Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

I texted back.

Yes. It’s official. It’s a date.

Saturday

One

‘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.

I texted back.

Did he say you couldn’t go?

Hasn’t grounded me or anything — but giving me no money is his way of keeping me home.

Well, at least he didn’t forbid her from going out — as I had never contradicted him when he gave a directive to one of our children.

Who’s driving?

Jenny’s sister Brenda.

That was reassuring, as Brenda was twenty-three and working as a receptionist at Bath Iron Works. The few times I met her Brenda always struck me as reasonably grounded. Very grounded, as she weighed around three hundred pounds and was trying to lose weight to realize her dream of joining the US Navy. From what I’d heard from Sally since then, she’d gained twenty pounds in the last few months. But even if she couldn’t get her girth together she was an absolute teetotaler (as Sally reported she was always lecturing her sister on the dangers of alcohol). So I was reassured that she’d be the designated driver tonight.

If it’s Brenda behind the wheel I’m OK with that. Will text your dad and get his OK.

He’s cool with all that.

Then let him tell me himself. And I immediately sent Dan a text, explaining that Sally wanted to go out and—

Bing. A text back from Dan.

I told her she couldn’t go. Why are you over-ruling me here?

Oh God. It never stops. Sally was, as usual, playing us off against each other.

I would never dream of undermining your authority. But is it really a big deal if she goes out tonight? She has money from me, and I see no reason why she should stay at home.

Bing.

She’s staying at home because I told her she’s staying at home.

I felt myself clench again. Until recently Dan had doted on his daughter — and was, at times, a little too lenient with her. But recently his wide-ranging dyspepsia has also clouded his relationship with Sally — to the point where she recently said to him: ‘When did you start resenting my existence?’ (This was after he grounded her for a weekend when she ignored his directive to clean up her catastrophe of a room.) Though I did try to play the diplomat then — even getting Sally to actually do a major tidy — Dan still wouldn’t budge.

‘You’re still grounded,’ he told her after inspecting her now squared-away room. ‘Because you need to be taught a lesson now and then.’