Wrongful Reconciliation

by Peter Svenson

  “I’ll take this bed and you take that one, okay?”

  “Fine by me,” he replies.

  “Go ahead and use the bathroom first,” she suggests. “I can tell you need to go.”

  Budge doesn’t take offense at her divination of his bodily functions. Besides himself, who else would know better than her? Matty, by contrast, is from the old school; she never brings up the subject.

  He lifts the toilet seat (with its symbolic sanitizing strip) and proceeds to empty his bladder in a great bubbling arc. He takes satisfaction in knowing that the sound must be audible through the thin door. This will make him more human, more flesh-and-blood to her ears. This is the sound of a man. A pissing man. Perhaps she is longing for masculine proximity. Perhaps she is secretly wishing he will come back to her. At length, he zips, flushes, and washes his hands.

  “Feel better?” she says as he comes out the door.

  “Much better, thanks. It’s your turn.”

  She latches the bathroom door, and within half a minute or so, he hears her stream hissing in the toilet bowl.

  She checked herself in the mirror first. I know because that’s what she always did. She’d go right up to the glass and analyze her makeup and eyelashes and eyebrows and whatever else, and as she examined herself, she’d make this odd frown, sort of a pout with her cheeks sucked in and her lips puckered. I’d see her do it in the bathroom and the bedroom, but she also did it in public whenever she passed by a mirror. I used to think she was being unduly harsh with herself, submitting to such ferocious self-scrutiny, until I realized that she was probably just imagining herself on a magazine cover. Plus, I don’t think it ever occurred to her that anybody was watching.

  When she finally opens the door, he is on the verge of repeating her gratuitous question—“feel better?”—but decides against it. Tit for tat was one of the things that did their marriage in. Instead, he grins, struck by how attractive she still is.

  “Hey, you look terrific.”

  She has changed her blouse, applied fresh make-up, brushed her hair, and the steadfastness of her smile implies that she’s prepared to further enjoy his company.

  “Thanks. Let’s find a place for dinner, okay?”

  The prospect of food being always agreeable to Budge, he precedes her to the car and drives her a couple of blocks to an Asian restaurant called Shades of Jade—once again, an establishment of her choice. Initially, conversation is limited because they’re concentrating so hard on using chopsticks, but later, as they finish the pot of green tea, their interlocution grows more expansive.

  “So, what do you think so far?” she is asking.

  “You mean about us?”

  “Yes. Do you think we’re going to pull it off?”

  Budge isn’t sure what she means by this. Is she just talking about the trip to California, or is she talking about the bigger picture? He decides on the most generic of replies.

  “Why not?” he says.

  “Well, we’ve passed the acid test for one day, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I would,” he says. “You haven’t kicked me out of the car.”

  Budge’s wisecrack draws a peal of laughter. He decides it’s best to continue playing up to her, as it may lead to fruition in bed later on. He tells her that he’s enjoying the trip and especially her company. Abruptly, she changes the subject.

  “Oh look, the sun is just setting! C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”

  Inwardly, Budge groans. He’d be content to go back to the room, flop on the bed, and watch TV—a novelty he reserves for just such occasions away from his writerly routine—but he hasn’t forgotten his wife’s mania for daily exercise. She used to walk three miles every evening, rain or shine. For many years, he walked with her until his knees started going bad. On his own, he hasn’t walked for exercise in a long time. But now, if he’s going to keep things on track, with sexual reunion as the ultimate goal, he had better get out there with her and stretch his legs—and be sincere about it.

  She wants to take a stroll on the campus of Wright State University, which is just across the road, next to the Air Force base. It’s a complex of mammoth buildings between broad quadrangles with sculpture courts and fountains. Her stride matches his—something he had forgotten. Inquiring in one of the buildings for a map of the campus, they are given directions to Wright State’s unique underground tunnel system, a network designed to link all the buildings in the event of a nuclear attack.

  Jeez, this is the real Strangelove McCoy! Should the Air Force base be flattened in a megatonnage blast, Wright State University can—at least theoretically—continue functioning underground.

