Eleven

Judith

I zip my coat all the way up as Meena and I walk out to the parking lot, calling out our goodbyes, in plumy breaths. It takes a few tries to open the Uber app on my phone and set home as my destination. I’m fairly certain it’s because my hands are frozen and not because I had too much to drink. Or it could be the small print.

“Forget Uber,” Meena says. “It’s freezing out here. I’ll run you home.”

“Don’t be silly. You live in the opposite direction.”

“I think I can go a little out of my way for a friend. And you won’t even have to plug in an address.”

“No, I really don’t think . . .”

“Stop arguing and come on.” She links her elbow with mine and leads me toward her car.

“All right. But you really don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

In the car, I fumble with the seat belt until she reaches across me and clicks it together.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” I blow on my hands while the heater blasts on and begins to defrost the windshield.

“I know you. You didn’t drive. You drank like you were screwing up your courage for something.” Meena starts the car and backs out of the parking space.

I stare straight ahead as we drive the two-lane street that leads to Johnson Ferry Road, which will wind into East Cobb, where River Forge is.

“Fine,” I say finally. “I had an appointment with your divorce attorney yesterday. Thanks for getting me in, by the way. I had no idea that the busiest time of year for divorce filings was immediately after the holidays.”

“There are lots of suicides right after the holidays, too,” Meena says quietly. “Clearly, it’s not always the holly, jolly time it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yeah.”

“How did it go?” Streetlights illuminate Meena’s face, then cast it back into shadow.

“I liked her. She laid everything out, what would happen, the retainer, gathering financial information. How she’d position me.”

The scenery flies by. The suburbs are quiet at ten p.m. on a Tuesday night. Some stores and restaurants are still open, but the parking lots are mostly empty. There are very few cars on the road.

“What made you decide to see her?” Meena asks.

“Nate didn’t invite me to Europe. And then he butt-dialed me from Italy, and I was forced to hear him tell a total stranger that our spark died a long time ago and that he’s just ‘going through the motions.’ And FYI—none of those motions include sex. I almost wish he’d been screwing around.”

“No, you don’t,” Meena says.

“You’re right. Sorry. It’s just . . . the kids aren’t really kids anymore, but I don’t think either of them is ready for their family to cease to exist. And . . . I mean it all feels so . . . final.”

“It is.” Tonight, Meena is my confessor and advisor.

“Have your kids forgiven you?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“More or less. I think they’ve come to understand that the divorce has made things better. At least for me. Now I have my own relationship with them, and I have to remind myself I’m not responsible for making sure they have a relationship with Stan. I’m not his spokesperson. Or his promoter.

“I’m polite when we’re all together, but Stan likes to pretend that everything was fine and I just got bored.” She shrugs. “I’m happier than I was in a marriage that wasn’t working, but nothing’s perfect. Sometimes I feel lonely. I even miss Stan now and then. But I know I did the right thing. For me.”

We turn onto Upper Roswell as she continues. “The way I see it you have three choices: Suck it up, stay married, and make the best of the situation. You can spend more time with friends, take trips he’s not interested in on your own, live as separate a life as you need to without actually leaving.

“Or you work on your marriage and try to make it better. Of course, that takes cooperation on both sides.” Meena’s gaze lands on my face. “Maybe if Nate knew he was going to lose you, he’d try harder. Stan didn’t, but Nate could be different.”

She stops for a last red light. “Or you file for divorce and commit yourself to creating the life you want.”

“I’m fifty-five years old.” At the moment it sounds like one hundred.

“I know,” Meena replies. “Fortunately, there’s no age limit on happiness. You could live another forty years, Jude. Are you willing to settle for four more decades?”

My mind swims with visions of what forty years of settling might feel like. What it would do to me. Could I even survive it?

We turn into River Forge, driving past the clubhouse and pool and the perfectly flat street where Ansley and Ethan learned to ride their bikes.

