Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘Because if given the choice between five hundred dollars a week on drugs and spending the same amount of money on clothes. ’

‘I’m going with the clothes.’

We both laughed.

‘You know, Mom, sometimes you can actually “do” cool.’

High praise from my daughter.

The text scoured for any possible tricky phrases, I hit the ‘send’ button, then tossed my cellphone on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed backwards against the synthetic floral bedspread. I closed my eyes.

Bing. A text. From Ben.

Mom — never thought my mother would say have sex with someone and dump her at first sign of trouble. Know if I start I might get smitten again. That’s the thing about love, right? You have to take risks. Which invites possibility of hurt. So — is it potential for pain, or caution, hesitation, no risk? Am sleeping on it. B xxx

My son the philosopher. Reading through his text again I couldn’t help but marvel (maternal pride talking once more) at the way Ben could get to the heart of the matter when it came to the nature of choice. Especially the choice that sends you onto a little island of safety that becomes sterile and confining.

‘Yep. Followed Dad right into the family firm.’

Out of nowhere that comment popped into my head. But when is anything ‘out of nowhere’? Especially as Richard had been there, seated opposite me, much of the evening. Ever since then, he’d been clouding my thoughts.

You have to take risks.

My son the purveyor of uncomfortable, ever-so-evident truths.

I sat up. I reached into my pocket and dug out the card that Richard had given me — the card with his cellphone number. I picked up my phone. I sent a text.

Sorry about hasty exit tonight. Not my best moment. As contrition, how about lunch in Boston tomorrow? Should be able to meet around 1 p.m. Any thoughts? Best — Laura

I hesitated for a moment before hitting ‘send’. But less than a minute after it was dispatched, bing — a reply:

Laura — no need to apologize. I had a lovely evening. And am happy to meet you for lunch tomorrow. I’m buying. Will make a reservation and text details anon. So — can I say this? — it’s a date. Best — Richard

I smiled. After all my objections before when he had dropped that word, now.

I texted back.

Yes. It’s official. It’s a date.

‘THE MULTIX SELECT Dr is a cost-efficient digital radiography system particularly designed to provide doctors in private practice and smaller hospitals entry into the world of digital radiography. And with Mobilett Mira, Siemens launches a mobile, digital X-ray system with a wireless detector and a more flexible swivel arm to increase ease of use for the clinical staff.’

The gentleman pitching this machine to the fifty or so of us had great teeth. And a real slick salesman’s delivery which still didn’t do much for the turgid copy he was clearly reading from a prepared script. I tried to focus on what he was saying. I failed. And decided that ducking out of this conference early wasn’t going to make me miss much — especially as Dr Harrild had already hinted that he wasn’t likely to pick my brains too much about what, if anything, I’d gleaned from the conference. A light bing on my phone indicated the arrival of a text. I glanced down at the screen. I read:

Cleaning out the garage today. Hope the conference is interesting. D xxx

Part of me was touched by this text. Cleaning out the garage — which has been hopelessly stockpiled with all his home improvement equipment, car mechanic equipment, and the home gym stuff that he never uses — has been a request I’ve been making of my husband for the past eighteen months. I’ve not nagged him about it. I hate nagging — though in any long-term relationship there are always domestic details that seem to cause friction — like one person’s inability to make the bed, or do a load of laundry or, indeed, divest the garage of all his accumulated junk, so we can actually park our two cars there when the snow falls. The few times I have mentioned these ongoing annoyances to Dan, they have been met with gruffness or sheer silence. Which, in turn, has meant that I have quietly gone on making the beds, doing the laundry and parking my car outside of our overfilled junk-shop garage (and I am now really sounding just a little too put-upon here). The fact that he has just announced that he is now finally clearing it out. well, that too was his way of saying sorry for last night. But I don’t want acts of contrition. I just want a husband who desires me, who actually seems to want to be with me.

Reaching my room I texted back:

Thanks for doing that. It’s really appreciated. Love you — Laura

A text straight back from Dan:

Tell me if you want anything else done around the house.

He really is feeling guilty. Though I don’t want to say ‘good’, there is a part of me that was pleased he was finally conscious of the fact that his behavior frequently did undermine things between us. and actually hurt me. Just as I could only hope that this desire to do something to please me was the start of something more reasonable between us.

Something more reasonable between us.

Just playing those words over in my head saddened me. Because it underscored how distant and flat things had gotten between us; the continental drift that had become our marriage.

Cleaning out the garage will be more than sufficient. I am missing you. L xxx

I hit ‘send’. And moments later: Bing.

OK, on the job now.

Reading this I found myself taking a sharp intake of breath. My husband was tone deaf when it came to my gentle entreaties for affection. He couldn’t respond to a comment like ‘I am missing you’ with even the slightest hint of reciprocal fondness. He had to null and void it all. In doing so he made me feel small. and very isolated.

Bing. Another text. This one from Sally.

Hi Mom — any chance I could borrow fifty dollars from your secret stash?

Some time ago, I let Sally in on the fact that I was the proud owner of an old tin tobacco box, bought at a yard sale for $3 because I liked the 1920s Lucky Strike design on its battered cover. I keep the box on a shelf in my closet and always try to have about $100 in it as emergency, just-in-case funds. I told Sally about this box; I wanted to ensure that she had access to cash when she needed it, but also insisted that she would never dip into it without first asking me. Was this a little schoolmarmish on my part? Perhaps — but as Sally was something of a spendthrift, money remained an ongoing drama for her. Though she did regularly ask me for supplements to the $30 allowance she received from me per week — and the babysitting money she accrued — to her credit she never once reached into the money stash without first calling me. She knows that I know that she still owes me $320 (she reminded me of this recently when she did put $40 back in the box after a weekend of waiting shifts in Moody’s Diner up in Waldoboro). I haven’t pressed her for it. Just as I worry that this need to buy stuff all the time is a reflection of a larger despair — and one which I don’t seem to be able to help her shake.

What’s the fifty bucks for? I texted Sally back.

Bing. Her instant reply:

Cocaine and ecstasy and a tattoo of a Hell’s Angel I thought would look really good on my right arm. You cool with that?

I found myself smiling. Sally as Ms Irreverent was so far preferable to Sally as Miss Popularity.

I could live with the Hell’s Angel, I texted right back. The question is: could you?

Bing. Her instant reply.

Thanks for maternal words of wisdom. Jenny has last minute ticket for gig in Portland. All heading down there tonight. Need $15 for ticket, then dinner and stuff. Dad said I’ve been spending too much recently.