At last, putting the key in the ignition, he started up the car. Soon he was driving from San Rafael, back to Point Reyes Station.
At his house he saw her, in the front yard. She had found a bucket of gladiola and tulip bulbs that Gwen had brought up from the city to plant; wearing jeans and sandals and a cotton shirt she was busy with a trowel, digging a shallow trench for the bulbs along the front walk. The two girls were not in sight.
As he opened the gate she heard him and turned, lifting her head. As soon as she saw the expression on his face she said,
“You didn’t get it.”
“I got it,” he said.
Laying down her trowel she stood up. “What an ordeal it must have been,” she said. “My god, you look really pale.”
He said, “I don’t know what to do.” It was not what he had intended to say, but he could think of nothing else.
“What do you mean?” she said, coming up to him and putting her thin, strong arms around him.
Feeling her arms, the authority and conviction of her, he said, “Hug me.”
“I am hugging you,” she said. “You asshole.”
“Look where I am,” he said, gazing past her at the remaining bulbs. She had planted most of them already. At one time the bucket had been full. “You’ve got me in a terrible spot. There’s nothing I can do. You really have me.”
“Why?” she said.
“I have no marriage.”
“Poor baby,” she said. “You’re scared.” Her arms pressed harder against him. “But you did get it? He granted it?”
“They have to grant it,” he said. “If it’s properly presented. That’s what the lawyer’s for.”
“So you’re divorced!” Fay said.
“I have an interlocutory decree,” he said. “In a year I’ll be divorced.”
“Did he give you any trouble?”
“He wouldn’t let the lawyer lead,” he said. “I was on my own.” He started to tell her about it, how the session had gone, but her eyes got that rapt, faraway expression; she was not listening.
“I meant to tell you,” she said, when he halted. “The girls baked a cake for you. A celebration. One candle. Your first divorce. They’re indoors now, quarreling about the icing. I said they better wait until you got home and ask you what kind of icing you wanted on it, if any.”
He said, “I don’t want anything. I’m completely exhausted.”
“I’d never go into court in a million years,” she said. “I’d rather die; you couldn’t drag me into court.” Letting go of him she started toward the house. “They’ve been so worried,” she said. “Afraid something might go wrong.”
“Stop talking,” he said, “and listen to me.”
She slowed to a stop; both her speech and her motion toward the house ceased. Inquiringly, she waited. She did not seem tense. Now that he was back, having gotten the decree, she was relieved; she did not seem to have paid any real attention to what he had said.
“God damn you,” he said. “You never listen. Don’t you care what I have to say? I’ll tell you what I have to say; I’m pulling out of all this, the whole darn business.”
“What?” she said, in a faltering voice.
He said, “I’ve gone as far as I can. I can’t stand any more. When I got out of the courtroom I realized it. It finally came to me.”
“Well,” she said. “My goodness.”
They stood facing each other, neither of them saying anything. With the toe of her sandal she kicked at a lump of dirt. Never before had he seen her so downcast.
“How did the Sparine work?” she said finally.
“Fine,” he said.
“You were able to take it before you went in? I’m glad you had it. They’re very good, especially for something like this that overtaxes you.” Then, rallying, she said, “I don’t see how you can leave me. What would happen to you? This is the worst possible time. You’ve undergone a dreadful traumatic situation these last couple of weeks. We both have. And this divorce business, this having to go into court, was the ultimate.” Now she was attentive; her voice became quiet, and her expression changed to a tough acuteness. Taking hold of his arm she steered him toward the house. “You haven’t had anything to eat, have you?”
“No,” he said. He held back, refusing to let her budge him.
“You’re really furious at me, aren’t you?” she said finally. “This is the most hostile you’ve been toward me.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“I suppose the hostility must have been there all the time, buried in your subconscious. Doctor Andrews says it’s better to say things like this if you feel them than not to.” She did not sound angry; she sounded resigned. “I don’t blame you,” she said, eying him, standing very close to him and gazing up into his face with her head cocked on one side, her hands behind her back. Perspiration, from the heat of the day, shone on her throat; he saw it as it appeared and evaporated and reappeared. It pulsed there. “Can’t we talk about it further?” she said. Instead of becoming childish she had become deeply rational. “A decision this serious should be discussed. Come inside and sit down and have lunch. Anyhow, where are you going to go? If someone has to go, good god, this is your house—you can’t let us stay here if you feel about me the way you do. We’ll go to a motel. I mean, that’s no problem.”
To that, he said nothing.
Fay said, “If you leave me you won’t have a god damn thing. Maybe there are character traits in me that should be changed—that’s why I go to Doctor Andrews, isn’t it? And if there’re things wrong with me, can’t you tell me the right way to act? Can’t you put me in my place? I want you to tell me what to do. Do you think I respect a man who I can push around?”
“Then let me go,” he said.
“I think you’re nuts to go,” Fay said.
“Maybe so,” he said. Turning around, he walked away.
From behind him, Fay said in a firm voice, “I promised the girls that we’d take them down to Fairyland this afternoon.”
He could scarcely believe his ears. “What?” he said. “What the hell is ‘fairyland’?”
“Down in Oakland,” she said, facing him with composure. “They heard all about it on Popeye. They want to see King Fuddle’s castle. I told them when you got back we’d go.”
“I never said that,” he said. “You never told me.”
“Well,” she said, “I know how you don’t like to be bothered.”
“God damn you,” he said. “Committing me.”
“It’ll only take a couple of hours. An hour ride from here.”
“More like two,” he said.
“You should never break a promise to a child,” she said. “Anyhow, if you’re going to walk out on us and leave us, you should want to do something so they’ll remember you. Do you want them to have a last impression of you not giving a damn about their interests?”
He said, “It doesn’t matter what last impression they have of me, because you’ll manage to tell them something about me that’ll make me look so weak and awful—”
“They’re listening,” she said.
On the porch, the two girls had appeared. They had their cake on a big plate. “Look!” Bonnie called down. Both girls beamed at him.
“Nice,” he said.
“Well,” Fay said. “Is this too much to ask of you? Then you can walk out on us.”
The girls, obviously paying no attention to what either adult was saying, called down, “What kind of icing do you want? Mommy said to wait and ask you.”