As we drive down the neighborhood’s main street, our former lives are everywhere. Meena’s mouth tightens when we enter the cul-de-sac we shared and cruise past her former house, on our way to mine. The Parkers’ house was always part of the view from our master bedroom. Any trip to the mailbox included a quick glance to see whether Meena’s Volvo was parked in their garage. When the kids were still in school, no one ever closed their garage door until the entire family was in for the night. Nowadays, I pull in and close the garage door behind me as soon as the car is off.

“God, it seems like a lifetime ago that we moved into the neighborhood,” Meena muses. “I remember you coming over with homemade brownies the day we moved in.”

“Yeah. Me, too. There are new versions of us moving in every day.” I look at my old friend. “I wish Nate had been open to moving. Maybe we would have had a better chance at adapting somewhere new.”

She’s kind enough not to remind me that a new home didn’t save her marriage. When we reach my house, she pulls into the driveway and stops, leaving her engine running. “So. What now?”

“Well, this afternoon I shaved body parts I didn’t even know I still had. I’m going to go inside, put on my sexiest negligee, which would be my only remaining negligee, and seduce my husband.” I don’t add that one of my biggest fears is whether I’m still desirable enough to pull this off. “I think that falls under your marital option number two. I’m hoping that it will remind us both who we are and what we once had.”

“And then?”

“Then, once he’s completely relaxed, I’m going to explain that I’m tired of being taken for granted and that things have to change if we’re going to stay married. I don’t actually know what he’ll choose, but either way, things are going to change.”

Meena reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

The front porch is brightly lit because the lights are on timers. Inside it’s pitch-dark and quiet. I flip on lights, pushing back my irritation that my husband hasn’t even left a single light on, because that would require a moment of thought about someone other than himself. In the kitchen, I pour a final glass of courage, which I carry upstairs.

Nate’s already in bed. He’s on his back, his arms flung wide. His snores are loud and ragged. This, of course, is not exactly a turn-on. But I am a woman on a mission.

In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and slip the neatly pressed negligee over my head. If I squint and angle my body just right, I do not look too old for sex. At least not in this light.

The expensive “date night” perfume is buried in the back of my medicine cabinet covered in dust. I spritz it in strategic spots, then slather on moisturizer that my skin sucks in like a desperate woman downing a last cocktail at closing time.

I don’t let myself think about how long it’s been—it’s like riding a bike, right? I especially don’t think about exactly what I’ll say afterward or how things might turn out. I want the sex to be good. Proof that we can still “connect,” that the spark can still be ignited.

In the bedroom, I walk to where Nate is sprawled and snoring and pull back the covers. His chest is bare, the hair that covers it more white now than dark. His pajama bottoms are bunched below his stomach; his legs are windmilled. The pajama placket gapes open.

I wait for him to wake and look up, but his eyes remain shut. The snoring continues.

“Nate?” My voice is low and husky. “Na-aaa-te?” I coo as provocatively as I can.

The only thing moving is his chest. Air whistles through his lips as he snores.

This is not the response I was hoping for. But I do not retreat. I crouch between his legs and contemplate what lies before me. His penis flops out of the placket and curls wormlike against his thigh.

I remember an ancient joke that asks, What do you get if you have a large green ball in one hand and another large green ball in the other? Complete control of the Jolly Green Giant.

With a small smile, I take him in my palm. His eyes remain closed, but the body part I’m holding thickens.

“Nate?”

“Hmmm?”

“What would you like to see happen here?”

His eyes open. There’s a weariness in them I’m not used to, but his lips quirk upward.

“I don’t know. I’ve been dragging something awful all day. I feel like I might be fighting off the flu. But at the moment I’m tempted to just leave myself in your hands.”

“Very funny,” I say.

His eyes flutter shut mid-smirk. I consider my options. I could give up on pleasuring either of us and table the conversation until tomorrow. But I know this man almost as well as I know myself. He’s a lot more likely to be receptive to what I have to say once he’s lolling in postcoital satisfaction.

