The Jewel Box (31 page)

“She’s still crazy and crude, I see. I’m just happy your life is nearing perfection.”

“Well, as close to perfect as I’ve ever imagined. We attend a small neighborhood church that’s awakened our anesthetized spiritual sides and somewhat soothed my lingering guilt. Gabriel still has regrets about being apart from Lauren and Skylar.”

“Not seeing his girls blossom into young ladies must be tough. Of course you’ll be supportive given your ongoing regret over Nikki’s abandonment by her dad.”

“True. I cheerfully send Gabriel off on trips to visit his girls in Arizona, happy for their connection and hoping one day they might accept me.”

“How could they not?”

“They’re teenage girls, Patrice. I’m the woman they believe broke up their childhood home. Do the emotional math.”

“Tough equation, but don’t give up hope.”

“I haven’t. It’s just that Gabriel and Victoria made marginal progress during their marriage, but after we tied the knot all small steps forward seem to have turned into giant leaps backward.”

“Sounds like you have a ton of work ahead of you. Speaking of which, I’ve got to finish a project I’ve been ignoring. Otherwise I could be looking for a new job soon.”

“You would never have to look. Jobs always find you. Bye, Patrice. Love you.”

21

After weeks of trying to reach Beau by phone, I took time to drive to his sports bar. Vacant. The “For Sale” sign listed a realty company contact, but I couldn’t squeeze Beau’s personal info from them. Probably for the best. If Beau and Lola were resolving marital problems the last thing they needed was my intrusion.

On the home front, Nikki and Gabriel grew so close, at times I felt excluded, especially when it came to their obsession with cooking magazines and Leon Hale’s
Houston Post
column about travels through Texas. Meanwhile I helped Gabriel co-parent mischievous, five-year-old, Luke. Boys sure are different than girls. One Saturday night as I took my bath, Luke came into the bathroom. “Have you seen my dad.” His eyes went auto-pilot male to my breasts.

“He’s not under these bubbles.” I lowered myself while checking the proximity of my towel. “So grab your Etch-A-Sketch and draw his likeness to keep you company until he shows up. Now scoot.”

Seconds later Luke reappeared, eyes firmly locked on my boobs. “Can’t find him.”

“Your dad’s not here,” I shooed him off again.

He looked back intently while closing the door. I intuitively added more scented soap bubbles. On his third return, I narrowly escaped spine injury when I banged into the bottom of our shallow tub. “Gabriel, please pry Luke away and put a leash on him so I can enjoy my bath.”

Gabriel materialized, sporting a wide grin. “You just don’t understand the intricacies of the male mind.”

“Obviously.” I blew soapy suds from my chin.

“Seeing you naked could cause premature puberty in any boy, especially one with my blood.” He herded Luke away, raising his eyebrows Grouch-style. “Wood eye.”

Gloria began stopping by on weekends to see Luke, and soon Gabriel and I were attending family functions at her home or the lake house. Hope seemed detached, despite my attempts to chat. Gloria assured me she would help bridge the gap between us, but the situation was taking on a
River Kwai
look to me.

And when Gabriel’s grandmother came from Boston for a family reunion, explosives were detonated. The minute we arrived at the gathering, Hope and Gloria acted as though hugging me was comparable to licking a microscopic slide with an AIDS virus on it. I retreated to a back bedroom. I had not imagined their rudeness. Conn’s wife Kim followed, and in a soft voice informed, “Before you got here, Hope told Nonna that you’re a condescending snob.”

I shrugged.

Kim continued. “Then Gloria said they were surprised Nikki was at the reunion instead of out making indentations in the back seat of some boy’s car.”

I jumped up. Insult me and I’ll work toward peaceful resolution. Insult my daughter—game over. Respect for Gabriel kept me from making a scene. I returned to the gathering and sat quietly beside Nikki.

When we got home, I told Gabriel about Hope and Gloria’s venomous comments. He exploded. After phoning Hope and filling her ear with expletives, he called Gloria for a modified chastising.

