On a Tree-Lined Street - Page 2

Soon the rains of autumn began, and the streets were riverbeds of rotting garbage. Foul water dripped and pooled everywhere, a slick film made the sidewalks more treacherous than ever. One day, while Marianne was at work, I slipped in wet leaves and fell during one of my afternoon walks, spraining my wrist. Back at the apartment, I found I could no longer type, let alone maneuver a pen.

I spent five days in bed, claiming I was ill. Marianne came and went, but I knew she suspected something. When I at last confessed my injury, she sent me to the clinic.

I returned dejected later that evening, my hand sheathed in a ridiculous brace.

Marianne was waiting for me in the kitchen.

“I found a house for us. It’s perfect. Just an hour away,” she announced, beaming. She kissed me and put her arms around me.

“A house?” I was dumbfounded. I had expected a protracted search with unscrupulous real estate agents and cynical negotiations. Marianne had out flanked me with a new strategy, I was caught on my back foot.

“It’s a farmhouse, just like we talked about, in a small town. The neighborhood is nice and quiet with woods all around. I’m going to the lawyer tomorrow to close. We’ll move right away.”

I sat on the couch as the walls of the living room towered around me. I had been married for six years, what had I been doing all that time? Outwardly, it was impossible that Marianne could be responsible for my current predicament, in fact she had been nothing but supportive and encouraging. Yet I had the horrible suspicion that she contained a hidden, inner self that I was not privy to. It was possible, then, that she believed my failure was a foregone conclusion, and all her encouragement and positivity had been part of a strategy to steer our lives toward this ultimate goal. I had been blind.

To test her resolve, I blurted: “Owning a house is expensive, there are hidden costs, things break and need to be fixed. It won’t be a cakewalk. I don’t think we should rush into anything.”

But Marianne would not be deterred. “Come on, let’s celebrate,” she said, pulling a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. There were already two glasses on the table next to a carefully arranged cheese plate.

Things were happening too fast. Once again, I had lost control of the situation, and more importantly, rather than making my grand escape from the city, I was being forced to leave. Who would take my place here, closing off yet another avenue from me?

I looked at Marianne in this new light. My loss was her gain, but I didn’t dare let on. I would not be so naive in the future.