  As a boy growing up during the Cold War, I was a sucker for anything relating to bomb shelters. I loved the idea of them—the idea of planning ahead and preparing to ride out the worst effects of radiation and fallout. Bomb shelters instilled a feeling of empowerment; if I were safely entombed with food, water, and a filtered supply of fresh air, I could survive. I remember reading about how to build backyard and basement shelters in Popular Science—materials needed, provisions recommended, how to use a Geiger counter and a short-wave radio. For a week or two it’d be amusing—like camping, but without the insects. Naturally, I didn’t give a whole lot of thought to what the world would look like when I emerged.

  Delighted to have come upon such a tangible reminder of his fantasy, Budge proposes that they walk the tunnels for the sheer novelty of it. His companion isn’t very enthusiastic, but agrees to accompany him underground for a short distance. They descend to a wide, well-lit corridor which, according to a wall schematic, connects two buildings at opposite ends of the campus.

  Reinforced concrete (pale yellow), with pipe and conduit raceways overhead. Here and there are groups of chairs, a fire extinguisher, a restroom. Rations are probably stockpiled behind some of the locked doors. Hey, this is groovy! I picture the students and faculty down here during an actual attack—it could turn into one gigantic party! So the campus gets vaporized, so big fucking deal!

  They reach a tunnel junction. Spontaneously, Budge chooses a new direction, and his wife stays at his side. They are race-walking now, their footfalls echoing merrily, his lower and her higher one, still matching stride for stride. Budge finds it extremely enjoyable to be perambulating so swiftly and undistractedly, not having the faintest idea of where they’re going, nor really caring. After ten minutes of this, though, his wife announces she’s had enough.

  “Aw,” he says, “this is a lot more fun than walking outdoors.”

  “No it’s not,” she replies. “The air is stale and it’s spooky. I’m taking the first exit up. But you stay down here as long as you like.”

  Budge is annoyed by her obviously unworkable proposal. She knows as well as he does that they have no choice but to stick together. “We’ll go up,” he concedes. “I see an exit over there.”

  They climb a long flight of steps and pass through two sets of doors into the campus night.

  “Whew!” she exhales. “Fresh air! Weren’t you getting claustrophobic down there?”

  Budge is strongly tempted to quote—or at least paraphrase—Walden, about how the unexamined life is not worth living. But no, that won’t serve any useful purpose.

  Without speaking, they walk across the campus to the restaurant parking lot. During the brief drive back to the motel, Budge ponders how to bring up the subject of their sleeping together. Ask and ye shall receive, he remembers from that other quotable source, the Holy Bible, but he’s not quite sure how to bring up the subject. The awkwardness of their spending the night together, long a theoretical possibility, is now at hand. They did not, after all, check into two rooms.

  He realizes that he should not even be thinking about sleeping with her. Surely, she wants him only as a roommate, not a bedmate. She has already pointed out which bed is hers and which is his. Can’t he take the hint? The gentlemanly thing to do would be to exise all sexual wishful thinking. Besides, he has
Matty to consider—an unspoken fidelity that has lasted for several months now, which must be taken into account.

  Oh why can’t I just leave well enough alone? Why can’t my fifty-five-year-old flesh be persuaded to drop the subject entirely? This is a winding down, not a cranking up. I’ve been invited on this trip as a co-pilot, not as an illicit red-hot lover. What is the point in jeopardizing everything—the remainder of the trip, the freebie and much-needed vacation, the amicability of the divorce? I’m in good standing with her now. Any annoying or intimidating behavior on my part is sure to unsettle this delicate stasis. She has a short fuse—I ought to know. She has already made one big concession to see the Wright-Patterson museum with me in the morning. She is unlikely to make another.

  What I need to do, essentially, is tune her out. Just forget who she is and what she is. Think of her as a sister or an aunt, think of her as a woman so off limits that my slightest intimation of desire is nipped in the bud.

  “Have you changed your mind about sleeping in separate beds? I mean, we could just sleep together for old time’s sake.”

  Budge voice startles even himself. His most pressing thoughts have a way of dropping right out of his mouth.

  “Not a chance.” she says firmly. “I thought we pretty much agreed we wouldn’t get into any of this.”

  “I guess we did,” he replies, “but I felt I had to ask you anyway.”

