Accidents of Marriage (34 page)

“Wait,” his father said.

“The kids have school tomorrow, Dad. Maddy is exhausted.”

Maddy didn’t deny it—and if she had, the dark circles under her eyes would have given her away. Ben had to get her out before she hit the wall.

“We can’t go yet, Daddy.” Gracie smiled in a way he hadn’t seen for too long. Impishly.

His mother pushed back her chair. “Just wait one moment, Ben. Gracie and I will be right back. Caleb?” She tipped her head at her grandson, and he rose.

“We have a surprise,” Caleb whispered loudly in Ben’s ear as he passed his father.

Emma, Maddy, Ben, and the Judge waited without speaking. Emma played with the crystal salt and pepper shakers, switching them left to right, right to left, until Ben wanted to snatch them from her hands. He watched, amazed his father didn’t scold her. Instead, the Judge sat with a satisfied almost-smile. Maddy looked tired enough to sleep in her chair.

Caleb swung the door open using his hip, a small boom box in his hand.

“Introducing, Grandma and Gracie. Ta da!”

His mother walked in carrying a silver tray with a cake. “Happy birthday, Emma dear,” she said. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

Gracie, her cheeks matching her pink blouse, came out dancing, lifting first one shoulder, then the other in a rolling motion in time to the song playing from the tape deck.

“
Hey sister, go sister, flow sister,
” Gracie sang as she wiggled toward Emma, swinging her nonexistent hips.

“It’s the Christina Aguilera version,” Caleb said as if he’d pulled off some major coup.

Ben’s mother bobbed her head as she brought the cake to the table. “
Moka-choka-latta,
” she sang in her church voice.

He felt as though the sun had come out, seeing Maddy smile and clap her hands. His chest tightened as she stood and joined Gracie and Caleb, her arms up high, making jazz hands, and bumping hips with Gracie.

“Listen!” Caleb announced as the tape segued into Patti LaBelle. “Now it’s the other one!”

Maddy slipped into the slightly different beat without a pause. Emma rose and stood across from her mother. They lifted their hands in unison, singing, “
Gittche, gittche ya ya,
” and for one moment, Ben let himself believe everything would be okay.

•  •  •

Everyone fell asleep on the ride home as Ben drove cautiously, slowly. After parking, he scooped up Caleb and lifted him into a modified fireman’s carry. Gracie and Emma walked ahead, holding their mother’s hand until they reached the door. After giving Maddy a quick hug, Emma opened the door with her key, leaving it open for Ben.

Gracie stumbled upstairs. Ben didn’t bother waking Caleb enough to wash up, just made him pee and let him collapse on his bed. After, Ben tapped on Emma’s door.

“What?”

Ben’s fatigue fought with knowing he should connect with his daughter. Exhaustion won the battle. “Good night, sweetheart,” Ben said through the door.

In their room, Maddy slept with Gracie curled around her. On any given night recently, he’d find one of the kids in here, even Emma, who’d pretend she’d fallen asleep watching TV, leaving him to the couch again.

“Gracie,” he whispered. “Come on, sweet peach. Let’s go to your room.”

Ben led her down the hall to her bedroom and tucked her in. Sleepy-warm, she pulled him in for one more kiss. “Stay, Daddy.”

“I have to go to bed, peach.”

“No. I mean really stay. We need you.”

On some level, Maddy used to say, kids always knew when things were wrong.
It doesn’t matter if we fight quietly, Ben. Kids watch their parents as if we’re the most important TV show in the world, and they never take their eyes off the screen when there’s trouble.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Ben swore to himself that he would make good on this promise.

Back in their bedroom, he turned off the television and light, took off his jeans and sweatshirt, and climbed into bed, nestling into Maddy’s back. Asleep, she seemed to forget her fury, wriggling closer, until their parts matched and he felt her old flannel nightgown against his legs. Fabric so familiar and worn, so soft and thin, touching it was almost like stroking her skin. He ran his hand over the curve of her hip, waist to thigh and back again. Her softness seemed vulnerable, like her. How had he ever treated such fragile creatures as his wife, his children, with such abandon?

