The Long Fall Ch. 02

"No!"

"...at the house. And I think you need to be out of here for a while..."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No! Don't make me go. Please! I'm sorry, John. Please let me stay! I'll do anything! We can get past it!"

What just happened? She changed completely. Her response. There's something in what she said, in how she said it. There's something going on, as though I've found the chink in her walls, but I don't know what it is. I don't know what I did, or what to do with it. I'm remembering her words from way back, "Don't ever leave me. I couldn't stand it." Is it that? The one thing she's absolutely terrified of? Being alone?

"That's not how it works. I'm not going to just get over it. You have to leave."

"Don't. Please don't make me."

"I can't stand what's happening here. You have to leave."

*****

And she left. She's gone. Her car isn't here. I looked in the closet and found she took two suitcases, and there's a note. I really didn't expect it, and I don't understand. Usually the husband moves out. I thought it would have to be me, and all day I've been wondering if I could stand to leave Will and Kaetlyn behind with her. I certainly wouldn't have used force to kick her out. I didn't think I could make her go, not without a court order, not and have her leave the kids with me, but somehow she's gone.

She left, but she wouldn't surrender. She'll try to make me be 'reasonable,' and she'll bargain. She won't beg. She won't do a mea culpa. She'll even try to seduce me. She's a cunning one. A cunning cunt! Yes. How could I have been so blind about her all these years? The hell of it is, if she'd fallen apart and begged me, if she'd thrown herself on my mercy, broken down, I'd have taken her back. If she had cried. Stupid, isn't it? I would have taken her back if I thought she was really remorseful.

And then I'd be stuck with her.

It's quiet around the house. The kids are taking it pretty well, but Kaetlyn asked me, "When can Mommy come home?" I told her I didn't know, and she's been pretty quiet since then. Maybe this is too hard for them. My daughter needs her mother. Maybe we could stay together and be civil. Couldn't we fake it for the kids? I'm sure Ruth could. She faked it for me convincingly enough.

*****

"You shouldn't do it, John."

"Why not?"

"What if, God forbid, one turns out not to be yours? Say it's your little girl. It won't make any difference to her. You're her Daddy--period. But it'll make a difference to you, and to your relationship. You could ruin her life."

"I have to know. What if Ruth's done it before?"

"It's a mistake. Just forget it."

"If I'm not their biological father, I'll adopt them."

"I'm telling you it's a mistake. That's my professional opinion."

"I can't help it. I have to know."

I hate myself. I hate myself. That bitch! Why did she have to do this to me? I'm a useless human being, married to a conniving bitch. Useless, fucking eunuch! I could fix that. All I'd need is a gun and about ten minutes. Maybe a nice 9mm. Find a place. Compose a note. Call the police right before. A nice gun and a quiet location. Not in the house. I don't want the kids to see the mess. I'll have to apologize to the police in my note, and I'll let Ruth live with the responsibility the rest of her days.

But then she'd get Will and Kaetlyn.

*****

Jolene's attorney called. He wants a statement for Jolene's divorce case against Bill. They don't have any kids. The problem is their dog, Randolph. Who gets Randy? It's really hilarious if you aren't involved in the case. I almost joked that I know Bill gets randy, because I've witnessed it, but I controlled myself. I happen to know Jolene doesn't much care for the dog, so the cruel legal games have begun. I asked the lawyer if he wouldn't rather get a statement from Ruth, and he said he had tried...

*****

"John?" Ruth's cell connection is bad.

"What?"

"I wanted to tell you. I'm seeing a counselor."

"I'm so happy for you."

"Please, John! You said you were willing to try again, if I made the effort. I'm trying! Please don't shut me out."

"I said I might try for Will and Kaetlyn. So see your counselor. What do you want from me, anyway?"

"Dr. Parker said it would help if you came too. Will you? Please? I'm trying!"

I let it dangle. "Okay. I'll come."

"Oh thank you, John!" You don't have to gush.

"Ruth?"

"Yes?"

"I really am glad you've found a counselor."

*****

But it won't work, even if she sees someone.

"I can't do this."

Those are absolutely my first words after 'hello.' Ruth parts her lips as though to say something, but it's Dr. Parker who speaks.

"What do you mean, Mr. Cukor?"

