The War of the Roses

27

Barbara had filled all ten sockets of the silver rococo candelabrum with candles. She had never done that before and the glow cast on the dining-room table was beautiful. Flames danced and flickered like fireflies over the polished mahogany surface of the table. She had also put out her silver goblets and plates at either end of the table. On his silver plate she put a large slice of her freshly made pate and a little pile of melba toast.

It was, she had decided, poetically just for her to arrange this meeting in the dining room, her domain. She had cleaned herself up as best she could, and now waited for him, seated at the head of the table. She reached out to the shopping bag beside her right foot, feeling the cool blade of the cleaver. It reassured her about her resolve, her bravery. We are down to basics, she told herself.

At first she had been concerned that he would not come. Perhaps her invitation had sounded too much like a summons. But she had prepared just the same, listening for signs of movement now that the big clock had chimed nine.

She heard him almost at the same moment that she saw him. He was wearing the print robe she had bought him for their fifteenth anniversary. Or was it their sixteenth? It pleased her that she was unsure. Her history with him was becoming vague. The past was disappearing. He was carrying an armful of wine bottles, as well as a crowbar. Lining the bottles up in front of him, he opened two and slid one of the opened bottles in her

direction. They poured each bottle simultaneously, filling the silver goblets. He lifted his.

^cTo your health, my darling,’ he said with a Noel Coward-like inflection. She obliged by sipping cautiously while he emptied his goblet and refilled it quickly. She did not take her hand off the handle of the cleaver.

‘The last of the ’59’s,’ he said. ‘Quickly approaching imperfection.’

‘Still very good, Oliver. Good body, neither sweet nor dry.’

Putting down his goblet, he bent over and smelled the pate. Daintily, he spread some on a cracker and ate it slowly.

‘Marvelous, Barbara. Nobody can make a pate quite like yours.’

‘You’ve always had an appreciative palate.’ She smiled, pleased that he liked the dish.

He lifted his goblet again, drank, and ate more of the pate’. She watched his bearded face in the flickering light. It had an eerie cast, waxy, like the candles. The shadows stripped him of his age and she saw him as he had looked in his younger days, an image she detested, especially now.

‘I hope you’re now convinced, Oliver, that I do not intend to retreat. Not one inch.’

As he lifted the goblet again his hand shook.

‘You invited me here to tell me that?’ he said, frowning. This was not what he had expected.

‘I can take anything you can dish out. All your creative punishments.’

‘Is that why we’re having this little tete-a-tete?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘I have a proposition.’

‘I’m listening.’ He poured another gobletful and drank.

‘I’ll let you have your pick of half the things in the house. Except in this room. Or the kitchen. And the furniture in the kids’ rooms. Take the books, the paintings, the Staffordshires.’

‘You’re very generous,’ he said sarcastically.

‘You can take it now. Only get out with it.’ She had thought about her offer long and hard. ‘It’s a damned good deal.’

He seemed to ponder the idea, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

‘It’s as far as I go,’ she said. ‘I keep the house.’

He looked around the room, waving his hand. ‘And this as well.’

‘And this as well,’ she repeated. ‘I think I’m being exceptionally reasonable. No lawyers needed. Just you and me, kid.’

‘Yeah, just you and me,’ he said bitterly. She watched him coolly. She was pleased that her words were crisp and forceful, her courage unfaltering.

‘I am not afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m capable of resisting forever if necessary.’

She watched him wash down the pate with more wine and then looked at the ceiling. Perspiration shone on his cheeks. The candles had raised the temperature unbearably. He stood up, took off his robe, and, bare-chested, sat down again.

‘And I’m capable of resisting your resistance,’ he said. ‘Forever if necessary. This is my house. I paid for it. No matter what. Even if the courts decide otherwise. I’ll find a way to get it.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Hopefully. If I can get away with that.’

She reached down and touched the cool blade of her cleaver.

‘You’re not going to intimidate me,’ she said calmly. She finished her goblet of wine and poured herself another.

‘We’ve passed that stage a long time ago, Barbara.’

‘What I can’t understand…’ She hesitated, sipping her wine. ‘What I can’t understand is why you are having so much difficulty understanding my position. Other people get divorced. You didn’t have to stay here. You could have avoided all this… this unpleasantness.’

‘It’s not unpleasant.’ He giggled. ‘Rather interesting, I’d say.’

She looked at him and shook her head. ‘You are a bastard.’

‘I’m just not going to reward you for being a bitch, for destroying our family. People shouldn’t be rewarded for destruction.’