Hope withdrew once again. Gloria acted like a cordial martyr. Gabriel shunned both, making me feel awful. When his mother called inviting us to events, Gabriel rejected without consulting me. No doubt I was blamed for his declines. Then when sharp pains invaded my forehead inducing mega migraines, Gabriel joked that Gloria had fashioned a voodoo doll in my likeness.

Gabriel’s jokes soon subsided and despite his denial, I sensed him missing his relationship with Gloria and Hope. “Stop and visit Gloria on your way home from work.” I insisted. He did. And my insecurities escalated. Personal time with Gabriel shrank while he habitually visited the woman who disdained me. The ominous cloud we fell under during the Seventies once again reared its ugly head.

Lauren and Skylar phoned occasionally, but never said much to me when I answered.

“They still consider me a homewrecker,” I told Gabriel.

“Stop feeling guilty about the past and stop making unjust presumptions.” He got furious.

Maybe I was a delusional moron. My once loving husband seemed less attentive due to work, and evenings spent talking after dinner changed considerably. He calculated job bids aloud. I straddled his lap and purred, “Ummm.” He kissed me and said, “Five more minutes.” I pressed against him and licked his cheek. He kissed me and said “Four minutes.” I wiggled closer, he continued the countdown. We had a script.

What began as communication difficulties, soon became talking less to avoid misunderstandings. Aware of our slow drifting apart, we agreed to professional counseling. One small step toward solving our problems—one giant leap for Mr. I Hate Therapists. I even agreed to Gabriel’s contingency clause: if no major breakthrough happened in three visits, bye-bye therapy. First visit was a non-productive history gathering hour. Second visit entailed me doing most of the talking and question answering, while Gabriel nodded or grunted when asked for input. Third visit; dreadful! After Gabriel told our counselor he loved me and wanted to do whatever necessary to fix us, I broached the subject of Gloria and Hope. Gabriel wordlessly shook his head as though the family feud a figment of my imagination. He stood, wrote a check, and walked out. I followed. And that was that.

Gabriel soon became jealous, questioning my lunch habits and who I chatted with during the day. Regardless of my answers, he cocked his eyebrow suspiciously and asked, “Yeaaah? You sure ‘bout that?” In all my years of knowing him, he’d never exposed a jealous bone. Maybe insecurity caused it to surface, but I didn’t like it. One evening I walked outside and
found him searching my car. My tight-lipped husband instantly volunteered info. “I’m clearing your car to vacuum it.”

“You can stop looking for condoms—I keep those at the office.” My tummy violently alerted me things were going haywire just like they had in the Seventies.

“This is crazy.” He grabbed the vacuum and took it into the garage.

“Let’s please talk.” I followed him.

“About what?” he asked without looking up, Marlboro dangling from the side of his mouth, Bogart-style.

“Why we can’t talk, for starters.”

He inhaled intensely, and finally moved his hand to remove the cigarette. “You’re the big talker, the one who always got me to talk. Now you seem to have a problem doing that.”

“Which is what I’m trying to do now Gabriel,” I said cautiously. “But you seem to have a problem listening.”

He looked at me, threw a tool across the garage, and shouted, “Unsalvageable!”

“So, you’re throwing in the towel?” I yelled back.

“I was talking about the goddamned tool, not us.”

“Right. You and your stupid tools.”

“Look, I know you’re embarrassed about how I make my living. I think you want me to be some successful executive so you can have a life filled with fancy clothes, glitzy parties, and expensive champagne.”

“How can you say that? You’re talking to a woman who once worked in a topless club, remember? Gabriel, you own a successful business and love your work. I’d wear rags, eat sardine sandwiches every day, and drink sewer water if we were happy like we used to be. I think you’re the one with insecurities.”

“Don’t start with your goddammed pop psychology.”

I stormed out of the garage in tears. Instead of following me, he turned up the radio to listen to some damn AM talk show.

