The First Ninety Days Ch. 12

"Or there could be athird factor that causes both," he said. "And yes, perhaps Christianity is benign. But my point is we have tojudge that. We have to see with our own eyes and make our own decisions. And if it turns out to be encouraging us to hurt our children..."

The car had stopped long ago, and now he turned to her. He was surprised to realize that she had tears in her eyes.

"It's funny," she said, "how it always turns out that there's somethingI have to change. Give up my parents. Give up my religion. Give up my dream wedding. Give up something that'simportant to me. When doyou change, Jon?" Her voice was choked and flinty. "You're so smug in your little viewpoint, so content with your logic and secularism... Well, answer me this, Jon: when do you start having faith? When do you start giving people second chances? When do you start supporting someone even when they want something you don't?—loving them, in other words? When, precisely, Jon Stanford, doyou change?" She shut the door behind her and ran up the stairs.

This was how Jon found himself in the winter darkness, out in the falling snow, trying to get the harp out of the car by himself. With all the wetness he wasn't too sure of his footing, but on the third try he got the wheels down and the harp undamaged. And, in truth, he wasn't looking forward to getting back inside all that much. Slowly, taking his time—well, one should be conscious of treacherous footing, especially when pushing a harp which was actually more expensive than the car that bore it—he got up to the elevator and then into the apartment.

The bedroom door was closed. There was a thick blanket and a pillow in front of it. Jon felt a sinking feeling, like someone had cut off his entire bottom half and everything inside him was just dribbling out. But there was nothing to be done—was there?—except get on with it. Crying or assigning blame wouldn't help him now. He maneuvered the harp back into its corner, picked up the blanket and pillow, and made himself comfortable on the couch. It was not much more than a canvas hammock, built for lightness and radical design; he decided that they should replace it with a more conventional piece of furniture forthwith, at least once they had the financial recourse to do so.

Caitlyn slept out here once. She just... Took it upon herself. Voluntary exile. And this thing isnot comfy. She's right, whenever things go wrong in this relationship it seems to be her who has to change. Whereas I... If I had to give up something that was important to me, for the sake of my kids... What if I couldn't sing anymore? What if, say, Octapella took off, and we were touring and making lots of money somehow, but Caitlyn was pregnant and needed me to come home? What if I didn't have that part of myself? What if I had to give it up? He didn't have to answer that question. Caitlyn was right.

And yet she knows I'm right. She knows that, if we're united in the goal of not screwing up our kids, whoever they may be and whenever they may happen, we have to be willing to do anything, change anything—be anything—for their sakes. A time has to come when we're willing to say, 'What our kids need is more important than what we want.' Our own parents were never able to say that... And she and I paid the price for their immaturity.

And that's why we're both alone tonight. Because we're both right, and we can't stand that.

The thought had a strange, if fearful, symmetry to it. He found the alarm-clock function on his cellphone, set it to wake him for work the next morning, and fell asleep, deciding not to contemplate the unthinkable. Deciding not to think about what would have to happen if one day she said, No, that's not my goal; no, Jon, we arenot united.

It was better to sleep than to think about that.

Day 60

Thursdays were not Caitlyn's favorite day.

She had only one class on Thursdays: Jazz Theory, which was full of interesting sounds and blue notes and fun different chords that she hadn't thought were possible. Jazz Theory also had, by far, the best classmates in it: a lot of excellent musicians with a lot of skill. But before Jazz Theory was her oboe lesson with Mrs. Klein—only half an hour before, which left her scant time to get any food down her gullet unless she wanted to eat at three when she got home. And then she had Orchestra practice from 5:30 to 7:30, which was right when Jon was starting to get home and have some dinner. He'd already gotten into the habit of delaying the meal until she arrived, but the long and the short of it was that, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, after he left in the mornings she didn't see him again or hear from him again until dinner. The exact combination of classes and scheduling seemed designed perfectly to stymie any attempts at communication: she couldn't call him but for a couple minutes because she was too busy eating; and after his lunch break was over, that was that. It couldn't've been worse if they'd tried.

