A stronger me has emerged. I was dumped all right, but in the dumping I managed to keep my head above water. I never let love turn to hate; I never felt so sorry for myself that I couldn’t see the good in the person who dumped me. Slowly I pulled myself together—this is where Matty comes in—and moved forward creatively and romantically.
Now, just the fact that I’m leaving the eastern shore is a blessing in itself. I’m proving that I possess largesse of spirit. If she had beckoned me earlier, I’m not sure I could have come. I had to get over my heartache first. Thankfully, I’m past that stage now. This reconnection will be shorn of negative associations like monogamy and lifelong commitment. Instead, it will be a coda about maturity and curiosity. What it will lead to, I don’t know. Budge—rhymes with nudge—is my name. Adventure is my game.
Pep-talking Budge follows his wife’s directions and doesn’t miss a turn. Down to the final streets, he enters a neighborhood of town houses offset by greenways and boutiques. The trip to Annapolis has taken a little over an hour. Now he drives along the designated block, sights the six-digit street number she gave him, pulls over to the curb—right on time, almost to the minute. He is rewarded by the sight of his wife’s rear end as she bends over the trunk of the red Acura in the driveway.
Through the open window he calls, “Those were terrific directions.”
“What? Oh, hi!”
For a few awkward seconds, she scrutinizes the Corolla with what could pass as a deprecating air, almost causing Budge to offer some excuse for its shabbiness, but he holds his tongue.
“Where’d you pick that up?” she asks.
“Used car place across the bay. Runs like a top. Great mileage, too.”
He realizes he no longer has to explain anything to her, but he can’t help himself.
“Go ahead and transfer your things,” she says. “I’ll be right out.”
Boy, has she changed! Her stuff is already in the car. Whenever we used to leave on a trip, she’d be slow as molasses. I’d not only carry out and stow everything for her, but wait seemingly forever for her to leave the house—and if I honked the horn or yelled at her to hurry up, she’d get annoyed and drag her feet even more. Fuming, I’d wonder what on earth was taking her so long. Was she drinking one last cup of coffee? Bidding a long-winded good-bye on the phone to a friend? Was she battling constipation? When she finally emerged, I’d be ready to blow up at her. It was during such moments that I learned the concept of anger management, though I never became a very accomplished practitioner.
His wife comes through the front door with a few loose articles of clothing under her arm, and it appears as if she’s about to lock up the premises.
“Wait a sec!” Budge calls. “Mind if I use the bathroom before we go?”
“Oh sure,” she says brightly.
Wow, another change! She used to begrudge my taking a leak. My “smaller-than-normal” bladder was one of her pet peeves. Whereas she could travel all day—three or four hundred miles—without a pit stop, I needed fairly frequent micturations, and still do.
Key in the lock, his wife holds the front door open for him, and as he passes inches from her, it occurs to him to give her a kiss or a handshake or something.
“Nice morning, huh?” is all he says.
“Down the hall and first door to the left,” she replies with a patient smile.
His first impression of walking through her home is that it smacks of her narcissism. Kitchen, dining, and living areas divided by her precious plants—some hanging, some on the floor, others displayed upon skeletal shelving. Large framed black-and-white photographs from her childhood and beauty queen years, as if to anchor her to the long-ago past—the past he derailed. Several articles of furniture dimly remembered from the marital abode, but most of it new and, by the looks of it, from Ikea. Unfamiliar exercise equipment—a ski machine, a treadmill. Piles of magazines—she was always an avid reader—and last Sunday’s newspaper spread-eagled on the coffee table. All this he observes peripherally within two or three seconds, for he feels her eyes on him and keeps his head straight.
Having latched the bathroom door and carefully lifted the seat, he relieves himself. It’s an ordinary enough bathroom with no telling clues to her private life. The lid of the toilet tank is adorned with a box of Kleenex and a bowl of potpourri. Beauty products are lined up along the tub rim, as well as a loofah, a bar of glycerine soap, and a package of disposable razors. The towels look new, as does the bathmat. He decides not to open the medicine cabinet for fear that its click might be apparent through the closed door.
When he’s finished, he walks back through the premises the same way, feigning indifference with eyes straight. Still, he can’t help glimpse her bed through the open bedroom door and its voluminous magenta counterpane. He recalls that their old one was beige.
“All ready to travel?” she asks in beaming close-up.
“Yep, thanks.”
“Is your car locked? Windows rolled up?”
“I think so.”
“Want to check?”
“Nah, nobody’d steal it.”
Satisfied with his answer, she follows him outside, pulling the door firmly shut and locking the deadbolt. Budge takes note of her self-assurance. This is her castle, her responsibility.
“Nice place,” he says.
“I’m quite pleased with it,” she replies as the walk toward her car. “I’ll drive the first leg, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine with me.”
Budge finds her brisk agreeableness contagious.
Why couldn’t we have acted like this all along? Surely, this cordial give-and-take could have gotten us through. Why didn’t we smile, always smile, no matter what the other said? We should have smiled as we asserted ourselves, smiled as we disagreed. Smiled as we engaged in dialogue, constructive or otherwise. If we had kept smiling, our differences would have remained minor. Smiling would have eliminated the roadblocks and paved the way toward our golden anniversary.
