The War of the Roses

'My undying gratitude.' She had spat out the words.

'I'm not getting out,' he cried, his speech thickening. She tightened her grip on the handle of the cleaver. 'Nothing gets split up. Only us.'

'Well, then, my conscience is clear.'

'You haven't got a conscience.'

She watched him, suddenly feeling a great well of pity bubble up inside her. He was as much a victim as she. Some vague, unexplainable concept that the world called love- had cheated them both.

'You don't matter to me anymore, Oliver,' she said sadly. 'You just don't matter. I loathe you.'

'A good loathe is hard to find. I'm still working on hate.'

'I'm beyond hate, Oliver. Far beyond it. I've lived with it for too long. It's not really your fault, either. You were just there at the wrong time and the wrong place.'

'Please, Barbara. Don't declare me innocent. I need my hatred just as much as you do. How else can I sustain the battle?' She caught the sarcasm but couldn't find the humor.

'Well, look at it this way,' she said. 'At least we got the kids out of it.'

'The kids? I hadn't thought of them for a while.'

'Neither have I.'

'They're fine, I suppose.'

'No news is good news. I'm glad they're out of the line of fire.'

'See how civilized we can be, Barbara.' Silendy he raised his goblet, then she did.

'People don't matter,' he said gloomily. 'Only things. Things are loyal. Always there. Always true. Some things increase in value. Never people. People diminish.' He looked at her and smiled drunkenly.

'Maybe you're right,' she snapped. 'I'll just take back my offer.'

'And all you have to do is take half the value. Cold cash. Lots of it. Then get out. Fini.' 'Not till hell freezes over,' she said. 'It won't in this heat.'

'Then we'll just have to tough it out, won't we?'

'I'll drink to that.' He upended his goblet, then opened another botde. He held it up and looked at her. 'Chateau Beycheville.' He squinted at the label. 'A '64. I think we had a good year in '64.'

'Only in your mind, Oliver. Never in mine.'

Upending the botde, he drank from it. Then he held it up again, pointing it for emphasis.

'I want you out of my house,' he said. 'This is my place.'

'Exactly my sentiments, Oliver,' she said coolly. He raised his voice. 'I have more right to it than you.' 'Don't talk to me about rights.' 'I love it more than you do. I deserve it. You don't love it.'

'I don't have to listen to this crap.'

'You can't take everything away. You've got to leave me something.'

'Don't get maudlin.'

She felt the tension building in him.

'You're selfish and grasping, Barbara. Loathsome. A loathsome bitch.'

'I worked for it. I'm going to fight for it.'

He drained the botde and let it fall to the floor. It rolled, unbroken, under the table. He staggered toward the door.

'Thanks for the pate,' he croaked.

'Don't thank me.' She paused until she was sure she had his attention. 'Thank Benny.'

'Benny.'

He staggered against the wall, putting out an arm for support. He sagged but with effort straightened up and looked toward her, his eyes spitting rage. She sensed the reflex even before he moved, his raised hand suddenly materializing, holding the crowbar. Reaching for her shopping bag, she lifted it, clutched it to her chest, and got up, overturning her chair.

She saw the crowbar fall in a long, sweeping motion that pushed the candelabrum from the table. Methodically, he stepped on each candle, putting out the flames.

The darkness was total. She reached for the cleaver handle, then held it above her head, fully prepared to use it in self-defense. She was determined to show him the full extent of her stubbornness and her courage.

She had expected him to come at her and was surprised when he didn't. He is afraid, she thought.

A deafening sound roared through the room. She heard the nerve-tingling scrape of metal on wood and the sound of his crowbar biting into the Duncan Phyfe table. The pain of the injured wood seemed to transfer itself to her own flesh. Under cover of the darkness, she backed out of the room and moved silently through the hall corridor, up the stairs, and into Josh's room.

She curled up in Josh's closet, her shopping bag in her lap, her fist clenching the handle of the cleaver. The beating of her heart partially obscured the sounds of his destructive tantrum.