Budge stares through the windshield. He didn’t sleep well at all. Once, in the middle of the night, he woke up to find that their hips were touching. To spare himself the pain of rejection—for he knew she would recoil as soon as she became aware—he voluntarily moved farther over to the edge of the mattress. And when sleep managed to come to him, he dreamed that he was repeatedly on the verge of falling from a precipice.
By midmorning, they reach Chicago’s south side, a welter of poor neighborhoods and low-lying industry, and in the near distance, rusted bridges, bashed guardrails, peeling billboards. Soon verticality appears, the Loop’s cluster of elongated crystals looming closer until it becomes a sky-blocking complexity of reflective panes.
His wife steers the Acura unerringly along the exits toward Oak Park and River Forest, all the while filling him in with facts she must have memorized. Between 1889 and 1913, Frank Lloyd Wright designed and oversaw the construction of more than thirty residences in these suburbs, as well as the Unity Temple, described by the architect Philip Johnson as “the biggest little space in America.”
“Ooh, this is so exciting!” she gasps. “I’ve been dying to see these places.”
Dying? That’s a bit of a stretch. But it’s plain to see that she’s got Great Man Syndrome. Frank Lloyd Wright is all she’s talked about for the last hour.
The Wright Home and Studio on Chicago Avenue is their first stop. Along with twenty or so others in a guided tour, they shuffle through the darkly paneled residence. All rooms are small and low-ceilinged. Budge finds it hard to imagine how nine people—the paterfamilias and his large family—coexisted here. Only the barrel-vaulted playroom upstairs seems the right scale.
Architecturally, a gem! It makes me feel like a kid again. Its low windows and low benches and shelves are deliberately downsized. Symmetrical oak panels, light fixtures, and leaded glass unify the whole, and the ceiling vault, ribbed with decorative wooden bands, imparts a protective mien.
Budge’s foray into architectural criticism is overshadowed by his wife’s gushing commentary.
“See, he even designed the furniture, too,” she observes. “And look at this piano built right into the wall! What a brilliant way to save space!”
The tour ends in Wright’s office, a rotunda-like lair that is reported to have concentrated the force of the architect’s personality. This is where clients signed up for his services, and where, metaphorically, Budge’s traveling companion signs up too.
“What a genius! What an amazing guy he must have been! Wouldn’t it have been mind-boggling to actually hold a conversation with him? Oh, I can’t wait to see the rest of the neighborhood!”
Budge is a little put off by her effusiveness. It’s as if she’s deliberately inviting notice from everyone within earshot. She studied architecture in college, and now she’s showing off. He remembers what it was like when they went to Paris together. The Louvre, Notre Dame, Les Invalides, the Victor Hugo Museum. She was so in her element, speaking French, pointing out this and that, correcting his mistakes, tossing her head and flaunting colorful scarfs that he felt like her valet. All because she had spent her junior year abroad thirty-five years ago.
Now they’re walking through the neighborhood on their own, and she’s pointing out the overhangs and hemicycle entrance arches, the stucco and timber facades, the rows of casement windows and low-walled ramparts with outsized planters. At her insistence, they traipse down every street with a Wright creation.
“Ooh, this is incredible! Look, Budgie! Look how the houses push against the boundaries of their lots! And look over there! If I’m not mistaken, that’s the Unity Temple!”
Naturally, she is not mistaken. The temple is open, so they go inside. Within its block-like reinforced concrete interior, she proceeds to inform Budge of its finer points.
“Do you see what Philip Johnson meant? Do you see how structure is almost secondary to space, and space itself is at such a premium? Ooh, I’ve never been so architectonically stimulated!”
Just what is that supposed to mean? And why the hell couldn’t I stimulate her last night? She clearly goes for Great Men—greater than I. Is there a subtext to all this hero-worship? Is she trying to humiliate me?