In the driveway, his wife hesitates. “I just want to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.”
She looks back at her town house, as if mentally reviewing a check list. Smiling, Budge hesitates with her.
“What the hell!” she laughs. “I’ve probably forgotten a hundred things. Let’s hit the road!”
She seems so sure of herself! Separation is obviously working wonders for her. She seems to have shucked the twin carapaces of defensiveness and displeasure—at least insofar as they relate to me. She went out on a limb to ask me to accompany her on this trip, knowing the pitfalls as well as I do. She didn’t have to invite me, just as I didn’t have to accept the invitation. If we can keep our communication on the bright side, everything will be fine. We must not—I repeat, must not—dredge up the sorry old shit.
He opens the passenger door and slips into the familiar seat as his wife settles herself behind the wheel.
“How’s the car running?” he asks.
“Fine. Had the oil changed yesterday.”
“That’s good. Best thing you could do before a trip like this.”
Budge is aware that such a comment—with its proprietary overtone—could be taken the wrong way, but his wife seems not to be offended. Months ago when they were about to separate, they had wrangled over the Acura, and, for a while, bitterly. At length, they agreed that she would keep the car and he would keep the sailboat, which proved to be his conveyance to his new life.
“Tires okay?” Budge can’t help himself.
“I think so. Eddie at the garage checked them when he did the oil.”
“Good.”
“So tell me about your trip prep,” she says, glancing over at him with a playful smirk.
“What do you mean?”
“Did your girlfriend let you out of the house okay?”
“I told her I was going away for a few days. She’s okay about stuff like that.”
Budge tries to sound as nonchalant as possible,
knowing—and fully expecting—that his wife will be asking more. He finds it gratifying to know that she is still curious about him.
“You go off by yourself a lot, then?”
“Not really. We’re keeping it casual and noncommittal.”
“Did you tell her you were going on a trip with me?”
“No.”
Deftly, his wife swings the car onto the highway that will take them to I-97, the route—as she points with a quick finger to a partially unfolded map—that will take them to I-70, which becomes the Pennsylvania Turnpike heading west to Wheeling and into Ohio.
“An ambitious drive for one day,” Budge observes.
“Let’s just go as far as we can. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure.”
They ride in silence, although Budge knows that neither he nor she is finished with the previous topic. Fifteen miles down the road, he revives it by querying her about her own arrangements.
“Did you tell anyone you were going on the trip with me?”
“Only my sister in California.”
“And?”
“She thought it was a good idea. She said we’ve both got nothing to lose.”
“Well, we do have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes we do,” she concurs. “But let’s go back to your situation. Why didn’t you tell your girlfriend the truth?”
“You mean about traveling with you?”
“What else?” she counters breezily.
“Well, I didn’t think it was necessary. I’ve led her to believe that it’s all over between us.”
“Well, is it?” she laughs.
“I don’t know. I guess so. What do you think?”
She takes her time answering.
This was one of her strengths which I greatly admired. Unlike me, who characteristically shot from the hip, she would search inwardly for a moment. I loved to watch her do this. With lips pursed and brow knitted, she was a poster girl of thoughtful deliberation. Her pronouncement, when it came, often displeased me and sometimes brought me up short, but I never doubted its sincerity.
Now I turn my eyes to her once again, awaiting her crucial opinion. Is there hope for us as a couple, or are we just engaging in an ill-conceived—and most likely futile—exercise? Whatever the answer, she’s still got a terrific profile.
“What we had is over. There’s no question about it. What we have in the future is anybody’s guess at this point.”
Budge is struck by the veracity of her words. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
“I mean,” she continues, “that should be our starting premise. We mustn’t build on anything in the past. That’s over and done with. You failed me, Budgie, and I know I failed you.”
“Amen to that,” he affirms.
“If anything henceforth is going to happen between us …”
“I like the ‘henceforth,’” he interrupts.
“… it has to begin in the present and stretch toward the future. Hey, it’s turning into a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” he agrees, “but can’t we also look at this as one last fling? A final getaway for just the two of us that nobody has to know about?”
“You’re really intent on keeping it a secret from your girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“Well yes, I guess I am. Wouldn’t you keep this sort of thing from your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What if you had one?”
“Then I doubt that I’d be taking this trip with you. I’d have invited him along.”
Chapter Seven
As the sun levels in the west, inflaming the Acura’s windshield and exacerbating potential driver error, Budge and his soon-to-be ex-wife mutually agree that it is a good time to start looking for a motel. They have reached Fairborn, Ohio, on the outskirts of Dayton. Exiting the interstate—Budge is driving—they take the road that skirts the sprawling Wright-Patterson Air Force Base’s perimeter, where a plethora of tall signs vie for their attention.
Budge offers no input on the choice of the night’s lodging and he is not asked. He knows what makes his companion tick; if he’s too pushy, she’ll get cantankerous. He realizes that he’ll never get the chance to sleep with her if he puts her in a bad mood.
