Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

There was a part of me that always wondered if Tony had the long-term discipline that was required for this prolonged task. Like so many journos who'd done time in the field, he loved the manic hunt for a story, and the hurried, frenetic rush to file copy by the necessary deadline. But could he actually retreat to a little room, day in, day out, to incrementally push a narrative along - as he once bragged to me that two hours was about the longest time he'd ever spent writing a story?

Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, working. I was both impressed and pleasantly surprised.

'That's great news', I said.

Tony shrugged. 'It might turn out to be crap'.

'It might turn out to be good'.

Another shrug.

'How far are you into it?' I asked.

'Just a few thousand words'.

'And...?'

'Like I said, I haven't a clue if it's up to anything'.

'But you will keep writing it?'

'Yeah - until my nerve fails me. Or when I decide it's beyond useless'.

I came over to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

'I won't let you stop'.

'That a promise?' he asked, finally looking up at me.

'Yes. It is. And listen...'

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry about before'.

He turned back to the screen.

'I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning... if you can stop worrying'.

But when I woke at seven that morning, Tony wasn't next to me in bed. Rather, I found him asleep on the new pull-out sofa in his study, a small pile of printed pages stacked up by the computer. When I brought him a cup of tea a few hours later, my first question was, 'How late did you work?'

'Only 'til three', he said, sounding half awake.

'You could have come down and shared the bed'.

'Didn't want to wake you'.

But the next night, he did the same thing. I'd just come back from the hospital - my second visit of the day to Jack. It was nine o'clock - and I was slightly aggrieved to find Tony already at work in his office, as he had told me he couldn't make it to the hospital this evening, because of yet another international crisis (something in Mozambique, I think) that was keeping him.

'Anyway, it's not as if Jack will be missing me', he said when he phoned me that afternoon at home.

'But I'd like it if you were with me'.

'And I'd like it too. But...'

'I know, I know - work is work. And who cares if your son...'

'Let's not start that', he said sharply.

'Fine, fine', I said, sounding truly tetchy now. 'Have it your way. I'll see you at home'.

So finding him in his office that evening really did peeve me.

'I thought you said you'd be working late at the paper'.

'We got the pages to bed earlier than expected'.

'Well, thanks a lot for rushing over to the Mattingly to see your son'.

'I only got in fifteen minutes ago'.

'And went straight to work on your novel?'

'That's right'.

'You really expect me to believe that?'

'I was inspired', he said, without the faintest trace of irony.

'I suppose you'll now want dinner?'

'No - I grabbed something at the office. Anyway, what I really want to do is work on, if that's okay'.

'Don't you want to know how Jack is?'

'I do know that. I called the hospital around six, and got a full update from the ICU sister. But, I suppose, you know that already'.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I just turned on my heel and left. After throwing something together in the kitchen, and washing it back with a single glass of wine (I wasn't risking another descent into weirdness), I poured Tony a glass and brought it back up to his office.

'Oh, ta', he said, looking up from the screen.

'How's it going?' I asked.

'Good, good', he said in a tone which indicated that I was interrupting his flow.

'Want to watch the Ten O'Clock News?'

'Better keep on with this'.

Two hours later, I stuck my head back in his office.

'I'm going to bed now', I said.

'Fine'.

'You coming?'

'Be down in a moment'.

But when I turned the bedside light off fifteen minutes later, he hadn't joined me. And when I came to at eight the next morning, the space next to me was empty.

So, once again, I climbed the stairs to his office - only to find him under the duvet on his sofa bed.

This time, however, I didn't bring him a cup of tea. Nor did I wake him. But when he staggered downstairs around ten, looking harassed, the first thing he said to me was, 'Why the hell did you let me sleep in?'

'Well, since we now seem to be living separate lives, I don't have to be your alarm clock'.

'I spend two nights on the sofa, and you're already talking about separate lives'.

'I'm just wondering if you're trying to tell me something. Or if this is some passive-aggressive' -

'Passive-aggressive. For fuck's sake, I was just working late. On the novel - which you so want me to write. So what's the problem?'

'I'm just...'

'Insanely insecure'.

I didn't know what to say to that. Except, 'Perhaps'.

'Well, you shouldn't be. And I will be at the hospital tonight. And I will share our bed. All right?'

True to his word, Tony did show up at the Mattingly around eight that evening. He was half an hour late, but I decided not to make a big deal of it. I had already spent the better part of an hour making eye contact with my son. He seemed to be watching me watching him - and for the first time in weeks, I actually found myself smiling.

'Look at this', I said as Tony walked down the ward towards us. He crouched down beside us and looked at his son.

'I told you he would be all right', he said.

Yes, you did. But why do you have to remind me of that now?

'He really sees us', I said, deciding it was not the moment to respond to Tony's comment.

'I suppose he does'. He waved briefly in his direction. 'Hello there. We are your parents, you poor bugger'.

'He'll be just fine. Because we'll make sure of that'.

'Your mother's an all-American optimist', Tony said to Jack. Our son just peered out at us, no doubt wondering where he was, and what was this thing called life.

That night, Tony did get into bed with me, and read Graham Greene's The Honorary Consul, and kissed me goodnight. Though sex was still definitely out of the physical question, a cuddle would have been nice. But, then again, a casual cuddle (or, at least, one without the follow-through of sex) was never Tony's style. When I woke the next morning... true to form, I found him upstairs, sprawled out on his sofa bed, more pages piled up by the computer.

'You seem to be having very productive nights', I said.

'It's a good time to work', he said.

'And it also gives you the excuse not to sleep with me'.

'I did last night'.

'For how long?'

'Does that really matter? You were asleep, after all'.

'As soon as I was conked out, you went upstairs'.

'Yes, that's right. But I did come to bed with you as requested, didn't I?'

'I suppose so', I said, realizing I had nowhere to go in this argument.

'And the novel is getting written'.

'That's nice'.

'So what's the problem?'

'There is no problem, Tony'.

But I also knew that my husband was shrewdly ensuring that, when Jack came home, he'd be able to sidestep all the broken, sleepless nights by using his novel as an excuse... and the sofa bed in his office as his refuge.

Once again, however, I feared raising this point, as I could see that every time I said something contrary, he'd sigh heavily and make me feel like the nag I never wanted to be. And he had let my little free-fall episode come and go without major comment. Just as he'd also been admirably Teflon-like when I was riding the hormonal roller coaster in hospital. So, to keep the domestic peace (especially given Jack's imminent arrival home), I thought it best not to push this point. Grin and bear it: the great marital bromide.