The War of the Roses

him for their fifteenth anniversary. Or was it their sixteenth? It pleased her that she was unsure. Her history with him was becoming vague. The past was disappearing. He was carrying an armful of wine bottles, as well as a crowbar. Lining the bottles up in front of him, he opened two and slid one of the opened bottles in her

direction. They poured each bottle simultaneously, filling the silver goblets. He lifted his.

^cTo your health, my darling,' he said with a Noel Coward-like inflection. She obliged by sipping cautiously while he emptied his goblet and refilled it quickly. She did not take her hand off the handle of the cleaver.

'The last of the '59's,' he said. 'Quickly approaching imperfection.'

'Still very good, Oliver. Good body, neither sweet nor dry.'

Putting down his goblet, he bent over and smelled the pate. Daintily, he spread some on a cracker and ate it slowly.

'Marvelous, Barbara. Nobody can make a pate quite like yours.'

'You've always had an appreciative palate.' She smiled, pleased that he liked the dish.

He lifted his goblet again, drank, and ate more of the pate'. She watched his bearded face in the flickering light. It had an eerie cast, waxy, like the candles. The shadows stripped him of his age and she saw him as he had looked in his younger days, an image she detested, especially now.

'I hope you're now convinced, Oliver, that I do not intend to retreat. Not one inch.'

As he lifted the goblet again his hand shook.

'You invited me here to tell me that?' he said, frowning. This was not what he had expected.

'I can take anything you can dish out. All your creative punishments.'

'Is that why we're having this little tete-a-tete?'

'No,' she said emphatically. 'I have a proposition.'

'I'm listening.' He poured another gobletful and drank.

'I'll let you have your pick of half the things in the house. Except in this room. Or the kitchen. And the furniture in the kids' rooms. Take the books, the paintings, the Staffordshires.'

'You're very generous,' he said sarcastically.

'You can take it now. Only get out with it.' She had thought about her offer long and hard. 'It's a damned good deal.'

He seemed to ponder the idea, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

'It's as far as I go,' she said. 'I keep the house.'

He looked around the room, waving his hand. 'And this as well.'

'And this as well,' she repeated. 'I think I'm being exceptionally reasonable. No lawyers needed. Just you and me, kid.'

'Yeah, just you and me,' he said bitterly. She watched him coolly. She was pleased that her words were crisp and forceful, her courage unfaltering.

'I am not afraid,' she said. 'I'm capable of resisting forever if necessary.'

She watched him wash down the pate with more wine and then looked at the ceiling. Perspiration shone on his cheeks. The candles had raised the temperature unbearably. He stood up, took off his robe, and, bare-chested, sat down again.

'And I'm capable of resisting your resistance,' he said. 'Forever if necessary. This is my house. I paid for it. No matter what. Even if the courts decide otherwise. I'll find a way to get it.'

'Over my dead body.'

'Hopefully. If I can get away with that.'

She reached down and touched the cool blade of her cleaver.

'You're not going to intimidate me,' she said calmly. She finished her goblet of wine and poured herself another.

'We've passed that stage a long time ago, Barbara.' 'What I can't understand ...' She hesitated, sipping her wine. 'What I can't understand is why you are having so much difficulty understanding my position. Other people get divorced. You didn't have to stay here. You could have avoided all this ... this unpleasantness.'

'It's not unpleasant.' He giggled. 'Rather interesting, I'd say.'

She looked at him and shook her head. 'You are a bastard.'

'I'm just not going to reward you for being a bitch, for destroying our family. People shouldn't be rewarded for destruction.'

'Always the family. The family. Why should I have to live in an institution I hate, that has tried to do me in?' She banged the table with the flat of her hand. The plates jumped and the candelabrum bounced. 'I want out and I want to be compensated for my sacrifices.'

His face glistened with sweat. He smiled but transmitted no warmth.

'You were a dumb little shit when I married you. My brains put you in this house. My money bought all these things. My support and indulgence pushed you to become a gourmet cook. If it wasn't for me, you'd still be living in some clapboard house in New England, boiling potatoes for some half-assed clerk.'