To My Ex-Husband by Susan Dundon Read Free Book Online

it that hard?”
    Their grown-up behavior made me feel childish and petty. What possible grievance could we have that compared with the family, with the well-being of our “team”? The day worked because of them—and the incomparable Nina. It was a risk. I doubt she even thought about it; she just has that go-ahead impulse. I can just see her riding down the escalator in Bloomingdale’s and, suddenly, her eyes are like pinwheels. There they are, carrot slippers —perfect!
    I had my problems preparing dinner while shuffling about in a pair of twenty-four-inch vegetables in brilliant orange, but I think we’d agree that the atmosphere they created was worth the extra effort it took to get within arm’s reach of the stove. What was great was that the kids got as much of a kick out of them as we did. Our job has always been to make Christmas a happy time for them; this year, they did it for us.
    Is that all we were doing, though? Rising to an occasion? I’m not so sure. It isn’t that we don’t love each other, it’s that we ceased to make the effort. I keep having this feeling that we’re sliding toward a divorce neither of us really wants. And I have to ask, are we letting this happen, or are we making it happen? The answer is, we are not making it not happen. When it’s all over—is it only then that we’ll ask, Why? Why in God’s name didn’t we make the effort?

1985

JANUARY 5
    I shouldn’t complain to you about my lack of privacy, but it occurs to me that scheduling a good, productive cry has its inherent difficulties, like having an affair. By the time you’ve seen your child off to the movies, put a spare key under the plant in case she comes back for something, left notes for all of her friends who might conceivably stop by, unplugged the telephone, and flung yourself dramatically across your bed, holding a box of tissues, you’re not in the mood anymore.
    I do know, of course, that this is the up side. I’ve lost my privacy, but I’m not lifted out of context. My life has changed, but I have all the familiar trappings: the furniture, the paintings on the walls, the water spots on the ceilings, Annie and Dickens to wonder where I am when I’m late. All this inextricably associated with who I am. Everything, if not normal, has the appearance of being normal. It’s just that you’re not here right now.
    But you . You come home from work and walk into a dark, one-room apartment. No one says, “Hi, Dad,” or jumps up to lick your face. No welcoming aromas to whet your appetite. What you see are the harsh reminders of transition: an unmade futon; a door that doubles as a dining table and a desk; your half of the double boiler; a spotless oven mitt in a kitchen so small that it necessitates deciding, before entering, which direction you want to face once inside. This, the black hole of the separated man. The bachelor pad, the room at the bottom.

JANUARY 15
    I’ve been out getting a preview of Life From Now On from one of the women in my exercise class. She’s been seeing this doctor, a resident. He’s about twelve years younger than she is, a fact that bothers her not at all, which is something of a mystery since he says he’d like to have children someday. You’d think that would pretty much rule him out as a serious candidate. They’ve had at the most four dates, and already she’s offended if he shows up without his overnight bag. Sex so far hasn’t been good for her. “I just don’t know where I stand with this guy,” she tells me.
    If not, why not? I don’t get it. Women are beginning to annoy me. Yes, a lot of men are noncommittal, and behave badly, but aren’t they getting the permission to do it—from women? Why should men treat them with any more respect than they treat themselves? In a rare gesture of intimacy, my editor, whom I met with recently,