Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

The cut stung but wasn’t deep. Disregarding it, she moved cautiously into the kitchen. It was too dark to make out anything but shapes and she had to rely on memory to get around. She moved with extreme caution.

Something, she sensed immediately, was radically wrong with the configurations of the kitchen. Nothing seemed in its rightful place except the work island. She groped around with her hands, taking short, cautious steps. Suddenly something loomed in front of her, a rope. She tugged at it and a rain of pots came down, making an explosive, ear-splitting, clanging noise. She screamed, tried to run, then fell. Nothing was placed as she remembered it. She rose and moved into the corridor that led to the foyer, but as soon as she reached the marbled surface there was no friction. Her feet gave way and she hit the floor, sliding along the surface. She could not rise. Every surface she touched was too slippery to hold.

Under other circumstances, she might have been reminded of a fun house in an amusement park. But this was no fun. It was frightening. Beyond her understanding. The law of gravity seemed suspended, but with a superhuman effort she groped her way backward to the kitchen. Her shoulder touched something and she felt the pressure of a heavy object bearing down on her. It was the refrigerator. Panicked, she managed to jump aside just before it hit the floor. She screamed again, wondering if she was losing her mind.

Feeling for the knob to the basement door, she pushed it open and, reaching for the banister, took a step forward. There were no steps and she felt her legs swinging free. But she did not fall. By some miracle she had locked her arms around the wooden banister. Instinctively, to save herself, she kicked upward and, with her legs against the walls, wedged herself in the narrow space of the stairwell. By careful maneuvering, she managed to lower herself, finally letting go as she touched the basement floor. Just in time. Her back and leg muscles had just about given out.

Bruised and hysterical, she crawled along the cement floor until she found the door. But it was wedged shut. Her groping fingers found the wedge, but it wouldn’t budge.

She was, she was sure, experiencing some bizarre dysfunction of reality. The house and everything in it were conspiring to terrorize her. It was an idea that made no sense; perhaps she had wandered into a madhouse or into someone else’s bad dream. She lay panting on the floor, weakened by fear.

She heard sounds above her. Footsteps. Her impulse for survival forced her now to ascertain the landscape of her surroundings. Some of the dark shapes around her took on meaning. She was in what remained of his workshop. It was a shambles, but she groped around for some tool that might remove the wedge. In a nearby corner she found a sledgehammer. Standing up, she tried to lift it. Fear goaded her strength. Help me, she screamed to herself, miraculously finding the energy to wind the hammer over her head. Swinging it, she crashed it into the door. The blow unloosened the wedge and the door flew open. She ran into the garden. But as she swung open the gate she could not, even in her terror, resist the impulse to turn back.

She saw him through the shattered window of the sun-room. He was gaunt, bearded, his eyes staring out through shadowed sockets. For a moment she hesitated in mid-flight, unable to choose between compassion or fear. Was it the Oliver of her fantasies, of her other life? The Oliver to whom she had given her love?

She did not stay long enough to find out.

Barbara had filled all ten sockets of the silver rococo candelabrum with candles. She had never done that before and the glow cast on the dining-room table was beautiful. Flames danced and flickered like fireflies over the polished mahogany surface of the table. She had also put out her silver goblets and plates at either end of the table. On his silver plate she put a large slice of her freshly made pate and a little pile of melba toast.

It was, she had decided, poetically just for her to arrange this meeting in the dining room, her domain. She had cleaned herself up as best she could, and now waited for him, seated at the head of the table. She reached out to the shopping bag beside her right foot, feeling the cool blade of the cleaver. It reassured her about her resolve, her bravery. We are down to basics, she told herself.

At first she had been concerned that he would not come. Perhaps her invitation had sounded too much like a summons. But she had prepared just the same, listening for signs of movement now that the big clock had chimed nine.

She heard him almost at the same moment that she saw him. He was wearing the print robe she had bought him for their fifteenth anniversary. Or was it their sixteenth? It pleased her that she was unsure. Her history with him was becoming vague. The past was disappearing. He was carrying an armful of wine bottles, as well as a crowbar. Lining the bottles up in front of him, he opened two and slid one of the opened bottles in her

direction. They poured each bottle simultaneously, filling the silver goblets. He lifted his.

cTo your health, my darling,’ he said with a Noel Coward-like inflection. She obliged by sipping cautiously while he emptied his goblet and refilled it quickly. She did not take her hand off the handle of the cleaver.

‘The last of the ’59’s,’ he said. ‘Quickly approaching imperfection.’

‘Still very good, Oliver. Good body, neither sweet nor dry.’

Putting down his goblet, he bent over and smelled the pate. Daintily, he spread some on a cracker and ate it slowly.

‘Marvelous, Barbara. Nobody can make a pate quite like yours.’

‘You’ve always had an appreciative palate.’ She smiled, pleased that he liked the dish.

He lifted his goblet again, drank, and ate more of the pate’. She watched his bearded face in the flickering light. It had an eerie cast, waxy, like the candles. The shadows stripped him of his age and she saw him as he had looked in his younger days, an image she detested, especially now.

‘I hope you’re now convinced, Oliver, that I do not intend to retreat. Not one inch.’

As he lifted the goblet again his hand shook.

‘You invited me here to tell me that?’ he said, frowning. This was not what he had expected.

‘I can take anything you can dish out. All your creative punishments.’

‘Is that why we’re having this little tete-a-tete?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘I have a proposition.’

‘I’m listening.’ He poured another gobletful and drank.

‘I’ll let you have your pick of half the things in the house. Except in this room. Or the kitchen. And the furniture in the kids’ rooms. Take the books, the paintings, the Staffordshires.’

‘You’re very generous,’ he said sarcastically.

‘You can take it now. Only get out with it.’ She had thought about her offer long and hard. ‘It’s a damned good deal.’

He seemed to ponder the idea, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

‘It’s as far as I go,’ she said. ‘I keep the house.’

He looked around the room, waving his hand. ‘And this as well.’

‘And this as well,’ she repeated. ‘I think I’m being exceptionally reasonable. No lawyers needed. Just you and me, kid.’

‘Yeah, just you and me,’ he said bitterly. She watched him coolly. She was pleased that her words were crisp and forceful, her courage unfaltering.

‘I am not afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m capable of resisting forever if necessary.’

She watched him wash down the pate with more wine and then looked at the ceiling. Perspiration shone on his cheeks. The candles had raised the temperature unbearably. He stood up, took off his robe, and, bare-chested, sat down again.