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It's Not What She Meant

Eve just told me on the phone that she talked with a lawyer. It'll be $475 for a no-contest, no-fault divorce, and she wants us to split the fee. "Does that strike you as reasonable?" she asked.

"Whatever," I said.

She sounded uncomfortable. But then I thought she'll quickly get over it because she's getting exactly what she wants, with no hassle from me.

Despite the content of the conversation I found her voice pleasing. I imagined her sitting on the couch, the phone in the crook of her neck, Buster on her lap. I actually was savoring the brief discussion even though she was telling me things I didn't want to hear.

Savoring is the wrong word. To be more precise, I was just glad to once again hear her speak. My wife. My soul mate. My best friend in all the world. It's just you and me, sweetheart, and to hell with all the people who have hurt us. We will have each other, always, and that's all we'll ever need. You can count on me. I'll always be there for you, no matter what.

I close my eyes. She intends to make this legal and permanent, and she wants to do it sooner rather than later. Her determination, her desire to do it now, right away, takes me by surprise. What's the big rush?

My task is to say nothing and absorb it all. I have no choice. There's nothing I can do. I don't like it. Yes, I know-it's nothing personal. I'm not being singled out, this sort of thing just happens to people.

I remember: Eve held Buster up and made him dance. She moved his paws up and down, and then she laughed and smoothed back his ears, and stroked his fur and scratched behind his ears. "Buster-bunny!" she said to him. "Isn't this the greatest cat you've ever known?" And she turned to me, expectantly.

"Yes," I said. "The greatest."

Eve knew how much I loved Don Quixote, a blue-eyed seal point I had a long time ago. HE, of course, was the greatest cat I'd ever known. But Eve expected-demanded-that I put Quixote aside and acknowledge Buster as the greatest. And so I did.

In the kitchen. She says to me: "Wanna dance?"

"Hell, yes," I say.

"Do you come here often?" she says.

"As often as I can."

I slide my knee between her legs and lift her off the floor, turn half a circle, then gently set her back down again, and we continue our dance to a tune we hear in our heads. Will I be able to do that with the next woman in my life? Will she be light enough? As willing? Somehow I don't think so.

When did Eve know?

Probably last Thanksgiving.

She knew it was over, but despite the downward slide I thought there was still a chance we could work it out. It was my last solo at the piano with Ma, and the rest of them singing the chorus.

"When I was a lad, I served a term as office boy to an attorney's firm," I sang. "I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor, and I polished up the handle of the big front door."

Eve was quiet, remote. I sat alone, near the piano. She wouldn't join the singing as long as I was there. She and I would never sing together. She knew it. I didn't. Ma later said I was "morose." Eve told her I was morose all the time. Not true. I was in a bad mood that Thanksgiving for a compelling reason-my wife was getting further and further away.

* * *

At the Naval Academy I took photographs of a Marine gunny giving drill instruction to a bunch of midshipmen. Poor babies, their hearts weren't in it. A perfunctory performance. Also shot some of them preparing to cast off in a small sail boat. I took about a dozen rolls of Ektapress.

The Academy was a formidable, massive, lonely looking place. Grey granite buildings that seem much, much larger than they need to be. Big boxes clustered together, with no way to walk between them, you have to walk a long way around. On their facades are hundreds, thousands of windows. I passed a young man in mufti, and he said good morning and I nodded and returned the greeting.

I left the Academy grounds and walked the streets of Annapolis, below the tall bell tower of the State House. A charming little village, except it was still early and most of the shops hadn't opened yet. I stopped at a coffee house, got a cup of Columbian, a piece of carrot cake, and a copy of that morning's Washington Post. Sat at a table outside in the sunshine, eating and reading. The cake was surprisingly fresh, moist. At Borders, and also at Barnes & Noble, where Eve and I would go all the time, the cake was stale. Always.

After a while I put the paper down and closed my eyes, felt the warm sun on my face. I concentrated on sending Eve mental telepathic messages.

Call me.

Tell me you want to try again.

You know I still love you.

I'll love you forever.

I bore down on it. Repeated it over and over.

