How strange it feels, he thought. To be up here, telling these things.
“Anyhow,” he said, “she had rages in which she deliberately destroyed objects that were of importance to me.”
While she had been packing her things she had come across a plaster cat which they had won at Playland. She had been holding it, wondering how to pack it, when he had told her that he considered it his. At that point, she had turned and thrown it at him. The cat had broken against the wall behind him.
“She had these violent rages,” he said, “where she couldn't control herself.”
His lawyer nodded to him—impatiently, it seemed to him—and he realized suddenly that he had finished. Getting to his feet he stepped down. His lawyer called their witness, and Nathan found himself seated in the first chair of the jury box, listening to their witness tell how he had come by the Anteil house and found only Mr. Anteil at home, and how, on frequent occasions, when he had found them both together, he had been forced to listen to what he considered unfair and humiliating tirades on the part of Mrs. Anteil, directed at her husband.
The judge signed the paper; he and the lawyer exchanged a few words; and then Nathan and their witness and the lawyer walked up the aisle and out of the courtroom.
“Did he grant it?” he asked the lawyer.
“Oh sure,” the lawyer said. “Now we go down to the clerk and get a copy of the interlocutory decree for you.”
As they descended the stairs, the witness said, “You know, Gwen's about the most mild-mannered woman I've ever known. I felt funny up there talking about her ‘tirades.’ I never heard her raise her voice in my life.”
The lawyer giggled at that. Nathan said nothing. But he felt a sense of release, a lifting of the burden of the court action. They entered the clerk's office, an immense, brightly-lit place in which rows of people worked at desks and file cabinets. At a counter which ran the width of the room, persons conducted their business with the many deputy clerks.
“Well, it's over,” the witness said, while the lawyer got the papers.
Was there any truth to what I said? Nathan wondered. Some truth. Part true, part made up. Strange to lose sight, blend it together. No longer know what had happened, merely talk, tell what seems appropriate. Aloud, he said, “Like the Moscow Trials. Confessing to whatever they want.”
Again his lawyer giggled. The witness winked at him.
But he did feel better. Dread of the ordeal … that was over, like the school play. Public speaking in assembly.
“Good to get it over,” he said to his lawyer.
“Boy, that old man is a tough one,” his lawyer said, as they left the clerk's office. “Not letting me lead—he probably didn't have a good bowel movement and felt like getting back at the world.”
Outdoors, in the sunlight, they parted company. Each of them said good-bye and went off to his own car.
The time was ten-forty. Only an hour and ten minutes had gone by since the court had been called into session.
Divorced, Nathan thought. Over and done. Somebody else up there, now.
Reaching his car he got into it and sat.
Strange story to tell, he thought. When was she ever away from the house? Only when we broke up.
I should feel guilty, he thought. Getting up there and letting all those lies come out of me, that mishmash. That uninspired recitation. But his sense of release overcame any guilt. God damn, he thought. I'm so god damn glad it's over.
All at once he felt doubt. How can it be over? You mean I'm no longer married? What happened to Gwen? I don't understand it. Where did it go? How could a thing like this happen?
It isn't possible, he thought. What do you mean, I'm no longer married?
He stared out the car window. It doesn't make sense, he thought. Dismay, as if he were about to break down and cry, started everywhere inside him, appeared on all sides, throughout. I'll be god damned, he thought. It just can't be. It isn't possible.
This is the most awful thing that ever happened to me, he thought. It's weird. It's the end of me, of my life. Now what am I going to do?
How did I ever get into this situation?
He sat watching the people go by, wondering how a thing of this sort could have come about. I must have let myself get mixed up in something horrible, he thought. It's as if the whole sky is a web that dropped over me and snared me. Probably she's the one who did it; Fay arranged all this, and I had nothing to do with it. I have no control of myself or anything that's happened. So now I'm waking up. I'm awake, he thought. Discovering that everything has been taken away from me. I've been destroyed, and now that I'm awake all I can do is realize it; I can't do anything. It's too late to do anything. It's already happened. The shock of getting up there and telling that account made me see. Mixture of lies and bits of truth. Woven together. Unable to see where each starts.
At last, putting the key in the ignition, he started up the car. Soon he was driving from San Rafael, back to Point Reyes Station.
At his house he saw her, in the front yard. She had found a bucket of gladiola and tulip bulbs that Gwen had brought up from the city to plant; wearing jeans and sandals and a cotton shirt she was busy with a trowel, digging a shallow trench for the bulbs along the front walk. The two girls were not in sight.
As he opened the gate she heard him and turned, lifting her head. As soon as she saw the expression on his face she said,
“You didn't get it.”
“I got it,” he said.
Laying down her trowel she stood up. “What an ordeal it must have been,” she said. “My god, you look really pale.”
He said, “I don't know what to do.” It was not what he had intended to say, but he could think of nothing else.
“What do you mean?” she said, coming up to him and putting her thin, strong arms around him.
Feeling her arms, the authority and conviction of her, he said, “Hug me.”
“I am hugging you,” she said. “You asshole.”
