I let friendships with my single friends fall by the wayside because it just seemed like so much work to maintain them. Finding neutral conversational territory is a killer, especially when they’re out in the world working and your biggest problem is finding drapes that complement the new sofa. Plus, I couldn’t help but feel that my working friends judged my staying home, particularly when we didn’t have kids. The last time I had lunch with my friend Katie, a preschool teacher with three boys, she asked me what I did all day. I rambled on about appointments and meetings for about ten minutes before I realized I didn’t have a very good answer for her. We didn’t have lunch again.
I sat at the counter bar, toying with an apple from the crystal bowl we’d bought on our honeymoon in the Bahamas. I hated that stupid bowl. I’d wanted to buy a painted ceramic one I saw in the straw market, but Mike insisted on something from the duty-free shop near our departure gate. He promised it would be something we’d use for years, a story we could tell our children.
Because nothing says romance and adventure to kids like tax-free breakables bought in the airport.
I didn’t want the bowl. In fact, when I looked around the kitchen, I saw a lot of things I didn’t want. Hideous pink rosebud china that had belonged to Mike’s great-aunt. Copper-bottom pots that I was afraid to use because they weren’t dishwasher safe. Champagne flutes that we hadn’t used since our wedding toast, but were kept displayed proudly in the china hutch. I ambled into the living room and saw more that I could live without. And in our bedroom, as well as Mike’s office and my closet. I didn’t need any of it, never needed it, rarely touched it. I could walk away from all of it.
I didn’t even want the house. I knew that some divorcing women plant their feet like Scarlett at Tara when it comes to moving out of their houses. But I really didn’t care. It was a horrible irony that I’d spent years decorating and redecorating the house and still didn’t like the way it looked. Don’t get me wrong; it was beautiful. Thanks to the help of expensive, dedicated decorators, everything matched, everything coordinated, like something from a magazine. It looked like I’d bought rooms from a catalogue called Earth Tones Your Mother Will Approve Of. And I hated earth tones. I always wanted to paint the walls Caribbean Turquoise or Lemon Meringue Pie. Mike said it would make the house look like a preschool. So we went with Terra Cotta and Spanish Moss. And I hated it. If I wanted earth on my walls, I would have lived in an adobe hut.
There was a small matter of pride, the fact that the house had been purchased with proceeds of selling our first home - the down payment for which came from my family. But I wouldn’t want to live there, even if Mike handed it to me in the divorce. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep there again. I could force Mike to sell or to get him to buy me out, because if my leaving him didn’t hurt him, the loss of equity certainly would. I wasn’t afraid of living in an apartment. Singletree actually had a very nice complex out on Hartson Road called Pheasant Hollow, despite the fact that the only wildlife in that direction was possums. It was the cleanest, newest housing available for the town’s unmarried set, though most singles had to have several roommates to afford the pricey units. Of course, Beebee lived there. Alone. On what Mike paid her.
I had a feeling I would be kicking myself for years to come over the signs I missed.
I didn’t want the bowl, the china, the stupid unusable pots. But I did want the little watercolor Mike had bought me for our first anniversary. It was probably worthless, but I liked the way the blues and greens flowed together. And the quilt my aunt made for me when I graduated from high school. I wandered from room to room, clutching the items to my chest. While Roy worked on the back door, I boxed up everything that belonged to me or my family. I took all of the pictures that made me look thin. I took the clothes that I wore for me. None of the gowns I’d worn to the country club formals, nothing I’d worn to ass-numbingly dull state Financial Advisors Association’s dinners, nothing Mike’s mother had bought for me. This left a lot of clothes in my closet.
I didn’t break anything. I didn’t even throw anything out of place. I thought about leaving my vibrator in the middle of the bed, because Beebee was going to need it. As pointed and clever as that would have been, I’d worked too hard to get that thing to leave it behind.
Did you know that because Aphrodite’s Palace has a strict no return policy, they give the merchandise a test buzz before you leave the store? I didn’t.
I threw the vibrator, or as I’d come to think of it, Old Reliable, into the last of my boxes and toted them to the car. The locksmith was waiting for me at the front door, new keys in hand. “Ma’am, I know this is none of my business, but we see a lot of this sort of thing in my line of work,” he said, accepting my check. “I’m sorry you’re going through a rough patch, but it’s company policy to tell you that unless you can show us a court order barring another occupant of this home from the premises, we will provide them with a key if they can show current picture ID listing this address as their residence.”
“That’s fine with me,” I said, looking across the street to Mrs. Revell’s front window, which was empty. “I can’t lock him out of the house, but I can make it more difficult for him to get in.”
Roy did not smile as he extended a clipboard toward me. “Can you sign this release stating that I have informed you of this policy?”
“You’ve had to give that speech a couple of times, huh?”
Roy nodded and handed me a copy of my receipt. He gave me a fatherly, somewhat condescending smile. “Whatever he did, I’m sure he’s sorry”
I handed Roy a twenty-dollar bill as a tip for speedy service. “Urn, no, but thanks for playing.”
