DINOSAURS & CHERRY STEMS
By
Susan Jean Ricci
Intense
emotion, leading to prose or poetry, cannot be described in any other fashion…
I’ve been rendered a dinosaur, a relic…
I’m sitting in
the theater where my grandson’s rehearsing his spring band concert and darling
hubby just texted me, “We should separate.”
“Oh, Glen,
that’s so you,” I whisper. In the twenty years I’ve known him, Glen always
finds a way to sneak out the back door.
Bastard.
It’s not his
motive that’s the shocker. Glen and I have been communicating via sarcasm since
our first anniversary three years back. Arguments evolved--how we spend our
down time, his and my adult kids’ snafus, even our new bedspread, for Christ’s
sake.
He had his
picture taken without me the last time we traveled, six months ago (using the
word vacationed implies an enjoyable event). I later found his photo posted on a social network he joined. In
the relationship section, he’d written it’s complicated.
Uh huh.
I’ve even kept
my mouth shut about the way we’ve been stagnant as a couple, thinking it would
be better for both of us to let the situation ride for a while.
Wrong.
Several weeks
ago, Ella Stuart, a woman I know socially, phoned and inadvertently cleared up
those rumors I’d been hearing about hubby’s slick trespassing.
“We thought
you and Glen might like to join us for a house party we’re having next Friday
night,” she’d said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve all gotten together.”
I was
confused. Ella’s husband, Bill, and Glen are tight, childhood friends and
they’d gone to an attorney seminar together just the week before. I thought for
sure, since they’re so close, Glen must’ve told him our marriage was in the
morgue.
“Didn’t Glen
tell Bill at that seminar last week about our personal situation? That our
marriage is not going so great?” I ask.
“Wow, I’m
sorry to hear that. I didn’t know and I don’t think Bill knows either because
he didn’t mention it. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t seen Glen since last
winter. I had a hell of a time tracking your phone number and finally called
information. The last number Glen gave Bill, well, something’s not right about
it. I tried calling it several times, and some woman kept answering, but when I asked for you or Glen,
she’d hang up.”
“What’s the
number?”
Ella gave me
the number, and as I copy it I’m thinking, you bet your ass something’s not
right, because I don’t recognize this.
“Glen told me
he went to a seminar last week with Bill, the one in New York when they stayed
over,” I said again. “Are you saying Bill didn’t go?”
“Yes, that’s
what I’m saying. Bill has been home after work every night the past month. He
hasn’t gone to any over night seminars in a long time.”
Ding-ding-ding!
“What about
that baseball game they went to last month?” I ask. “It’s hard for me to
believe Glen didn’t say anything to Bill about us. I’ve never seen a man love
to gossip more than he does.” I try to laugh, but the noise coming out of me
sounds more like ARRGH.
Ella sighed. “I’m
sorry, but Bill hasn’t been to any ball games this season, either, Cindy. Bill
hasn’t seen Glen since the winter.”
“Are you
absolutely sure?” The pleading in my voice makes me almost as sick as this
conversation.
“Yes, I’m
really sure. Again, I’m sorry.” Click.
I lean over my
desk to put the phone back in the charger, but my hand trembles and it
drops.
I bury my face
in my hands. Yep, not only am I a dinosaur, I’m a throwaway…and so humiliated I
have those cramps people get when they’re in urgent need of the bathroom, but there’s no time.
Glen will be home soon and I want to call the woman who kept hanging up on
Ella.
When she hangs up on me, I’m not a bit
surprised.
What
transpired afterward is muzzy, but what remains with me is the sudden crash at
the window during Glen’s lively denials after I confront him.
Diverted from
our shouting match, we’d hurried over and saw a bird, lying in the garden
below. Even as we watched, it soon gathered its wits and flew away.
As we withdrew
to our separate regions in the house, my self-esteem questioned: How many slams
into the window of surprises do I need before I fly this marital coop?
I once heard
about some celebrity who sent his wife a fax saying he wanted to divorce, but
texting such a message is un-fucking-believable, even for Glen. My hands flex
with the urge to choke him as I recall how he kept checking his cell during my
mother’s wake last spring.
Take deep
breaths, I tell myself. Focus on the stage and Jesse’s drum solo.
The pounding
drums mimic my heartbeat, but I know until this rehearsal is over and Jesse’s
safely home, I must stay calm. There’s forty miles of driving on a freeway
loaded with wild weekenders to cope with, and it’s a definite my grandson’s
going to want to stop and eat since it’s past lunchtime, and we always do that
anyway.
I pinch my fingers on the bridge of my
nose to keep the angry tears at bay. I want to text him back, continue the
battle, but the situation will only escalate if I do, because Glen never loses
his wars.
Instead of
retreating, I text him anyway, and ask if we can talk about this when I get
home.
He responds
he’s busy for the rest of the weekend, and won’t be there.
Christ,
today’s only Saturday. What’s supposed to happen on Monday, when we have to go
to work in the same office?
Where he’s my
boss…
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