Budge’s brain and feet are desperate for a breather. At his wife’s side, he has walked or stood for almost three hours. In a shaded outdoor cafe near Austin Gardens, they grab a bite of lunch, but as soon as they’re finished, she’s ready to continue the tour. To her, the thought of passing up a single Wright creation is anathema.
“What a marvelous experience! The entire suburb is an open-air museum. Don’t you find it fascinating?”
Budge gamely agrees, though he is somewhat Wrighted out. Dutifully, he trudges beside her. It’ll take them another couple of hours to see everything else in the vicinity, including the unprepossessing Horse Show Fountain. Only toward suppertime—by his stomach’s reckoning—has she finally gotten her fill.
They get back on the highway and head straight for the Loop and lodging. The one vacancy that appeals to her is at an overpriced motor inn on Lakeshore Drive.
Burdened with our sundry luggage (once again she’s in the lobby chatting up and checking in) I stumble from parking garage to elevator. Our diminutive 9th floor room looks out onto an airshaft. Suddenly, Wright’s spatial bravura seems worlds away.
Two beds, meaning no nooky. I don’t care—all I want to do is crash.
After a short, separate rest, they’re revived enough to venture forth in search of supper. She chooses an Irish bar along the lakefront because it has a sidewalk terrace. Beside the din of traffic, they sip whiskey sours. She’s still got the famous architect on her mind.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to live in a Wright house! Imagine waking up to those decorative motifs, seeing sunlight streaming through those wonderful leaded panes?”
Budge can only imagine the fights they’d have if they tried. No, they can’t live in a Wright house or any other house. The tragedy of it is that she would be responsive to everything except him.
“You’re not saying anything,” she chides.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Wouldn’t it be awfully dark, what with the high windows and broad soffits?”
“Oh, you’re such a spoilsport!”
After two more drinks apiece come hearty platefuls of rare beef and overcooked vegetables. Eventually, the dessert tray is rolled by, whose temptations they do not pass up. At long length, she suggests they take a stroll before returning to their hotel.
“Let’s not walk too far,” he pleads. “My feet have had it.”
She gives me a look like I’m an out-of-shape wet blanket. A regular ball and chain. We start walking through the park, but I haven’t the energy to keep up with her jaunty stride. I wasn’t kidding about my feet. Besides, I’m digesting that sledgehammer of a meal.
Finding a bench facing Lake Michigan, I suggest that we walk no farther, but simply sit here awhile before heading back.
“What? Is this as far as you’ll go? We haven’t walked more than a block and a half!”
“I told you I was tired.”
“Well, would you mind just sitting here and waiting for me? I thought we came out here to take a nice walk. How often do we get to see the Chicago skyline at night?”
Budge’s defensiveness is unconvincing, and so, apparently, is hers, and the upshot is that she walks off through the park by herself while he sits there, watching her disappear into the night. There aren’t many people around, certainly no police patrols, so her gradual diminution causes him to be concerned for her safety. Evidently, she’s not the least bit worried.
Budge sits on the bench and stews.
One side of me says, “Good, I’m glad you’re out of my sight! Go ahead, get robbed, get jumped, get beat up. Get your peripatetic ass killed—what the fuck do I care?
But then I think, “Good God, she’s out there walking alone, and it’s unconscionable for me not to accompany her. What if s
omething happens to her? What’s my excuse?
I can just hear the homicide detectives grilling me. “And why did you expose her to danger like that, Mr. Moss? So you had an argument, that’s still no reason to let a woman wander alone through the park at night. Besides, you need to prove to us that you’re not the one who did her in. You say there were no witnesses. It’s just your story against hers, and she can’t tell hers anymore. How do we know your version of events is what happened? We’re sorry, but we have to book you as an accessory to the crime. Please put your hands against the roof of the car, spread your feet, and don’t give us any trouble.”
