Dividing Stuff

Divorce

And so it's all over and we're down to the dividing of the stuff. It's
a funny word "stuff", I've never been sure if I've liked it, not
precise enough. But in this case, "stuff" is appropriate. It was the
stuffing of our marriage, which has, like an old cushion, finally burst
its seams and all that's left is stuff. Stuffed.

It feels strange ringing the doorbell of my own house. Steve answers
quickly, as weary as I and as faded as the paint on the door. He has
the good grace to drag a smile onto his face as he ushers me in,
politely. The first time we opened this door we were far from polite,
bashing each other with hips and lips and noses. That's the stuff that
you can't divide, I suppose. Cat greets me as though it's smelled
something bad and exits through the flap. I pretend not to mind. I
never liked it anyway but I'm peeved that it's so obviously glad to see
the back of me.

I sit down on the sofa (mine, as it happens) and then wonder if I
should have waited to be invited. Steve lurks. "Tea?"

"I'd prefer&;#8230;"

"OK, sure. Red or white."

"Whatever's open is fine, great."

"Red?"

"Fine."

I didn't mean to make that face but he brings me a glass of white
anyway. New glass. I must have made another face.

"They're boxed up for you. Wedding present from your sister. I suppose
you should keep them."

"Thanks." I feel suddenly shy, like an eleven year old at a big girls'
party. Steve sets his glass down on the table, to the right of the
coaster. An act of defiance. He begins hauling boxes into the centre of
the room. My stuff, clearly.

I realise I've nearly finished my wine. I wish I could go into the
kitchen, get a new glass, in an old glass. I want to lay my head on the
sofa and stay for a while. Steve is talking.

"Sorry?"

"I said I've labeled them all on the side but you might want to check
them all the same." He sounds irritated. I half expect him to glance at
the clock on the mantelpiece but I've got a feeling it's in one of the
boxes. Leaving present from work in 1995.

"I'm sure it's fine. I've got new stuff anyway." He looks hurt. Why did
I say that? We both glance around the room, trying to find evidence of
Steve's new stuff. Nothing obvious. What's more apparent is what is
missing. Photos of the two of us together, my coat on the stand, my
perfume. I wonder, stupidly, it being mid-winter, if Steve has had the
windows and doors open since I left to air out every last trace of me.
Had the fumigators in. I sniff deeply to test this theory. He looks at
me worriedly. "OK?"

I smile and look at the carpet. The place is clean. I wouldn't have
expected much else, but I know he let the cleaner go when I moved out.
"How's your mum?"

He looks amused. "She's well, thanks."

"Good."

"I'd better&;#8230;" I sweep the room with a hand, indicating
stuff.

He helps me load the boxes into the car. As we walk into the lounge one
last time he turns to me, his face jumping with animation. "I forgot,"
he says. "Wait here."

I wait, wondering if he's about to box up Cat and offer it to me as a
booby prize, but I know he won't. He loves the thing. His face is
colourful as he bounds down the stairs and hands me a battered and
bulging envelope.

I'm so tired now I can't even ask. He reads my expression. "Your
stories."

"What stories"

"Stories you wrote me. Stories about us. You know before
you&;#8230;."

I look at him hard, challenging him to say it. Before you changed.
Before you left.

I take the envelope, sliding a sheaf of papers into my hand and
glancing at the tops. "The stars in the sky" it says in girlish hand.
He looks over my shoulder, close enough so that I can feel the hairs on
his wrist brush mine.

"Ah." He says. That used to irritate me. The way he would say "Ah,"
like some elderly professor. Or my father. Now I can't be bothered,
it's just part of the stuff. "You wrote that just before our wedding.
Do you remember?"

"Yes," I lie. It isn't a big lie, in the grand scheme of things. I just
can't remember how it ends.

"I thought of another ending for it," he says. Is he being smug?
Sarcastic?

"Go on." I challenge, half grateful for the insight.

"If I offered you all the stars in the sky, what would you say?"

"What, that's the new ending?"

"No. Seriously, what would you say?"

"I'd say thank you." I'm really weary now. I want to get in my car,
with my stuff, and drive away from this.

"I thought you would." Have I passed? Was it a test? I have to
ask.

"Was that right?"

"Years ago, you would have said 'Thank you very much, but I'd rather
just have one. The others look so beautiful where they are, to take all
of them would be greedy. But if you let me have one, then I'll keep it
safe and treasure it always.'"

"I still would. Look, Steve&;#8230;"

"That's how it ended last time." Failed then. "But it's not how it
ended, is it? You wanted all of them and I couldn't give them to
you."

"It's not about that." All my words have gone. I have to follow them.
"Bye, Steve."

***

I'm in the car, with all my stuff, and he comes up to the window.
"There's something else." He's smiling. Relieved probably. "With the
stories, there were promises. Do you mind if I keep them?"

"As long as you keep them safe." I don't know whether to be amused or
jam my foot on the accelerator and obliterate Steve and Cat, who has
sidled up beside him.

He leans through the window and kisses me awkwardly, somewhere between
my hair and my jaw. "Bye." He's looking at the stuff as he says it.