  “Well, the answer is no. Thank you just the same.”

  When they enter the motel room, a chastened Budge goes immediately to the far side of his bed. Only when she invites him to use the bathroom first does he dare to look at her. She is carefully removing folded items from her suitcase, among which is a red satin nightgown, clearly a post-marital acquisition. During his tenure as husband, she never wore red except during Christmas holidays. Just the way she holds it up to her figure, smoothing it against her torso, could be interpreted as an invitation. But no, she’s not even aware that he is watching. He is invading a private feminine appraisal. And now she glances over, catching him in the act.

  “Hey, I thought you were using the bathroom first.”

  “I am,” he replies sheepishly, but can’t help adding, “I like that color.”

  Without replying, she turns her attention back to her suitcase as Budge collects his few toiletries and hastens to the bathroom. A cold shower is what he needs, and he knows it. What he takes instead is the hottest shower he can stand. Practically parboiling himself, he luxuriates under the spray.

  You can judge a motel accommodation by its shower. The plenitude of the “benison” (as Rupert Brooke called hot water), the rate and evenness of its flow, the ease of operation of spigots and diverter, the openness of the drain, plus the enclosure itself. Older motels have bigger tubs, sturdier curtains. Fiber glass varies from rigid to flimsy. Best of all are the old-fashioned shower stalls, rarities now, with antiquated plumbing, honest-to-goodness tile (it’s all right if there’s a little mold in the grout), and plenty of room to scrub oneself in. An excellent venue for upright intercourse, too, if two’s not a crowd.

  This one is generic (fiber glass) in every aspect, but not bad. Not bad for singing either.

  Budge takes his time, figuring that this will be the most entertaining portion of the night. When he’s finished, he steps onto the bathmat, ignoring the steamed-up mirror. Once he’s toweled off, he wraps the towel around his middle and opens the door.

  “Feel good?” his wife inquires, appraising him with what could be interpreted as a trace of annoyance for having waited so long.

  “Yeah, nice shower. Plenty of hot water.”

  “Well, I hope there’s some left for me.”

  As soon as she closes the door, he slips into a fresh T-shirt and boxer shorts.

  Standard procedure for sleeping in the same room with a stranger. Under normal conditions, I’d sleep naked, but I don’t want her to get all paranoid and jump to the conclusion that I’m exposing myself. No, I’ll sack out the way I used to across the room from my college roommate. It ties in perfectly with my fib to Matty. I’ll pretend I’ve gone back to college!

  His back resting uncomfortably on two hard pillows, Budge sits up under the single blanket and listens to his wife showering behind the closed door. He has booted up his laptop computer to compose a quick email to Matty:

  Hi Darling,

  On the road, missing you, just grabbing a minute to drop you a line before I turn in. I hope you and Ragu are behaving yourselves. All’s going well here. Will sign off and write again tomorrow. Lotsa hugs & kisses.

  He turns off the computer. Tomorrow or the day after he’ll try to go online to send the message. Now he surveys the room—the long simulated-walnut credenza with its oversize television, the coat rack with its irremovable hangers, the table with its brochure rack and coffeemaker. His wife’s suitcase occupies the one folding stand while his lies open on the floor.

  Having written to Matty, he is able to put her completely out of his mind. As he focuses upon various aspects of the room, he feels oddly at ease. He knows what to expect of his wife from here on out. She’ll take a long time in the shower, then dawdle at the vanity as she creams her skin and conditions her hair. Finally, she’ll brush and floss her teeth, examine her gums, pee one last time. The only difference between tonight and a year ago (and earlier) is that she never closed the bathroom door.

  Sleep is overtaking Budge like an express train. Drowsily, he resigns himself to the way things are, not the way they should have been. He understands now that he has been getting himself worked up over nothing. He may or may not be asleep when she emerges—either way is fine with him. He didn’t realize he was so tired. Now he is dimly aware of the unlatching door and her soap-scented egress. She is well-wrapped, a bathrobe over her nightgown to ensure that nothing provocative shows, and her head is turbaned in a towel. After puttering between her suitcase and bedside, she clicks off a couple of lights. A minute later, the bedside light is turned off.