Maddy hummed in the back of her throat as he slipped his hand under the cloth and rubbed the lowest part of her back, the top rise of her buttocks. He kneaded the flesh at her waist. Pulling, tugging, he got her nightgown up until she lifted her arms and he could pull off the soft flannel and run his hands over her sleep-hot flesh.

She lay back, letting him cover her. Their rhythm was familiar, exciting. He clutched and held on. “Things are clearer now,” he whispered. “Maybe too clear.”

“What’s clear?” She rested her fingertips on his shoulder.

“How much I love you and need you. I think I need you more than you need me. I don’t like feeling this way . . .”

He waited for her to answer, to console him as she’d always done, whether he deserved it or not.

Maddy pushed him off and went to the bathroom, leaving him with his confession hanging out. She came back wrapped in a robe. Even in the dark room, Ben saw her solemn expression. She touched the blanket where it covered his knee.

“I don’t want you anymore. I want to be alone.”

CHAPTER 33

Maddy

Maddy woke alone and cold. Surprised to be on Ben’s side of the bed. It had been eleven days since he’d left. She missed his scent. She missed his hand on her back. She missed leaning against him through the night.

The clock read 9:30, though the dreary December light made it seem earlier. Like dawn. Staying under the covers was the only thing she wanted.

A thud of emptiness had followed Ben’s absence. Her mother was now here every minute. Having her parents virtually living there drove her crazy, but she was afraid to be alone with her heartbroken children. Gracie had keened like a grieving war widow, bent over double, as Ben made promises that weren’t his to make:
It’s only for a little while, cupcake. You’ll hardly know I’m gone. I’ll be back before you know it.

Maddy’s parents were there to witness Ben leaving. Her father with his arms crossed. Her mother almost crying. Emma suffered Ben’s kiss on her cheek. Caleb clutched at Ben’s leg until Maddy’s father pulled him away.

When Ben kissed her—on her forehead, on her mouth—his lips burned against her cold ones.

Every third day he came to take the kids to dinner. Tonight they were going to talk. Alone. Maddy and Ben. In a restaurant. He’d asked her as though for a date.

“Maddy? Are you up?” Her mother peeked in, and then opened the door all the way. She placed a cup of coffee on the nightstand.

“Thanks, Mom.” She picked up the mug and took a sip, wincing at the taste. Her mother kept bringing coffee as she used to drink it—bleak with skim milk.

“Sorry, honey.” She smacked her hand to her forehead. “I keep forgetting to buy cream.”

“And sugar, Mom. I take sugar.” She took another sip and wrinkled her nose. “This tastes disgusting.”

“Golly, sure can count on you for straight shooting,” her mother said.

“Joke?” she asked. “Are you mad?”

“Of course I’m not mad,” she said. “Who doesn’t like to be told she makes awful coffee?”

“And you. A. Caterer,” she said. Ah! Another joke.

“Are you okay?” Her mother wore her intolerable poor-Maddy face. “Don’t you miss him, honey? Aren’t you lonely?”

“How could I. Be lonely? When you and Dad. Won’t go away.”

Her mother sat at the edge of the bed and touched Maddy’s forehead as though checking for a fever. She batted away her mother’s hand. “That’s not the same as a husband. You should rethink this. I know you’re angry, but honey, how can you possibly manage without him?”

Maddy crossed her legs and sat up straight. “Are you tired. Of us? Don’t want to help?”

“No, no. I just—I just don’t want you doing the wrong thing.”

“Should worry more about. Ben doing. The wrong thing.” She pulled off the covers and stood. “Driving crazy. Yelling. You going to work?”

“I have to make ten dozen muffins for a Hadassah meeting in Framingham.” Her mother gave her a sudden hard hug. “You know how much Daddy and I love you and how much we love being here with you and the kids. We just want everything to work out.”

When Maddy came out of the shower, her mother was gone. Finally, she was alone. Her mother’s constant harping on Ben’s innocence drove Maddy nuttier than she already was. “It’s not like he
tried
to hurt you,” her mother repeated nightly, her emphasis so thick it resounded like a scream. Having help came with a price tag. “It was an accident” had become the mantra Maddy had to swallow with every one of her mother’s home-cooked meals. “The case will be dropped—Benedikte will take care of it.”

