carrot cake and a couple of apples.
I will not forget the hand that feeds me. How can I lose sight of such a giving, loving person? And I’m sure Matty knows the effect these comestibles have on me—conquering my heart via my stomach—and I’m happy ’tis so. Nevertheless, I must fulfill my mission and not be dissuad
ed. I must answer, once and for all, the lingering questions and burning doubts.
Budge offers to clear the table and help with the dishes, but Matty insists that he get on his way. At the front door, they make a sentimental tableau: the traveler kissing the homemaker farewell.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. Take care and have a safe trip.”
“You take care too.”
“Call me collect when you get to Boston. Promise?”
Boston? Sorry, but I’m actually going in the opposite direction.
He assures her he’ll call. Both Matty and Budge are antediluvian enough not to possess cellphones.
He throws his things in the hatchback of the Corolla and lowers himself to its faded driver’s seat. As he backs out of the driveway, he rolls down the window to wave vigorously—as if sincerity itself depended on this exertion. Framed in the entranceway, Matty waves back.
Sweet freedom! Definitely time to take a breather from this relationship! Oh, what am I saying? I’ll miss her and all the eats. No, I won’t miss her cooking because the bathroom scale is telling me to curb my appetite. Still, I’ll miss her easy, accepting manner. What I won’t miss is the eco-criminality of the gated surround. Let’s just say I’m making a beeline to my ex, my newly communicative, still desirable ex who seems to want my company for one last excursion. The plan is to head to California, figuratively and literally.
The highway is exhilarating, as highways always are when you’re heading away from a place that has grown too familiar. As Budge crosses the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, he ruminates about how he originally arrived at Maryland’s eastern shore by sailboat just over a year and a half ago—he and Ragu and as many possessions as he could cram aboard. The boat was sold upon arrival, and from there began the slow process of establishing himself in the flat estuarine landscape he now considers his home.
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 7
