A Summer in Sonoma. Робин Карр
while he helped little Jason develop some competence with the game. “You get the mail?”
“Joe, look at this kitchen! It’s a mess.”
“Yeah, I’ll get it later.”
No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t clean. At least, not inside the house. He didn’t even clean the inside of the RV. Now, the boat or yard or garage, he kept them perfect. This mess would be left for her.
“Joe, can I talk to you a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. Sit tight.” Then after a full minute passed, he shouted, “Whoa! You see that, buddy? You got me! Wanna go one more time?” And he started a new game.
“Joe!”
“What?”
“I want to talk to you!”
“Aw, Jesus,” he said, irritated. He put down his remote game stick and got to his feet. He looked like a monkey, all that black hair covering his legs, chest, belly, his shadowy face, his hair goofy from not being combed. He gave his gym shorts a tug but they slipped right back down, low on his hips. The elastic was giving out and half the time she could see his butt crack; she did not consider it a precious sight. Of course, she’d brought home new gym shorts to at least have decent clean ones on that naked body. They sat on his closet shelf, rejected. “What?” he said, hands on his hips.
“The house is a wreck.”
“Yeah, I’ve been busy outside and in the garage. Plus, it’s my day off. Me and the little guy have been hanging out. But I got the yard work caught up.”
“It wouldn’t take you ten minutes to clean up after yourself in here. With another ten minutes you could shower, shave and look decent.”
“It’s my day off! I just want to relax and be comfortable!”
“If I hung around a messy house looking like you look, you’d leave me in a second!”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, a slight sneer to his lips. “Maybe you’d be a little easier to get along with if you loosened up. Jesus, it’s just a couple of plates and glasses! How big a deal is that? Didn’t you just say it would take ten minutes…?”
“We both work,” she said. “I’m getting really tired of coming home to a mess all the time.”
“You work today, Marty?” he asked sarcastically.
“You know I didn’t work today, but I put in my forty hours every week, and I do everything around the house, too. And the only time I see you looking clean and decent is when we have company or you’re on your way to work!”
“Look, I didn’t get home till eight this morning and we had a busy night. I just want to be comfortable,” he said again. “Why don’t you lighten up a little bit, huh?”
“No,” she said, tears coming to her eyes as she shook her head. “No, I’m not lightening up. I’m sick of this. I don’t ask much of you—just pick up after yourself and shower.” She shook her head in total frustration. “I’m leaving for a little while. I’m going to get out of here and cool off. I’ll be back, I’ll bring dinner, and if you heard me at all, clean up this goddamn mess and shower and shave!” She grabbed her purse and headed back out the door.
Marty really wanted to have a good hard cry, but she didn’t want anyone to see her like that, so she sucked it back where it stuck in her throat like a rock. She drove around for about twenty minutes, seething, hurting. He wasn’t like this before she married him! They dated for a year, were engaged for a year, and during that time he always asked her what she wanted to do. Even then, she’d tried to give him balanced time by getting together with his friends for sports and boating things; she happened to like sports and outdoor activities when it didn’t take up a hundred percent of their recreational time. She didn’t even mind if he seemed a little bored at a nice dinner out or fell asleep during a chick flick. Back then, during the premarriage days, she spent as much time at his house as her apartment, and his relaxation mode might involve sweats or jeans, but he was never this smelly, naked monkey in falling-down shorts with his crack peeking out.
Of course, he hadn’t been tidy back then, either. His bathroom was usually carpeted in hair; he left things lying around and didn’t keep the kitchen spotless. But if she offered to help him clean up, he did his part. He’d let her tell him what to do—strip the bed and throw the sheets and towels in the washer, run the vacuum, take out trash, scrub out the shower. Well, he was all done participating now. And back then, if he wanted to make love, he went to a little trouble. He was squeaky clean, smelled nice, was shaved and sweet. He knew how to get her in the mood, worked up and excited. He didn’t bother with that anymore, either. And now he complained if it took her too long to climax. Come on, Marty, come on. What’s the matter? I can’t last all night!
She just couldn’t seem to find anyone to talk to about it. Julie had that kissy-face thing going on with Billy after so many years and, even when she was at her most discontented, it was apparent she still thought she had the best husband in the world. Which maybe she did. Cassie seemed to think if a woman had a warm body in her bed there was nothing to complain about. Beth had much more important things to concentrate on than Marty’s marital gripes; she hadn’t been involved with anyone for almost five years now and was more focused on her medical career than relationships.
Marty ended up at a small Italian restaurant not far from home. There was a quiet little bar and they weren’t too busy on late weekday afternoons. It was just after four o’clock. She decided to have a glass of wine, order some takeout while she sipped it and see if she could cool down.
She sat at the far side of the bar in a dark corner, sipping her wine, staring at a menu, though not reading it.
She’d been prepared for things to change after marriage; she knew he wasn’t the neat freak she was. She’d given the relationship two years before marrying him, just to be sure she knew him, knew his habits, his values. She hadn’t expected him to go into such a complete decline; she never thought he’d relax all his standards, dump all the household responsibility on her. In the past, he had occasional kick-back days of not shaving, but now it was whenever he wasn’t working. He let himself get so disgusting. What kind of a guy refuses to shower and shave when his woman asks him to?
And the thing she really never saw coming—that she’d stop loving him.
It was hard to love an insensitive slob. Of course, not many people saw him that way. He was a real man’s man—a scruffy, masculine Italian with some old-world views, like the woman is there to bear the children and take care of the house and kids while the man does the mechanical stuff, the physical stuff, the yard and all that. The men at F.D. thought he was a kick; in a way they sympathized with her, telling her she was a saint for putting up with him. They didn’t know the half—he wouldn’t dare go to work stinky, with his face unshaved and his thick, black hair greasy and sticking up in spikes everywhere—so all they were really aware of was his inability to pick up dishes, wash and dry. He was a hell of an Italian cook—his spaghetti and sausage and lasagna were legendary in the department—but they joked at F.D. that while they loved his food, he destroyed the kitchen. She would always say, Welcome to my world.
At work, he went the extra mile in other ways—ways the guys could appreciate. He kept the equipment spotless and organized; he was powerfully strong and the first one up the ladder, to the rescue.
The sexy man she’d fallen in love with was gone, replaced by this Neanderthal who couldn’t care less about her feelings. He’d been so great when he was trying to get her into bed, then trying to get her to stay in bed, then trying to get her to the altar—because he was an Italian Catholic and needed a wife to take care of his household, to have his kids. When they were engaged, they talked about having two or three kids, but she quit after Jason. She just didn’t have the energy to work, keep the house civilized and take care of a bunch of kids, Joe being one of them.
She didn’t think she loved him anymore…and