As Pete took the bag, Birdie made his appearance, stretching first one hind leg, then the other, then sitting with all four feet in a neat square. His eyes locked onto my face, but he did not approach.
“Hey, Bird. Did you miss me?”
The cat didn’t move.
“You’re right. He’s pissed,” I said.
I threw my purse onto the couch and followed Pete to the kitchen. The chairs on each end of the table were filled with stacks of mail, most unopened. The same was true of the buggy seat beneath the window and the wooden shelf below the phone. I said nothing. It was no longer my problem.
We passed a pleasant hour eating spaghetti and discussing Katy and other family. I told him his mother had called complaining of neglect. He said he’d represent her and Birdie in a package deal. I told him to call her. He said he would.
At eight-thirty I carried Birdie to the car, Pete following with the paraphernalia. My cat travels with more baggage than I do.
As I opened the door Pete placed his hand over mine.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay?”
He tightened his fingers and, with the other hand, gently stroked my hair.
Did I? His touch felt so good, and dinner had seemed so normal, so comfortable. I felt something inside me start to melt.
Think, Brennan. You’re tired. You’re horny. Get your ass home.
“What about Judy?”
“A temporary disturbance in the cosmic order.”
“I don’t think so, Pete. We’ve been over this. I enjoyed the dinner.”
He shrugged and dropped his hands.
“You know where I live,” he said, and walked back to the house.
* * *
I’ve read that there are ten trillion cells in the human brain. All of mine were awake that night, engaged in frenzied communication on one topic: Pete.
Why
Boundaries, the cells agreed. Not the old “here’s a line in the dirt, don’t cross it” challenge, but the establishing of new territo-rial limits, both real and symbolic.
Why the breakup at all? There was a time I wanted nothing more than to marry Pete and live with him the rest of my life. What had changed between the me then and the me now? I was very young when I married, but was the me in the making so very different from the me today? Or had the two Petes diverged course? Had the Pete I married been so irresponsible? So unreliable? Had I once thought that was part of his charm?
You are starting to sound like a Sammy Cahn song, the cells piped up.
What along the way had led to our present separateness? What choices had we made? Would we make those choices now? Was it me? Pete? Fate? What had gone wrong? Or had it gone right? Was I now on a new but correct path, the road of my marriage having led as far as it was going to take me?
Tough ones, the brain cells said.
Did I still want to sleep with Pete?
A unanimous yes from the cells.
But it’s been a lean year for sex, I argued.
Interesting choice of words, the id guys pointed out. Lean. No meat. Implies hunger.
There was that lawyer in Montreal, I protested.
That’s not it, the higher centers said. That guy hardly jiggled the needle. The voltage is in the red zone with this one.
There’s no arguing with the brain when it’s in that mood.
14
WEDNESDAY MORNING I HAD JUST ARRIVED AT THE UNIVERSITY when my office phone rang. Ryan’s voice took me by surprise.
“I don’t want a weather report,” he said by way of greeting.
“Low sixties and I’m wearing sunblock.”
“You really do have a vicious streak, Brennan.”
I said nothing.
“Let’s talk about St-Jovite.”
“Go ahead.” I picked up a pen and began drawing triangles.