“Look where I am,” he said, gazing past her at the remaining bulbs. She had planted most of them already. At one time the bucket had been full. “You've got me in a terrible spot. There's nothing I can do. You really have me.”
“Why?” she said.
“I have no marriage.”
“Poor baby,” she said. “You're scared.” Her arms pressed harder against him. “But you did get it? He granted it?”
“They have to grant it,” he said. “If it's properly presented. That's what the lawyer's for.”
“So you're divorced!” Fay said.
“I have an interlocutory decree,” he said. “In a year I'll be divorced.”
“Did he give you any trouble?”
“He wouldn't let the lawyer lead,” he said. “I was on my own.” He started to tell her about it, how the session had gone, but her eyes got that rapt, faraway expression; she was not listening.
“I meant to tell you,” she said, when he halted. “The girls baked a cake for you. A celebration. One candle. Your first divorce. They're indoors now, quarreling about the icing. I said they better wait until you got home and ask you what kind of icing you wanted on it, if any.”
He said, “I don't want anything. I'm completely exhausted.”
“I'd never go into court in a million years,” she said. “I'd rather die; you couldn't drag me into court.” Letting go of him she started toward the house. “They've been so worried,” she said. “Afraid something might go wrong.”
“Stop talking,” he said, “and listen to me.”
She slowed to a stop; both her speech and her motion toward the house ceased. Inquiringly, she waited. She did not seem tense. Now that he was back, having gotten the decree, she was relieved; she did not seem to have paid any real attention to what he had said.
“God damn you,” he said. “You never listen. Don't you care what I have to say? I'll tell you what I have to say; I'm pulling out of all this, the whole darn business.”
“W
hat?” she said, in a faltering voice.
He said, “I've gone as far as I can. I can't stand any more. When I got out of the courtroom I realized it. It finally came to me.”
“Well,” she said. “My goodness.”
They stood facing each other, neither of them saying anything. With the toe of her sandal she kicked at a lump of dirt. Never before had he seen her so downcast.
“How did the Spanne work?” she said finally.
“Fine,” he said.
“You were able to take it before you went in? I'm glad you had it. They're very good, especially for something like this that overtaxes you.” Then, rallying, she said, “I don't see how you can leave me. What would happen to you? This is the worst possible time. You've undergone a dreadful traumatic situation these last couple of weeks. We both have. And this divorce business, this having to go into court, was the ultimate.” Now she was attentive; her voice became quiet, and her expression changed to a tough acuteness. Taking hold of his arm she stretched him toward the house. “You haven't had anything to eat, have you?”
“No,” he said. He held back, refusing to let her budge him.
“You're really furious at me, aren't you?” she said finally. “This is the most hostile you've been toward me.”
“That's right,” he said.
“I suppose the hostility must have been there all the time, buried in your subconscious. Doctor Andrews says it's better to say things like this if you feel them than not to.” She did not sound angry; she sounded resigned. “I don't blame you,” she said, eyeing him, standing very close to him and gazing up into his face with her head cocked on one side, her hands behind her back. Perspiration, from the heat of the day, shone on her throat; he saw it as it appeared and evaporated and reappeared. It pulsed there. “Can't we talk about it further?” she said. Instead of becoming childish she had become deeply rational. “A decision this serious should be discussed. Come inside and sit down and have lunch. Anyhow, where are you going to go? If someone has to go, good god, this is your house—you can't let us stay here if you feel about me the way you do. We'll go to a motel. I mean, that's no problem.”
To that, he said nothing.
Fay said, “If you leave me you won't have a god damn thing. Maybe there are character traits in me that should be changed—that's why I go to Doctor Andrews, isn't it? And if there're things wrong with me, can't you tell me the right way to act? Can't you put me in my place? I want you to tell me what to do. Do you think I respect a man who I can push around?”
“Then let me go,” he said.
“I think you're nuts to go,” Fay said.
“Maybe so,” he said. Turning around, he walked away.
From behind him, Fay said in a firm voice, “I promised the girls that we'd take them down to Fairyland this afternoon.”
He could scarcely believe his ears. “What?” he said. “What the hell is ‘fairyland’?”
“Down in Oakland,” she said, facing him with composure. “They heard all about it on Popeye. They want to see King Fuddle's castle. I told them when you got back we'd go.”
“I never said that,” he said. “You never told me.”
“Well,” she said, “I know how you don't like to be bothered.”
“God damn you,” he said. “Committing me.”
“It'll only take a couple of hours. An hour from here.”
“More like two,” he said.
“You should never break a promise to a child,” she said. “Anyhow, if you're going to walk out on us and leave us, you should want to do something so they'll remember you. Do you want them to have a last impression of you not giving a damn about their interests?”
He said, “It doesn't matter what last impression they have of me, because you'll manage to tell them something about me that'll make me look so weak and awful—”
“They're listening,” she said.
On the porch, the two girls had appeared. They had their cake on a big plate. “Look!” Bonnie called down. Both girls beamed at him.
“Nice,” he said.
“Well,” Fay said. “Is this too much to ask of you? Then you can walk out on us.”
