From the moment I entered the icy air-conditioned office I knew this was the last place I wanted to be. My ex-wife was as frigid as a frosty slushy in winter, buttoned up in a stiff suit with hair flipping and lipstick in an all-perfect line.
“Please come in and take a seat,” the man welcomed us both as we ventured into his orderly office.
“So glad to be here,” Edith gushed, happier than I’d seen her in months.
The man moved to a polished mahogany desk while I found a comfy leather chair and plunked myself down. Edith sat across from me with her patent red shoes pointed straight ahead, as stoic as an overconfident schoolmarm.
“When did this start?” The man grabbed a pen.
“April 12.”
“Of this year?”
“No, twenty-two years ago.”
“It’s been going on that long?”
“Yes,” Edith sighed.
“What happened twenty-two years ago?”
“We got married.”
The man nodded, writing a paragraph in shorthand while I slumped deeper in my chair. Edith and I had only been separated for two months, but nothing had changed. If I could have tunnelled like a mole out of the confining office, I would have tried. As it was, I stared at Edith’s fresh manicure and thought, So this is what she does with my money. Then I snuggled into the cushy leather for a nonchalant siesta.
“So, do you remember any actual problems in your first year of marriage?” The man waited.
I opened one eye, then shut it tightly. Edith was already unlatching her bulging briefcase. “I have it here. I came prepared.” The infamous first notebook was waved eagerly. Pages flipped. “Here it is — our wedding day.”
My mind instantly flew to that early spring morning full of blissful dreams, uncharted hopes and ultimate chaos. People scurried everywhere — fluffing, primping and gushing over an occasion they wouldn’t even remember a year later. Still, we tolerated the fuss with surprising composure — smiling at everyone like moronic laughing Buddhas out of a disturbing midnight movie, while Edith’s mother ordered everyone into tight formations. I had been assigned a list: put the cake downstairs, bring bulletins, corsages, napkins (cloth, not paper), the marriage certificate, and wedding rings. I was amazed that I did not forget anything; in fact, the day was a brilliant success. I returned my attention to Edith’s narrative with renewed interest.
“He dropped your mother’s corsage in a puddle?”
“Deliberately.” Edith was emphatic.
I had completely forgotten about that misfortune while carrying the sacred corsages from my car to the church. How had it happened? I could still see Edith’s mother puffing in horror as I handed her the dripping orchid after wiping it desperately on my rented tuxedo.“Don’t do that, you’ll squish the precious thing,” she squealed, snatching it away. “Would you mind helping me put it on?” I tried to attach the drooping orchid to her hefty bosom and then —
“He pinned her?” The man’s eyebrow twitched, but he regained his composure.
“Yes, right on her —”
“How interesting.”
“Poked Mama as hard as he could.”
I tried not to smile as I recalled Mama’s furious hopping, like a heated electron, clutching herself and hollering, “I’ve been stabbed!”
The man’s pen scratched another paragraph. “Was there anything else?” He waited eagerly.
“No, I didn’t bother to note that he brought paper napkins instead of the cloth ones. I guess in light of our honeymoon that was best forgotten.”
The honeymoon? I squeezed my eyelids closed, trying to ignore the sensual pull invoked by that memory. I could instantly smell the humid tropical breeze caressing the white beach as I lay baking on the warm sand. The ocean waves sloshed against my feet. It was two weeks of perfect paradise. Edith’s voice pulled me back to reality with an unsympathetic thud.
“He didn’t even want to be with me.”
The man’s pen whipped across the page.
“He was completely insensitive. He just left me in the hotel.” My thoughts raced unwillingly to Edith’s bedside in the posh resort. Propped on puffy pillows with a cold bag across her forehead, Edith whined, “I know you don’t like it when I drink, but if you didn’t make such a big deal about it, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
The man shook his head. “He left you in the hotel? Very peculiar.”
Edith wiped away an invisible tear. “And then, he tried to drown me.”
I suddenly jolted, eyes popping open, perplexed. What was she talking about now?
“He scooped me up, towel and all, and threw me in the ocean. It was terrifying!”
Oh, that. Yes, I suppose I did dunk her a few times. I recalled with purest pleasure the kicking, screaming and slapping that had ensued as I moved closer to the dreaded ocean. “Stop it, you know I don’t like water,” she had pleaded before I tossed her in. Splash! She emerged like a drenched alley cat with snarls and hisses. My face broke into a spontaneous grin — what a honeymoon.
The man grabbed a new writing pad from the neat pile on his desk. “Is there anything else?”
“Not from 1978. Just the ordinary.” Pages flipped: didn’t take out the garbage, not home for dinner on time, didn’t take out the garbage, ran over the cat.
More notes were scribbled as fast as the man could write — new paper, new pen.
“He forgot our anniversary.”
“Normal.”
“He forgot Valentine’s Day twice.”
“Normal, but stupid.”
Another notebook was produced: 1979-1984. “He skipped his own birthday party.”
The man nodded. “Continue.”
I grimaced as I too recalled that nightmarish day. I’ve never been fond of birthdays, and pointedly mentioned that I was opposed to a big party, especially one that included my beloved mother in-law, who seemed to be a fixture in my life. Then, on July 12, as I turned into our crescent, I instantly noticed that my parking spot was taken by dearest mom’s station wagon. The front yard was swarming with snotty-nosed nieces and nephews — who I could never stand — and they were blowing bubbles of dish detergent all over my well-groomed lawn. Lastly, to add persistent insult to injury, I noticed Edith’s mother waving from the bay window, her mouth stuffed with Chinese spring rolls, which I hate. Yes, I did escape to the nearest doughnut shop, where I buried my grief in a steaming large coffee and half a dozen apple fritters, but how was that my fault?
I let the cushioned leather chair swallow me up as I quietly snored through 1984-1995. Edith’s narrative droned like a boring Sunday sermon — you’re a sinner, you’re a sinner — didn’t take the garbage out, missed Johnny’s soccer game, said I was fat, sabotaged my diet, forgot Valentine’s Day, complained about my cooking, said I was too skinny.
At last the room grew silent like a spellbound courtroom before an anticipated verdict. The last notebook was closed in solemn remembrance and I sighed with relief, venturing to open one eyelid just a slit. Suddenly the man, who obviously wanted the session to continue and perhaps remembered that I was paying for this therapy, turned to me expectantly. I straightened, surprised that I actually had the floor and was now given the chance for testimony. But where to begin?
“What do you have to say?” The man seemed impatient, drumming his fingers on the desk.
I paused, grasping for words that were as distant from my bruised mind as Aztec treasure from a peasant. My thoughts raced; should I start with the honeymoon? Without Edith’s precision of detail, I would evidently be as sunk as a torpedoed submarine.
Finally the man prodded me. “Is what she said true?”
“No!” I hollered, so glad to get that one word off my chest.
Edith tossed her head indignantly. “Oh, I just made all of these things up for the fun of it.” She reached for one of her notebooks, opened it to the back, and began writing furiously.
I stared at her with new awareness, finally comprehending. She had been doing exactly that for years; our marriage never really had a chance.
I watched Edith as she stamped a period with decided finality. She looked at me with unhidden satisfaction. “If you really believe that our failed marriage is my fault,” she challenged, “where is your proof?” She gathered her notebooks like beloved baby chicks and held them with fond warmth.
I slowly rose to my feet, my thoughts cold — calculated — conclusive. It was suddenly clear to me that each person’s expectations pave the road to their fortune. The deeper question: whether to jot that profound thought down — in a notebook.
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