Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

‘And the kids?’

‘It doesn’t look like the kids will be a problem. Be fatherly, but under no circumstances let them be made an issue. In terms of Mrs Rose, try to be cool, polite, proper, and distant. If you think she’s up to something fishy, tell me. Don’t give her any cause for action. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t take anything out of the house. If she does, tell me immediately.’

‘I’ve got to be a prisoner in my own house,’ he mumbled. Goldstein ignored him.

‘Number three.’ The middle digit joined the others. ‘Be patient. Exercise. Go to the movies a lot. Play with yourself. Anything to keep your mind off your problems.’

‘Fat chance,’ he said. ‘And number four?’

‘Number four,’ Goldstein said, shaking his head sadly and looking deep into Oliver’s face, ‘is not to be a schmuck and do something that you’ll be sorry for. And number five’ – Goldstein smiled, showing a line of spaced teeth like a picket fence – ‘is to pay my monthly retainer on time.’

Oliver sat in his office long after the others had gone. He had shooed away the cleaning woman, a portly Spanish-looking lady who looked at him knowingly. He was certain she had guessed that he was sitting there because he had no place to go.

Looking at his image in the darkened window, he seemed transparent. The eyes looked back out of hollowed pockets. The declivity of his cheeks had increased. The disregard for his usual fastidiousness showed everywhere. His tie was awry, the collar of his shirt rumpled. His beard seemed to have grown more rapidly than usual, and his mouth felt oddly smoky. He was sure he had caught Goldstein’s halitosis and he blew into his palm to confirm it.

He could not stand the sight or smell of himself any longer. Leaving his office, he went into the street. He couldn’t bear the thought of eating alone in a restaurant, waiting for service, choosing from the menu, feeling the butt of wandering eyes and their pity for his aloneness, speculating on his miserable existence, on his life of quiet desperation and terror. He continued to walk, unable to stop the jumble in his mind, bemoaning the tragedy of his life, once so promising. He had given up the possibility that he was dreaming. Indeed, losing Barbara had once been a consistent nightmare and always, upon awakening, he would reach out to her and cuddle his body full length against hers, proving her presence.

‘I’ll die if I ever lose you,’ he would whisper, wondering if she had heard. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

It was a nightmare no longer confined to the darkness.

Without consciously making a decision, he walked into the Circle Theater, remembering Goldstein’s suggestion.

They were playing a double feature – The Lady Vanishes and The 39 Steps – two early Hitchcocks. He bought the largest bucket of popcorn, drenched it in butter, and walked into the darkened theater. Both movies had been made before he was born, he noted, surely a less complicated time. Had people really been that simple and direct? The stories gripped him at times, took him away from his problems, but when his consciousness snapped back and revealed his isolation, he would feel a momentary wave of claustrophobia. What was he doing here, away from his family, away from his rightful place?

With sustained anger and not an iota of fear, he walked along the dark and crime-ridden streets, almost hoping that he might be attacked so that he could vent all his frustration on the antagonist. He tried to will himself to be a lure, slowing down when he heard footsteps approaching, disappointed finally when he discovered that he was in front of his house. As always, Benny was waiting, snuggling against his leg.

Through the front windows he could see the dull glow of the kitchen light and when he opened the front door the aroma of her cooking reached his nostrils. The meaty flavor of her pate had once been overwhelmingly tempting. Now it filled him with nausea. Before he could reach the foot of the stairs, Barbara materialized, still dressed and aproned, her face flushed from activity. He turned his eyes away and felt his hands reach out for the coolness of the brass banister. The chandelier was unlit. In the dim light he could make out the tension in her face.

‘I think we should talk,’ she said gently. His heart lurched as his mind leaped at the possibility of a reconciliation. It was too tempting to ignore. He wondered how he should play it. That depended on the degree of her contrition, he decided. Please, let God be magnanimous, Oliver urged.

He followed her into the library. She turned on one of the Tiffany lamps and the soft glow enveloped her as she wiped her hands on her apron. Lady Macbeth. He smiled at the errant image. She sat down on the edge of one of the leather chairs, remarkably cool and businesslike. He wondered if it was an ominous sign, and was quickly rewarded for his curiosity.

‘You can’t stay here, Oliver,’ she said crisply. ‘Not now.’ Her voice was soft but firm. He was ashamed of his hopefulness.

‘It’s a question of facing reality,’ she said, sighing. ‘I just feel it will be better for all parties. Including the kids.’

‘Leave them out of this,’ he snapped, recalling Goldstein.

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. But certainly it won’t be a healthy situation.’ What troubled him most was her command of herself. Her firm assertion. You’ve come a long way, baby, he thought. Why are you doing this to me?

His gaze washed over the room that he had created, the rubbed-walnut shelves, the rows of leather-bound books, filled with so much now-useless wisdom.

‘I thought I offered you a most reasonable solution,’ he said, trying to capture his usual lawyerlike demeanor when dealing with clients. But the tremor in his voice gave him away.

‘Not to me,’ she said quietly.

‘Reasonable? To take everything. Leave me with nothing. That’s reasonable?’ His voice started to rise, but he remembered Goldstein’s caution.

‘It’s my payment for being your security blanket for nearly twenty years. I can’t possibly earn in five years what you can earn in one. No matter how great my business goes. For me, that’s reasonable.’

He started to pace about the room, touching objects. He stuck a finger into one of the cubbies of the rent table and spun it around.

‘I’ve invested so much of myself in this place. Surely as much as you.’ He was being deliberately calm, trying to hold in his temper. He looked down at her. She seemed cold, clear-eyed. Unbending. ‘I can’t believe you’re so ruthless about this, Barbara, considering all we shared for eighteen years.’

‘I’m not going to yield to any guilt trip, Oliver. I’ve come to grips with that. The problem for you to understand is that I’m thinking only of myself for the first time in my life.’

‘And the kids?’

‘Believe me, I intend to fully discharge my responsibilities.’ She frowned. ‘Now who’s using the kids?’

‘It’s just not clear, Barbara. If I understood it, maybe I could be more tolerant.’

‘I know,’ Barbara said, with what seemed like a hint of compassion. She bit her lip, a normal gesture for her when she was troubled. ‘I’m changed, that’s all. Not the old me. Any explanation sounds cruel. I don’t want to be cruel.’

‘ "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." ’

‘That’s one of them. One of the things I detest so much in you, Oliver. All those literary allusions that forced me to ask for explanations, as if they were a proof of your superiority.’

‘Pardon me for having lived.’

‘Now you’re getting hostile.’