your favorite tennis shoes.” I say, “I didn’t know.” He suggests the wheel well of the car. I get off the phone and say, “Okay, honey. I want you to be happy. I’ll throw the shoes out.” Guess what? She catches me! The trunk lid was up and I didn’t see her coming. So now I’m dishonest in the relationship, which I was informed is worse than bad shoes. I say, “Time-out! I’m just trying to retreat here. Now I can see how marriage turns the most honest men into sneaks.” Whoops. That didn’t lead anywhere I want to visit again. Speaking of which, I was right about her period. We discussed it, and come to find out, she’s not responsible for anything she says or does three days a month. I ask if I can have three days, too, and she says, “No.” I suggest we at least put a calendar up on the refrigerator and mark the days so I have time to dig a foxhole. Holy shit! Can that woman throw! Didn’t even see her pick up the flowerpot. I call my friend again, and he says, “Are you nuts? You can’t ask her to post her period on the fridge!” I say, “Why not? I’ve never lived with a woman before. I’m going through my first one and, Jesus, can you believe those fucking things? How can husbands everywhere be going through this and there hasn’t been anything about it on the news?” He just said, “Welcome to family life.” I decide to drive to the supermarket and get a balloon to buy a fresh start. I come home and she’s got a wooden box in her hands. My matchbook collection! I say, “What are you doing?” She says I’m a pack rat! Ladies and gentlemen, this could be the deal-breaker. I grab the box out of her hands and call my friend again in West Palm. There’s screaming in the background on his end. He says I have to stop calling — his wife overheard our last conversation. I say it’s important. I’ve lost all domestic territory except a little corner in the closet, and now that’s under siege. If I give it up, I’ll have to start walking around the house with a backpack all the time. He says the last piece of turf is important, and he wishes he still had his. Do I have a garage to hide stuff? I say, “I don’t.” He says, “You’re screwed.” Then more screaming on his end and the line went dead.
The phone rang. Serge put down his journal.
“Hello?… Coleman did what? Of all the stupid — Yes, I’ll be right there.”
Serge ran out the door.
MOLLY LOOKED UP at the wall clock in the branch library on Big Pine. Quitting time. She stood and hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder.
Her colleagues at the front desk waved goodnight as Molly walked past the flowers under Brenda’s memorial plaque.
She drove to the apartment and opened the door. “Serge, I’m home!… Honey? Are you here?” Molly took the purse off her shoulder. Something on the coffee table caught her eye. “What’s this?”
She picked up the journal.
38