“Hang on, then. I’ve got this.” With a smirk of my own, I hike up the negligee and position myself above him, rubbing up and down until I’m wet and he’s hard. Slowly, I lower myself onto his erection. He groans, his head rolling from side to side, as I settle myself. His hands cup my buttocks when I begin to ride. They drop away as I find my rhythm, raising and lowering myself, seeking out the friction, reveling, forgetting everything including my mission as the delicious tension builds. My eyes close. My head falls back. I let myself remember the first time we made love, the look in his eyes when he asked me to marry him, the day we brought Ansley home from the hospital. Then I lose myself in the motion, in riding him, feeling the tension mount to that exquisite breaking point just beyond the edge of reason.

His body goes rigid. He spasms, bucks. His wordless shout spurs me on as he erupts, catapulting me over the edge, into the stratosphere. Into free fall. Until I collapse on top of him, both of us slick with sweat. His heartbeat beneath my ear is a runaway freight train.

“Wow.” We’re both trying to catch our breath as I drag myself off him. Nate’s still gasping on the bed when I throw the covers up over him and stagger to the bathroom, where I pull on a robe, wash my face, and brush my teeth. It takes some time to calm down and remember what I wanted to say.

When I get back to the bedroom, Nate’s still lying flat on his back but is no longer gasping for breath. He appears to be staring up at the ceiling. Since he’s not snoring, I assume he’s awake.

“Nate?”

I climb into bed, my back against the headboard. I still feel warm and tingly from the orgasm and hope Nate does, too. In truth, I’d rather go to sleep—maybe even curled up in his arms—than talk, but I’m not sure I can sleep without getting everything off my chest.

“Nate? Are you listening?”

He doesn’t answer, but his head lolls in my direction.

“Fine. Just listen, then. There are things I need to say.” I draw a breath. “First of all, you butt-dialed me from Italy. Do you have any idea what it feels like to hear your husband tell a total stranger that he’s ‘only going through the motions’?”

Again, no response. But I can see the edge of his eyelashes, so I assume his eyes are open.

“Well, it sucks. And I am not a ‘good egg,’ damn it! I’m a person. A woman. Your wife. And what we just did together proves that there’s still a spark. Only we both have to fan it to keep it alive.”

I’m on a roll now. I get out of bed. Eager to lay it all out, to persuade him, I begin to pace the room on my side of the bed, ticking the points off on my fingers. “I believe we can find a way to regain what we’ve lost. We just have to want to. I need you to understand who I am. And care about what’s important to me.” I reach the end of the bedroom with its view of what used to be the Parkers’ house and turn. “We’re comfortably off, the kids are self-sufficient. This could be the best time of our lives. If we want it to be. But we have to share ourselves and take care of each other.” I swallow. “I wasn’t put on this earth to take care of you and make your life run smoothly. I should never have acted like that was all I was capable of or wanted. And you shouldn’t have let me.”

I stop and turn at the head of the bed. Once again, I wait for him to comment. To agree or disagree. To tell me he loves me and that he’ll try harder, do better. Or even that he’s done. But he just lies there.

“I can’t believe this.” The hope I’ve been nursing begins to evaporate. I thought that sex might rekindle the spark and facilitate this conversation, but I’m the one who’s turned an orgasm into something more than it was. “I’m pouring my heart out here and you have nothing to say?”

I stalk over to where he’s lying, talking the whole time. “How like you to not even listen. I’m telling you how we could save our marriage and avoid a divorce, and you don’t even care enough to pay attention!

“I’m talking to you!” I lean over and poke his arm as hard as I can. His head still hangs to one side. I climb onto the bed to look into his open eyes. They’re glazed and vacant.

“Nate?” I grab his shoulder and shake him. He’s limp and unresisting. “Nate!”

I lean in until my face is only inches from his. This is when I realize that his chest is not moving up and down.

I race to the nightstand and grab my phone. I punch in 911. Praying that they really can trace a call to its location, I yell, “Help! My husband isn’t breathing!” Then I shout our address into the phone and throw it down so that I can drag him onto the floor, kneel beside him, and frantically start performing CPR.

“Oh no, you don’t!” I shout as I begin the compressions on his chest. “You are NOT allowed to die while I’m yelling at you!”