Property under Contract

What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

Well, that’s obviously one commandment the Bible-thumping legislators of the State of North Carolina neglected to codify. In fact, they’ve gone out of their way to make my divorce quick and easy, an exercise in politeness and consideration, a mediation, nothing like the messy marital battles you read about in the tabloids. No angry accusations of adultery from the witness stand. No tearful recriminations. No hostile exchanges under oath. No blame. No fault.

No-fault divorce. The lawyers have handled it briskly and efficiently and are polite enough to conceal their disappointment at not being able to run up the bills because I insisted she get everything. Needless to say, the King of Unpainted Furniture made short work of Alice ’s refusal to take it all.

The separation agreement and the property settlement were signed months ago. There’s nothing left to do but wait. The divorce will be final one year and one day after the date we established separate residences; that is, one year and one day after Curtis kicked me out on my ass. The house went on the market the day the deed was transferred. Alice held out until she got her asking price, not because she needed the money, but, I suspect, out of a reluctance to let go. The message came through my lawyer. Everything had been packed and moved, everything but the clothes I’d left behind, a few boxes of books and records, my bicycle, and a set of weights. It was my responsibility to pick them up. The locks haven’t been changed. Settlement is Monday, twelve noon.

I was up before dawn this morning, dreading the long drive to High Point. Thirty miles out of Gastonia, I realized it had never occurred to me I might need something larger than a two-door compact to haul away my few remaining material assets. Ah well, too late now. Maybe the new owner is athletic or has a kid who might appreciate a customized racing bike worth a few thousand bucks. Might as well throw in the dumbbells too. And I’ve read all the books. They can keep the ones they want and throw away the rest. And who really needs all those clothes? Not me. Maybe the husband is my size. If he isn’t, they can call the Salvation Army and take the tax deduction. Come to think of it, there’s no reason not turn the car around and head back home.

Except that I can’t do that to Alice. She’s the one who will have to go to settlement and face the pissed-off buyers who’d just come from the walk-through and found the last vestiges of my former life cluttering the rooms of their dream house. Besides, the time has slipped by and I’m almost there anyway.

REST STOP

TWO MILES AHEAD

I press the accelerator to the floor and fly past the scene of the crime at ninety miles an hour.

I’d prayed for rain and was rewarded with a beautiful, sunny Sunday, an unseasonably warm spring day full of the promise of summer. The kind of day to inspire my former friends and neighbors to turn on the spigots and slip into their flip-flops and spend the morning waxing and polishing their BMWs and Range Rovers. I can see the double takes at the sight of the notorious criminal pulling into the driveway.

What is he, honey, a pederast? Or is it a pedophile? A child abuser? Sodomite? Yeah, that’s it, a sodomite. So how did he look, dear? Did he say anything to you? Did he look you in the eye? God, the nerve! If he had any decency, he’d never show his face around here again.

How could they forget my departure on that beautiful sunny day, much like this one except much hotter? The sirens and dome lights of the squad cars had alerted the entire neighborhood to the spectacle at 12 Virginia Dare Court. The whole cul-de-sac had a front-row seat and an unobstructed view of the King of Unpainted Furniture of late-night television fame ranting and raving in the flesh, threatening to break every bone in my body.

What the hell do I care what they think? Put it in perspective. It all happened months ago, almost forgotten now. If they think of it at all, it’s only as a salacious little tale to reinforce their self-righteousness, threatening their complacency, the perfect order in their perfect worlds disturbed, if only momentarily. I pull into the cul-de-sac and am surprised to see that nothing’s changed. I ask myself why I would have expected it to change since I’ve been gone. It must be because I’ve changed so drastically since then. How exactly, I’m not quite sure yet. I may never have been the man they thought I was, but I’m no longer the same man they didn’t know.

There’s not a soul in sight. No doubt the suspense on some putting green has them glued to their television sets. Thank you, God. Forgive me for doubting You exist. The lawyer was right. The keys still work. I put the car in the garage, not risking the unwanted attention a strange vehicle in the driveway would attract.

The boxes are stacked neatly in what used to be the dining room. The bicycle is in the garage. The free weights are nowhere to be found. I could just pack the car with as much as it can hold and take off, in and out in a few minutes. But something is slowing me down, nostalgia perhaps, or maybe a nagging regret that I’d never had the opportunity to bid the rooms of this house a formal farewell.

I’ll start on the top floor and work my way down. Climbing the stairs, I’m humming a tune I’d forgotten I remembered-a country and western weepy that’s as much a part of my heritage as MoonPies and RC Cola.

“Step right up,

Come on in.

If you’d like to take the grand tour

Of a lonely house that once was home sweet home.”

Life imitates art. Well, that might be stretching it. Life imitates the jukebox. The voice of Mr. George Jones follows me from room to room. I can’t believe I know all the words.

“Straight ahead

That’s the bed

Where we lay and love together

And Lord knows we had a good thing going here.”

Well, George, maybe not. I’ve got another song about lovemaking for you, a duet, something you and Tammy would have taken to the top of the Country Hot 100.

Him: Distant and analytical-touch here and make her sigh; touch there and drive her crazy.

Her: Wary; sensitive of crossing the fine line between passion and aggression.

Him: Rating his performance, keeping score, fretting over the gradual slide in technical points as repetition and familiarity and, worst, lack of interest took its toll.

Her: Wanting more, getting less.

Him: Frustrated, angry, finally weary of trying to draw from a well of desire that was shallow to begin with, gone bone dry all too soon.

Her: Finally surrendering, conceding that he will not, cannot, respond to her touch the way she responds to his.

The End.

Ah, George and Tammy would have turned our sad story into poetry.

Our old bedroom, stripped of its contents, seems enormous. Sunlight falls on the large rectangle of clean, plush carpet where the bed used to be. I’m exhausted and the shadow of the queen-sized mattress makes sleep irresistible. I kick off my shoes and curl up on the floor. The pile scratches my cheek and my nose detects traces of factory glue in this unblemished section of rug. I’m sound asleep within a minute.

I don’t know how long I’ve been dozing when I’m awakened by the sound of a car door. I jump up and look out the window. I panic, realizing I’m trapped in this room, unable to escape. It’s too late to race down the stairs and slip out the door. Alice ’s key is already in the lock.

I have two choices. I can walk downstairs, announce my presence, hope that I don’t startle her. But then I would have to look her in the eye. The alternative is to stay here and take a chance she won’t feel the need to visit the garage or climb the stairs. I consider hiding in the closet and reject that strategy as too cowardly. Instead, I sink quietly to the floor to avoid any footfalls on the creaking floorboards. I hear the front door close and the quiet shuffle of leather soles on the parquet floor. Alice goes directly to the dining room.