Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

‘And I’m capable of resisting your resistance,’ he said. ‘Forever if necessary. This is my house. I paid for it. No matter what. Even if the courts decide otherwise. I’ll find a way to get it.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Hopefully. If I can get away with that.’

She reached down and touched the cool blade of her cleaver.

‘You’re not going to intimidate me,’ she said calmly. She finished her goblet of wine and poured herself another.

‘We’ve passed that stage a long time ago, Barbara.’

‘What I can’t understand…’ She hesitated, sipping her wine. ‘What I can’t understand is why you are having so much difficulty understanding my position. Other people get divorced. You didn’t have to stay here. You could have avoided all this… this unpleasantness.’

‘It’s not unpleasant.’ He giggled. ‘Rather interesting, I’d say.’

She looked at him and shook her head. ‘You are a bastard.’

‘I’m just not going to reward you for being a bitch, for destroying our family. People shouldn’t be rewarded for destruction.’

‘Always the family. The family. Why should I have to live in an institution I hate, that has tried to do me in?’ She banged the table with the flat of her hand. The plates jumped and the candelabrum bounced. ‘I want out and I want to be compensated for my sacrifices.’

His face glistened with sweat. He smiled but transmitted no warmth.

‘You were a dumb little shit when I married you. My brains put you in this house. My money bought all these things. My support and indulgence pushed you to become a gourmet cook. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be living in some clapboard house in New England, boiling potatoes for some half-assed clerk.’

‘My undying gratitude.’ She had spat out the words.

‘I’m not getting out,’ he cried, his speech thickening. She tightened her grip on the handle of the cleaver. ‘Nothing gets split up. Only us.’

‘Well, then, my conscience is clear.’

‘You haven’t got a conscience.’

She watched him, suddenly feeling a great well of pity bubble up inside her. He was as much a victim as she. Some vague, unexplainable concept that the world called love- had cheated them both.

‘You don’t matter to me anymore, Oliver,’ she said sadly. ‘You just don’t matter. I loathe you.’

‘A good loathe is hard to find. I’m still working on hate.’

‘I’m beyond hate, Oliver. Far beyond it. I’ve lived with it for too long. It’s not really your fault, either. You were just there at the wrong time and the wrong place.’

‘Please, Barbara. Don’t declare me innocent. I need my hatred just as much as you do. How else can I sustain the battle?’ She caught the sarcasm but couldn’t find the humor.

‘Well, look at it this way,’ she said. ‘At least we got the kids out of it.’

‘The kids? I hadn’t thought of them for a while.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘They’re fine, I suppose.’

‘No news is good news. I’m glad they’re out of the line of fire.’

‘See how civilized we can be, Barbara.’ Silendy he raised his goblet, then she did.

‘People don’t matter,’ he said gloomily. ‘Only things. Things are loyal. Always there. Always true. Some things increase in value. Never people. People diminish.’ He looked at her and smiled drunkenly.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll just take back my offer.’

‘And all you have to do is take half the value. Cold cash. Lots of it. Then get out. Fini.’

‘ Not till hell freezes over,’ she said. ‘It won’t in this heat.’

‘Then we’ll just have to tough it out, won’t we?’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ He upended his goblet, then opened another bottle. He held it up and looked at her. ‘Chateau Beycheville.’ He squinted at the label. ‘A ’64. I think we had a good year in ’64.’

‘Only in your mind, Oliver. Never in mine.’

Upending the bottle, he drank from it. Then he held it up again, pointing it for emphasis.

‘I want you out of my house,’ he said. ‘This is my place.’

‘Exactly my sentiments, Oliver,’ she said coolly. He raised his voice. ‘I have more right to it than you.’

‘Don’t talk to me about rights.’

‘I love it more than you do. I deserve it. You don’t love it.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this crap.’

‘You can’t take everything away. You’ve got to leave me something.’

‘Don’t get maudlin.’

She felt the tension building in him.

‘You’re selfish and grasping, Barbara. Loathsome. A loathsome bitch.’

‘I worked for it. I’m going to fight for it.’

He drained the botde and let it fall to the floor. It rolled, unbroken, under the table. He staggered toward the door.

‘Thanks for the pate,’ he croaked.

‘Don’t thank me.’ She paused until she was sure she had his attention. ‘Thank Benny.’

’Benny.’

He staggered against the wall, putting out an arm for support. He sagged but with effort straightened up and looked toward her, his eyes spitting rage. She sensed the reflex even before he moved, his raised hand suddenly materializing, holding the crowbar. Reaching for her shopping bag, she lifted it, clutched it to her chest, and got up, overturning her chair.

She saw the crowbar fall in a long, sweeping motion that pushed the candelabrum from the table. Methodically, he stepped on each candle, putting out the flames.

The darkness was total. She reached for the cleaver handle, then held it above her head, fully prepared to use it in self-defense. She was determined to show him the full extent of her stubbornness and her courage.

She had expected him to come at her and was surprised when he didn’t. He is afraid, she thought.

A deafening sound roared through the room. She heard the nerve-tingling scrape of metal on wood and the sound of his crowbar biting into the Duncan Phyfe table. The pain of the injured wood seemed to transfer itself to her own flesh. Under cover of the darkness, she backed out of the room and moved silently through the hall corridor, up the stairs, and into Josh’s room.

She curled up in Josh’s closet, her shopping bag in her lap, her fist clenching the handle of the cleaver. The beating of her heart partially obscured the sounds of his destructive tantrum.

For a long while he lay on the floor of his room trying to reenter time. He was procrastinating, since finding time again meant he would also find pain. Without time he could lie here through eternity. He would be able to avoid existence. Existence was the enemy.

The room had grown dark, then light, then dark again. He was not certain of the chronology. That would mean he had re-entered time. He lay in a pool of his own fetid moisture. Discovering this condition irritated him because it meant that he had also reentered space. When it became apparent that such consciousness was unavoidable, he opened his eyes.

It was daylight, of some day. He was determined to avoid the concept of time as long as possible. The room was strewn with empty wine bottles. The movement of his legs jostled some and they rolled against one another. The sound reminded him of his thirst, and he began to crawl on his hands and knees in search of filled bottles.

Finding one, he lifted himself up to a squat and, unable to find a corkscrew, smashed the neck against the floor and poured the wine into his mouth. It splashed over his chin and onto his bare chest. It did not even occur to him to try to identify the wine. It could have been white or red. His palate was numb, his sense of taste gone.

When he felt vaguely restored, he lifted himself to a standing position by grabbing the bedpost. Dizzy and nauseated, he dry-heaved, then swallowed. Time was crowding in on him now. There was no escaping it.