As his reverie intensifies, he sees a small figure—yes, a woman, and fashionably dressed, yes, her—and heaves a sigh of relief. He watches her enlarge, a solitary stroller along the dark path, and behind her the twinkling muscular city. It isn’t easy for him to simmer down, but he gulps angst and anger away, and actually manages a smile by the time she draws near.
“Good stroll?” he asks.
“So-so,” she replies. “I came across some weirdos. In fact, I was just propositioned by a guy with a fishing pole.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have gone off alone like that.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she says, “But what else could I do? You refused to accompany me.”
“Now wait just a minute,” he says sternly. “You brought the danger upon yourself. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, I hate your excuses!” she snaps.
“Well, I hate being blamed for something I didn’t do.”
Without speaking another word, they walk back to the hotel.
Chapter Ten
In the room, we staggered our showers and crawled into our separate beds and said nothing further to exacerbate the tension between us. This is one advantage, I think, to being unmarried. Having learned long ago the hard way, we know when not to cross the line. That doesn’t mean, however, that she and I aren’t poised to throw vitriol at each other, for we most assuredly are. An unspoken admonition of keep-it-up-and-you’ll-be-sorry hangs in the air.
All for the sake of driving across the continent with her, an all-expenses-paid coda to supposedly sort things out so that we can part on better terms. I’m beginning to question the entire premise—I mean, why get reinvolved on any level? Why make a pretense of remaining friends, when we are, in truth, adversaries?—the divorce proceedings will soon bear this out. Except for the temporary duty of co-piloting her soon-to-be traded-in car, she doesn’t need me. She shows no residual attachment to either me or the car, none whatsoever. Sex with her the night before was just plain stupid. Revisiting the past with such intensity is only making things worse between us. Knowing that my lust for her is rekindled, she expects me to be a eunuch. Knowing that she doesn’t love me anymore, I expect her to fuck like a bunny. How much more out of synch can two people get?
Admittedly, Budge is down in the dumps as he writes. He is thinking of Matty and how he lied to her about going to Boston. He is thinking of little Ragu, his faithful pet for so many years. Are both woman and cat missing him? He sure misses them.
These reflective moments are interrupted by his travel companion. It’s past breakfast time, and she’s telling him they need to get on the road. She’s asking him to drive the first leg. Without giving it much thought, he assents.
But getting out of Chicago with only the aid of a general map of Illinois proves to be a daunting task. Intending to hook up with I-94 and then I-80, they lose their way, descending into neighborhoods of extreme dilapidation and poverty. Neither Budge nor his co-pilot have any idea where they are. Pulling over seems risky, and asking directions of pedestrians who probably don’t speak English seems futile. Budge is nervous every time they stop for a red light.
At one stoplight he yanks the map from her lap and tries to decipher it. The light turns green and the cars behind start honking before he fully comprehends its information.
“Okay, let’s give this a try,” he says, winging it.
He makes three turns, each of which is wrong. They wind up on a dead-end street bordered with razor wire and littered with broken glass.
“I think you made a mistake,” his co-pilot deadpans.
“I can see that! Will you look at the map again?”
The tone of his voice is neither pleasant nor patient. He feels responsible for the mess they’re in.
“I can’t make heads or tails of it,” she confesses.
“Oh for Pete’s sake!” he exclaims, momentarily taking his eyes off the road and jabbing a finger at the map on her lap. “We’ve got to be here, somewhere around here!”
The distraction causes him to swerve dangerously around a double-parked delivery van. “Will you please watch where you’re going!” she cries.
“I’m driving just fine. I need you to show me where we are.”
“Well, I don’t know any better than you do!”
They’re in a full-fledged shouting match now, and the bleak urban blocks look more incomprehensible than ever. In this particular neighborhood, all the storefronts are in Spanish. He pulls over in front of a bodega and tries to make sense of the map.
“Here we are. Here! Or somewhere around here. And we need to go there.”
She looks to where he is pointing.
“Put your reading glasses on,” he commands.
“You put yours on,” she retorts.
