In the dining room, I remove Travis’s plate from the table, then go into the kitchen to pour Cheerios into a bowl. Too plain. I’ll slice some banana on top in a most beautiful way. I pick up a knife, and some feeling comes over me that has me rush over to the kitchen table. I sit and hold the knife and try very hard to stifle a sob. Not now. Later. And then something occurs to me: David may change his mind. That’s why he didn’t insist on telling Travis himself, right away. He’s not sure he even wants to do this. This is male menopause, early male menopause, it could be that, they get that just like they get their own version of PMS, they just don’t admit it. He’s been so moody, I haven’t been good about listening to him, I haven’t been willing to talk about a lot of things I do wrong. He could very well have needed to just act out this way, scare himself a little—well, scare both of us—and now he’ll come back and we’ll just straighten this out. Men! I get up, Lucy Ricardo.
I take a banana from the fruit bowl, slice it evenly, ignore the feeling of a finger tapping my shoulder. Sam? He’s not coming back.
I look at my watch, pour milk into the pitcher I was going to use for the syrup. Then I pick a pink blossom off the begonia plant on the kitchen windowsill to rest beside his plate. I carry everything out to the dining room, carefully arrange it, then lean against the doorjamb. Outside, the sun shines. Birds call. Cars pass with the windows down, people’s elbows hanging out.
I am exhausted.
It will be a few minutes before Travis comes down. I need to do something.
I go into the basement to start a load of wash. When I begin separating, I find a pair of David’s boxer shorts, the blue ones, and, God help me, I bury my face in them for the smell of him.
I look up and see my sewing machine. I bring his shorts over to it. Then, using a hidden seam, I sew the fly shut. With great care, I do this, with tenderness. Then I go back to the pile of laundry and get some of his fancy socks and sew the tops of them shut.
I have a lot of David’s clothes to choose from; he packed last evening like he was only going on a business trip for a couple of days. And I sat on the bed watching him, thinking Why is he packing? Where is he going? Why must he do it like this, does he think he’s in a movie? What can I say to stop this, isn’t there something to say to stop this? But I couldn’t say anything. I felt paralyzed. And when he finally stood at the doorway of the bedroom and said, “I’ll call you,” I’d waved. Waved! Then, from the bedroom window, I’d watched him drive away, marveling at his cool efficiency in signaling at the corner.
I could not stay in the house alone. I would not stay in the house. Travis was gone—he went to his friend Ben’s house every Thursday after school to eat dinner and do homework. He liked going there because that family had three dogs and a cat, whereas, as Travis frequently liked to point out, he had nothing, not even ants. I called my mother, telling her briefly what had happened and asking her to come over and wait for Travis to get home. And then I got in the car and drove to the mall and charged and charged and charged.
When I got home my mother assured me that, as requested, she had not said anything to Travis. Amazingly, she said little to me, either. “We’ll talk later, honey,” she said, and I answered in what I hoped was a noncommittal way. I was so grateful she had come. I wanted so much for her to go.
I come up from the laundry room and find Travis seated at the dining-room table, delicately picking the banana off his Cheerios. “How come I’m eating out here?” he asks.
“For fun.”
“Can I have some orange juice?”
“Oh! Yes, I forgot, I’ll go make it right now.”
“… You’re making it?”
“Yes. You’re having fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“I don’t like fresh-squeezed orange juice. I mean, I’m sorry, but you know I don’t like it. It’s got all that stuff floating around that bumps into your teeth. Plus I don’t like bananas on my cereal, either.”
“Travis. Listen to me. You must try new things every now and then. Sometimes you have learned to like things in your sleep.”
“Are we out of Tropicana?”
“Yes, we are.”
He gets up and goes to the refrigerator, peers in, triumphantly pulls out a carton of juice. “It’s right here, Mom, practically full! We’re not out of it! See?”
I take the carton from him, upend it over the sink. “Now we are.”
