Read Online The Epicure's Lament by Kate Christensen - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Christensen
Tags: Contemporary
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could have tried to seduce you if she'd really wanted the marriage to continue.”
“Why do you think?” Dennis asked—rhetorically, no doubt.
“Obviously,” I shot back, “she was trying to bring it all to a head so she could get it over and done with. She was looking for an out. She was sick of you.”
“I think you're right,” he said.
I sat up and lit a cigarette, then turned on my bedside radio and fiddled with the dial until I found Benny Goodman and his swingin’ licorice stick.
“And then she told me to leave the next day,” said Dennis. (I could easily imagine her half-hostile, wet-nosed voice.) “She said, ‘I want you to move out tomorrow. It's over. I want a divorce.’ ”
At this point I had to point out, hypocritically, having driven my own once-beloved wife away, and having had plenty of time since then to mull it all over, that maybe he should havetaken her into his arms, tried to win her back, smothered her with warmth; maybe he could have rekindled something.
“No,” said Dennis. “I felt defeated by the hard, cold edge in her voice, even through her tears. It didn't invite reconciliation. She sounded almost relieved that I was finally going. I left the next night, after the girls were in bed, having spent the day loading my things into the U-Haul, and the evening reading stories to Evie and Isabelle. Marie said goodbye to me, then turned out the front-door light and closed the door before I'd even started the engine. So I drove away from the house we raised children in and lived in together, and now here I am. I always wondered how a marriage dissolved, what the straw was that would break the camel's back.”
“You could have asked me,” I said. “I could have given you a hint.”
“And now I know. It's not so much a straw as a rising tide that finally overflows and drowns whatever goodwill and tenderness remain. Together we let the floodwaters rise between us, and together we sent me out to sea in a pea-green boat alone.”
“Not literally to sea,” I said glumly. “And not entirely alone.”
“Well,” said Dennis, “thanks for listening. I thought you should know the story.”
He got up and went back downstairs.
October 17—A cup of hard-packed dark brown sugar. Just for the record.
October 18—The horse-chestnut tree that grows directly outside my window has a mottled pattern on its bark that looks like a smooth cellulose version of the fur of some great savanna cat. Most of the leaves are gone, but the few that remain are curled inward like reddish-dun claws, parchment-thin.Covering the tree like ornaments on a Tannenbaum are pairs of furry brown balls the size of walnuts. The birds who alight and roost in its branches are round, compact, having the meaty heft of small pheasants or doves and speckled black-and-white breasts and all-black overcoats; they are sociable and sharp-beaked, and seem to enjoy bouncing gently on the elastic smaller boughs. As the light changes throughout the day, the shades of bark and birds shift and change; the sun coats the leaves and testicle-balls with light that makes them seem to glow from the inside out.
It's beautiful, I say completely without irony.
Meanwhile, I have discovered another one of Dennis's secrets, this one completely by accident. It explains his question about the Caller ID block, which has been nagging at me.
He was dialing the phone in the front hall earlier, as I was coming downstairs. I paused to eavesdrop on his conversation. It was so quiet I could hear the purr of the line ringing faintly, and then a woman's voice, answering.
It was the oddest thing: Dennis didn't say a word. He waited, his back to me. I heard her sharp question, her rising indignation, and then the click as she broke the connection.
Who was she? I had to know, of course. I suspected strongly that he was telephoning Stephanie Fox to ask her to meet him at Rex's Roadhouse and then losing his nerve at the fatal last instant; this would
“Why do you think?” Dennis asked—rhetorically, no doubt.
“Obviously,” I shot back, “she was trying to bring it all to a head so she could get it over and done with. She was looking for an out. She was sick of you.”
“I think you're right,” he said.
I sat up and lit a cigarette, then turned on my bedside radio and fiddled with the dial until I found Benny Goodman and his swingin’ licorice stick.
“And then she told me to leave the next day,” said Dennis. (I could easily imagine her half-hostile, wet-nosed voice.) “She said, ‘I want you to move out tomorrow. It's over. I want a divorce.’ ”
At this point I had to point out, hypocritically, having driven my own once-beloved wife away, and having had plenty of time since then to mull it all over, that maybe he should havetaken her into his arms, tried to win her back, smothered her with warmth; maybe he could have rekindled something.
“No,” said Dennis. “I felt defeated by the hard, cold edge in her voice, even through her tears. It didn't invite reconciliation. She sounded almost relieved that I was finally going. I left the next night, after the girls were in bed, having spent the day loading my things into the U-Haul, and the evening reading stories to Evie and Isabelle. Marie said goodbye to me, then turned out the front-door light and closed the door before I'd even started the engine. So I drove away from the house we raised children in and lived in together, and now here I am. I always wondered how a marriage dissolved, what the straw was that would break the camel's back.”
“You could have asked me,” I said. “I could have given you a hint.”
“And now I know. It's not so much a straw as a rising tide that finally overflows and drowns whatever goodwill and tenderness remain. Together we let the floodwaters rise between us, and together we sent me out to sea in a pea-green boat alone.”
“Not literally to sea,” I said glumly. “And not entirely alone.”
“Well,” said Dennis, “thanks for listening. I thought you should know the story.”
He got up and went back downstairs.
October 17—A cup of hard-packed dark brown sugar. Just for the record.
October 18—The horse-chestnut tree that grows directly outside my window has a mottled pattern on its bark that looks like a smooth cellulose version of the fur of some great savanna cat. Most of the leaves are gone, but the few that remain are curled inward like reddish-dun claws, parchment-thin.Covering the tree like ornaments on a Tannenbaum are pairs of furry brown balls the size of walnuts. The birds who alight and roost in its branches are round, compact, having the meaty heft of small pheasants or doves and speckled black-and-white breasts and all-black overcoats; they are sociable and sharp-beaked, and seem to enjoy bouncing gently on the elastic smaller boughs. As the light changes throughout the day, the shades of bark and birds shift and change; the sun coats the leaves and testicle-balls with light that makes them seem to glow from the inside out.
It's beautiful, I say completely without irony.
Meanwhile, I have discovered another one of Dennis's secrets, this one completely by accident. It explains his question about the Caller ID block, which has been nagging at me.
He was dialing the phone in the front hall earlier, as I was coming downstairs. I paused to eavesdrop on his conversation. It was so quiet I could hear the purr of the line ringing faintly, and then a woman's voice, answering.
It was the oddest thing: Dennis didn't say a word. He waited, his back to me. I heard her sharp question, her rising indignation, and then the click as she broke the connection.
Who was she? I had to know, of course. I suspected strongly that he was telephoning Stephanie Fox to ask her to meet him at Rex's Roadhouse and then losing his nerve at the fatal last instant; this would
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