Besides, a wholly unrelated matter is occupying his thoughts. Wright-Patterson has an airplane museum of renown, something he’d really like to see. As a boy, he was crazy about airplanes and fancied he’d grow up to be a pilot (this was after he gave up the notion of being a fireman). Yes, he’d hate to pass up this opportunity, especially since they’ll be staying practically next door.
All afternoon, the conversation has remained more or less superficial, never getting too subjective or too personal. On the other hand, their discussions have been characteristically wide-ranging: current events, sports, travel trivia (always her specialty), and recollection of acquaintances and experiences long in the past. She loves to reminisce—she always did—but he is careful to steer the conversation away from certain sensitive topics, the most obvious of which is the failure of their marriage. She complies because the memories evidently remain painful to her, too.
It’s as if we’re both striving to get the trip off to a good start. We’ve gotten past the critical liftoff stage. Fifty or even a hundred miles from home, we could have aborted if necessary. Now we’re in gravity-free trajectory, well beyond the point of turning back. The last thing we want to do is start arguing. I hesitate to make a suggestion that she might misinterpret as a demand.
Without taking his eyes off the traffic, Budge scans the advertised motel prices for the lowest possible rate—an automatic habit for a man with so little money. His passenger senses his concern.
“Don’t worry about it, Budgie. Everything is on me, as we agreed. I’m grateful for your company, and that’s all I expect from you. And by the way, you’re doing a great job with the driving.”
Her compliment, her gratitude, and above all, her insistence on paying all expenses warms Budge to the core. It’s as if their relationship died and went to heaven—how differently she treats him now! When their marriage was breaking up, she complained bitterly about his insufficient and at best sporadic income. For months, she was a world-class broken record on the subject. She made him feel inadequate, she really did. Her compliments were nonexistent, ditto for her gratitude. Budge harbors no illusions about her change of face.
Is she showing me more respect as an artist now? No, it can’t be that; we’ve driven almost four hundred miles today and she hasn’t once inquired about my writing. She is truly not interested in that side of me, and I don’t hold it against her. This new impersonal tolerance of hers must have more to do with the fact that she’s finally gotten rid of me. I’m an acquaintance now, not a husband. And if she’s concluded that I’m a decent enough guy, despite my artistic—and hence pie-in-the-sky—proclivities, she won’t be above exploiting me. For the purpose of travel accompaniment, I am dependable, I can be counted on. She has invited me along for one reason: to get her and her car across the continent safely.
Budge’s dispassionate analysis could leave him cynical, but he’s not. He knows they’ve both moved on. Actually, he’s quite enjoying himself, piloting the responsive car with its feminine scented interior. Compared to the Corolla, this car rides like a creampuff, even in stop-and-go traffic. Still, it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask his companion if she’d mind if they did a little sightseeing in the morning. As usual, he’s not one to hold something in, although he does attempt to introduce the subject in an offhand manner.
“D’ya know, there’s an excellent airplane and aerospace museum here.”
“I see the signs,” she confirms. “It must be a popular attraction.”
“Best of its kind in the country outside of the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center.”
When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “We could go there first thing tomorrow, just spend a couple of hours looking at planes and
stuff and then get on our way.”
There follows a disapproving silence, a throwback to the earlier era that is nerve-jarring by its association. Budge is aware that he has created the first imperfection in an otherwise unblemished day. Couched as benignly as possible, it is nevertheless an undesired request. He senses that his wife is struggling to control her composure.
“Well, I suppose we could …” she is saying, then changes the subject. “Hey, pull in here. This Red Rooster Inn looks like a nice place.”
Obligingly, Budge brings the car to a halt beneath the motel portico. “But if you’d rather not, that’s okay with me.”
“No, it’s not that,” she says, “it’s just that I promised my sister we’d be at her place in five days.”
Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. The oblique, ladylike excuse. Four days, five days, six days—what difference could it possibly make? None whatsoever, and she knows it! What she is saying is that she doesn’t dig airplane museums. Once again, our wants are polarized—just like old times. Better backtrack before I get into trouble.
“Look,” he says as he cuts the engine, “I don’t want to mess up your plans. If you’re dead set against the idea, just say so.”
A good part of Budge’s testiness is due to his dire need to urinate. He doesn’t mean to sound cross with her. Momentarily, he expects her own wrath to descend, but it doesn’t. Opening the car door, he can’t believe his ears.
“No, it’s a good idea. We’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
After she checks in at the front desk, he lifts their luggage from the trunk and carries it to the room.
A regular Mr. and Mrs.! Wifey proffers the credit card, hubby hefts the suitcases. Nobody at the motel has a clue that we’re on the rocks. Instead, they see the humdrum illusion of married life: middle-aged man and woman weary of day’s drive, in need of food, shower, television, and sack. Nobody searches our eyes and notices estrangement. Nobody sees how independently we act of each other, how we avoid physical contact. Can anybody divine that we’re on the verge of divorce? No, how could they? How could they make out the truth, considering that we arrived in the same car and are headed toward the same room?
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 8