"I mean I've thought through everything, and it's not going to work." Around the room I wander, running my hand over book shelves, touching things, distracting myself. "There's no reason for me to be here. I'm going ahead with the divorce."

"No!" That's Ruth.

"I'm sorry to break it like that, but I am."

"But I forgave you!"

"Mr. Cukor? Can you explain?"

Explain. Sure. There are eight long years to explain. I'm aware of the irony, but it isn't like every dog gets a free bite. I'm not just more shallow than Ruth, or maybe I am, but that's how it plays for me. Anyway, I guess she deserves an explanation.

"Yeah. What she's talking about was a long time back. Before there were children to consider. I didn't do Ruth's sister. I didn't do it in our house."

"But I forgave you!"

"And you held it over me! All these years!" We're ignoring Dr. Parker, who is letting us go at it. Around the bookshelves again. Think the words through. I have to control myself. I've been rehearsing it in my head since I came to the conclusion after I committed to the appointment. When I added everything up, it pointed to an enormity I couldn't ever excuse. "All these years. All these years you've used that to shame me. To control me. To talk about how you can't trust me. About how I have to prove myself to you!" Take a breath. "And you know what? It was worth it to me, to keep us together. But now I find it never applied to you."

"Yes it did. It does."

"It doesn't apply to you. I saw it! Eight years ago changed our relationship. I changed myself for you. But you! You knew what it meant and you still blew it off. You tossed off our commitment like...like...like it was nothing. With my brother. After a couple of hours alone. In our very own house. Almost in front of our children. In front of me. And you weren't feeling guilty. You just worried about getting caught."

"No. It wasn't like that!"

"It was exactly like that!" I hate using that voice, but today it exults me.

"Why are you here, Mr. Cukor?"

"You tell me!" Pointing at Ruth. "She made my absolute commitment a point of honor, but she violated it just like that!" Snapping my fingers. "It was all a sham! All those years. Just this Machiavellian way to control me."

That's what I think anyway. Driving along the freeway, whipping through traffic, tempting traffic cops and commuters filled with road rage, I wish I'd put it better, but you can't call up words just the way you want. I can't. Ruth didn't see it my way. Her last words, as I left: "But I really forgave you! I did!" She was counting on a free bite all along, counting on my having to let her have her fling. She's been holding that in reserve all these years, just in case she ever got caught.

*****

It's four in the morning, the end of December.

I made the mistake of listening to an old something by Leonard Cohen this evening. Pop in a CD and float away from the world, only it doesn't always work that way. I'm still here, and now I've got these lyrics in my head, and his melancholy voice, joining all the other things that were flitting around upstairs. For a hideously empty world it's damned crowded.

I'd been drinking white wine all evening, something respectable to keep the kids from being able to tell I was drowning myself after reading another email from Bill, so I guess I was susceptible. I won't take Bill's calls but I never got around to locking out his address, and I get the occasional mea culpa. This one was about Ruth. Really, they all are. "I ruined my life with Jolene. Please don't let that happen to your life with Ruth. She's dying inside for you, and I know you need her. Don't forgive me, but please forgive her."

How long has it been since he did what started all this? It's almost the four-month anniversary. Cheers.

Tonight was already special because I got the results. They were just two sheets of paper in an envelope, the ones lying on the coffee table, right here. They're awfully impersonal for what they tell me: the kids are really mine. So? I didn't need them to tell me that. I knew it all along. I didn't but I did, and it doesn't make any difference. It makes all the difference in the world. Doesn't it? They're mine, but there's still Ruth and there's still Bill.

Bill wasn't poetic the night it happened, not like the new email. "Dying inside," he says. Sure. Aren't we all? That night it was more basic: "Do the dirty deed to me." I can't seem to forget anything. I remember my wife touching her palm to his cheek, and looking into his face, and kissing him lovingly, then diving down to his wonderfully dirty cock with her wonderful lips and her tongue, her whole wonderful mouth.

"And you treated my woman to a flake of your life And when she came back she was nobody's wife."

That's for sure. Was that all it was? Just a flake? Now that he's seduced Ruth, Bill wants to play marriage counselor. I picked the wrong music. I should have listened to anyone else, maybe Britney Spears, someone who doesn't suck everything up from below and make you pay attention to it.

"And what can I tell you my brother, my killer What can I possibly say? I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you ..."