We stand there. Finally, “Jesus!” he says. “What’s wrong with you?”
Let’s see. Let’s see. What to do.
“Come with me,” I say. I lead him to the dining room, point to his chair. “Finish your cereal, okay? It’s almost time to go.”
I sit down with him, take in a breath. “I’m sorry about the orange juice, Travis. I’m really sorry I did that. That wasn’t right.”
I clasp my hands together, stare at him. He has a bit of sleep stuck in one corner. “Wipe your left eye,” I tell him. “You need to wash your face a little better in the morning. And, listen, I don’t want you saying ‘Jesus’ like that.”
“You do.” He wipes at his right eye.
“Other eye.”
“Dad does. He does it all the time.”
I sit still. Outside, I see the wind lift up a branch, rock it. Then let it go.
Finally, I say, “I don’t care who does it, Travis. It’s not okay for you to do it. Don’t say it anymore.”
“Fine.”
I lean back in my chair, sigh.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“There is something wrong.”
“I said.”
“Right. But I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to talk to you about it, okay? But I think it would be best if we waited until after school.”
“Are you … going somewhere, Mom?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know. Am I?
Worried now, “How come you’re all dressed already? Are you going to the doctor or something?” Someone in Travis’s grade had lost his mother recently. The knowledge festered among the kids, spooked them terribly despite the carefully planned programs presented by the guidance counselors.
There, I am suddenly grounded. It is such sweet, wavelike relief. “Oh, sweetie, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s nothing like that! I’m sorry, I know I’m acting … I’m just tired. But we’ll talk later. It’ll be fine.” I smile brightly. “So! Did you like eating breakfast this way?”
“What way?”
“Well … You know, out here in the dining room. Fancy dishes …”
“Yeah, I guess so. Yeah! It was nice. Thanks, Mom.”
Oh, what am I doing? Why am I making him take care of me?
Travis picks up his book bag, then shifts his shoulders, seeming to adjust himsel finside himself, a gesture I love.
“Can I kiss you good-bye?” I ask.
Our old joke. Every morning I ask him this, and every morning (since he turned nine, anyway) he makes a face as though I were asking him if I could spoon cold oatmeal into his ear. But now he nods yes and my stomach does an unpleasant little somersault. I put my lips to his cheek. And he kisses me back—pecks at my cheek and then quickly turns away.
So. He knows. They are absolutely right, kids always know. When he comes home from school today and I tell him that David has moved out, he will nod sadly and say, “I thought so.” And then he will start making Fs.
I watch him walk down the sidewalk toward school. His jacket collar is half up, half down. His jeans are slightly too long; they bunch up over the top of his sneakers. His book bag carries papers with his earnest script, his own thoughts about the material he is assigned to read. He is just beginning to become himself. He is too young to have to face what he is going to have to face, it will shape him too much, quash his tender optimism. It’s unfair, it’s so unfair! That’s what I should have told David: do what you have to do, but don’t walk out on Travis. For God’s sake. Ruin my world if you have to, but don’t ruin his, too.
> Back in the kitchen, I take a sip from my coffee. It’s gone cold; a ring of congealed cream visible at the outside edge. Look how fast things turn. I dump the coffee out, then throw the cup in the trash. I never want to see that cup again. “David,” I say, very softly. Like a prayer. “David,” I say again, and lean against the wall to cry. It helps. It’s so funny, how it helps. Stress hormones get released when you cry, that’s why it works. It’s amazing how smart the body is. Though maybe we could do without loving. I think it’s overrated, and I think it’s too hard. You should only love your children; that is necessary, because otherwise you might kill them. But to love a man? It’s overrated, and it’s too hard and I will never, ever do it again.
Well. What I will do now is make a list. There’s a lot to think about, so much to do. I’ll go outside, I’ll sit out there where it’s so much bigger, where there is no roof to fall in on your head and make you brain damaged, should you survive.