In addition, on this particular Thursday Jon didn't wake her up for any bed play; instead, he simply woke up and left while she was still asleep. Indeed, the first indication she had of his presence was the sound of the front door closing behind him.

For a moment, she lay in bed biting her lip, trying not to cry. There was no one to see her, but it still wouldn't do to be this... Flighty. She was a grown woman. There was no reason to get all tearful just because her husband had left her without saying a word. Shouldn't she be grateful that he had let her sleep?

But... Ever since that fight last Saturday... It's the same as when we had the fight last month. He isn't on the couch anymore, but he's just been more... Distant. He isn't as touchy-feely, he doesn't initiate sex as much... Like,ever. And when he doesn't do that, I'm scared to try it myself, for fear of... What, of being turned down? Of discovering that there's something he needs to tell me that will just bring all of this crashing down? That's not gonna happen. Why should I be so scared of losing my husband?

...Then again, when you put it that way, whyshouldn't I be?

I need to talk to him about this. Whatever is bothering him, whatever is on his mind, we need to talk about it and get over it. Instead of letting it come between us like this. We need to... Get rid of it, so that it can't foul the waters between us.

What an excellent realization for a Thursday morning!

Feeling strangely hopeless, she heaved herself out of bed.

Most of the morning was spent on last-minute oboe practice, to make sure everything was in shape for Mrs. Klein. In the actual lesson, Caitlyn thought she did fairly well; she kept her head and didn't make too many mistakes. She should've known better, though, than to try to hide her mood from her teacher; Janet Klein had always been excellent at reading people.

"Caitlyn, we're never going to get anywhere if you're this distracted."

"This... Why, what's going on?" Caitlyn asked.

"Well, you just played that four-measure repeat section about five times," said Mrs. Klein. "You seem to like it a great deal." She was smiling. "Is there something you need to tell me about those measures? Something scandalous, perhaps?"

Caitlyn lowered the oboe. Unless marked otherwise, you were only supposed to observe a repeat marking once; to follow it blindly over and over was something either a moron or a comedian would do. Caitlyn was not Victor Borge, so she knew which option was left.

"Seriously, Caitlyn, what's going on? Your head's been in the clouds since you got here. Funny thing is, your playing's been better than ever. Maybe you should come in distractedevery day." She gave Caitlyn a look: half-glowering, half-amused.

"Sorry, Mrs. Klein," said Caitlyn. "It's just... It..." She gave a sigh. "It's Jon."

"Oh, you mean that guy you married two months ago?"

"Yeah," said Caitlyn, humorless. "Him."

"So what's going on?" Mrs. Klein said.

"I... It..." said Caitlyn. And then it all came spilling out: the barbed discussions about the reception, the fight, the presence of her parents. "And on top of it, there's something Jon doesn't want to talk about. I don't even know what it is, I just know it's there. Because he isn't... He isn't being affectionate, he's barely speaking to me... We don't evendo it when he gets like this, and he was looking forward to that since the moment we started dating. It's like... It's like he's scared of what will come up if we actually talk."

"So why don't you say something?" Mrs. Klein said.

"Because," said Caitlyn. "I'm scared of what'll come up if we actually talk."

"Well. What do you do normally when you guys have a fight?"

Caitlyn gave a bitter laugh. "We don't. We never really fought while we were dating, it's only been since we got married. ...I'm not saying we haven't had disagreements or anything, it's that we neverfought about them—we just talked it all out, he never lost his patience and neither did I. I guess we never talked about anything important... No, that's not true, is it; we found out a lot of things about each other." They'd shared their goals and dreams long before they'd been married; what Pastor Pendleton had once said, about sharing core values, they had known instinctively for more than a year before he said it. "We just... We never met anything we didn't want to talk about."

"So,talk about it. Don't let him deflect it."

"Yeah, but... I'm not gonna see him until way later tonight. Like, after orchestra practice."

"Why not?"

"Because he's at work until I leave, and then I'm at orchestra for two hours."

"What about before then? Can you visit him?"

"I... I don't know, actually. He hasn't even been working there for two weeks, I don't want to..."