I guess I wish you'd go away!

Oh Lord.

I guess that I miss him. Could I forgive him? Forgive her? I miss our conversations and the football games and the way he glommed onto my kids. What else? He's my brother. So, yes, it's four in the morning and I'm still awake, missing my brother and the woman who is nobody's wife, hating them for what they've done to us, and wishing I weren't here anymore.

*****

Kaetlyn comes to me crying.

"What's the matter with my Katie-Kat? Come here."

"Can I sleep with you?"

"Sure. Brr! You're cold.. Is this better?

"Uh-huh."

"Did something scare you?"

"I had a bad dream."

"A nightmare."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think you can go back to sleep, now?"

"Can I stay with you?"

"Of course you can, Princess. You can sleep snuggled right up to Daddy."

In the morning they're bracketing me.

*****

Out of nowhere, today, I saw Ruth sitting on the couch, watching TV, and she was insisting she massage my feet with lotion. I was vacuuming the den, and when I began on the couch that's what I saw. My Ruth. A dam broke somewhere. In the next memory she was trying out another recipe she'd found on the Internet, and the kitchen was a mess. Then: Ruth, playing navigator while I drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway. She was wearing that dorky, translucent green golf visor she always wore when we drove on vacations. Later, Ruth and I painting the veranda. I spilled some paint and was furious, but she teased me until I smiled. I remembered Ruth surprising me at work with a lunch basket she had packed for us, baby Will asleep in her over-the-shoulder child carrier. I remembered when we decided to have our second child. It was the first night we tried, and I was still atop her, my heart pounding for all it was worth, when she whispered up to me, "I think we just made a baby." I can't remember her ever looking happier.

These were all true memories, as true as Ruth's face rising from my brother's lap. I felt her hold me when my father was dying, and I heard her say, "Don't ever leave me. I couldn't stand it." Then why did you drive me away?

Ruth this. Ruth everything. One Ruth, another one. How do you balance them out or join them all together? Can you do it? Should you even try?

*****

We've arranged for the kids to spend their weekends with Ruth. They need to see their mother more, and I'm determined this won't be a messy divorce. My attorney thinks it could get nasty over final custody, but Ruth has agreed to everything I've wanted so far.

When Ruth rang the doorbell, the kids grabbed her and hugged her of course, and the refrain, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" is always the same. We got them out to the car, each carrying a backpack with their clothes. I pulled a large suitcase with stuffed animals, tooth brushes, toys, read-along books, the necessities of a child's life. Ruth and I didn't touch, or talk to each other any more than we had to. I've noticed she won't look at me, not directly. She hangs her head or looks a little to the side, so her eyes don't have to meet mine, like a shy person, though she's never been shy. She was like that while we loaded the kids into the car, but once we had them in she asked me:

"John? Can we talk?"

I had another flash memory of her, how directly she'd look at me, how confident she was. She'd look me straight in the face when she had a concern and say "there's something we need to talk about." Not like this groveling wretch, with its uncertain voice, that could hardly bring itself to address me at all.

"What?"

We walked to the kitchen door. She still wouldn't look at me.

"Can I keep Kaetlyn and Will until Sunday evening?"

"Why?"

"Well, it's so little time, and I'd like to take them to see 'Happy Feet.'" She rushed on before I could answer. "You could come too. Maybe we could take them to McDonald's or something afterwards?" She looked up at me from under her eyelashes. Her shoulders were hunched, as though she were afraid I might hit her or something, but she sounded hopeful.

"That's okay. Have fun with them. I have a few things to do, and an afternoon dinner date." Ruth's body sagged. "Why don't I just swing by your apartment and pick them up. Around eight?"

"Okay." She looked down at her feet. "Who are you going to dinner with?"

"Marisa."

Ruth stopped moving. She looked like she was about to say something, but nothing came out, and then her face fell apart and she turned and walked to her car fast, almost rushing. She began wiping her eyes.

"Ruth?"

"I'm sorry." Wiping with the left hand, then the right.

"Ruth?"

"It's okay. I'm sorry." She was still wiping her eyes with her fingers, and trying to smile, as she got into the car and left.

*****

It's Valentine's Day. I had the kids make cards for Ruth. I imagine she's pretty alone today. When the kids and I got home there was a card for me, stuck into the kitchen door.

