He was a very calm person. But he struggled with his place. The way everyone does sometimes. Only for him, the struggle never ceased.
Mid-April saw a chill arrive from the north. The furnace roared to a start. They’d just opened the windows last weekend. They sat on the couch. She reading, he scrolling his phone. Only three feet apart, but it could have been miles. He regretted saying it. He knew he would. When he rehearsed it in his head, he knew it’d piss her off. They’d managed to get the kids to bed without screaming at each other. Evidence of a road well-traveled. The kids don’t seem to notice, he thought. Though the oldest may catch on. His son told him he loved him back. His glassy blue eyes reflected his own. In his mind, he was the victim. His assailant, everyone who took him for granted. He’d grown tired of working so hard.
Their silence suppressed a fury. When would it burst? he wondered. He wanted to turn the television on. Should he ask for her permission? If she wanted to watch something? He glanced sideways at her, still palming his phone. She’d wrapped her face up in a scowl. He charted every movement in his mind first. Did she do the same? He doubted it.
He’d kept those feelings to himself all day. All week. Only to share them in the worst way. He replayed the conversation, deciding now that he’d been cruel. That she deserved sympathy. He knew he’d regret it, but said it anyway. Like last time and the time before that. You can’t keep bottling this up, she said. Like last time and the time before that.
He took a deep breath, but did so slowly, almost silently, to steel his nerve. He picked up the remote from the coffee table and thumbed the power button. The television bloomed, casting out artificial light. He considered his next move. He reached his hand out for hers, laying his hand, palm up, next to her on the couch. She didn’t acknowledge it at first, then turned her body away from him. He took another silent breath. He stopped short of engaging her again, of asking her if she wanted to watch something. He knew better. He thought about brushing his teeth, going to bed, and tomorrow. What would happen tomorrow?
II.
He tiptoed in the kitchen, making coffee and gathering dishes for breakfast. He’d been up for hours, replaying yesterday. When she entered in her pajamas, he moved to embrace her. To apologize. She shrugged him off and went to the bathroom. It’d be like this all day, maybe into tomorrow, he thought. He tried to apologize when she re-entered the kitchen. She dismissed him. He pressed, but she rebuked him again. The floorboards creaked in the kids’ bedrooms. He’d have to wait.
They ate breakfast as they always did, goading the kids to finish their meals and get ready for school. He stood at the bus stop in his winter jacket, still in sweatpants and slippers. He spoke to his children about nothing in particular, their usual morning banter. He hugged them before they got on the bus and waved to them as it drove off. Walking back home, he steeled himself, though he knew they wouldn’t talk. Not yet.
She didn’t even look at him when he returned. News emanated from the radio at low volume, someone opining about the latest federal legislation. He asked if they could talk. She said no. He asked when. She said nothing. She read the newspaper. He had to get ready for work. In the shower, he tried reminding himself that he was a good father, a good husband. But rejected both upon examination. The water numbed his body, and he couldn’t decide if he was warm or cold. He stepped out, wiped the mirror free of condensation and took himself in. He should shave. He didn’t want to shave. He brushed his teeth and got dressed.
What time will you be home? That’s what she usually asked. Not today. Goodbye, he said, kissing her forehead. She didn’t look up.
III.
He left work late. An inky sky threw rain down in sheets. Not usually a bad drive, he considered pulling over when the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. At a stoplight, he stared at his phone. No texts. No calls. She usually texted when he ran late. Sometimes to check in. Sometimes asking him to pick something up at the store. Not tonight. He listened to the pre-game. The team had a chance this year. The guy they picked up from Cleveland was hitting almost 0.400 with runners in scoring position. The roof pulsed like a snare drum. He rubbed the spaces between his eyebrows and eyelids, dreading his return home. The kids would flock to him when walked in the door. But she’d ignore him. He’d spend the night overthinking every word, every movement, hoping not to upset her more. Hoping she’d be willing to talk. Not that he deserved it. He deserved this.
IV.
The fury came quietly. He lay on the couch, pretending to sleep under the ceiling lights’ mild hiss. She’d been after him to replace the dimmer switch or call an electrician for months. She liked to dim the lights, but too much and the buzz overwhelmed her. “I know you’re awake,” she said, breaking the silence. He waffled: whether to keep faking it or face her, either option unappealing and laden with difficulty. He felt her eyes on him, like a weighted blanket that’d become too heavy to ignore. He opened his eyes. He smiled.
“Got me,” he said.
“Right,” she sighed, her face more impartial than he expected.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“What do you mean, whatever?”
“Whatever. That’s what I mean.” She sat down on the couch, placing her book at her side. I’m sick of this.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry’s” not enough.
“No.” He paused; “You’re right. What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t get it.”
“I don’t. You’re right. Tell me.”
She shook her head, looked away and back at him. Into his eyes, “I want you not to say what you said. Ever. You understand?”
“I do.”
“No, I mean it. I mean it. Once more and I’m gone. Me and the kids. We’re gone.”
Suit yourself. That’s what he wanted to say. Like a cornered animal, inclined to fight. His nerves twitched, running a current through his spine. But he squelched it. He wanted this. All day, he wanted this. Now he had the chance, but felt irritated and put upon. He took a deep, silent breath. He noticed she noticed him composing himself. He knew he had to respond, but couldn’t find the words. “Okay,” he said; “Okay.” The only thought that registered. He offered a tacit apology and commitment to change. Not knowing if he’d succeed or not. Part of him knew he didn’t have it in him. But he could try. He reached out his hand, palm up on the couch. She set her hand in his.
Tom Dilworth studied Spanish at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and holds a PharmD from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He works as a pharmacist and writes short fiction in his spare time. His writing focuses on the challenges and triumphs of interpersonal relationships.