"Why don't you find out? I mean, don't be insistent, but, ask if you can talk to him for five minutes. Or leave him a message. I'm sure there'ssome way to get in contact with him."

"But what would we say in that amount of time? I don't think this is a discussion we can have in five minutes."Especially since we like make-up sex.

"Hmm, that is a good point. But seriously, Caitlyn, I hope you understand what I'm getting at. There'salways a way. Tell him you want to sit down and talk with him. Tell him you want to apologize."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Caitlyn protested.

"Perhaps you haven't, but it's better than telling him, 'We need to talk,' and having him come in on the defensive. Besides—" Mrs. Klein gave a broad smile. "In my experience, it's very rare forany husband or wife to be able to say, 'But I haven't done anything wrong,' and have it be true. Our spouses knowexactly what to say to push our buttons—and we know the same about them. It happens unintentionally a lot of the time. But if you said it, you have to be responsible for it."

"So," Caitlyn said, "if I say I want to apologize, he's more likely to be willing to listen. Plus, I probably have something to apologizefor."

"Exactly. And, of course, so does he. So why not take the approach that raises the chances of both of you doing so?"

It was practical advice; and good advice too, as Caitlyn was concerned.Ever since I got married, all sorts of people have interesting things to say to me. I wonder if that's a coincidence. —Well, no, it's not; I think the more important question is, why they waited untilnow to tell me. Maybe because I didn't need it until now? Maybe because I wasn't prepared yet to hear it?

After her lesson was done, she took Mrs. Klein's advice and called Jon. At the very least, she could make contact. And it scared her more than she could say that Jon didn't pick up. He had never done that before. Nonetheless she plowed on with her message. "Hello, Jon, it's—" (your wife) "—Caitlyn, just... Just calling to see if you had a spare second. I know it's a crowded schedule today, but I... I really hope we can find some time to sit down and talk. I don't know what's come between us, but I don't want it there. I justdon't. There shouldn't be anything separating me from my husband..." She felt tears threatening her composure and forced herself to bear down. "Let's work this out. Okay?

"If you have any time or you want to answer, please don't call until I'm out of class at 2:30, but other than that... I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I love you. ...Bye."

He didn't call; instead, her phone made a noise she'd never heard before—in the middle of class, too. But barely had she begun to dive for it when the noise stopped. Afterwards she flipped the phone open and saw a new indicator:New text message.

"New text message? How do I readthat?"

Her classmate Marissa Helmsley—Marissa Caruthers now, as it was her wedding Caitlyn had played at last Saturday—stopped to help her. "You don't know how to read text messages?"

Caitlyn just shrugged helplessly. "I always just called people. Maybe it's— Oh, no, that must've been the Cancel button. Oh, no. What if it was from Jon? How do I read it? Is it gone forever? What do I do??"

"Calm down, missy," said Marissa, grinning. "You're a married woman now, just like me. ...Jesus. I'm 28 years old andyou don't know how to read text messages? Here, gimme that. You don't need to be anywhere, do you?"

"No, this is my last class of the day. I was just..."

"Good, me too. Let's sit down. This shouldn't take long in any case."

Caitlyn let them into the harp room and they sat down. Within moments, Marissa had divined out the inner workings of Caitlyn's cellphone. "Here, you just go into the main menu, and then see here?"

"Oh, yeah, I see it," Caitlyn said. "...Jeez, I probably could have figured that out myself. If I were clear-headed."

"Plus, it's easier when someone else just shows you," Marissa said. She hit theCancel button again and the screen blanked. "Now, show me how I got to that menu."

Once she was satisfied that Caitlyn could now receive (and send!) text messages at her discretion, she left, making some veiled references to a husband she needed to go home and get nasty with. Well, the getting-nasty was pretty blunt; it was thehusband who seemed to be a mysterious part of the equation. Caitlyn shook her head and read the text message. It was indeed from Jon, who said that, if she would like to swing by at any time, his supervisors had authorized him to take ten minutes off to talk to her, and that driving instructions had been e-mailed to her. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Caitlyn walked home, dropped off her backpack, printed out the instructions, and found the keys to LeRoi. Jon was still driving his old Celica, Buffy, to work every day. Did that say something about his preferred level of masculinity? Did it say something about his comfort zone? Or was it simply that the sedan got better gas mileage? Caitlyn was fine driving the truck; she had driven her parents' vehicles plenty of times. She liked the feeling of power LeRoi gave her. She liked the feeling of being tall. She was 5'3 and descended from a family where no one was shorter than 5'9, including Aunt Velma; 'tall' was not something she could often ascribe to herself.

