Lost
Outwardly, not much seemed different. Bills continued to arrive with alarming regularity, the cat’s litterbox was emptied weekly, then refilled without pause by the routinely indifferent animal. The newspaper appeared each morning without evidence of human intervention on the trim-kept lawn, more substantially on Sunday, as if that much more was needed to fill time as a substitute, perhaps, for uncomfortable conversation.
Something had changed, of course. Something fundamental, like the weight of an elderly aunt that hadn’t been visited for six months or more and who had lived too well or might not live much longer, depending on whether the difference was in contraction or expansion. Unlike the proximal loved one to whom the same sort of drastic change would creep in an arc-less slope set against passing time. Any change would be processed and normalized in the mind of the observer so that any real sense of ascent or decline would go essentially unnoticed.
What was clear was the contrast between the sentimental recollections of what had been and what the state of life at 19 Cedar Drive had become. Mostly, there was silence. No sharing of ruminations, complaints, worries or observations. No eye-contact and no touching. Instead, the void that was the pattern of alienation was filled with a fog of tension. All the things that should have been said when their revelation might have made a difference were echoes in a well into which they had both fallen and were now drowning.
It was Tuesday night and Gary had worked late. He often worked long hours and wondered whether he was doing so simply to avoid coming home only to eat alone, quietly tiptoe into the master bedroom to take his place beside his snoring wife, keeping a guilty distance away from her with one shoulder half-way off the edge of the mattress, hoping for restless sleep to take him. Tonight, he sat in the car, windows rolled up against the brisk October air, waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Perhaps he was waiting for something to change. He certainly wished it was all different, but, it wasn’t. It was unnaturally quiet in the car and he found himself alone with the chatter in his head. He wondered how much longer this could go on. He felt responsible, but he wasn’t sure how. He felt guilty, but he wasn’t sure why he did. If he was responsible, perhaps he should make the first move, take a chance. The problem was that chance implied risk and risk implied the possibility of failure. He loved her still. Failure was not an option and so, he should not take the risk. So far, he had thought the rift between them would somehow close and heal on its own with the passage of time making the divide invisible except on the oldest maps. Instead, each passing day seemed to grease his grip on their marriage just a little more and, try as he might, it was slipping away, practically squirting out of his fingers the tighter he squeezed.
It was time to step up to the plate, to take a stand, to make a difference, to make things change. He resolved to confront her that night, to wake her if need be. This was going to stop, whether he was ready for the grim likelihood that she would simply let him go like a pink-slipped employee whose idiosyncrasies were no longer suitable for the forward progress of the organization.
He got out of the car slowly, pulling the key out of the ignition before opening the door so that the car’s electronic chime would be silent. The house was dark and walk lights were off, so he navigated as best he could, leaves crunching underfoot as he strayed off the cobbles. Key out, the rest of the bunch silenced by his grip, he started to open the front door when the porchlight went on and the door opened from within, taking with it a whoosh of cool night air. It was Lisa. “Why were you sitting in your car, Gary?” His wife seemed sleepily annoyed. “I, IWe have to talk, Susan. We have to talk right now.” She focused on his face which was a rumpled reflection of the worried thoughts racing through his mind. She held her nightshirt tight around her as her expression changed to resignation tinged with boredom. “Sure. Come on,” she said.
Suddenly, he felt that she had already made his territory the world outside this house. ‘Come on” was only missing the implied invitattion of ‘in’ to make that acutely clear. Now, he wasn’t so sure. A work-friend had said that the key to “dealing with women, crazy as they are, is six little words: you’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry. Sh*t, I’m still married after twenty-six years, right?” Maybe he should throw himself at her mercy for whatever crimes he may have commited, to swallow his pride and begin the healing.
She lazily shuffled to the dining room table, pulled a plush armless chair away from its position and half-plopped into the seat. She beat him to the punch and spoke first. “Now, look, Gary,” she started, “let’s be clear from the get-go.This relationship of ours just isn’t going to work. You feel that, right?” She was so matter of fact that he sat across from her, jaw dropped.