Last night in Jeff’s absence, her sleep was perfect. Restful, restorative. She woke up feeling like a woman in a mattress commercial.
Jeff slept on one of the chesterfields in the parlor. Jenna doesn’t even find them particularly comfortable as couches, let alone beds, but her husband seems to love it down there.
She’s putting herself through yoga stretches, enjoying the clarity she feels, mentally and physically, when the dark thoughts descend upon her, like vultures on carrion.
What if it was always like this? they whisper. What if Jeff was always sleeping elsewhere?
The thought seems surprisingly tempting, but she shakes it away. Surely, it’s only because of their recent tensions that it would cross her mind in the first place.
Jenna doesn’t normally like to sleep alone. She needs the comfort of another body next to her, someone to snuggle up to, warm calves to push her perpetually icy toes into. For all his foibles and imperfections, Jeff has been that body for her for over two decades. She appreciates the sturdiness of him. The way he always seems to run about ten degrees warmer. The way he never steals her blankets. Without him there, she’s afraid she would feel somehow untethered.
The few nights he was away over their time together, she slept with a weighted blanket. Most of the time, it lives in a fabric storage box under their bed. Jeff makes fun of it, calls it Albert (as in Fat Albert) and it is objectively funny, the obscene heaviness of it that threatens to pull her arms out of their shoulder sockets each time she has to fold it. But it’s better than nothing.
In fact, it’s impressive how well she slept last night alone and without Albert. There were dreams, she remembers having them, but morning whisked away the details.
And at any rate, she contemplates while easing her body into Downward Dog, every marriage goes through rough patches, but, essentially, they are happy. Aren’t they?
Jenna has never really taken the time to contemplate it, never felt she had the perspective to do so. When you’re in it, it’s all you see, all you know. It’s your entire world.
She has only ever counted herself lucky when compared to other Doyles, who, in feats of staggering hypocrisy, tend to completely disregard their Catholicism when it comes to divorces.
She’d hate to be one of those statistics. To raise their kids separately, to have to start over at her age.
Not that she feels particularly old. Or looks it. Jenna has every confidence she can pull off the hot MILF thing; she hasn’t been minding her diet and exercising like a fiend all this time for nothing. It’s just that she wouldn’t want to.
The thought of trying again, of dating again, exhausts her. Makes her skin crawl.
It’s difficult enough to find the right person the first time around when you still have some of that youthful energy and hopefulness. Before the world beats it out of you. To meet someone who you like and get along with, who doesn’t run away as he gets to know you, who shows you kindness and interest, who agrees to build a life with you—that’s huge, that’s monumental.
By and large, Jeff is still that person for Jenna. He is her rock, her home. They made a choice: to have and to hold, to withstand the hurricanes of life together. That’s how it’s supposed to be, otherwise it’s chaos. Isn’t that what marriage is—safeguarding each other? They’ll work out whatever is happening between them right now. They’ll get their car back, return to the city, to their normal lives, and all will be fine.
That’s what she tells herself. It is the sword she wields to banish dark thoughts. That’s the power of yoga; it always helps Jenna to realign her brain toward the positive.
She rides that zen wave once she’s done as she rolls away the mat, as she takes a luxuriously long shower, as she puts herself together, applying light makeup, slipping into her best vacation silk and linen.
Then, on the way to the kitchen, she espies Jeff's prostrate form on the couch, and the dark thoughts return with such force, they almost knock her down.
Look at him, they scream. A loser. That’s your man? Shame on you.
He lied to you. Got drunk on your family vacation. Crashed your family car. And for all you know, he’s been trying to get rough with you for days and then gaslighting you about it.
Jenna doesn’t want to listen to that. In fact, she’s contemplating coming in to say something. She did leave him alone when he was potentially concussed.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, stepping in. The room is never well-lit, no matter what time of day it is. Too many shadows stubbornly clinging to the corners.
“About as good as I look.”
“I’m sorry about the other night.” The words are out of her mouth before she has time to think them through, and it makes her mad. She didn’t come here to apologize and yet here she is, mea culpa-ing out of sheer habit.
“It’s fine. I didn’t die or anything.” His smile is shy and meek and warm and so very much Jeff that it makes her want to go over and hug him. For all his faults, he’s never been one to hold grudges.
“Guess you didn’t have a concussion after all.”
“Maybe it was a very well-behaved one?”
She returns his grin this time.
“Want breakfast?”
“Yes, please. I’ve been contemplating a trip to the kitchen all morning, but . . .” He shrugs, lifts his arms slightly, and drops them like dead weights.
“Poor baby. Sure you don’t want me to take you somewhere to be seen?”
“Nothing they can do for broken ribs. I don’t want to pay all that money to be told to rest. I plan on resting anyway.”