At three-thirty, I am sitting on the sofa in the family room, waiting for Travis. I’ve had a nap, I’m fine. Well, I’ve had a couple of naps. The waking-up part, that’s hard. What’s …? Oh. Oh, yes.
One thing I want to be sure of is that Travis does not blame himself in any way. I believe I should start with that. Out loud, I practice, “Travis, sweetie, I need to tell you some things that will be hard for you to hear.” Yes. Good. “But what I want you to understand, and to remember the whole time I’m talking, is this: all of this is about your father and me. This decision. It has nothing to do with you. You are such a good boy.” Yes.
No. No. This is starting with a negative. It will scare him. Start with something positive. “Travis, as I’m sure you know, both your father and I love you very much.” No. That will scare him, too. Oh, what then? Guess what, Travis? Your father left us and now we get to have a whole new life! Do you want a dog? I was never the one who objected to pets, you know. Do you want a Newfoundland? I think they weigh about five hundred pounds, do you want one of them?
The door opens and Travis comes in, sees me from the hallway. “Hi, Mom.” The last normal thing.
“Oh. Hi! Hi, honey.”
He regards me warily. “Are you …?”
“I’m fine!”
He nods, heads toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a snack. Do you want some pretzels?”
“No, thanks.” I cross my legs, fold my hands on my lap. Uncross my legs.
“Travis?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you put your pretzels in a bowl, okay?”
Silence.
“Travis?”
He comes into the room, holding the bag of pretzels. “What do I need a bowl for? The bag is fine, I always eat out of the bag.”
“Well, it’s …” Inelegant, is what I want to say. I would like to say that, I have always liked that word. And I have to tell him that we need to make some changes here; things are going to change. But, “The bag is fine,” I say. And then, “Could you come here, please?”
He walks over slowly, sits beside me, offers me the bag of pretzels.
“No, thanks.”
“They’re a little stale.”
“Travis,” I begin.
“I know. You’re getting a divorce.” He looks up at me, sighs.
I sit back, smile.
“Aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, we just—”
“I figured.”
“… You figured.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He puts his finger in his ear, experimentally, it seems. Twists it.
“Travis?”
“Huh?”
“Why did you ‘figure’?”
“I don’t know. Everybody gets divorced.”
“Oh no. Not everyone. There are many, many happy marriages. I’m sure you’ll have one. But your father and I have decided that … yes, we want a divorce, and so we’re going to be living apart from one another. Starting … Well, actually starting last night.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s close by, he’s at a hotel in town, he called me this afternoon. And he’ll be calling you tonight, Travis, he told me to tell you he’d be calling you after dinner. And that he will be seeing you very soon.”
“What time?”
“Pardon?”
“What time will he call?”
“I don’t think he said that. I think he just said after dinner.”
“Yeah, but what does that mean, what time does that mean?”
“Um … Okay. It must … I think about seven, right around seven. All right?”
“Why is he at a hotel?”
Beats me. “He … Well, you know, honey, when people decide they aren’t going to be together any longer, they often need a little time apart, to think about things.”
“But you’re getting divorced!”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll be apart!”
“Yes, but—there just sometimes has to be this—”
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Oh, Travis, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs, inspects his thumb, the wall. “It’s all right.” His right knee starts bouncing up and down and I have to stop myself from stopping it.
When Travis was six, he fell off a jungle gym and hurt his arm. The X-ray technician kept telling him to hold his arm a certain way—it required a kind of twisting. Travis kept saying he couldn’t do it, and the impatient tech finally went into the room with him and made his arm go the way she wanted it to. “Now, keep it like that until I get the picture,” I heard her say. When Travis came out of the room, he had tears in his eyes, and when he saw me, he began crying. A little later, when the X-rays were hung, the doctor saw that there was a break right where the tech had been twisting. “That must have hurt,” the doctor said, “holding your arm that way.” Travis nodded gravely. He wasn’t crying anymore. He’d been given a lollipop and a sticker that said I just got an X-ray!