Accident. Accident. Accident. Everyone kept reminding her it was an accident. Especially Ben.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
he’d say every night when he called.
Must you grind me to dust for an accident?

How could they all call reckless driving an accident?

Driving to endanger.

That sounded purposeful to her. She’d never think he meant to hurt her. That wasn’t the point. But an accident? When someone drove so fast that the car skidded out of control? That wasn’t an accident. That was rashness. That was believing you were above the laws of nature. What if one of the kids had been in her seat? What if Gracie or Caleb or Emma had been thrown out and smashed? If he killed one of them, would he whine that he was innocent?

Maddy ransacked her closet, searching for something decent to wear. Who cared that she had nowhere to go? She was tired of looking ugly, tired of crying, tired of being mad and sad. A blouse that didn’t gap, pants that closed—that’s all she wanted.

Shirts. Dresses. Jackets. She rejected one after another. Small and limp with disuse, they belonged to someone else.

Somewhere was a remembered white shirt she thought might match a shapeless black shift she’d discovered in her closet, probably left from early on in one of her pregnancies. Tugging open every drawer brought nothing. She searched Ben’s closet but couldn’t find the blouse hanging anywhere.

Maybe it only existed in her mind.

She dragged a yellow step stool up from the kitchen, placing it carefully in front of her closet, moving aside anything that could trip her before she reached for the high shelves where there were boxes
and stacks of put-away clothes.
Pride goeth before a fall,
she reminded herself. Her chest swelled with pleasure at her own careful planning. Then she grew proud at remembering a quotation worthy of Zelda’s door.

As she stretched toward an old pile of sweaters, three large flowered hatboxes toppled over, their contents falling across the closet floor and onto the bedroom carpet.

She climbed off the stool. Carefully. Receiving blankets, stiff rolls of ribbon, miniature hotel sewing kits, and unmatched socks spilled from the boxes. Her housekeeping skills: ineptitude on parade. She tried to gather the items into piles that made sense—throw out, keep, and give away. Removable shoulder pads. Cards from long-forgotten Mother’s Day celebrations. She sniffed a tiny bottle of body lotion from the Marriott Hotel, and then quickly pulled away from the rancid dead-flower odor, wondering why she’d kept all this crap.

A brown flannel bag for shoes sat by her knee. She undid the drawstring, and plastic pill bottles spilled out. Her hands shook as she picked them up one by one, reading:

• Ambien. Take as needed.

• Lorazepam. May cause dizziness.

• Valium. Use care when driving or operating machinery.

• Klonopin. May cause drowsiness.

• Xanax. Alcohol may intensify this effect.

• Lunesta. Vicodin. Percocet. Librium—

Her stash. Some bottles more than ten years old—pills she’d squirreled away for years. She’d forgotten. A bottle rattled in her hand as she shook it. She opened it up, curious. The cap was childproof, but opening it wasn’t too difficult. Opening it filled her with a joy, her skill! Until it turned to disgust.

Joy at opening a pill bottle hardly seemed an event to celebrate.

Pouring the entire bottle into her hand felt like possibility. Would these make her feel better? End the sadness and anger? Make her decisions?

She shoved the bottles back in the fabric bag, threw on an old beige turtleneck and jumper, and ran from the bedroom, escaping to the hall where she pulled on boots, grabbed her cell phone, and slammed out of the house.

November wind cut through the back of her wool coat. She buried her bare hands in the too-small pockets and walked in the direction of Centre Street. Instead of making the inevitable right toward the local stores and restaurants, she turned in the direction she thought would lead to downtown, thinking that maybe she’d walk to Ben’s office.

A hat would have been smart.
Fifty percent of body heat is lost through the head.
Real or invented knowledge? Facts returned daily, but she never knew if they had any basis in reality.

Perhaps being bareheaded was good. Fresh cold air would wake up more memories and skills. Walking, air, and a frozen head could become her prescription.

How long since she’d lived without reliance on pills? Had it stopped when head met asphalt?

How long since she’d felt safe? After she woke, everything was messy and scary. Before, she’d imagined her life was safe and whole, but now she had no idea who she’d been. How scared was that former Maddy?