* * *
Valerie put on Mozart’s Don Giovanni and poured herself another glass of wine. Adam’s scotch was resting forgotten in his hand. She perched on the sofa and faced him, looking serious; it was time to talk.
“Darling, you’re doing the right thing. I’ve done my homework, and the experts agree that children suffer least from divorce before the age of six. Yours are still young enough to accept what’s happening as perfectly normal. Doing it now is kindest.”
He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back.”
“Do you have to go?” She wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Adam, stay here tonight. I have this scary feeling that if I let you go now, something terrible will happen.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said gently, giving her what he meant to be a brief kiss. But she held him firmly, pressing herself against him, and the kiss gave way to rather frantic and fumbling lovemaking amid the sofa cushions. Before releasing him, she whispered, “Remember. You’re mine now.”
Looking down at her defiant but frightened face, he felt a sudden great surge of love for her—and huge relief that he did. Having just broken up his home for this woman, he needed to feel something fierce and fiery for her that had been evading him all evening until that moment. Jubilantly, he fanned the flames by reminding himself that she had grown up in poverty—well, practically in poverty—that she’d been abandoned by her father, and that beneath her hard-boiled façade she was still a vulnerable and needy child. That was it, really; that was the difference between her and Sophie: Sophie could have a better day or a worse day, but at the core of her being she would always be “all right, really.” Sophie didn’t need Adam. Valerie did. It was that simple. Obviously, then, he had made the right choice; he had done what was fair.
* * *
A short while later, Adam got out of his car and stood gazing at what had been his house but mercifully no longer was: that loathsome temple to mediocrity, the fruit of a thousand soul-destroying compromises. It was little wonder he had felt diminished living there, as a creator and as a man, stifled by the banality of those surroundings. The house was in darkness. Good. There would be no late-night scenes, then, no throwing of crockery, not that he really expected such behavior from Sophie. She was above all that—and too lacking in passion. She would be saddened by his leaving, no doubt, and angry, too, as was only natural, but quickly she would come to terms with it and get on with her life. Sensible Sophie could be trusted to act with a view to what was best in the long term, and, of course, moping or making scenes could never be that. Her fundamentally life-embracing nature would protect her from prolonged unhappiness. Sophie was strong; the children were young and resilient. Adam was lucky; not all men could correct a wrong turn in their lives without creating victims. But he was managing to grasp his own happiness without jeopardizing anyone else’s—a small miracle in this world of intricately entangled lives.
There was no light on in their bedroom, and peeking in, Adam saw that Sophie wasn’t there. A crack of light was showing under the guest-room door. He hesitated, then decided not to knock. It was too soon, he thought, for more talk. She needed some time alone to… collect herself. So he tiptoed into the bedroom, snapped on the reading light that used to be his, and quickly filled a couple of suitcases.
