Always the Last to Know(15)
But of course, he didn’t. If he’d meant to do it, he would’ve done it. If he really and truly wanted to be helpful with the laundry, say, he wouldn’t have poured bleach right into the washing machine—on darks, no less—three times in a row.
“For a smart man, you sure can be dumb,” I said, trying to keep things light.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “There’s a learning curve.”
“And there’s three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes ruined because you didn’t read the instructions or listen to me.” The thrifty Norwegian in me was furious.
“I didn’t like that shirt, anyway.”
“Well, I liked mine a lot.”
“Barb. It’s not a big deal. Buy another one. You don’t have to get so upset all the time.”
“I’m not upset. I’m stating a fact.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in that condescending way that really meant, I’m sorry you’re being so petty, and I’m sorry I have to deal with this, and I’m sorry you don’t realize I’m the most wonderful thing in the known world.
I’m not sure when I started picturing widowhood as my happy alternative. John was healthy, but he was a man. He played golf. Weren’t there lightning strikes on golf courses? He drove down to the city to see Sadie, and you know how those New York drivers are.
It wasn’t that I wanted him to die. I just didn’t want to be married anymore.
“I think there’s something called divorce,” Caro said one blissful night when John had decided to stay over in the city (on the pullout couch in Sadie’s apartment, pretending to be twenty again, it seemed. We could afford a hotel room, after all).
I sighed. “We’ve been married for fifty years almost, don’t you know. Do people get divorced after that long?”
“Yes, but between now and your death—let’s say twenty-five more years—how do you want your life to be?” she said, taking a sip of her margarita. She had a point.
I thought for a moment. “Exactly the same, minus him.”
I’d already done some research. We were comfortable because of John’s work, but he never made partner. Too unambitious, too friendly to move up in the world. If we got a divorce, both of us would take a hit financially, which I told Caro. “I love this house and everything in it. I don’t want to have to move in with Juliet or live in some three-family house in New London and worry about paying my bills.” Caro had divorced long ago. But she had family money, and she’d gone back to school and become a public relations consultant and made a real good income. Real good.
She nodded slowly. “So . . . I guess we have to murder him.” She flashed her beautiful smile. “Or . . . or what? Is there any chance you can make things better? It’s not like he’s a horrible man.”
“No, he’s not horrible.”
“Trying to get along again would probably be better than murder or divorce.”
“Probably.” I smiled, but the thought made my shoulders sag. Another task for me to do. You could bet John’s friends weren’t telling him to be a more loving husband.
“As I tell my clients, fake it till you make it. You never know. If you pretend to be in love, maybe you’ll fall back in love again. So much of happiness is the habit of positivity.” Another sunny smile.
“I’m very glad to have you as my best friend, Caro,” I said, my voice a little husky.
“Oh, Barb! I’m glad to have you, too! I love you! And I love this margarita! Please tell me there’s more.”
We spent the rest of the night chatting, and she drank a bit too much and stayed over in the guest room, which she could do without a single phone call explaining her actions. She had two boys a little older than Juliet; one lived in Vermont, and the other in New York City, so just like that, we were having a sleepover. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun with anyone except Juliet. Next to my daughter, Caro was my best friend. She lived around the corner and had brought over a cake the very first day we moved in. We clicked right away.
I took her advice, even though my heart wasn’t in it. I tried. I made a point of lining up things to do with John, or for the two of us and with other couples, like our newlywed days. Caro had a steady beau named Ted (she refused to use the word boyfriend), and the four of us took ballroom dancing lessons, though John was clumsy as an ox on the dance floor. Karen, the dance instructor, would laugh till she cried sometimes, making us laugh, too. When Caro ruptured her Achilles tendon on a hike, we dropped out. There was a bowling league we tried, but I had some arthritis in my wrist, and it was painful. We went on a wine-tasting tour of Connecticut. Booked a trip to Italy with a group, which John summarized as “on the bus, off the bus; on the bus, off the bus” for the girls. Sadie lectured us about how shallow those bus tours were, and how we should’ve asked her for recommendations instead, since she was an expert on all things Europe (in her own mind, at least).
I’d thought our trip was quite nice. I liked the ease of the coach, not having to wonder where we’d stay each night, knowing a fairly decent hotel was part of the package. No, we didn’t explore and wander on our own, but we saw some beautiful churches and countryside. Why did John have to poke fun at it?
It was the same as always, somehow. If we had a good time, John always credited someone else. “That Caro is a spitfire” or “Ted has the funniest stories, doesn’t he?” or “Boy, that museum had some amazing pieces!” There was never a “thanks for looking that up and buying the tickets and getting me out of my chair when I was whiny about going in the first place.” He never called me a spitfire or complimented me on telling a good story, even though Caro and Ted laughed and laughed when I told them about my childhood war with that giant goat we’d had.