AFTER THE DISHES are wiped dry and put away, I’m yawning because of the long day, but I won’t go to bed yet. Ben and I keep a cordial and polite conversation for the benefit of our girl, and there’s chocolate ice cream for dessert. We then go out into the small living room, and I not-so-gently aim Ben to a battered reclining chair, while Amelia and I sit on the couch.
Amelia puts on a television show about not-so-real housewives somewhere, all made up, Botoxed, and dieted to within an ounce of their lives, and it seems most of their time is spent yelling at each other and eating at expensive restaurants.
My daughter is calling up photos of national parks on her iPad in preparation for some school project, and Ben comes over and kneels down next to her, pointing out the history of each park that Amelia brings up. I try to stay awake as I watch members of my own sex disgrace themselves on national television, but then I’m shocked into sudden awareness at the exchange next to me.
Amelia oohs and points to a photo on her tablet. “Oh, Yellowstone. And that geyser, Old Faithful. Does it really spout out like that on schedule?”
Ben rubs her shoulder. “It sure does, honey. I was there last year and saw it twice, right on time.”
Amelia says, “No way, Dad,” and her dad says, “Sure…maybe I’ll take you out there next summer.”
“Really?” Amelia turns to me and says, “Mom, did you hear that?”
I force a smile. “I sure did, sweetie, and look at the time. Let’s get you into bed.”
For once she doesn’t whine or argue, but she shuts down her iPad and says, “Can Daddy spend the night? Can he?”
Ben says quietly, “Yes, can he?”
I take Amelia’s hand, gently pull her up from the couch, and lead her out of the room without saying a word.
After she’s washed up and settled down in her small bedroom, I go out and Ben is standing there, looking uneasy, pretending to pay serious attention to a talk show now on Bravo. I stand in front of him and say, “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
He looks up at me, not ignoring me, which is at least a step forward, although a step overdue by a number of years. “I called her up to see how she was doing. She told me Todd had to leave because of some family emergency. And that you were running late. She sounded scared, Sally, so I told her I’d come right over. You know this isn’t the best of neighborhoods.”
I cross my arms. “And whose fault is that?”
Ben holds up a hand. “Please…can we not fight? Please? For Amelia’s sake?”
“For Amelia’s sake?” I step closer and lower my voice. “You should have thought of Amelia a long, long time ago, before your drinking got out of control and you started humping interns half your age.”
His voice is bleak. “I’m in a program. I’ve stopped the drinking and…I’ve been faithful these past months. Sally, how many times do I have to apologize?”
“I’ll let you know,” I snap back. “And here’s another thing for Amelia’s sake. You’re confusing the hell out of her. We’ve agreed to a visitation schedule, and you coming tonight…okay, she was scared, but I was here before you showed up. It’s tough enough for our daughter without her thinking there’s a chance we’re getting back together.”
His eyes seem to moisten, and I step back and say, “But fair’s fair. You take the couch, get out before she gets up for school.”
He nods. “Thanks, Sally.”
“Don’t be so happy,” I say. “If I get called out during the night, you’re going to have to stay and get her to school by yourself.”
“Not a problem,” Ben says.
I leave the living room. “And either turn that damn thing down or turn it off.”
In my bedroom I hear sudden silence from the living room as Ben switches off the television, like he’s some holy pilgrim somewhere, following his superior’s orders, hoping for redemption.
Sorry, Ben, I think, curled up in my bed. No redemption tonight.
And after a while, I figure, no sleep as well.
Not after the day I’ve had.
So many thoughts are racing around in my mind that it’s hard to keep track of them, and instead of counting sheep, I’m counting all of the problems I’m facing—each problem looking like a rabid wolverine rather than a cuddly sheep—and then the bedroom door creaks open.
I whisper, “Amelia?”
“No,” comes the embarrassed reply. “It’s Ben.”
He comes in, closes the door, and says, “Sally, I’m sorry. I can’t sleep. That couch…it’s got some metal bar in it that digs into my back.”
“Then go home already.”
“Can’t…can’t I just come in here? With you? I promise, I won’t disturb you.”
His shape is outlined by the glow from the bedside clock and other electronics. I don’t want to even glance at the time.
“You could still go home.”
“Sally, please…must you always be angry at me? Always?”
I think of him and I think of my commander in chief, and I wonder where the First Lady might be, and maybe there should be some consolation that even the highest and mightiest of us all can have marital problems, but I’m not seeing it. The First Lady saw her betrayal live on television earlier today. I saw mine about a year ago, when a presidential visit was canceled at the last minute, meaning I got home early to see my drunken husband in bed with an intern from the Department of the Interior, with another one waiting for him in the kitchen, smoking a joint.
“All right,” I say. “You can join me.”
There’s movement and a soft rustle of clothes being removed, and the bed shifts as he stretches out next to me. We both remain silent until Ben says, “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did, Sally. Honest. I’m ashamed, I’m humiliated, and I’m so sad for what I’ve put you through, and Amelia. Especially Amelia, I never meant for it to—”
“Ben?” I ask in the darkened bedroom.
“Yes?”
“Go to sleep,” I say, “and if you touch me or try to come over to this side, I’ll break your fingers.”