'No, Oliver.'
'Are you serious?' He seemed genuinely confused, and she thought of the millions of other women somewhere who had suddenly imparted this same truth.
'Dead serious. Without doubt. I don't care. I haven't cared for a long time.' She calmed herself, having determined that she must be both calm and cautious.
'Just like that.' He snapped his fingers. 'You dismiss a life. A relationship. A family.' He snapped his fingers again. 'Just like that.'
'Just like that.' She too, snapped her fingers. No, she thought. It wasn't at all just like thgit.
She watched him grope for control. He stood up, opened the doors to the armoire, and poured himself a heavy scotch. He swallowed deep and hard.
'I can't believe this,' he said after a long pause.
'Believe it.'
She was sitting in the matching Chesterfield chair, her back stiff, her fingers digging into the hollows just behind her knees. The Staffordshire figures seemed a live audience. He rubbed his chin and shook his head.
'Is there someone else?'
His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. Apparently he had deliberately choked off a sob. 'No.'
'Do you want someone else?' he asked quickly, and she sensed the trained lawyer's mind emerging. 'Maybe.'
'Always be vague under cross-examination,' he had told her once.
'Is it something I've done?' he asked gently, obviously grasping at some shred of hope.
'Not really.'
'Then is it something I haven't done?'
She formed her reply carefully. 'It has nothing to do with your conscious self,' she said sofdy. She watched his face as it mirrored his growing anger.
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' he exploded. His anger was, she knew, unavoidable. She hoped he wouldn't cry. She did not want to show him how unmoved she would be.
'It means,' she responded calmly, 'that you have no control over the situation and probably no blame. It's me,' she paused, shrugged, and tightened the grip behind her knees. 'I don't believe I can stand the idea of living with you for another moment. As I said, it's not your fault...' He started to speak but she held up her hand. 'And any injuries you might have inflicted on me were not done consciously.'
'Injuries?' His voice shook. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
*I know. I wish I was more articulate. But you see I've never had the training .. .'
'So that's it,' he said, finding sarcasm. 'You gave up your life for me.'
'A part of it.'
'I made you quit school. Made you a slave.' 'In a way.'
'And you're - what is the cliche? - unfulfilled.'
'That, too.'
She sensed his rising contempt, steeling herself for what she knew was coming, had to come.
'And the kids? Don't they have a say?'
'The kids will be fine. I have no desire to abdicate my responsibilities in that quarter. And, no, they don't have a say.'
'Jesus.' He squinted into her eyes. 'Is this you?' 'Yes. It's me.'
'Not Barbara. Not the girl I married.'
'Not her. I'm sorry, Oliver. Really sorry. I wish I could do it so it wouldn't hurt.'
There was a long pause as he paced the room. Stopping, he turned away and looked blankly at the tides of the leather-bound books, then circled the rent table and finally went back to the armoire and poured himself another drink. He gestured with the botde, offering a drink. Obviously he had no idea of what was supposed to come next.
'No. Thank you,' she said politely.
He shrugged and gulped down another drink, suddenly jabbing a finger below his breastbone.
'This is playing hell with my hiatus hernia.'
'Take a Maalox.'
He sighed, grimaced, and breathed deeply, staring at her.
'You're a cold-blooded bitch.'
'I'm sorry if that's your perception.' But the label made her uneasy. She was not cold-blooded, nor did she wish to be cruel.
'There is no easy way to do this, Oliver. I'm sorry.'
