The third time he doesn’t remember at all. He was driving Maureen to her first day at college. Gwen had a lot of school work to do and asked Maureen if it’d be all right if she stayed home. She could use the time. Maureen said “Daddy’s just going to leave me there anyway, once we get my things into the dorm, since I don’t want anyone hanging around.” “And you?” and he said “It’d be nice having Maureen all to my own for a few hours. And much as I love your company, I don’t mind driving back alone. Plenty of classical music stations between Connecticut and here.” “Dear God,” she said, starting to cry just before they left, “this’ll be the first time since they went off sailing in Maine for a week, when they were what? — nine and twelve — when one of our daughters wouldn’t be home.” “It’ll be sad,” he said, “but we’ll survive,” and he thought what he’s going to tell her when he gets back is now they can run around the house naked again as much as they like and make love with their bedroom door unlatched and open. During the drive, Maureen said “Something just came to me which we never talked about. But it was the most frightening experience in my life. Maybe you don’t want to hear it,” and he said “No, tell me,” and she said “It was when Mom said she was going to leave you.” “Do you mean permanently?” and she said “Yes.” “When she say that? She might have said once or twice that we need a break from each other for a day or two — every couple, married as long as we’ve been, goes through that — but she never wanted to leave me permanently.” “That’s what she said. You had a big fight that not even my being there could stop. And one as bad the previous day too. I was nine, same age I was for that sailboat trip Rosalind and I took, which is maybe why it came to me now, but about a half year earlier. Rosalind wasn’t in the house. I heard yelling and cursing from both of you and ran into the kitchen just when you called her a bitch.” “I never called her a bitch even once,” and she said “You did that night. ‘A rotten bitch.’” “No, I’ve never used that expression for anyone,” and she said “Believe me, you did. That’s when Mom said that was the last time she was going to take that kind of crap from you. That’s the word she used, or ‘shit.’ She said she wanted to move back to our apartment in New York and that she wanted to take us kids with her if we didn’t feel it’d be too much a disruption in our lives.” “But I would have remembered something like that if she’d said it,” he said. “It’s not something you forget.” “I remember it distinctly,” she said. “In the kitchen. It was dark out, around six. I think you were both cooking dinner, or Mom was — fish and a polenta dish, which went to waste that night — nobody wanted to eat — and you were making salad. At least that’s what you had on the counter in front of you, lettuce and things. Mom said she wouldn’t care giving up her teaching job, since it was a skimpy-paying adjunct position your school had only given her because they wanted to keep you. This was before she got a more regular position there. Worse comes to worst, she said, if the kids wanted to stay in their schools till the end of the school year and live with you, she’d go alone to New York with the cat, and Rosalind and I could move in with her sometime before the new school year began. Of course, she said, we could do what we want: stay with you permanently or live with her.” “No, it couldn’t have happened. You have to be imagining it,” and she said “It happened, Daddy. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself or it was such a bad experience for you that you pushed it out of your head. Mom even called Nona that night and told her of her plans to leave you. Later, Rosalind and I asked her what Nona had said, and Mom said she fully supported her and if it was a question of money, she’ll back Mom till she was able to look after herself, though you’d be contributing to her living expenses too.” “Did you ever speak about this with Mommy? Particularly about how it frightened you so much?” “Once, a few years later, and she said the same thing as you. That things like that can happen in even the best of marriages and that they’re usually worked out, with or without professional help, or blown over. With you two, I guess you eventually came to some kind of understanding.” “I don’t remember that either,” and she said “I’m sure if you think some more about it, it’ll come back. Mom also asked me if I ever spoke about it with you, and I told her no. Then she advised me not to bring it up with you. That you’d feel very hurt about it. That some things between two people, after they’re worked out, are better left alone. And Rosalind was so upset when I told her what I witnessed, she never wanted to talk about it.” “So maybe it did happen,” he said, “but I’ve still no recollection of any of it. Let me ask your mother,” and she said “I’d say don’t. From what I could make out, I don’t think she wants to go over the experience again, and I doubt she’d appreciate that you completely forgot about it.” “Then let me ask you, and this is going to sound awfully silly to you, but did Mommy leave me and go live in New York, even for a few days? If it was more I’m sure I would have remembered it,” and she said “No.” “How’d it get resolved, then?” and she said “First you took a long walk around the neighborhood that night — anyway, you were away from the house for hours, and you didn’t take the car.” “Where could I have gone? No bars or anything like that around there, and all the stores would be closed. Was it cold out?” and she said “It was winter, a little before or after Christmas,” and he said “Then I couldn’t have stayed out too long or gone very far unless it was an unusually mild night. I don’t know.” “When you came home, Mom had already gone to bed in your room. You went up to her closed door — I think I even remember hearing her bolt it when you were out — and asked if she ate and she said no. She wasn’t hungry. Then you said ‘You want me to prepare something for you, because you’ve got to eat?’ and she said she didn’t want anything. ‘Make something for the kids, not me,’ she said. ‘Because you upset them so much, they didn’t eat either.’” “This isn’t coming back,” he said. “I don’t see how it couldn’t, but it isn’t. What happened next?” and she said “You said you’d sleep on the couch that night, and she said ‘The girls can sleep together and you can have one of their rooms,’ and you said you didn’t want to make it worse for them than you have. You asked her if she was still planning to go to New York, and she said ‘No more questions; no more talk.’ For you to leave her alone. ‘If you’re going to do anything,’ she said, ‘fix things up with the kids,’ but you didn’t. You seemed to want to stay away from us, so we also kept our distance from you. I remember you had a drink or two. We didn’t see it, and Rosalind was afraid you’d get drunk that night, but we heard the ice clink when you took it from the freezer and dropped it into a glass. You made the couch up for sleeping or maybe you just slept with a blanket over you and a couch pillow. Then you sat in your Morris chair and read and drank and had a CD on to some choral music—” “Hildegard von Bingen, probably. She was my favorite for when I wanted quiet spiritual music and was feeling low,” and she said “I think I remember you playing her other times and wanting us to listen to her with you. Anyway, it was late by then and Rosalind and I were hungry — we really hadn’t had dinner. We cooked up a box of Annie’s or Whole Foods shells and cheese, which we’d been making for ourselves for years, and still do when we want something filling and quick, and then went to bed. Next day, while we were in school — and you had to have driven Rosalind to hers. I always took the school bus. Or it could have been the weekend by now or the first day of our Christmas vacation and we went to be with our friends — anyplace, to be out of the house. What I’m getting at is Mommy and you must have worked it out while we were gone, or started to, because the previous night was the last time I heard her say she was leaving you or wanted to leave you or you should leave her.” “Where’d I sleep the second night?” and she said “I’m not sure. I think on the couch again. Or Rosalind and I may have had a sleepover that night — I’m sure we would have tried to — and you slept in one of our beds. I don’t think things were good enough between you and Mom yet for you to sleep in your bedroom.” “Oh, by the way,” he said, “since you remember so much, do you remember what the argument was about?” and she said “That I don’t know. Not because I can’t remember, but because I didn’t hear what started it; just the yelling and cursing.” “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I mean, I believe you, but I just can’t understand how I could have forgotten such a singular and disturbing event,” and she said “I’m surprised too. Well, now that we’ve finally talked it over, I won’t bring it up again. I think I even feel I shouldn’t have brought it up now.” “I’m still going to speak to your mother to find out what she knows about it,” and she said “I wouldn’t, but that’s up to you.” But when he got back home he forgot to talk about it with her, or something kept him from talking about it, and this is the first time he’s thought of it since.