  A bit more awake now, Budge hears her getting into bed, the rustle of the plastic-sheathed mattress that—for him—usually queers any real comfort derived from motel slumber. Why the plastic, he wonders? Are we a nation of bed-wetters? It strikes him as strange that she is in her bed, four feet away from his. All her warmth and all his warmth going to waste. Like an advertising jingle: don’t use two when one will do. Snuggling used to be the purest embodiment of their Constitutionally guaranteed pursuit of happiness. This seems like such a travesty, this endgame of separate caloric radiance. Their beds might as well be antipodally situated.

  “Are you asleep?”

  Budge is startled to hear her address him. “Almost,” he lies. Five minutes ago it wouldn’t have been a lie.

  “Doesn’t this whole thing strike you as being weird?”

  “You mean you and me in a motel together in separate beds?”

  “Well yes, but I also mean my asking you along on this trip, and your agreeing to come.”

  Budge ponders her question before answering.

  What if I had turned you down? Would you have upped the ante, offered to pay me for my time and companionship? Would you have gone so far as to beg? Or would you have given me that aggrieved look of yours and gone off in a huff—and made me suffer all the more in divorce court? I hope you realize that you’re making me suffer right now: you know I want you, yet you’re firmly off limits. I was under the impression that this trip would be a kind of farewell fling for the two of us. You half-promised as much. Or maybe you didn’t and I, as usual, let my imagination run rampant. But not to worry. If I pass a sleepless night, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll just be a crabby, sleep-deprived bastard the next day and the next and the next. And it’ll serve you right to have invited me along with so little reward.

  “Not really,” he says.

  “Well, it’s making me feel as if I stepped into another dimension.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I
t’s so over between us, yet here we are together.”

  Budge yawns loudly and deliberately.

  What if I asked you once more, bitch? Your bed or mine, and skip the sci fi. If it’s “so over,” why is it rattling your brain? Are we on some kind of teleological merry-go-round here? Do you want me back or don’t you? Come, let’s give it the fuck test and see!

  In his peevishness, Budge is slow to notice how the breathing from the other bed deepens even as it becomes rhythmically sonorous. Now he listens, canceling one formulated reply after another, hoping that sleep will come to him as quickly as it came to her, but fully expecting it not to.

  Chapter Eight

  On any given morning, the strangeness of the night before can appear as mundane as bacon and eggs. Budge and his soon-to-be ex-wife discover this when they sit down to breakfast at a Huddle House across the parking lot from the motel. They’ve both slept well, albeit separately. If one snored, the other didn’t notice. When he got up to pee in the middle of the night, she remained undisturbed, and vice versa. In the morning, their separate ablutions in the bathroom went as smoothly as clockwork. Then they dressed facing away from each other, as if ordered to do so by a higher power. Nothing seemed awkward, not the least asexual aspect of their proximity, and now they’re enjoying breakfast together like any other couple in the grease-tinged atmosphere of the cheerful franchise diner.

  Their plan is to be at Wright-Patterson’s museum at nine o’clock sharp, then continue westward by noon.

  “Thank’s for humoring me,” I said. “I’ll bet you’ll enjoy the museum as much as I will.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she replied. “I could care less about old airplanes. They’re strictly a guy thing. Just promise me that you’ll tear yourself away by twelve noon, if not earlier.”

  “I promise.”

  The museum, as it turns out, is extensive. Not only are numerous vintage aircraft displayed outdoors, but two vast hangars are jammed wingtip to wingtip, with additional planes and rockets suspended overhead. Budge and his wife start with the Wright flyers—linen-and-strut contraptions that look unabashedly crash-prone. There’s the World War I-era Caproni bomber, with its airframe of fine Italian cabinetry, and next to it, Bock’s Car, the B-29 that dropped the atomic bomb on Nagasaki in 1945. Nearby are spy planes of the Cold War—the U-2 and the sleek SR-71, still one of the fastest and highest-flying planes in the Air Force’s inventory. These are dwarfed by a B-52 with the drooping ends of its wingspan supported on steel poles. Sinister giants like this, Budge remembers, flew at their deadliest over Vietnam. “No other warplane ever carried and dropped a greater number of conventional bombs,” he reads.