She got to the place: Shellview Medical Federation, an organization Caitlyn's parents had always sneered at for no good reason she could see. She missed the first parking lot and had to take the next one down. She parked her car, walked up to the receptionist's desk, and, after a moment's consideration, asked if her husband Jon Stanford was on site. The woman behind the desk spoke to a phone. Less than a minute later, he was jogging in from the other side of the building.

"I thought you'd park over there," he said, not even breathing hard.

"I..." She shrugged. "I've never been here before."

"Let's sit down," he said.

They took chairs in the corner of the room, a fair distance from the other patients waiting to be attended to.

"So, what's going on?" he said.

"I just..." she said. "I wanted to see you."

"You would've seen me tonight," Jon said.

"I haven't seen you since Marissa's wedding," Caitlyn retorted. "You've just been so..." She took a deep breath. "That wasn't how I was supposed to start. Mrs. Klein told me to say I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Jon said. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"That's what I said. But Mrs. Klein said that, in most marriages, that's almost never true. Everyone's donesomething wrong. It's just a matter of identifying it."

"Well, you tell her that—" Jon began, but was interrupted when her cellphone began chirruping again. She looked at it, sighed, and flipped it open. It was her mother.

"Good afternoon, Caitlyn. Your father and I just had something come up for tomorrow night, and we were wondering if you were free for dinner tonight instead."

Caitlyn felt a vague sense of vertigo. "...Tonight? Mom, it's Thursday. I have orchestra practice on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Remember? You used to have to take me there. That hasn't changed."

"Well, we could wait until afterwards. —Or, even better, you couldtell Jon that was where you were going, and come with us instead."

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight. You want me to skip orchestra practice, to come to dinner with you guys... And without Jon?"

"It's Rebecca's Parliament, dear, I'm sure he wouldn't want to."

That was true, as far as it went; Rebecca's Parliament was a tea establishment given over to profusions of ribbons, lace and (no point in denying it) girly stuff. Jon would look like a vulture in a flower bouquet... But her father would look like a tyrannosaur. "If he's not invited, I'm not invited either, Mom. And besides, Ido have orchestra."

"Well, what about next Thursday then? I'm sure you could ask for the day off, andwe're not doing anything special."

Jon spoke before she could open her mouth. "Today's February seventh. Next Thursday is Valentine's Day. The answer is No."

She didn't like the peremptory way he said it, but he was still right. "You may not be doing anything special on Valentine's Day, Mom, but Jon and I are."

"Valentine's Day? Has that come up on us already? My goodness, where has the year gone? Well, if can't be helped, it can't be helped. Whatare you doing for Valentine's Day?"

Jon motioned to have the phone. "Mrs. Delaney, this is Jon. As a matter of fact, I haven't told her yet, because I've been planning a surprise. So Caitlyn wouldn't know what's happening. But, suffice it to say, thereare plans, and wedo plan to celebrate."

There was indistinct noise from the phone; Jon was holding it on the same side she had, meaning the phone was on his outside ear. Whatever her mother was saying, Jon looked surprised.

"Well, yes," he said. "Mrs. Delaney, I don't know what your experience has been, but if you ask me, a marriage simply meansmore opportunities to be romantic and to get to know each other. I don't intend to stop treating her well just because I see her every day.

"...All right. All right." He still looked surprised as he handed the phone back. "She wants to talk to you again."

"Well, I'm glad to see he's taking care of you, at least," said Mrs. Delaney. "You never know with some of these people."

This was such a tangential comment that Caitlyn decided to let it pass. "Yes, Mom, he does. And when he doesn't, I sit him down for a stern talking-to. A girl's got to havesome standards, you know."