Deep in shadow, on the flight of steps up to the attic, Sophie sat hugging her knees, watching him. Through the half-open door, she caught glimpses of the man who up to that day had been her husband, crossing from the closet and chest of drawers to the suitcases lying on the bed, his arms piled high, first with sweaters, then with shoes, next with a stack of those shirts she had ironed only this morning, in another life. He was methodical and thorough, she noticed, and brisk in his movements, like a sprightly traveling salesman packing for just another trip. His eager fingers sorted through the collection of objects on top of the dresser with callous haste and a disregard for her trinkets that made her catch her breath. Out of the joint tangle of personal objects that had cohabited there so peacefully for so long, he snatched his cuff links, a pile of change, his comb. In his haste he knocked over the Chanel No. 19 he had given her last Christmas, and, woundingly, he didn’t set it upright again. What if the top were loose and its precious liquid were dripping away? He worked like an experienced burglar, quick and uncaring, sorting the valuables from the rubbish, his from hers, stowing his away safely and leaving hers—the fallen perfume, a limp gold chain, a bracelet, a special seashell—scattered on the dresser top, which looked dusty now that it was half bare. Two sharp snapping sounds and the first suitcase was closed—snap, snap. Then the other—snap, snap—and Adam emerged carrying all that he had looted from the place where they had slept and made love and planned and laughed and cuddled each other and their children for the past five years. He set the suitcases down in the hall and returned to the bedroom to switch off the lamp—he had always been careful about wasting electricity. Then he lifted the suitcases again with a slight grunt and carried them down, the stairs creaking under their weight. Sophie waited until she could hear him busy in his study, and then she trailed down silently after him and stood out of sight in the darkness of the sitting room across the hall, watching him cull the best books from his shelves. Now that he was farther from the bedrooms, he made more noise, tossing the chosen books into boxes with a thump. Certain books he was unsure about, so he flipped through them to decide. He became so engrossed in one that he stood reading it for a long while, lost in the text. Many minutes passed before he closed the book and returned his thoughts to the business at hand, the leaving of Sophie Dean, his wife. Looking on from her hiding place, Sophie felt amazement that he could forget what he was doing, even for a moment. Men’s minds must be very different from women’s; it was unthinkable that she should become distracted by a passage in a book at such a time. If she were the one packing, each object she touched would spark off memories, and no matter how determined she was on her course of action, she would feel nostalgia and regret mixing with her resolve, and it would show on her face and in every gesture. Men’s brains must be more compartmentalized, containing chambers where intellectual thought did not rub up against emotion, while in women’s more integrated brains, thoughts and feelings mingled promiscuously. How restful it would be to take refuge in those intellectual spaces where all emotion was forbidden entrance. Adam was emptying his desk drawers now, one by one, shifting all the contents neatly into boxes, his movements so deft they seemed rehearsed. Had he been planning this moment, then, longing for it? Concealed in the shadows, her face grave and thoughtful, Sophie continued to watch. Just to watch. It was hypnotic, gazing on ghostlike as he prized their two lives apart, and there was something numbing, too, about the speed and ease with which he dismantled what had taken years of common effort to build. With one callous sweep of his hand, down crashed their tower of blocks.
* * *
“You’ve got to fight fire with fire,” Marion said the next day, standing with her hands on her hips at Sophie’s stove, wearing Sophie’s apron, and looking stalwart and buxom. She had insisted on cooking the lunch and, after much asking where things were, had managed to get something bubbling away in a pan under a lid. “Get yourself some flattering new clothes, why don’t you? Let me make you an appointment with my hairdresser—my treat. He’s very good.”
“Are you suggesting that Adam left me because he didn’t like my hair?”
“Sophie.”
“Or that he’ll come back if I get a new hairdo? I’m surprised at you! What’s all this about makeup and… and tranquilizers? You don’t believe in mood-bending prescription drugs any more than I do—and those things are hell, by the way. I’m not taking any more. Whatever happened to holistic medicine? You’re a counselor, Marion—whatever happened to talking things out? At the first sign of trouble, you’re running for the pharmaceuticals and the beauty parlor!”
Marion’s specialty was counseling children, and she always held that her own childlessness was no im
pediment. You don’t need to have one, she liked to say, only to have been one. “Psychology is not incompatible with a curling iron,” she said now. “You’re in a very awkward situation. Your husband has walked out on you, leaving you with two children that you may end up having to raise alone.” She held her hand up to soften the effect of that. “That’s the worst possible scenario. I don’t for one minute think it’s going to come to that. But you’ve got to face the fact that you have a rival, and she’s a glamorous, seductive woman. Adam—”
“I don’t care! I’m not playing competitive Barbies to get him back!”
“Listen to me. Adam will come to his senses, and he’ll come back to you, but you have to help him, by remaining calm, by minimizing the situation, and yes, by making yourself as attractive as possible. All that is hard to do, and whatever means you can find to help you—be it prayer, eyeliner, or drugs—you’ve got to use it. This is a crisis, Sophie! It calls for any and every measure we can think of.”