Gabriel and I began losing sleep and our sex life changed. Drastically. Cliffs Notes foreplay, five minute sex (give or take a minute), and within weeks, we seemed like strangers occupying the same house. If I tried to talk, he clammed up. If he tried to talk, I jumped in my car and drove to
the lake. I couldn’t understand what was happening, and Gabriel rejected my pleas for continuing therapy.

Then the kitchen—our favorite room for talking—became a room filled with confusion and question, where we walked around for hours in interrogatory circles. One night, he stopped me and held me at arm’s length. “Cherie I don’t know what the hell’s happening here, but our inability to talk is tearing me apart. . . Why the fuck can’t we communicate?”

“Because you won’t talk about the real issue.”

“What real issue?”

“I think you resent me for separating you from Gloria and Hope. And your daughters.”

“Bullshit, Cherie. That’s your goddamned excuse.” He threw his hand angrily into the air. A moment later, he looked into my eyes and gently rubbed my arm. “I’m scared to death I’m losing you and I’m trying to protect myself from the inevitable.”

“The inevitable?” I leaned against his hand enjoying the feel of his touch. “Gabriel, I love you with all my heart, but I’m coming apart. Why won’t you go back to therapy? Make some kind of effort.”

His hand fell from my shoulder. “You know I don’t believe in that goddamned quackery! I’m guessing you want more than I can offer, and you’re just looking for reasons to leave. So go ahead, Cherie, blame it all on me.”

“I’m not blaming anyone. But maybe if you weren’t working so much.” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “Maybe your business is growing too fast for you to handle.”

His face became animate with anger and hurt. “I may not be able to make a marriage work, but I can damn sure run my business,” he roared.

A cold silence filled the room as he emptied his ashtray and went to bed.

I desperately needed Beau. Discussing my marital problems with other friends seemed moot. Sensible Patrice seemed irrational when she began dating a married man; Delilah was bored with her nice guy husband; former sitter Rachel worried her husband was doing drugs; and even our neighborhood preacher was having an affair with the church secretary. People busy
with their own secrets and deceptions, while their marriages kept rolling along as usual. Gabriel and I truly loved each other. He wasn’t having an affair. And I damn sure wasn’t. Our energy was spent trying to stop our disintegrating union.

Nights were incredibly bad. Unable to comfort each other, we rarely slept, and Gabriel often left our bed to lie on the living room sofa, thinking his tossing and turning bothered me. One night I got out of bed to sit at the kitchen table, hoping an answer would transcend from our once favorite place. In the quietness I heard a match strike across its box, and saw a flame across the table.

“What’s happening to us?” Gabriel asked gently. “Where the hell are the two people who could share their innermost feelings about everything?”

“We’re right here, and we’ve got to talk.” I pulled my chair close to him.

“Oh, Cherie.” He shook his head hopelessly. “How can we fix this mess?”

I wanted to hold my hands against his cheeks and feel the touch of his moustache while kissing his lips, but instead I gently touched his knee, knowing my next comment would upset him. “Give therapy another try?”

He just sat there pretending not to hear. Or he thought I was Kreskin. I waited for what seemed ten minutes, before getting furious. He asked how to resolve things, and then went mute like it was all on my shoulders. I jumped up, shoved my chair under the table and stormed away.

In what seemed a blur, things went Dixie. Our home became a house, conversations rolled into interrogation, and sadness preempted happiness. Interwoven with all the confusion was some strange life-force that kept us clinging to each other.

Then came two days of silence by Gabriel. On day three, after dropping Nikki at her friend’s sleep-over party, I got home late, walked down the hall toward our bedroom, and overheard Gabriel talking on the phone. “I’ll drop off five hundred tomorrow and another five next week. That should tide you over.”

Gloria was having another financial crisis. I walked into the room, and Gabriel looked at me as though I’d caught him making an appointment with a hooker. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He abruptly ended the call.

“He speaks.” I snapped, my voice shaking from fear and anger. “For a while I thought I was living with Helen Keller. Sorry to interrupt your
personal
call. I can leave again.”