‘Always the family. The family. Why should I have to live in an institution I hate, that has tried to do me in?’ She banged the table with the flat of her hand. The plates jumped and the candelabrum bounced. ‘I want out and I want to be compensated for my sacrifices.’

His face glistened with sweat. He smiled but transmitted no warmth.

‘You were a dumb little shit when I married you. My brains put you in this house. My money bought all these things. My support and indulgence pushed you to become a gourmet cook. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be living in some clapboard house in New England, boiling potatoes for some half-assed clerk.’

‘My undying gratitude.’ She had spat out the words.

‘I’m not getting out,’ he cried, his speech thickening. She tightened her grip on the handle of the cleaver. ‘Nothing gets split up. Only us.’

‘Well, then, my conscience is clear.’

‘You haven’t got a conscience.’

She watched him, suddenly feeling a great well of pity bubble up inside her. He was as much a victim as she. Some vague, unexplainable concept that the world called love- had cheated them both.

‘You don’t matter to me anymore, Oliver,’ she said sadly. ‘You just don’t matter. I loathe you.’

‘A good loathe is hard to find. I’m still working on hate.’

‘I’m beyond hate, Oliver. Far beyond it. I’ve lived with it for too long. It’s not really your fault, either. You were just there at the wrong time and the wrong place.’

‘Please, Barbara. Don’t declare me innocent. I need my hatred just as much as you do. How else can I sustain the battle?’ She caught the sarcasm but couldn’t find the humor.

‘Well, look at it this way,’ she said. ‘At least we got the kids out of it.’

‘The kids? I hadn’t thought of them for a while.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘They’re fine, I suppose.’

‘No news is good news. I’m glad they’re out of the line of fire.’

‘See how civilized we can be, Barbara.’ Silendy he raised his goblet, then she did.

‘People don’t matter,’ he said gloomily. ‘Only things. Things are loyal. Always there. Always true. Some things increase in value. Never people. People diminish.’ He looked at her and smiled drunkenly.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll just take back my offer.’

‘And all you have to do is take half the value. Cold cash. Lots of it. Then get out. Fini.’

‘Not till hell freezes over,’ she said. ‘It won’t in this heat.’

‘Then we’ll just have to tough it out, won’t we?’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ He upended his goblet, then opened another bottle. He held it up and looked at her. ‘Chateau Beycheville.’ He squinted at the label. ‘A ’64. I think we had a good year in ’64.’

‘Only in your mind, Oliver. Never in mine.’

Upending the bottle, he drank from it. Then he held it up again, pointing it for emphasis.

‘I want you out of my house,’ he said. ‘This is my place.’

‘Exactly my sentiments, Oliver,’ she said coolly. He raised his voice. ‘I have more right to it than you.’

‘Don’t talk to me about rights.’

‘I love it more than you do. I deserve it. You don’t love it.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this crap.’

‘You can’t take everything away. You’ve got to leave me something.’

‘Don’t get maudlin.’

She felt the tension building in him.

‘You’re selfish and grasping, Barbara. Loathsome. A loathsome bitch.’

‘I worked for it. I’m going to fight for it.’

He drained the botde and let it fall to the floor. It rolled, unbroken, under the table. He staggered toward the door.

‘Thanks for the pate,’ he croaked.

‘Don’t thank me.’ She paused until she was sure she had his attention. ‘Thank Benny.’

’Benny.’

He staggered against the wall, putting out an arm for support. He sagged but with effort straightened up and looked toward her, his eyes spitting rage. She sensed the reflex even before he moved, his raised hand suddenly materializing, holding the crowbar. Reaching for her shopping bag, she lifted it, clutched it to her chest, and got up, overturning her chair.

She saw the crowbar fall in a long, sweeping motion that pushed the candelabrum from the table. Methodically, he stepped on each candle, putting out the flames.

The darkness was total. She reached for the cleaver handle, then held it above her head, fully prepared to use it in self-defense. She was determined to show him the full extent of her stubbornness and her courage.

She had expected him to come at her and was surprised when he didn’t. He is afraid, she thought.

A deafening sound roared through the room. She heard the nerve-tingling scrape of metal on wood and the sound of his crowbar biting into the Duncan Phyfe table. The pain of the injured wood seemed to transfer itself to her own flesh. Under cover of the darkness, she backed out of the room and moved silently through the hall corridor, up the stairs, and into Josh’s room.

She curled up in Josh’s closet, her shopping bag in her lap, her fist clenching the handle of the cleaver. The beating of her heart partially obscured the sounds of his destructive tantrum.