Sophie buried her face in her hands and rubbed her eyebrows with her fingertips. She had slept poorly in spite of the tranquilizer, or rather because of it. She hated dreamless sleep; it made her feel she’d been robbed. Both she and Adam had avoided their bedroom that night, she sleeping in the guest room and he fitfully on the chesterfield with only one thin blanket, which he’d left there in a conspicuous show of martyrdom. He was gone before breakfast, his suitcases and boxes stacked neatly in his study, a note on his desk saying he’d pick up “these last few things” that evening after work.
“He’ll come back,” Marion said again. “If you’re understanding and indulgent, if you make it easy for him to come back, then he will. Because deep down it’s what he wants to do.”
Sophie raised her head out of her hands and frowned. Her attention had been snagged by two words that had sent her mind reeling off into distant and surreal realms. (Was someone telling her to be “understanding” and “indulgent” to Adam? No. No, surely not.) “I need to think,” she said slowly, out loud but to herself. “I need… to think.”
“You’ll come through this. I know you will.” Marion reached across the table to squeeze Sophie’s hand. “You’ll do what’s best for everyone.” Then she got up and went to shake pans, lift lids, and generally see to lunch. “It’s tough for boys to grow up without a father. If there’s anything you can do to prevent that from happening, you owe it to them to try your damnedest.”
Elbows on the table, chin in hands, eyes fixed on the wall opposite, Sophie said, “I don’t know what to do.” And eventually she added, “I need to think. I just… need… to think.”
“You do that, honey.” Marion set a steaming plate before her. “But first, eat.”
* * *
“The water, electricity, and gas bills are deducted directly from the checking account, but the bank can make mistakes. I’ve caught them out more than once. Open all the bank statements as they arrive and make sure they tally with the bills. I suggest you file the bills somewhere handy so you won’t have to hunt for them when the bank statements come in. Here. Keep these somewhere safe.” Adam held out a stack of papers, which Sophie made no move to take from him. She merely glanced down at them, then back up at him. He went on. “If you feel you can’t cope with all this, I can recommend a reliable accountant, but I do think this is something you should be able to handle on your own.” Sophie continued to look at him without expression. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sophie! I’m only trying to help. Get a grip on yourself—if only for the boys’ sake.”
“What you’re doing now—is that for the boys’ sake?”
“As a matter of fact, it is! You may not know it, but children under the age of six suffer the least in a divorce. They’re still young enough to accept everything that happens as natural. That’s why we have to do this now.”
A dart pierced Sophie’s heart as she recognized this so-called fact about children and divorce as coming not from Adam but from an evil alien source—from her. Adam didn’t know a thing about the subject; it was she who had dredged this up as a way of convincing him to come away with her. How triumphantly she must have pounced on this “proof” that it would be just fine for him to abandon his children, actually kinder to them. Sophie felt a surge of anger so powerful that it was physically debilitating, like dizziness or nausea, and she had to lock her knees and close her eyes against it.
Adam was speaking again, with exaggerated patience, as though to a slow child. “Of course the good of our children is foremost in my mind—it has to be that way. Can’t you see that we mustn’t put our own problems first?”
Sophie’s eyes opened again. “Adam—”
“It is essential,” he ground on, “that their life continue as smoothly as possible, without upsets or interruptions. Same house, same school, same daily routine…” He paused to glance at his watch, then wound up more quickly. “We simply have to be grown up about this, Sophie, and make this transition as seamless as possible for them. So…”
If Adam had not chosen that moment to check his watch, their story might have progressed differently. But he did check it, and when Sophie noticed that small gesture and the implication of it struck her—that he had allotted a certain amount of time, and no more, for his farewell speech to her, that he had an important date to keep with her—she had a sudden and piercingly sweet revelation, like a single ray of sunshine bursting through pewter clouds, of what she must do. In that instant of illumination, Sophie saw the way forward. When she spoke, it was in a tone that an untrained ear might have called cheerful, or at any rate resigned.