It read:

My Darling John:

I wanted you to have a Valentine's card. I know I'm not the best person to send you one, But I want you to know that I love you and I will always love you. You were a wonderful husband to me, and you're the best father Kaetlyn and Will could possibly have.

Forever,

Ruth

*****

My doc prescribed a med to help me sleep, but I don't want to take too much of it. Still, I'm drugged and groggy and I almost knock the phone off the nightstand in the dark.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"What's wrong, Ruth? What happened?" I turn on the light. It's 1:47.

"Nothing." There's a long pause. "I'm sorry." She's sad. And there's something else. "I just wanted to talk with you." There's something in her voice.

"Have you been drinking?" She doesn't answer. "Ruth?"

"Yes. Some."

"Don't call me when you're drinking."

"I'm sorry."

She's so bleak. Her voice is. I've never heard her like that, through all our bad time. Everything has drained out. It's flat. There isn't any energy. I shouldn't pay it any attention. It's probably just the alcohol, but I don't know. I think something is more wrong than usual.

"Oh that's okay. It's just not a good idea. We could talk tomorrow if you'd like."

"I'm sorry. I just needed to hear your voice. Did I wake you?"

"No. I was reading. You need to get some sleep, though."

"I guess."

"Are you okay?"

I have to wait for her answer.

"No."

She doesn't say anything else. Ruth? Are you thinking of something bad? Could you hurt yourself? Should I get help? That's what comes up, what I think facing the black hole of her silence.

"Ruth?"

She comes back.

"Do you remember...how I used to wake you to talk, when something was on my mind?"

"Sure. Like now."

When she did that I'd have to make up my mind to stay awake for her and talk things out as long as it took. I guess this time I could just hang up, but I know I won't, and as I think that I realize it's been another long gap since she said anything. I'm about to ask "Ruth?" again, and I think just for a second, not seriously but the way these things come to you in the middle of the night when you're drunk with sleep, that I could hold her on the line and dial 9-1-1 on my cell phone. Then, finally, she speaks again.

"I wish we could go back to the time before all this...when we were together and happy." Her voice has some emotion in it again, but it's only sadness.

"Yeah. I know. I'm sorry, Ruth. You know we can't change the past."

"I know. I'm so sorry I did it." There's another long silence. Again, I almost say her name before she continues, and when she does it is with starts and halts. "I never told you...but I always had a kind of crush on Bill. I know that doesn't make everything better, or excuse anything. I just need to explain. Dr. Parker says it will help if I can tell you these things...you know...to help us come to terms...so that maybe we can be..." Ruth suddenly takes an enormous breath that sounds like a sob. "...be friends again...not to get back together...you know...for Kaetlyn and Will." She's quiet for a few seconds. "Anyway, that was why I let myself go that night. Part of it. It didn't start out that..."

"Don't, Ruth. Don't. It's the past. We don't have to go over it. We can be friends. I'd like that. After all, would I be on the phone with just anyone at two in the morning?" Ruth laughs. It's a woeful little laugh, but real.

"How are they?"

"I was going to show you when you picked them up on Friday. Will knows his colors. I have the sheets to prove it, on the refrigerator door. And both of them have drawn pictures for you."

"That's so sweet."

The conversation becomes easier, as easy as it can be under the circumstances. Ruth sounds a little happier, and it's nice to talk with her, so the minutes flow. We haven't talked like this since, well, you know. I don't want the conversation to end. It would be so easy to invite her over. She lives not ten minutes away. I could comfort her, and we'd talk, and snuggle, and kiss, and maybe make love, and wouldn't the kids be surprised in the morning?

I'm getting maudlin.

"Ruth, I hate to go, but I really need to get some sleep. Six-thirty comes awfully early."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you up so late."

"I've enjoyed it. Really. Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Okay?"

"I'd like that."

Maybe things will look different tomorrow.

"Anyway, goodnight...friend."

"Goodnight, friend."

*****

I don't want there to be any surprises. I never went back to sleep. It's so overrated, not like love and turmoil and emptiness. I didn't go to work. I've been sitting around the house all day, thinking about Ruth and the union that doesn't exist anymore. Missing her. I had thought the intensity would pass. People say it does, and you move on, but I don't want to move on. What everything comes down to is this: I want my wife back. I want my Ruth back.