would call to her from the stairs, after not having looked her in the eye for two months. It was like being snowbound with someone’s demented uncle: Should marriage be like that? She wasn’t sure.
She seldom saw him anymore when he got up in the morning and left for his office. And when he came home from work, he would disappear down the basement stairs. Nightly, in the anxious conjugal dusk that was now their only life together, after the kids went to bed, the house would fill up with fumes. When she called down to him about this he never answered. He seemed to have turned into some sort of space alien. Of course later she would understand that all this meant he was involved with another woman, but at the time, protecting her own vanity and sanity, she was working with two hypotheses only: brain tumor or space alien.
“All husbands are space aliens,” said her friend Jan.
“God help me, I had no idea,” said Kit. She began spreading peanut butter on a pretzel and eating quickly.
“In fact,” said Jan, “my sister and I call them UFOs.”
It stood for something. Kit hated to ask.
“Ungrateful fuckers,” Jan said.
Kit thought for a moment. “But what about the
o
?” she asked. “You said
UFO
.”
There was a short silence. “Ungrateful fuckeroos,” Jan added quickly. “I know that doesn’t make perfect sense.”
“He’s in such disconnect. His judgment is so bad.”
“Not on the planet he lives on. On
his
planet he’s a veritable Solomon. ‘Bring the stinkin’ baby to me now!’ ”
“Do you think people can be rehabilitated and forgiven?”
“Sure! Look at Ollie North.”
“Well, he lost that Senate race. He was not sufficiently forgiven.”
“But he got some votes,” Jan insisted.
“Yeah, and now what is he doing?”
“Now he’s back promoting a line of fire-retardant pajamas. It’s a life!” Jan paused. “Do you fight about it?”
“About what?” asked Kit.
“The rockets back to his homeland.”
Kit sighed. “Yes, the toxic military crafts business poisoning our living space. Do I fight? I don’t fight I just, well, OK: I ask a few questions from time to time. I ask, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask, ‘Are you trying to asphyxiate your entire family?’ I ask, ‘Did you hear me?’ Then I ask, ‘Did you hear me?’ again. Then I ask, ‘Are you deaf?’ I also ask, ‘What do you think a marriage is? I’m really just curious to know,’ and also, ‘Is this your idea of a well-ventilated place?’ A simple interview, really.I don’t believe in fighting. I believe in giving peace a chance. I also believe in internal bleeding.” She paused to shift the phone more comfortably against her face. “I’m also interested,” Kit said, “in those forensically undetectable dissolving plastic bullets. Have you heard of those?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe I’m wrong about those. I’m probably wrong. That’s where the Mysterious Car Crash may have to come in.” In the chrome of the refrigerator she caught the reflection of her own face, part brunette Shelley Winters, part potato, the finely etched sharps and accidentals beneath her eyes a musical interlude amidst the bloat. In every movie she had seen with Shelley Winters in it, Shelley Winters was the one who died. Peanut butter was stuck high and dry on Kit’s gums. On the counter a large old watermelon had begun to sag and pull apart in the middle along the curve of seeds, like a shark’s grin, and she lopped off a wedge, rubbed its cool point around the inside of her mouth. It had been a year since Rafe had kissed her. She sort of cared and sort of didn’t.A woman had to choose her own particular unhappiness carefully. That was the only happiness in life: to choose the best unhappiness. An unwise move, good God, you could squander everything.
The summons took her by surprise. It came in the mail, addressed to her, and there it was, stapled to divorce papers. She’d been properly served. The bitch
She seldom saw him anymore when he got up in the morning and left for his office. And when he came home from work, he would disappear down the basement stairs. Nightly, in the anxious conjugal dusk that was now their only life together, after the kids went to bed, the house would fill up with fumes. When she called down to him about this he never answered. He seemed to have turned into some sort of space alien. Of course later she would understand that all this meant he was involved with another woman, but at the time, protecting her own vanity and sanity, she was working with two hypotheses only: brain tumor or space alien.
“All husbands are space aliens,” said her friend Jan.
“God help me, I had no idea,” said Kit. She began spreading peanut butter on a pretzel and eating quickly.
“In fact,” said Jan, “my sister and I call them UFOs.”
It stood for something. Kit hated to ask.
“Ungrateful fuckers,” Jan said.
Kit thought for a moment. “But what about the
o
?” she asked. “You said
UFO
.”
There was a short silence. “Ungrateful fuckeroos,” Jan added quickly. “I know that doesn’t make perfect sense.”
“He’s in such disconnect. His judgment is so bad.”
“Not on the planet he lives on. On
his
planet he’s a veritable Solomon. ‘Bring the stinkin’ baby to me now!’ ”
“Do you think people can be rehabilitated and forgiven?”
“Sure! Look at Ollie North.”
“Well, he lost that Senate race. He was not sufficiently forgiven.”
“But he got some votes,” Jan insisted.
“Yeah, and now what is he doing?”
“Now he’s back promoting a line of fire-retardant pajamas. It’s a life!” Jan paused. “Do you fight about it?”
“About what?” asked Kit.
“The rockets back to his homeland.”
Kit sighed. “Yes, the toxic military crafts business poisoning our living space. Do I fight? I don’t fight I just, well, OK: I ask a few questions from time to time. I ask, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask, ‘Are you trying to asphyxiate your entire family?’ I ask, ‘Did you hear me?’ Then I ask, ‘Did you hear me?’ again. Then I ask, ‘Are you deaf?’ I also ask, ‘What do you think a marriage is? I’m really just curious to know,’ and also, ‘Is this your idea of a well-ventilated place?’ A simple interview, really.I don’t believe in fighting. I believe in giving peace a chance. I also believe in internal bleeding.” She paused to shift the phone more comfortably against her face. “I’m also interested,” Kit said, “in those forensically undetectable dissolving plastic bullets. Have you heard of those?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe I’m wrong about those. I’m probably wrong. That’s where the Mysterious Car Crash may have to come in.” In the chrome of the refrigerator she caught the reflection of her own face, part brunette Shelley Winters, part potato, the finely etched sharps and accidentals beneath her eyes a musical interlude amidst the bloat. In every movie she had seen with Shelley Winters in it, Shelley Winters was the one who died. Peanut butter was stuck high and dry on Kit’s gums. On the counter a large old watermelon had begun to sag and pull apart in the middle along the curve of seeds, like a shark’s grin, and she lopped off a wedge, rubbed its cool point around the inside of her mouth. It had been a year since Rafe had kissed her. She sort of cared and sort of didn’t.A woman had to choose her own particular unhappiness carefully. That was the only happiness in life: to choose the best unhappiness. An unwise move, good God, you could squander everything.
The summons took her by surprise. It came in the mail, addressed to her, and there it was, stapled to divorce papers. She’d been properly served. The bitch
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