Part 22 (1/2)
She looks up at her photograph of Anthony on the wall and smiles at him with her eyes. She places the white rock back in the gla.s.s bowl, wraps a blanket around her lap, unties the bakery string, and begins to read.
CHAPTER 33.
”Man, it's nasty out there,” says Jimmy, parking his boots at the door before taking a seat on the couch across from Beth.
He blows into his hands, pink and wet from the cold rain, then rubs them together. The wind howls, sounding determined, as if the big bad wolf were roaming the neighborhood, bent on blowing every house down. One of the shutters rattles, and Beth feels a breeze whisper across her face, a current of uninvited air sailing into the living room through the many cracks around the old, warped windows. She cups her hands around her mug of cocoa, absorbing its comforting heat.
It occurs to her that this is exactly how everything started. A winter storm, a mug of cocoa, a fire in the fireplace, Grover asleep on the rug. Everything feels familiar, as if she's done this before, yet she has the sensation of standing tiptoe at the edge of a precipice, leaning out, about to free-fall into the unknown.
”You look good,” says Jimmy.
She allows a self-conscious smile and picks a fleck of white lint off the front of her red s.h.i.+rt. ”Thanks. You do, too.”
The beard is gone, but he left the sideburns long, which she likes, and his face looks smooth and young. He smells nice, like citrus, an aftershave or cologne she doesn't recognize. He holds a piece of notebook paper folded into the size of a playing card in his hand.
”I'm glad we're finally doing this,” he says, smiling, exuding excited antic.i.p.ation, like a child about to unwrap a Christmas present, sure that it's the very thing he asked for.
Beth's paper, folded once, lies on the couch cus.h.i.+on next to her.
”How do you want to do this?” asks Jimmy.
”I don't know.”
”You want to go first?”
”How about we just swap and read?”
”Okay.”
Beth pa.s.ses her homework to him, and he hands her his wadded piece of paper. Oily and worn on the folds, it's probably been in his pocket for two months. She unwraps it and reads.
WANTED.
Wait up for me every now and then and sleep late with me Come to the bar for dinner some nights Initiate s.e.x HAPPY.
Be happy to see me Stop being mad at me all the time Don't talk to me like I'm one of the kids SECURE.
Be proud of me LOVED.
Tell me you love me His list is short and reasonable, straightforward and simple. It's almost too simple, yet she believes him. His list is sincere, and she feels unexpectedly ashamed. This is all he needs from her, and she's been unwilling to give it to him, even before he began cheating on her.
Her list is similarly uncomplicated. She's not asking for diamonds and luxury vacations. She doesn't need roses and chocolates on her pillow. She's not asking for the moon. It should be easy. Love, happiness, security, feeling wanted, the most basic elements, like air, water, earth, and fire-missing for both of them. No wonder they're both sitting here with sorry pieces of paper in their laps, husband and wife, strangers.
When and why did they start withholding these basic needs? For her, was it in response to the changes in him after he stopped scalloping, before he started working at Salt? Was it a subconscious reaction to his affair? Did she unknowingly sense his infidelity and withdraw? Or did she maybe set aside too much of her creative and pa.s.sionate self years ago, storing it in a box in the attic, not leaving her with enough love and happiness to share with Jimmy? Did she deprive him first, and he reacted in kind? It's a chicken-and-egg question, probably unanswerable.
She rereads his list, afraid to look up at him. On paper, it all looks so achievable, with the obvious exception of going to the bar for dinner. Not with Angela there. Not a chance. But it also confirms what she's suspected for too long. She looks over his piece of notebook paper and sees words that should've been spoken aloud, chatted about on this couch, whispered in bed, needs that could've been conveyed through a look, a note, a tap on the shoulder-all in uncharged, day-to-day moments. But none of that ever happened. They don't know how to communicate.
And even if they did, even if they worked on it and learned the tools, there is one item on her list, one nonnegotiable need as essential as the drafty air she breathes and that Jimmy can't give her.
She looks up, and Jimmy is done reading, waiting and grinning at her, and a heavy, hollow pit plants itself in the middle of her stomach.
”This is great, Beth. I can do this, all of it. And I want to. I want to get back together and give you these things. I've missed you so much.”
He's still smiling, ready to celebrate, high atop the opposite end of her seesaw.
”We can't.”
”What? I can, Beth, really. This won't be hard.”
”Then why couldn't we do it in the first place?”
”I don't know, but we will now, we-”
”I can't, Jimmy.”
His smile collapses, and the pit in her stomach expands. He stares at her and blinks.
”What are you saying?”
She swallows and tries to take a deep breath, but the pit in her stomach now feels like it's taking up all the s.p.a.ce inside her where air goes. She looks at Jimmy, at that face she still adores, afraid of saying what she's about to say. But it's the truth, and she knows it. She leans forward and falls.
”I want a divorce.”
”No. Beth, please. We can do this.”
”I can't.”
”You can. What part of that can't you do?” he asks, pointing to the piece of paper she holds.
”It's not your list, Jimmy. It's mine. I can't get past the cheating. I need to believe that you'd never do it again, and I can't. The kind of man I thought you were, the kind of husband I need, would never cheat on his wife.”
”It was a mistake.”
”Thinking it's Wednesday when it's only Monday is a mistake. Sleeping with her once, in the heat of the moment, I could even call that a mistake. But-”
”I'm sorry. It was stupid and wrong, and I swear, I promise it'll never, ever happen again.”
”I can't believe you. I don't trust you anymore.”
”Let's start over, and you'll trust me again because I won't give you any reason not to. Let me earn it back.”
She shakes her head. Trust shouldn't be something he needs to earn. It should be a given. And he shouldn't need instructions on a piece of homework paper to remind him, DON'T CHEAT ON YOUR WIFE.
”I have something for you.” He pulls a small, white cardboard box out from the front pocket of his jeans.
”What's that?” asks Beth, not wanting whatever it is.