My husband, Gabe, said he wanted to meet me for drinks to discuss the “issues.” Why would I have to arrange to meet my own husband for drinks? Because he walked out on me last month and we haven’t spoken since. I would have liked to get in a few words but he miraculously disappeared from the planet, or so it seemed.
His best friend had “no idea where he went.” His secretary thought “he might be at his mother’s in Westchester.” His mother said, “he must be with his father fishing in Nantucket.” His father said, “he’s hiding out with his old school chum from Indiana; those two are always up to something of which no good could come.” His old school chum thought “he was taking some time alone” but secretly suspected he was with a woman in Barbados. His therapist said, “he canceled his appointments for the next three weeks; not good. Tell him to call me.” His racquetball partner said, “he’s probably holed up in a hotel getting stinking drunk.” His employer said, “he’d better get his ass in here by Monday or he’ll be written up again.”
Back to his best friend who said, “I saw him on the west side hailing a taxi last week but he didn’t see me.” His lawyer said, “he missed an appointment and I’m charging him for it. No one wastes my time including your dip-shit husband who still owes me from the last jerk he tried to sue.” Back to his mother who said, “I hope he’s okay, poor thing.” Back to his father who said, “he’s in some kind of trouble, mark my goddamn words.”
Naturally I was curious as to where he actually had been although I’d given up speculating after ten days. It was almost a month and now I get this call requesting a meeting. He probably wants to talk about the breakdown of our marriage and how it was all my fault. I’ll get weepy and sentimental. Then he’ll use that for more leverage and tell me he’s taking the house from me. I suspect he’s already unloaded our joint account and the special account in his name only that he thinks I don’t know about. After that he’ll accuse me of turning everyone against him and then ask me if I’m all right, I look sickly. Next he’ll bluff his way back into the house to try to steal as many of our worldly possessions as he can pilfer in one go. He’ll insist our dog, George, only loves him, will only go to him even though George hardly knows him at all because he is so often somewhere other than our home and never available for walking a dog, much less taking care of him on a daily basis. He’ll say I never wanted children and deprived him of his god-given right to fatherhood. He’ll say I’m probably barren anyway but it’s not too late for him to plant the seed elsewhere. He’ll remind me he’s a MAN and...then he'll forget his point and complain about my lousy housekeeping.
All this will take place tonight and I have to be prepared. I plan on wearing my low-cut black sheath. Red heels. I’ll be immersed in the enticing perfume he gave me last Valentine’s Day. He’ll be distracted by these machinations for awhile and try to work his rusty charm but will then forget himself and call me by his girlfriend's name and ruin things. He’ll order another drink, so will I. We’ll both get drunk and go back to the house. He’ll be unable to perform again and rail on me for my coldness, my lack of sex appeal. He’ll remind me I’m getting fat. He may accuse me of having someone else. He’ll demand to know his name. I’ll laugh and make up something. Then he’ll tell me I’m lying, no one would go for me with my sagging jowls. He'll say, “You’ve aged badly, T. Sorry, it’s the truth. And you’re not very nice. You used to be, a long time ago but you’re bitter. An old bitter woman with only a dumb dog for comfort.” Then he’ll snort and call me a lesbian.
Eventually he’ll shut up or pass out and I’ll not have learned where he actually was for the past month; I’ll have to get it out of his mother, his father, his best friend, his secretary, his old school chum or his racquetball partner. It’s always something with him and his father is right: no good can come of any of it. Meanwhile, I’ll walk George the dog and hope Gabe finds himself wherever he is holed up. All this is beginning to exhaust me but I’m sure it’s just a phase. My husband cannot be such an asshole, can he? I have such good taste in everything else.
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