And my first on-record thought was of course that I had been bitterly, scaldingly betrayed just at a critical point — the point at which I’d gotten things almost “turned around” for the long canter back to the barn — the commencing point of life’s gentle amelioration, all sins forgiven, all lesions healed.
“Married?” I, in essence, shouted, my heart making one palpable, possibly audible clunk at the bottom of its cavity. “Married to who?”
“To Charley O’Dell,” Ann said, unduly calm in the face of calamitous news.
“You’re marrying the bricklayer!” I said. “Why?”
“I guess because I want somebody to make love to me more than three times after which I never see them again.” She said this calmly too. “You just go to France and I don’t hear from you for months”—which wasn’t true—“I actually think the children need a better life than that. And also because I don’t want to die in Haddam, and because I’d like to see the Connecticut in the morning mist and go sailing in a skiff. I guess, in more traditional terms, I’m in love with him. What’d you think?”
“Those seem like good reasons,” I said, light-headed.
“I’m happy you approve.”
“I don’t approve,” I said, breathless, as if I’d come straight inside from a long run. “You’re moving the kids away too?”
“It’s not in our decree that I can’t,” she said.
“What do they think?” I felt my heart thunk-a-thunk again at the thought of the children. This, of course, was a serious issue, and one that becomes urgent decades beyond divorce itself: the issue of what the children think of their father if their mother remarries. (He almost never fares well. There are books about this, and they aren’t funny: the father is seen either as a stooge wearing goat horns or a brute betrayer who forced Mom into marrying a hairy outsider who invariably treats the kids with irony, ill-disguised contempt and annoyance. Either way, insult is glommed onto injury.)
“They think it’s wonderful,” Ann said. “Or they should. I think they expect me to be happy.”
“Sure, why not?” I said numbly.
“Right. Why not.”
And then there was a long, cold silence, which we both knew to be the silence of the millennium, the silence of divorce, of being fatigued by love parceled out and withheld in the unfair ways it had been, by love lost when something should’ve made it not be lost but didn’t, the silence of death — long before death might even be winked at.
“That’s all I really have to say now,” she said. A heavy curtain had parted briefly, then closed again.
I was in fact standing in the butler’s pantry at 19 Hoving Road, staring out the little round nautically paned fo’c’sle window into my side yard, where the big copper beech cast ominous puddles of purple, pre-dark shadow over the green grasses and shrubs of late-spring evening.
“When’s all this happening?” I said almost apologetically. I put my hand to my cheek, and my cheek was cold.
“In two months.”
“What about the club?” Ann had stayed on as a part-time teaching pro at Cranbury Hills and had once briefly been an aspirant to the state ladies’ pro-am. She’d actually met Charley there, on the cadge with his reciprocating membership from the Old Lyme Country Club. She had told me (I thought) all about him: a sort of nice older man she felt comfortable with.
“I’ve taught enough women to play golf now,” she said briskly, then paused. “I put my house on the market this morning with Lauren-Schwindell.”
“Maybe I’ll buy it,” I said rashly.
“That’d certainly be novel.”
I had no idea why I’d say anything so preposterous, except to have something bold to say instead of breaking into hysterical laughter or howls of grief. But then I said, “Maybe I’ll sell this place and move into your house.”
And as quick as the words left my mouth I had the dead-eyed conviction that I was going to do exactly that, and in a hurry — perhaps so she could never get rid of me. (That may be what marriage means in laymen’s terms: a relation you have with the one person in the world you can’t get rid of except by dying.)
“I think I’ll leave the real estate ventures to you,” Ann said, ready to get off the phone.
“Is Charley there?” It seemed conceivable I might just storm over right then and bust him up, bloody his tee-shirt, put some extra years on him.
“No, he’s not, and don’t come over here, please. I’m crying now, and you don’t get to see that.” I hadn’t heard her crying and concluded she was lying to make me feel like a louse, which was how I felt even though I hadn’t done anything lousy. She was getting married. I was the one getting left behind like a cripple.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I don’t want to spoil any of the fun.”
And then suddenly, the receiver pressed to my ear, another even more inert silence filled the optic lines connecting us. And I had the sharpest pain that Ann was going to die, not in Haddam and not immediately, not even soon, but not so long from then either — at the end of a period of time that, because she was abandoning me for the arms of another, would pass almost imperceptibly, her life’s extinguishment paying out beyond my knowing via a series of small, exquisite doctors’ appointments, anxieties, dismays, unhappy lab reports, gloomy X rays, tiny struggles, tiny victories, reprieves, then failures (life’s inventory of morose happenstance), at the sudden, misty conclusion of which a call would come or a voice mail or a fax or a mailgram, saying: “Ann Dykstra died Tuesday morning. Services yesterday. Thought you’d want to know. Condolences. C. O’Dell.” After which my own life would be ruined and over with, big time! (It’s a matter of my age that all new events threaten to ruin my precious remaining years. Nothing like this feeling happens when you’re thirty-two.)
And of course it was just cheap sentimentalism — the kind the gods frown down on from Olympus and send avengers to punish the small-time con men of emotion for practicing. Only sometimes you can’t feel anything about a subject without hypothesizing its extinction. And that is how I felt: full of sadness that Ann was going away to start the part of her life that would end in her death; at which time I’d be elsewhere, piddling around at nothing very important, the way I had since coming back from Europe or — depending on your point of view — the way I had for twenty years. I’d be unthought of or worse, thought of only as “a man Ann was once married to…. I’m not sure where he is now. He was strange.”
Yet I felt, if I was to have a part, any part in it at all, it would have to be spoken right then — on the phone, streets away but different neighborhoods (the geography of divorce), me alone in my house, feeling, as recently as ten minutes prior, hopeful about my unruined prospects but suddenly feeling as divorced as a man can be.
“Don’t marry him, sweetheart! Marry me! Again! Let’s sell both our shitty houses and move to Quoddy Head, where I’ll buy a small newspaper from the proceeds. You can learn to sail your skiff off Grand Manan, and the kids can learn to set type by hand, be wary little seafarers, grow adept with lobster pots, trade in their Jersey accents, go to Bowdoin and Bates.” These are words I didn’t say into the dense millennial silence available to me. They would’ve been laughed at, since I’d had years to say them before then and hadn’t — which Dr. Stopler of New Haven will tell you means I didn’t really want to.