N: Lightening from a Clear Sky

Chapter: Adult, Lightening from a Clear Sky

The first thing I noticed were his missing shoes. We don't wear the
same size and since he has about twice as many as I do, they left a lot
of space at the bottom of the closet. Next I noticed the missing shirts
and pants, which are my size, and I thought, "What am I going to wear
to work now?"

At least he used that Bill Blass suitcase that I hate so much. It zips
and folds into itself until you're left with a bright blue square on
wheels that's about as stable as the current economic situation. I
bought that suitcase as a birthday gift - his thirtieth - and I guess
I'm glad that it's getting some use. Even at the discount store, it was
pricey.

Upstairs I see that the Burberry umbrella is gone, along with the Prada
scarf and the buckskin leather jacket from Kenneth Cole. I only mention
the brand names because I'm proud of my ability to avoid paying full
price for anything. With a little time and effort, you can find pretty
much all you need at the discount stores. You should wear comfortable
shoes, though, because it makes for a long day. The clerks at those
stores like to tuck things away where you can't find them. I think it's
because they're planning on coming back on pay day and buying it all up
with their employee discount, which is why you should never be afraid
to get on all fours and crawl underneath the racks or sneak through the
unmarked doors behind the dressing rooms. My aunt taught me that. She
and I found an Evan Picone sofa once under a stack of dismantled
mannequins, right by the employee lounge of Neiman Marcus. It took us
two hours to dig it out, but she got it for half off and a lot of
arguing with the store manager. She keeps it under plastic, but still,
it's Evan Picone.

Right now, I bet he's paying full price for that Calvin Klein underwear
he likes so much. I haven't done all the laundry - always my job, not
his - so the whites are still sitting in a pile, waiting to be bleached
to death out of necessity. He's probably charging up three or four
packages along with several pairs of those horrible half-nylon dress
socks that make your feet stink. Even the dog gets up and walks away
when you take off your shoes after wearing those things. He's probably
not paying any attention to the prices, or if he is, he's enjoying the
prices. I've tried explaining how underwear that costs three dollars a
pair is still the same underwear that costs ten - you just get a
plastic sack to take it home in instead of a labeled paper bag with
handles. Maybe he listened but I doubt it.

All this because I had too many papers to grade this past weekend and
couldn't get to the whites. I have tried but I can't do
everything.

I listen to the voicemail but it's just one of my aunts telling me
that's she's getting around better except for the constipation caused
by the new drugs, which pretty much keeps her from wanting to get
around but she knows she has to. When I go upstairs I find his note on
the dining room table, held in place by the bowl I use for storing
bills. The note is held in place because he likes to leave the windows
open. Anything under an ounce has a tendency to be blown onto the floor
by the wind tunnel this house becomes on breezy days. He hasn't left
any windows open but I'm touched by his consideration, securing the
note like that. Although really he was probably just commenting on how
nervous I get when the bill bowl gets too full or the due dates start
approaching. I always do the bills - my job, not his - and I suppose he
thinks the banker fairies magically appear during the night to write
the checks. Naturally half the money that goes into those bills is his,
something I'll need to think about now
that he's gone.

I read the note. It starts off with "Dearest John," a joke we have that
doesn't seem funny at all, given the circumstances. The note tells me I
shouldn't blame myself, he just can't take it anymore. He knows I'm
working on things, but it's him, not me. He hopes I can find somebody
who can love me for who I am, and vice versa. He knows that he has been
a big part of my problem, not following up and all, but he's done what
he can and it's not enough. It will never be enough, he writes. P.S.:
The dog has fleas and a rash on her left ear.

So, essentially I am to blame, if you read between the lines.

I'll need to think of something to tell my aunts and my therapist. My
aunts will conclude that these things happen. They'll say it's like
lightening from a clear sky; you just never can tell with people. My
therapist will raise his eyebrows and rest his chin on the steeple of
his fingers, then ask things like "What would make him leave like
that?" and "Are you afraid of being alone at a time like this?"

To which I'll answer: "I have no idea" and "Maybe."

In fact I do know what the catalyst was for his leaving, more or less.
My therapist is fond of seeking out catalysts for life's victories and
failures, but how would I explain this one? Such a small thing, but it
was enough. I was only trying to help. What happened is this: Sometimes
he carpooled with a woman from his office. It wasn't all the time, just
two or three days a week. On the days when it was the woman's turn to
drive, he'd come home complaining about how she always waited until he
was situated in the passenger seat, then she'd toss her purse over onto
his lap like he was some sort of luggage repository. For hours,
sometimes days, he would talk about it, wondering why women felt they
had the right to do such a thing. I'd listen until he got it out of his
system, but then it would happen again and I'd be in for yet another
bout of purse-carrying-female bashing. I never mentioned that no woman
had ever targeted my crotch with a purse because what difference would
it have made?

About two weeks ago, I volunteered to take his car in for an oil change
on a day when it was his turn to drive. To make things convenient I
took both him and the woman downtown, with the understanding that I
would pick them up after work. I didn't want to mess up his carpool
schedule, because I once belonged to a carpool and things get very
messy when you try to switch days or back out under the pretense that
you're sick when all you want to do is stay home all day and eat ice
cream and watch talk shows. I understood his situation and his need to
have his oil changed, and stepped up to the plate.

I get off from work earlier than he does, anyway, so spending half an
hour at the mechanic's was easy. Then I went downtown, and it was still
early, so I parked his car and went to a coffee shop. At five o'clock
on the dot I met both him and the woman at their office and we walked
to the car together.

I waited until they were settled, he in the back and she in the front,
and then opened the driver's door. That's when I threw my bag in her
general direction, just like she always did to him, and the next thing
I know she's screaming and clutching her stomach like she'd been
attacked with a baseball bat. My bag contains my laptop computer but,
still, it's not that heavy. And it's not like I spun it around before
throwing it at her. It just caught her in the right spot when she
wasn't ready - which was my point in the first place, if you think
about it.

"You are goddamn crazy," he said to me, over and over, as we sat in the
hospital waiting room. Finally I couldn't take it anymore and spent
thirty-five dollars on a cab ride home. Then he called me again and
again from the hospital, saying, "Crazy, that's what you are. I have to
work with this woman, you crazy son of a bitch." After the third or
fourth time I took the phone off the hook. That's when my cell phone
started ringing.

We have been fighting about it ever since. That, and other things. He
didn't care that I was only trying to put that woman in his place.
Suddenly her broken rib made her his best friend. It made me kind of
sick.

My therapist won't hear any of this, though. Instead I'll steer him
towards helping me form an action plan for dealing with the break-up.
That's my therapist's forte, really. I've already started removing
things from the house that remind me of having a boyfriend, like those
ugly lamps on the buffet and all of those Reader's Digest books that
belonged to his dead mother. My mother is dead, too, and I don't put
her paperback romance novels out in plain sight.

Crazy. He's the one who's crazy, leaving all of this.