“Well, okay then. Eggs?”
“At this point, anything. My stomach has been growling like a fiend.”
“You can walk, though, right? Or do I have to serve the lord of the manor in his parlor?”
Jeff sighs, then sits up with a groan, and slowly stands up. “I can walk. At least, a zombie shuffle.”
“All righty then, shuffle with me toward the kitchen. I’ll see if I can rustle you up some brains.”
See, this is good, Jenna thinks, walking with exaggerated slowness alongside Jeff. We are good. We banter. Happy people banter.
The kitchen is brighter. The light here is better. Eggs are cracked and whisked. Jenna makes Jeff a proper fatty omelet, with real cheese, opting for a yogurt and fruit parfait for herself. The kids must be still sleeping. Or just not hungry enough to make it downstairs.
Well, Jessie seems never to be hungry, and JJ is always hungry. Between the two of them there must be a happy medium somewhere, but she isn’t making extra food on their account. They’ll eat when they get here. There’s always cereal.
Jeff eats with impressive gusto. Jenna takes his good appetite as a sure sign of speedy recovery.
They tread lightly, skating the surface of their lives, mindful of the treacherous ice. But every so often, something breaks through.
“I’m worried about the car,” she says.
“Don’t be.” Jeff reaches out to cover her hand with his. The sunlight hits the hair on his knuckles. Did he always have that? Jenna could swear he didn’t. It makes his hands look strange, brutish. “It’ll be okay,” he says, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about the car.
Good old Jeff always prefers to deal in absolutes.
“Will our insurance cover it?”
“Most of it.”
“They should give you a raise. That one percent cost of living bullshit last year was a joke. Maybe once you get that promotion.”
Her husband sighs at that and looks away, then down at his plate, as if contemplating the future foretold by the pattern of leftover yolks.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Jeff. What?”
“I didn’t get the promotion.”
“What? Why not?” What she really wants to ask is why he didn’t tell her sooner.
“Because Richie is better at ass-kissing.”
That is true. She met the man at Jeff’s work’s annual Christmas party. A low-level creep. His nose is so brown, he’s like his very own variety of reindeer. She hated Richie; he was one of those men who never actually does or says anything explicitly wrong or offensive, but his words and his eyes make you want to take a long hot shower to wash away the sheer proximity of him.
The scumbag must be doing something right though.
Jenna’s been waiting for this promotion. Counting on it. Spending the raise in her mind. She shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t help herself. It’s been so long since they had more than what they needed. Enough to venture into that ever-inviting “want” territory.
Aunt Gussie’s money is gone. Jenna meant to hold on to it, but there was a leaky roof, and then she bought her used Honda, and that was it. Ten grand doesn’t go as far these days as it might have back in Gussie’s.
“Well fuck,” she exhales.
What she meant to say was, “I’m sorry.” She realizes this hits Jeff harder than it does her. In his ego, not just the wallet.
“Yeah, well.” He nods mildly, sipping his coffee.
Suddenly, she feels angry. For Jeff, at Jeff. Doesn’t he feel it too? The righteous rage at the injustice of it all. The brunt of the world where trash rises to the top and plays at being the cream.
“Can you fight it?”
“Fight it?” he asks incredulously, putting down his mug. “How would I fight it? The decision is final. He’s already been given some of my accounts.”
Jenna says nothing. She studies her husband over the rim of her coffee cup, contemplates his slouched dejected form. This is it, she realizes. This is the preview of the future. Of the next however many decades spent observing Jeff languish in mediocrity, placidly accepting every downturn of fate, going along to get along until he runs out of road.
The thought depresses her, turns the delicious brew in her mouth sour.
She tries to come up with something—anything—positive to say. “Maybe it’s time to look for a new job?”
“Jenna, no one is hiring people like me.”
“Oh yeah?” she wants to say. “Well, where does it leave me? I’m married to a person like you.”
What she says instead is, “You can always look?”
Jeff shakes his head, lightly, almost imperceptibly. But she sees it. The “you don’t understand” gesture. It fuels her anger further.
“I’m gonna go lie down,” he says. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies automatically and watches him shuffle away.
Unkind thoughts she seems to have no control over launch themselves like throwing knives at his back.
Did she make the wrong choice tying her life to this man? Jenna hates being wrong. She wants—needs—some outlet for this spite that’s burning her insides.
Not that she would ever say anything; it isn’t her way. And Jeff will never figure it out on his own, will never know the way he’s made her feel. Will never be able to appreciate it or apologize for it.
Maybe she doesn’t need words where actions might do. Something subtle, clandestine. A small, delicate, soft revenge, perhaps. Yes, Jenna likes the sound of that.