“I don’t need them. I can figure out where we are, but you obviously can’t.”
“If I’m so incompetent,” she yells, “you read the goddamn map!”
“Well, if you don’t like the way I’m driving,” he yells back, “let’s switch seats.”
This unconstructive exchange leaves no alternative but to get the car in motion again. Ten minutes later, by sheer luck, Budge manages to find an entrance ramp to the westward interstate, but the damage has been done. His soon-to-be ex-wife is no longer talking to him.
Gripping the wheel, I feel cocooned in her displeasure. I ask questions, bland chit-chatty questions, but she won’t open her mouth. In heavy rain, we drive toward LaSalle, on the Illinois River, where we decide, by mutual disagreement—she with a grunt—to stop for lunch. It’s a seven-mile detour off the highway, and we’re rewarded with a mostly boarded-up downtown. Inquiring at a gas station, we learn of a Mexican cantina on a side street. It’s a felicitous discovery, but my co-pilot’s mood doesn’t improve, and I make the mistake of traumatizing my mouth with a hot pepper. The water tastes like it’s pumped right out of the river.
Back on the highway, Budge is doing his best to be contrite, and by slow increments, his wife’s disposition improves. She starts talking again, but in doing so, she unleashes a diatribe that paints him as the most obnoxious person in the world.
I brought it on myself, so I can’t blame her. I’m everything she says I am—cold-hearted, calculating, demanding, demeaning. I have all these faults and more.
As I recollect from our past years together, anger drains from her slowly, whereas for me, it tends to go out in a whoosh. There’s a clogged pipe analogy here somewhere. Okay, so I screwed up, and, okay, I might have yelled at her first, but I am truly repentant now, and I’d really like her to get over it. After all, we still have a helluva way to go.
They drive all afternoon through patches of rain, crossing the Mississippi at Davenport. Iowa surrounds them with corn and more corn. Iowa City, Amana Colonies, Newton, Grinnel—the I-80 traffic is fast-paced and Budge keeps the speedometer at 80 mph.
In late afternoon, his co-pilot, who appears to be reading maps quite competently now, suggests that they drop south through Madison County on Rt. 196 and spend the night in Winterset, the county seat. This is the birthplace of John Wayne, she informs him, as well as the setting for the bestselling novel and movie, The Bridges of Madison County.
“Did you ever read Bridges?” she asks.
Budge pretends disinterest—professional jealousy will not permit him to be otherwise.
They arrive at a pretty crossroads motel with a display of memorabilia in its lobby. After setting their things in the room, his wife suggests they take a tour of the back roads before the sun goes down. She wants to see some of the actual covered bridges. She’s even bringing her camera for that purpose. Budge would rather take a snooze, but he knows better than to risk her displeasure.
She drives them a short distance out of town, along byways perfectly replicating those in the movie, and they do indeed discover several bridges. Not surprisingly, Budge is just as impressed as she is.
There’s something about a wooden covered bridge that’s universally appealing—its fragile and often sagging span, its barn-like interior that momentarily shuts out the world (with symbolic light at either end), its echo-chamber auditory effect (imagine horses’ hooves), its picturesque paint job—the list could go on, but what I’m getting at is that such a structure spells nostalgia with a capital N. So did the book and the movie, as I recall. Between the bridges and the story and the so-called simpler way of life, the locale is steeped in heartland sentimentality, which must support the county’s economy even more than the corn.
His wife asks him to take a snapshot of her standing beside one of the bridges, and he obliges. She asks if he’d like her to take one of him, but he declines. Just then, another couple drives up, ostensibly for the same purpose. The man and woman get out; one poses and the other shoots, and then the man asks Budge if he wouldn’t mind taking a snapshot of the two of them together.
“I’d be happy to,” Budge says.
He proceeds to take careful aim of the strangers with their own camera, although he cringes at what is sure to follow.
“Here, let me take one of you two,” the man offers.
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 12