You know that feeling you got when you had a bad report card and you were waiting for your parents to come home to sign it? Time seems to go by too quickly, but drag on interminably at the same time? Well, waiting for your husband to come home so you can tell him you’re leaving his cheating ass works pretty much the same way. I just sat on the couch and watched the minute hands move. Around six, I was sitting in the kitchen picking at a sandwich when Mike called and told our answering machine that he had to work late to prepare a proposal for a new client.
By eleven, I’d figured out that he wasn’t coming home for the night. He’d had to work through the night several times in the last year, what with being so busy and all. But I stupidly had believed he was actually working. I’d felt sorry for him, packing him little care packages with clean shirts and a little shaving kit and Tupperwared meals. Mike was so touched he actually sent me (correctly addressed) flowers. White tulips, my favorite. Of course, now I suspected that they were guilty “You made me dinner while I was boning my secretary at a cheap motel” flowers. And the fact that I would question every single nice thing Mike had done for me over the last few years was not exactly conducive to sleep.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t bring myself to climb into our bed. I had no place there anymore. And I wouldn’t lower myself to sleeping on the couch. It’s hard to be a vengeful warrior woman when your husband comes home to find you cuddled up under an afghan watching infomericals.
Bored and restless, I sat down at the computer, fired up the internet browser, opened up E-mail Expo… and we all know how that turned out.
I was never going to sleep now. My house felt like a tomb, which was oddly appropriate because when Mike came home, he might actually murder me. So I drove to my parents’ place. Never mind that it was 2:00 a.m. Never mind that it was highly likely that Mrs. Ferrell next door would call the cops and tell them someone was breaking into my parents’ house. (The woman believed television was evil, but watching her neighbors through binoculars was perfectly okay.) Never mind that when Mike eventually did arrive home, he wouldn’t be able to get into the house and the angry phone calls would begin. I wanted to be somewhere I could sleep, somewhere I could hide.
After climbing up the darkened stairs, I dropped my bag in my old bedroom and flopped back on the
white canopied bed Mama couldn’t bear to replace. With my shoes and clothes still on, I pulled the old pink sheets back and pulled the covers over my head. Unwilling to think about what the morning would bring, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to sleep.
5 • The Shoe Drops
************************************************************************************************
I woke just before noon feeling oddly hungover. For a second, I wondered why I was in my old room at my parents’ house before it all rushed back.
It wasn’t a nightmare. I’d actually sent the thing.
I sat up and winced at the pain in my neck from sleeping in a nonorthopedic twin bed. If memory served, I had given up on sleeping around 4:00 a.m. and spent the wee hours of the morning signing Mike up for magazine subscriptions ranging from Hustler to Knitters’ Digest. I called telemarketing agencies and left them messages to call Mike’s number. Under a slightly less legal heading, I placed classified ads on Craigslist, Freecycle, the Pennysaver, and the Singletree Messenger offering Mike’s brandnew bass boat for a rock-bottom price of zero dollars. He was going to be getting a lot of phone calls. A lot of phone calls.
Phone calls. I pressed my hand to my grainy, tired eyes. Mike had no idea where I was. He probably came home this morning to an empty, locked house and reported me as a missing person. I was going to end up another missing blond, white woman on the news.
I ran to the dresser for my cell phone and checked my voice mail. There was one message: “Hi, honey, it’s me. I’m still at the office. Thank God for those clean shirts you sent me, huh? I’m sorry -”
A bubble of hope slipped up from my stomach to my spine. There was the voice of the man I married. He still cared. He was grateful for something I’d done. He was sorry. Maybe I could send a follow-up message to everyone on the mailing list asking them to delete the first message without reading it. Maybe -…
“I’m sorry to do this to you twice in a row, but I’m not going to be home tomorrow night either. I’ve got to go to a Lions Club thing and then I’m supposed to meet Brent Loudermilk about some Little League thing he wants the firm to cosponsor. Who knows how late that could go? See you later.”
The bubble burst.
Mike was so disconnected from me, from our home, that he hadn’t even realized that he’d been locked out of it. He hadn’t spoken to me in almost forty-eight hours and he still had plans to go out. And I sincerely doubted it was to a Lions Club dinner. I could have been actually missing and he wouldn’t have noticed.
I went into my parents’ bathroom and ran a scalding hot tub. They had the only updated bathroom in the house and I was in dire need of a bath that didn’t involve rubber duckie non-slip decals. Peeling off my grimy, long-past-their-prime khakis and T-shirt, I slipped into the tub. The nip of the water felt good, a connection back to the reality I’d only kept casual contact with over the last few days. I sank to my chin, then my nose, letting my breath make little ripples across the surface of the water.
Now that the initial shock had worn off, I kept expecting this wave of depression to overtake me, a heavy weight in my chest that would pull me under and crush me with its force. But that precious bubble of hope had popped and I didn’t feel anything: nothing good, nothing bad. Nothing. I think I was more depressed when George Clooney left ER. It felt like I was rooting around in my brain, probing it like a sore tooth, trying to find some hidden abscess of misery. Surely a normal person wouldn’t feel like this at the end of a marriage, the destruction of a life. A normal person would feel something -…
I heard my cell phone ring from my room.