The girls, obviously paying no attention to what either adult was saying, called down. “What kind of icing do you want? Mommy said to wait and ask you.”
He said to them, “You want to go to Fairyland?”
At that, they both came racing down the steps; the cake was put aside on the railing, abandoned.
“Okay,” he said, above the clamor. “We'll go. But let's get started.”
Fay stood watching, her arms folded. “I'll go get a coat,” she said. To the girls, she said, “You both get your coats.”
The girls scampered back into the house.
To Fay he said nothing. He got into the car, behind the wheel. She did not join him; she waited for the girls. As she waited she got her cigarettes from the spot at which she had left them, lit up, and did a little more digging.
The howling of the children made him weary. Everywhere kids raced and screamed, in and out of the bright, newly-painted storybook buildings that made up the Oakland Park Department's idea of Fairyland. He had parked quite far from it, not being sure exactly where it was, and the walk alone had worn him out.
Bonnie and Elsie appeared at the bottom of a slide, waved at him and Fay, and scurried to join the other children at the stairs leading back up.
“It's nice here,” Fay said.
In the center of Fairyland, Little Bo Peep's lambs were being fed from a bottle. A middle-aged woman's voice, amplified by loudspeakers, told the children all to come running to see.
“Isn't that funny,” Fay said. “We come all the way down here to see lambs being fed. I wonder why they feed them from bottles. I guess they think it's cuter.”
After the girls had finished with the slide they wandered on. Now they had found the wishing well and were fooling with it; he only vaguely noticed them.
Fay said, “I wonder which is Fuddle's castle.”
He didn't answer.
“This is tiring,” she said. “I guess you already had enough for one day.”
Presently they arrived at the refreshment stand. The children had orange drink and hot dogs. Just beyond that they saw the ticket window and station house of the little train. Its narrow track ran into and out of Fairyland, passing among the trees beyond. On their way to Fairyland from the car they had noticed the track; in fact they had followed it to the main gate of Fairyland, which of course was on the opposite side from them. They had to walk all around it.
As they trampled along, looking in vain for the gate, Fay had said to him, “You know, you're a schlimozl.”
“What's that?” both girls had demanded.
Fay said, “A schlimozl is a person who always gets up to the ticket window at the ballpark just as the last bleacher seat is sold. And he doesn't have enough money with him to buy a reserved seat.”
“That's me,” he said.
To the girls, Fay explained, “You see, he parked on the opposite side from the entrance, and we had to walk all around. Now, if I had been driving I would have parked and we would have gotten out, and there we would have been. Right at the entrance. But a schlimozl always has bad luck. It's an instinct with him.”
Yes, he thought. It's true about me. There is a bad luck that gets me into things that I don't want to be in, and then it keeps me there. It holds me there. And nothing that I do can get me out.
“It's just my luck,” Fay said, “to marry a schlimozl. Maybe our luck will balance out, though.”
Now, he stood with her and the children, lined up to buy tickets for the little train. His legs ached and he wondered if he could live through it, the waiting in line for tickets and then, after getting tickets, the waiting for the train to return and take on passengers. At this moment the train was off somewhere in the park, out of sight. A whole raft of children, who had already gotten tickets, waited eagerly on the platform beyond the ti
cket window.
“It'll take at least half an hour,” he said to Fay. “Is it worth it?”
Fay said, “This is the main event. Isn't this what we saw them all doing? They have to ride on it.”
So he waited.
After a long time he was able to reach the ticket window and buy tickets for all four of them. Then he and Fay and the girls pushed on to the platform. By now the train had returned; children and their parents were spilling out of it, and the conductor was pointing the way out. A new load ran to the cars and began to board. The cars were small and irregularly-shaped. The occupants' heads were forced almost to bump, as if by entering the car they became ancients nodding and dozing.
“In a way this Fairyland is a disappointment,” Fay said. “I don't think they give the children enough to do; they can't actually go into those little houses—all they can do is look at them. Like a museum.”
His weariness and lethargy kept him from commenting. He no longer felt related to the noises and movement around him, the swirl of the children.
A conductor came along the platform, collecting tickets. He counted aloud. When he reached Nathan he stopped, saying, “Thirty-three.” Then he took Elsie's ticket and said to Nathan, “Are you all together?”
“Yes,” Fay said.
“Well, I hope I can squeeze you all in,” he said, taking her ticket and Bonnie's and Nathan's.
“How many can you get in?” Fay said.
“It depends on the number of adults,” the conductor said. “If it's mostly kids we can keep squeezing them in. But an adult is another matter.” He departed with the tickets.
“I guess we get in,” Fay said. “He took our tickets.”
Theirs had been the last tickets collected. Behind them, a family of five fretted and worried.
They won't get on this time, Nathan thought. They'll have to wait. He gazed off past the refreshment stand at the sturdy house that the third little pig had built.
When the train returned, he and Fay and the children moved with the others through the gate and on to the outer platform, along the track. As the cars became empty the new passengers clambered on. The conductor began shutting the wire doors of the cars. At the gate, the family with tickets were stopped. “No,” the attendant said. “You can't get on if you have tickets.”