“Travis, it’s not all right. I want you to know that Dad and I both know that. And we also want you to understand that this decision had nothing to do with you.” I just got taken off the hook for my parents’ divorce!
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Why would it have to do with me?”
“Well, that’s absolutely right, Travis. We both love you very much, and we will both continue to be your parents. It’s just that Dad and I can’t live together anymore.”
“Why?”
“Well …” Sometimes people, even when they really love each other, they kind of grow apart. And it becomes very hard to … “Because your father is a very, very selfish person who thinks only of himself. Always has, always will. He deserted me, Travis, just like that. I had no idea he was so unhappy. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what to do. I really hate him for this. I hate him!” I put my hand to my mouth, start to cry. “Oh, Travis, I’m sorry.”
“I’m going upstairs to my room for a while.”
“Wait. I—”
“Mom, please?”
“Yes, all right.” A weight attaches itself to my chest, sinks in. And in. Maybe it’s a heart attack. I hope it is.
Travis walks quickly up the stairs. I hear his door close. I hold one of my hands with the other, stare out the window. Sit there. Sit. When I see the sun beginning to go down, I head up to his bedroom. On the pretense of asking what he’d like for dinner.
Tomorrow morning I will call someone for help.
To think that I asked David to let me be the one to tell Travis, and to let me be alone, telling him. I should have known better. I don’t blame David for leaving me, I would like to leave me, too. I would like to step into the body of a woman who does not get lost going around the block, who does not smell of garlic for three days after she eats it, who can make conversation with David’s clients at a restaurant rather than going into the ladies’ room to sit in the
stall and find things in her purse to play with. David has never liked my mother, who is just plain foolish, or my best friend, Rita, who does not censor her thoughts enough to suit him. Gray hair is popping out all over my head, I have become intimately acquainted with cellulite, and just last week, I awakened to hear myself snoring. I want to leave, too. But I can’t.
I go upstairs and knock on Travis’s door. There is a moment. Then he calls, “Come in,” and I can feel the relief clear to the edges of my scalp.
2
Whenever the phone rings, I answer it as if the rescuers have appeared in a helicopter above me and are lowering the rope. “Hello?” I say, meaning, Please. It is never the rescuers. It is a cheerful young girl wanting to know if I would like to contribute to the ballet. Not this year, I say. It is Monica Kaplan, asking if I’d like to contribute a dozen cupcakes for the bake sale coming up in October. I’ll bring a few dozen, I say. And now it is my mother.
“Honey, you have got to get right back on the horse. I mean it. I don’t say you’re not hurting, God knows I know that, but you’ve got to get right out there and start dating. You’re still a young woman, forty-two is nothing—you’re an infant.”
It is twelve noon. I am sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of mail-order catalogues and an empty box of Godiva chocolates, which I now know are seriously overrated. Also with an empty Scotch glass, but I didn’t put much in there. Hardly anything. I pull the telephone away from my ear and lay it on my chest, breathe out a long sigh. I wish I hadn’t told my mother so soon. But I had to.
I put the phone back to my ear. “Ma, I’m not ready to date. For God’s sake. I couldn’t care less about that. I just want to figure out how to keep Travis … safe.” I look at the Scotch glass, turn it upside down.
“Well, he’s safe, Sam, he’s with his mother. Of course he’s safe! And despite what you may think, children are really very, very resilient. You’d be surprised. I can tell you with all certainty that what Travis wants right now is for you to go on with your life. That’s what will help him the most. He doesn’t want to see you mooning around, doing nothing. You haven’t cried in front of him, have you? For God’s sake, don’t cry in front of him, whatever you do. He’s taking his cues from you: if you’re happy, he’ll be happy. Think of it as your job to pick yourself up and get going again. Why, when your father died, I didn’t waste any time. I went right out and started meeting people.”