Uh-oh.
I let the phone ring until it sent the call to voice mail. Then Mama’s phone rang from her nightstand and Daddy’s private office line down the hall jangled to life. Apparently the e-mails had landed.
Well, if I couldn’t feel depressed, dread would have to do.
******
My voice mails were an odd and interesting mix that morning.
“Lacey, this is Jim Moffitt,” was the first message on my voice mail. “I think we need to talk. I know you’re going through an emotional time right now. Just call me.”
Damn it. I forgot Reverend Moffitt was on the mailing list. He was a nice man and wonderful pastor, but we hadn’t gotten particularly close in his two years at the church. And I was pretty sure Mike and I were well beyond a good old-fashioned pastoral counseling session at this point.
The next message was from Mike. “Lacey, baby, my mom just called. She mumbled something about the newsletter and then she was crying so hard that I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I didn’t see a receipt for postage. Did you mail something out without showing it to me? What’s going on?”
Double damn it. I forgot to take Mike’s parents off the list.
“Lacey, it’s Mama, Norma Willet just called us in Hilton Head and told me I needed to call you right away. Is everything okay?”
I really should have called my mama before I did this. Well, the next time I find out my husband is cheating on me, she’ll be first on my emergency contact list.
“Lacey, it’s Jeanie Crawford, I just got your e-mail, and I wanted you to know that I’m so sorry for what’s happening to you. I gotta tell you, I laughed my head off at what you wrote.”
Well, that was just strange.
Mike, again. “Lacey, baby, it’s me. Bob Martin just called and said I need to get a tighter rein on you. What does that mean? Call me.”
So apparently people were calling Mike about the newsletter but were too embarrassed to give him details. Good, let him squirm.
“Lacey, you need to call me, right now. Right now.” That was the last of Mike’s messages.
6 • Bagels and Bitchery
************************************************************************************************
I turned all phones off that afternoon after my voice mail and Mama’s answering machine filled up. The one person who’d stopped calling me was Mike, whose divorce lawyer, Bill Bodine, had left a message stating that all future communications from Mike would come through him.
In retrospect, it would have been wiser to leave the phones on as that might have given me some warning that my mother-in-law would be dropping by for a visit. Instead, picking at a bagel, I opened up my mother’s front door to find Wynnie Terwilliger, standing there, twitching.
This wasn’t good.
While Mike claimed to be a modern man, his mom pretty much ruined him for women born after 1952. His mom didn’t work as he grew up, so he was used to coming home to an immaculately clean house, hot meals, and pressed shirts. Wynnie considered dust bunnies to be an insidious threat against democracy and the sanctity of the American home
Wynnie never missed an appointment with the colorist that had kept her pageboy the same shade of dark honey blond since the late 1970s. Today she was wearing teal pants and a jacket set off with the silver dragonfly pin she considered her “signature piece.” That was strangely appropriate as Wynnie was also stick thin and had no measurable sense of humor.
We’d never had any real problems, because, in general, I met her standards for a good daughter-in-law. I came from a good family, kept a nice home, entertained beautifully, and made the family look good. In general, I did what I was told when it came to holidays and family events because I just didn’t have a reason not to. It’s hard to object to spending every Christmas with your husband’s parents when your parents were going to be there anyway.
This didn’t necessarily mean I enjoyed spending time with my mother-in-law. If passive aggression were an Olympic sport, Wynnie would have her own Wheaties box. She couldn’t seem to get through a conversation without lovingly correcting me, whether it was the way I fried chicken or showing the proper reverence for the roof “her boy” put over my head. Every Christmas, she gave me clothes at least one size too small and reminded me that “Mikey has always liked his girls thin.”
Wynnie hone
stly believed Mike was perfect in every conceivable way. So telling her that her precious baby boy suffered from cranial-rectal inversion would have done little to improve her disposition. The general lack of acrimony in our relationship left me unprepared for the venom in her eyes when I opened the door.
“Well, Lacey?” she demanded. “What do you have to say?”
I offered her a bite of my breakfast. “Bagel?”
Wynnie stuck her hands on her hips and shouted, “Are you going to stand there and act like you haven’t shamed the whole family? That you haven’t made a fool out of yourself in front of the entire town?”
I swallowed. “No.”
She sighed, staring at me for a long moment, and tapped her foot. “Well, we can’t dwell on what’s been done. We just have to fix it. I think you and Mike need to go away on a long vacation. Get to know each other again. Maybe go on a cruise.”
“You completely misinterpreted that ‘no,” I told her as she marched past me, into the house. “I’m divorcing him. Wynnie, it’s over.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Wynnie waved aside my announcement with a flick of her wrist. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “We just need to get the two of you out of town for a while, away from all this fuss, to give your mama and me time to smooth this all over. We’ll tell people that you were playing around with a new way to send the newsletter, wrote up a funny gag version of your e-mail and accidentally sent that out to the mailing list instead of the real one. And that you’re very sorry for the misunderstanding. And now you two are on a second honeymoon to try to forget the whole thing.” She flipped her phone open. “I’ll just call my travel agent and set this whole thing up. Do you want Jamaica or Nassau?”