When she gets these powerful messages she'll realize she made a huge mistake. She should never have asked me to leave. I hope by now her new lover has gotten to be a pain in the ass. The novelty has worn off and she realizes sadly he is just like all the rest of them. Jealous. Controlling. Too demanding. Complaining all the time about how distant she is. Not respecting her need for solitude.

Peter Matthiessen says, quoting Zen, that sorrow is the essential fact of life. And an even more essential fact is that everything passes, even unhappiness. So I must remain in the moment and be attentive to everything, even this.

* * *

After the Annapolis shoot I polished all the lenses, wiped down the camera bodies, put the bag in the storage closet. Then I called for a pizza delivery. Double cheese with sausage, green peppers and anchovies. I continued reading "The Snow Leopard" as I ate, to keep my mind occupied. I didn't feel like watching Channel 6 Action News, which is what Eve and I would do when our weekly pizza arrived.

The taste of the pizza brought me right back to our living room in the Bryn Mawr house. We'd sit together on that couch I got at the flea market, and eat from the coffee table Eve made out of a remnant of a bureau.

When we finished our pizza she'd linger for about a minute or two, anxiously searching her mind for the right words to announce her intention, then she'd bolt upstairs to our bedroom, to resume her reading from the stack of paperbacks we'd get at Borders on our bi-weekly jaunts.

So here I am now, belly full of pizza and Diet Coke, just like at the Bryn Mawr house. And what's the difference between being here in this apartment alone, or being alone in Bryn Mawr? At least here I don't get a sense that somebody isn't meeting my needs. Or betraying me.

I like to believe she thinks of me at least as much as I think of her.

But most likely not.

Her new lover is a standup comic who works clubs in Center City Philadelphia. He's perfect for the rebound thing. The expectations of a new partner are enormously distracting and all consuming. But then, bummer: The comedian is sure to turn out to be exactly like all the others. He will want it all, her full attention and absolute loyalty, not the weak tea that she'd felt for me.

I remember the photograph one of the guests took of Eve and me at our wedding up at the lake. We stood at the end of the dock, in the sunlight, heads bowed toward each other. I see that image as the moment I believed I'd finally found the capacity to truly love a woman. Silly me.

But then if she were to call me, say later this evening, and timidly and tentatively say: "Are you really serious about wanting to try again?" I'll not hesitate. I'll tell her, "Absolutely, sweetheart. I love you." An exchange of just two simple sentences would be sufficient to restore the relationship. How sweet it will be to be in her arms once again! Because if she takes me back it means she finally realizes that what we had was truly valuable. She and I will work hard to resolve our problems. And that will be enough for me. You'll see.

I can imagine us sitting at the Marlane Diner. Comparing notes.

"Well?" she'll ask. "Did you have a lover?"

And I'll say "Sure, dozens! Couldn't keep the babes off me!"

She'll laugh.

And then I'll say, "No, I'm kidding. The last sex I've had was on December 9. You crawled into bed. Damp, warm, fragrant and naked after your shower. Do you remember?"

* * *

Fitful sleep. I awake with the sheet tangled in my legs. A vivid dream. I'm still with Eve, during that awful period between her announcement it was over and my final departure. We're sitting close together and she's singing some song and is having difficulty remembering the lyrics. It sounds like, "Baby, baby I love you...ain't no doubt about it..."

When Eve finishes singing she and I embrace. And I think, great! She's changed her mind. And yet I'm very cautious, I don't start assuming things are all right again. I don't want to open myself up for another great disappointment. I get an erection, which brushes her leg, and I wonder how she'll react.

She jumps up.

"Oh, no, that's not what I meant a-tall," she says, quoting Prufrock.

* * *

This morning I was struck by a severe envy attack when I encountered in a magazine some color photographs of an ancient castle on the outskirts of Florence, Italy, that had been converted into a restaurant. The text was by a woman who goes to Tuscany five, six times a year on business. She stays in a nearby hotel and she wanders the Northern Italian countryside. Then she takes a swim, and later dines at that elegant place. The photos were taken in late afternoon, and the hills and vineyards and olive groves are suffused with a poignant golden light.

I say to myself: Why don't you just pack up and go to Italy? There's absolutely nothing for you here anymore.

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