Ironic, isn’t it? Just as Ted and Sarah, my Ideal Couple, are reaching new heights of marital bliss with the birth of their first child, I am becoming a statistic.
Much to the delight and profit of the legal profession, Faith and I are divorcing.
Although it isn’t in anger, it is with what you might call a lot of deeply held indifference. It seems that she never really thought that being married to me was “a fun thing.” Our lawyers are citing “irreconcilable differences,” but that’s because the fact that Faith finds being out here “an utter bore” is not sufficient grounds for divorce.
Actually, I can’t see how she could say her life in the country was dull. She was having so many affairs that her schedule must have bordered on the hectic.
When I first started to suspect that she was branching out into the realm of extramarital dalliance, I was worried what my friends would think. I shouldn’t have. She was having flings with almost all of them.
In some ways I wish I had never found any of this out. Because frankly, I didn’t realize anything was really wrong. I mean, our weekends were pleasant enough. And she seemed to be enjoying herself. But, unfortunately, one of my buddies at The Lunch Club thought it his duty as a fellow Harvardman to let me know, in so many words, that I was the laughing stock of southern Connecticut.
On that all-too-short train ride home, I tried to figure out a way to broach the whole thing with Faith. But when she met me at the door, I didn’t have the guts to confront her.
Hell, I kept telling myself, maybe it isn’t true. And so I went through the motions of drinks and dinner and going to bed. Still, I was awake all night, my heart pounding, wondering what to do.
Finally I understood what was behind my Hamlet-like hesitation. It was not really any doubt of her infidelity. I noticed in retrospect how cozy she had been with so many of the guys at the club during those weekend dances.
What was shaking me to the core was the fact that I knew I’d be losing the children.
I mean, no matter how promiscuous you prove the woman to be, the court inevitably gives her custody. And I can’t bear the thought of not being able to come back at night and hear little Andy shout, “Daddy’s home” as if I were king of the universe. Or to be there when Lizzie speaks her first sentence.
Not only have they given meaning to my life, but I’ve discovered that being a father is actually something I do pretty well.
I grew so desperate thinking about all this, that at around 4:00 A.M. I had the wild notion of grabbing both kids and rushing off in the car somewhere. But, of course, that wouldn’t have solved anything.
The next morning I called in sick (which was not a total lie), so I could have it all out with Faith. She didn’t deny anything. I actually think she wanted me to know. She certainly said a very quick “yes” when I asked her whether she wanted a divorce.
I inquired when it was exactly that she had discovered she didn’t love me anymore. She replied that she never actually had been in love with me but had, at one time, merely thought she was.
Now, having discovered that she was wrong, she deemed it best that we separate. I told her it was pretty irresponsible to have two kids with a guy she didn’t really like.
To which she retorted, “That’s what I can’t stand about you, Andrew. You’re such a sentimental drip.”
She asked if I wouldn’t mind packing a bag and moving out that morning, as she had a very busy day. I retorted that I damn well did mind, and I would stay until Andy got home from nursery school so I could talk to him. She told me to suit myself as long as I was out of the house by dinnertime.
As I mindlessly threw some shirts and ties together in a suitcase, I wondered how the hell you explain to a four-year-old why Daddy is going away. I know you’re not supposed to lie to kids, But saying, “Mummy doesn’t love me,” seemed hardly conducive to the health of his psyche.
By the time the nanny brought him home, I had cooked up a story about having to live in New York to be nearer my work. That he shouldn’t worry, I would be out to see him and Lizzie every weekend. And I was sure we could still spend the summer together in Maine. Or at least part of it.
I watched the expression on his little face when I recounted this fiction. And I could see that he understood the truth. It broke my heart. Even at four, my son was disappointed that I couldn’t be totally honest with him.
“Can I come with you, Daddy?” he pleaded.
My entire soul ached to steal him. But I told him he’d miss school. And his friends. And now he had to be a good boy and take care of his baby sister.
He promised and — I suspect, to make it easier on me — didn’t cry as he watched me toss my bag into the car to drive to New York. He just stood at the doorway and quietly waved.
Kids are smarter than we think. Which is why we end up hurting them so much.
When the Pulitzer Prizes for 1967 were announced, there was particular joy in the Harvard University news office. While it was hardly novel that two Harvard men won awards in the same year, it was rare — if not a first — that two members of the same class were simultaneously honored.
This was a nice little tidbit they could get out over the wires. For the year’s prizewinner for poetry was Stuart Kingsley ’58, and the recipient for music the already much-honored Danny Rossi of the same rich vintage.
In fact, the two classmates had not known each other at college. Stuart Kingsley spent his years at Harvard as an almost-invisible figure in Adams House. His powerful verse in the
Indeed, until the morning he received the phone call from the Pulitzer Committee, Stuart had continued to live in relative obscurity. He and his wife, Nina (Bryn Mawr ’61), and their two kids lived in a high-ceilinged, slightly seedy apartment on Riverside Drive near Columbia, where he taught creative writing.
What excited Stu almost as much as the prize itself was the prospect of finally meeting his illustrious classmate at the award ceremony.
“Think of it, Nina,” he enthused, “I might actually get my picture taken with Danny Rossi.”
But then to his chagrin, Stuart learned that there was no Pulitzer award ceremony. That phone call and your picture in
“What the hell,” Nina said to dispel her husband’s disappointment. “I’ll throw you the biggest damn party you’ve ever seen. Taylor’s New York State champagne will flow like seltzer.”
He hugged her. “Thanks, I’d like that. I don’t think I’ve ever really been the subject of a party.”
“Listen honey, if you want to meet Danny Rossi so badly, I’ll gladly invite him.”
“Yeah,” he replied with a sardonic smile, “I’m sure he’d love to come.”
Nina grabbed him by the shoulders. “Now you listen to me, kid. I haven’t seen this
“It doesn’t matter, Nina. In New York it isn’t so much talent that matters as image. And Danny’s got so much charisma …”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Stu, that’s just hype from a press agent’s office. Frankly, the only thing Rossi’s got over you is a few locks of flashy red hair.”
“Yeah,” Stu smiled, “and a few million bucks. I’m telling you the guy’s a real star.”
Nina looked at him with indulgent affection. “You know why I love you so much, Stu? Because you’re the only genius I know who suffers from the opposite of megalomania.”
“Thanks, honey,” he replied, gathering up his notes and stuffing them into his briefcase. “But you’d better cut this ego-boosting short, or I’ll be late for my four-o’clock seminar. See you around seven. We can throw a party just for us.”
When he returned, she had a surprise for him.
“Really, Nina? Are you serious?”
“Yes, my dearest, You are actually having lunch with your ‘charismatic’ classmate at one tomorrow in the Russian Tea Room. By the way, you may be stunned to learn he’s looking forward to meeting
