Two by Two(47)

"Now everything is going to smell mildewed and some of the stains have probably set."

"I'm sorry!"

"What's going on?" I demanded.

Vivian turned toward me, her expression livid. "What's going on is that  your daughter's new dress is probably ruined. The one she wore on  Sunday."         

     



 

"I didn't do it on purpose!" London said, her face crumpling. Vivian held up her hand, her lips a grim line.

"I know you didn't. That's not the point. The point is, you put a dirty  dress into the hamper with your new dress, and then you put wet towels  on top of them. How many times have I told you to let the towels dry  over the side of the tub before you put them in the hamper?"

"I forgot!" London cried. "I'm sorry!"

"It was my fault," I interjected, the wet-towel rule clearly new to me.  I'd never seen Vivian and London yell at each other like this before.  The sight brought back memories of the night London and I had argued. "I  just tell her to put anything dirty in the hamper."

"The truth is that she knows what to do!" Vivian snapped before directing her attention to London. "Right?"

"I'm sorry, Mommy," she said.

"I'll bring them to the dry cleaner tomorrow," I volunteered. "I'm sure we'll be able to get the stains out."

"That's not the point, Russ! She doesn't have any respect for the things I've bought her, no matter how many times I tell her!"

"I said I'm SORRY!" London screamed.

One thing I knew for sure: Vivian was way too angry and London way too tired for something like this to continue.

"How about I finish up here?" I offered. "I can get her in bed."

"Why? So you can tell her that I'm overreacting?"

"No, of course not-"

"Oh, please. You've been undermining me ever since I went back to work,"  she said, "but okay, fine. I'll leave the two of you alone." She  started for our bedroom before facing London again. "I'm very  disappointed that you don't care enough about me to listen," she said.

I saw the angst on London's face as soon as Vivian left and my first  thought was to try to make sense of how cruel Vivian had sounded. I  should have responded but Vivian was already down the steps and London  was crying so I stepped farther into the room and took a seat on the  bed. I opened my arms. "Come here, baby girl," I whispered and London  came toward me. I put my arms around her and pulled her close, feeling  her body continue to shake.

"I didn't mean to ruin my dress," she whimpered.

"I know you didn't. Let's not worry about that right now."

"But Mommy's mad at me."

"She'll be okay in a little while. She had a rough day at work and I  know she's really proud that you did so well in school today."

Her cries gradually began to subside, diminishing to sniffles. I wiped her tears away with my finger.

"I'm proud of you, too, Pumpkin."

"Papa calls me that, not you."

"Maybe I can call you that, too."

"No," she said.

Despite her sadness, I smiled. "Okay. Maybe I'll call you …  Donkey."

"No."

"Butterbun?"

"No," she said. "Call me London."

"Not even baby girl? Or sweetie?"

"Okay," she nodded, her head shifting against my chest. "Mommy doesn't love me anymore."

"Of course she does. She'll always love you."

"Then why is she moving away?"

"She's not moving away," I said. "She just has to work in Atlanta  sometimes. I know you'll miss her." As I held my daughter, I ached for  the little girl who was no doubt as confused as I was by what was  happening to our family.





It took more than the usual number of stories before London was able to  finally settle down enough to go to sleep. After kissing her on the  cheek, I went downstairs and found Vivian pulling items from the closet.

"She's ready for a kiss if you want to head up."

Vivian grabbed her cell phone and walked past me, placing the clothes  she'd removed on the bed in the master bedroom. There were two open  suitcases, each of them already half packed and there were far more  outfits than necessary for a three-day trip. There were business suits  and workout clothes, casual wear and dresses more appropriate for dinner  dates. I wasn't sure why she was packing so much. Did she not intend to  come home this weekend? Surely she would have mentioned that already …   but then I realized that there was no reason to believe that. I would  learn what was up when she wanted me to know. As I stared at the  half-packed suitcases, the phrase corporate apartments leapt again to  mind. Though I'd felt hollowed out when I'd been with London only  moments ago, the emptiness had now been replaced with knots.         

     



 

I couldn't bear staring at the clothes any longer so I went to the  kitchen and debated whether or not to pour myself a drink before  deciding against it. Instead, I stood before the sink and absently  stared at the backyard. The sun had gone down not long before, the sky  still clinging to the last vestiges of daylight, and the moon had not  yet risen. The resulting sky-a fast-fading twilight-struck me as  strangely foreboding.

I felt a growing understanding emerging along with a creeping sense of  fear. The more I thought about my wife, the more I accepted the notion  that I no longer had any idea what she was thinking. About London, about  me. About us. Somehow, despite the years we'd been together, she'd  become a stranger to me. Though we'd made love only two nights earlier, I  wondered if was because she loved me or because it was a habit, a  lingering residue of the years we'd spent together, more physical than  emotional. But that option, as heartbreaking as it felt to me, was  better than the alternative-that she'd made love to me as a distraction,  because she was doing or planning something even worse, something I  didn't even want to imagine.

I told myself that it wasn't true and even if she was vacillating when  it came to her feelings toward me, she would always want what was best  for our family.

Wouldn't she?

I didn't know, but then I heard Vivian speaking in a low voice as she  descended the stairs. I heard her say the name Walter and she told him  to hold on; I knew that she didn't want me to know she was on the phone.  I heard the front door open and close. Though I shouldn't have, I crept  toward the living room. The drapes were closed, the living room already  dark, and I stood behind the curtains, gazing through the opening  between the fabric and the glass. I was spying on my wife, something I  had never imagined doing before, but the rising fright made it feel as  though my free will had vanished. I knew it was wrong, even as I was  craning my neck and shifting the curtain-and by then it was too late to  stop.

I could not hear much until Vivian laughed, a joyful sound, one that I  hadn't heard in what seemed like years. But it wasn't simply the laugh  that startled me; it was the way she smiled and the light in her eyes,  the giddiness she radiated. Gone was the Vivian who'd come home surly  from work or snarled at London; the irate Vivian who'd been in the  master bedroom was nowhere to be seen.

I had seen that expression on Vivian's face before in moments of  undiluted happiness, often having to do with London. But I'd also  glimpsed it when we were alone, back when I was younger and still single  and courting a woman I'd met at a cocktail party in New York.

Vivian looked like she was in love.





By the time Vivian reentered the house, I was in the den. Afraid of what  I might say, I avoided speaking with her. I didn't want to spend time  with her and I forced myself to review Taglieri's script, the words  meaning nothing at all, even as I read them.

I felt her move behind me, but only for an instant. I heard her  footsteps recede to the master bedroom, where I knew she planned to fill  both suitcases until they were nearly bulging.

I stayed in the den for an hour, then another, and finally a third hour.  Vivian finally came back to check on me. I think she was caught  off-guard by the fact that I hadn't sought her out. The last she knew,  I'd been comforting a crying London, and because she knew me, she  assumed I would try to discuss the incident.

Now, though, like she'd done so often to me, I'd left her wondering what was going on.

"Are you coming to bed?"

"In a little while," I answered without turning around. "I still have some work to do."

"It's getting late."

"I know," I said.

"I shouldn't have yelled at London the way I did. I apologized when I tucked her in."

"I'm glad," I said. "She was upset."

She waited. I still didn't turn. She continued to wait but I added nothing more.

"Okay, whatever," she finally said with a sigh. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I whispered, but even as I said it, I had begun to wonder whether that really meant goodbye.