The Winner's Game(32)

I’m just as confused as Cade and Bree by her behavior. “What’s going on, Ann? I thought you liked this game.”

“Yeah, when I was their age,” she replies, motioning to her brother and sister.

“What’s changed?”

“I have.” She appears to be on the verge of tears.

“I don’t get it.”

In a mad flash of emotions, Ann bends down and plucks her game piece off the board. “You see this, Dad? My little car has five people in it! I have a husband and three kids in this stupid game. On my very first turn I went to college, and on my next turn I got married. Now I’ve got a career and I’m worried about buying a bigger house.”

“Oh, I see,” I say gently. “I’m so sorry, Ann. I didn’t even think of that.”

“You know what this game needs? How about a card that destroys your dreams? Where is the cancer card or the miscarriage card or the divorce card? And where is an avert-disaster space? There should be a space that if you land on it, you’re suddenly free and clear of life’s most unfair circumstances. I don’t want the six-figure income or the mansion, I just want the get-out-of-death-free card!” She pauses, narrowing her focus on me. “I hate The Game of Life. I’m going to bed.”

“I understand,” I say softly as she walks off. “You’re right. It’s not fair.”

After that, the evening sort of fizzles. Bree eventually heads upstairs too, and the pair of them read books until they fall asleep. Cade and I stay up late watching television. It isn’t optimal, but when Cade stands next to the TV and holds the antenna just right, we’re able to follow along with Survivor.

At eleven o’clock, with Cade yawning every five seconds, I concede that I’ve been stalling.

Be a man, Dell. You can’t avoid her forever…

Cade makes his bed on the couch, and I finally make my way to the bedroom. “Good night,” I say, ruffling his hair. I wish talking to my wife was as easy as talking to my son.

I slip inside and close the door behind me. For a few minutes, the room is silent. She’s on the bed, reading. I know she knows I’m there, but she’s actively ignoring me. “So,” I venture, “are you going to tell me why you’re mad? What’d I do this time?”

She pretends to still be interested in her book. Doesn’t even bother looking up. “I’m not mad.”

“Of course you are. You’re sulking. This is how you act when I’ve done something wrong.”

“Well, you should know what you did. Why don’t you think about it…”

I let a little time pass to see if she’s going to give me any clue. She doesn’t. “So you’re not going to tell me?”

Another silence. Then she finally looks up from her book and stares me down. “Do you know how long it took me to make dinner? Three hours! I spent all afternoon working on it, so it would be just right. I wanted to start cleaning up Grandma’s room today, but I didn’t have time because I wanted to have a nice meal for you when you arrived.”

“And I appreciated it.”

“No you didn’t! That’s the thing, you didn’t even say thank you! If you’d had your way, we would have wasted our money on some pizza joint. I made Chicken Divan, Dell—your favorite dish—and not only did you not bother to thank me, but you didn’t even comment on how it tasted. Then afterward you go off with the kids to play the game, and nobody even bothers to help clean up the kitchen. You all sat in there on your rears waiting for me to come, when we could have started the game much sooner if you’d just thought to help me out a little.”

“You should’ve said you wanted help.”

“I shouldn’t have to! I always want help. We’re supposed to be a team, remember?”

“Fine. I’m sorry. I should have thanked you. And helped you. And whatever else it is that you think I should have done.”

“Don’t get smart with me. It’s very unattractive.”

“Don’t worry, right now I’m not trying to attract anything.”

I know that last comment was hurtful…but it was meant to hurt.

It doesn’t surprise me at all when she starts to cry. I let her cry it out for several minutes without saying anything. Finally she wipes her eyes and says, “The night you left, Bree was so worried about us that she came down in the middle of the night to ask if I still loved you.”

“And? What did you tell her?”

“What do you think?”

I know that’s a loaded question, so I don’t respond.

“What about you, Dell? What if she’d asked you if you still loved me?”