“You know, you’re absolutely right.”
Adam looked surprised, then pleased.
“You’ve said all this about the children before, I’ve thought it over carefully, and I’ve decided that you are absolutely right.…”
Adam shrugged the polite, diffident shrug of the victor. “Then you’ll understand how—”
“… which is why”—Sophie carried on over him. She waited for him to fall silent before continuing, not loudly but with clear enunciation—“which is why… I am the one who is leaving. Not you. Me.”
It was Adam’s turn to stare.
* * *
At first Valerie didn’t hear her phone ringing over the tune she was humming to herself as she flitted around putting the finishing touches on her scrumptious dinner for two. “Oh, the phone!” she said out loud, for such was her ebullient mood. “That’ll be Adam wondering if he should stop and pick up some wine.” Into the phone she trilled, “Hellooo!”
But it was Agatha’s voice, flat with sincerity. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m here for you.”
“What?”
“If you want to call me later, if you need to talk, I’ll be here. I mean, I’m going out, but I don’t want you to feel you’re interrupting me. It’s really no problem. Feel free to call.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Adam’s moving in tonight. I’m making us our very first dinner as a real couple. Ris d’agneau and artichauts farcis with a stunning little Saint-Émilion.”
“That’s nice. Look… Valerie… I didn’t want to rain on your parade at lunch—”
“But you’re going to now?”
“But the truth is, you’re still on pretty thin ice. These first days after the bomb has fallen, well… There’s a real danger of reconciliation.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not, Vee. I wish it were. I hope everything will turn out, but I just wanted to let you know that if it doesn’t, you have a friend here at the other end of the line. I do have a date tonight, as I said, but it’s no trouble whatsoever for me to give you any support you might need. My phone will be switched on, ready.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Adam isn’t going back to his wife. He’s coming over here tonight with his things. To live here.”
“In theory, yes. But he’s not there yet.”
“Just go on your date, Agatha!” Valerie slammed the
phone down and lit a cigarette. Date, my ass! Trust that envious bitch to try to wreck her evening by putting poisonous thoughts into her head. Well, she wouldn’t succeed; no insidious fears were going to start tormenting Valerie… scenes of Adam and his wife… in tearful embrace… thinking of the children… her guilt-tripping him ruthlessly… them vowing to give it a second chance… all forgiven…a fresh start… Valerie poured herself out a slug of wine and tossed it back. Oh, no—she wasn’t going to start thinking about any of that!
* * *
Adam was still staring, and Sophie was explaining things. Her speech had none of the overly rehearsed sound of Adam’s stiff little discourse, because she was putting it all into words for the first time. It came out in gushes and dribbles, now fast, now slowly, as she thought it through, her voice and rhythm growing steadily more confident. The moment of revelation had been thrilling, but equally satisfying was this leisurely ramble through the logical reasons supporting it and the discovery that her solution was in fact a nesting set of solutions within solutions, as lovely and close-fitting as rose petals. All paths, all considerations, led to this conclusion; what she found at the end of every line of reasoning was further vindication of her decision to leave.
She had begun tentatively, feeling her way. “You’ve just put an end to our family life, and that was the only life I had. The least you can do now is take responsibility for the children while I get back on my feet.”
“But I will! I’ve told you I’ll pay generous child support—of course I will!”
“That’s not enough. I don’t mean just money, I mean real responsibility. I have my whole life to rebuild. I have to go back to work. I’ve been wanting to change careers, and this is the obvious time to do it. You know I’m interested in shiatsu.” He nodded, frowning impatiently, but she continued, unflustered. “I’ll have to train to qualify as a practitioner, and I can’t do it overnight. Building up a practice takes time, too. There’s a lot to do, and I can’t take care of the children at the same time. You’re going to have to do that part. Just until I’m on my feet.”
Leaving Sophie Dean Page 8
