Something New (17 page)

I head for Jonah’s office just off the living room and glance at the mantel over the fireplace, which houses a panoply of family photographs. The images of my children in various stages of their young lives beckon me, as they so often do, but I resist the urge to go to them. I have another matter to address. My husband.

“Jonah,” I say, entering the twelve-by-ten-foot space that he has claimed as his own. The kids have nicknamed this room “Dad’s Domain” because every single one of his belongings, other than his wardrobe, is crammed into this office. A built-in shelving unit of blond faux wood makes up the far wall. One shelf holds trophies dating back to high school (apparently he kicked ass in shot put), another is filled with his business self-help books that have titles like
You DO Deserve to Be a Millionaire
and
Chitchat for Winners: Small Talk That Makes Friends and Customers out of Anyone!
A third has presents from the kids that Jonah won’t throw away because he fears karma (even though
fearing karma
sounds a tad un-Zen). He honestly believes that if he dared to throw away the papier-mâché goat Matthew made
when he was five, or Jessie’s clay ashtray, which resembles dog poop that was stepped in and then glazed and fired, or the Daddy Voodoo doll that Connor made before he dropped out of Scouts (which I consider one of the creepier projects they were assigned), some terrible tragedy will befall the bearer of the gift. This is a superstition akin to walking under ladders, which Jonah never does.

A few years ago, Matthew’s second-grade class made pumpkin turkeys. The kids glued feathers and eyes and a yarn waddle to these apple-sized mini pumpkins and called them decorative. Matthew proudly bestowed his to Jonah, who hemmed and hawed and pretended he didn’t notice that the eyes were two different sizes and not in line, that the feathers shot out the back of the pumpkin like projectile diarrhea, and that the wattle was on top of the turkey’s head instead of under it. He placed the turkey pumpkin in the prized real estate that was the center of the kids’ tchotchke shelf. It sat there for four and a half weeks before it started to rot. Jonah didn’t even notice the smell for another week, and even then he didn’t equate the stench with one of his children’s arts and crafts treasures.

I finally walked in one day to a putrid assault on my nostrils, and, after locating the offending item, which had begun to ooze, quickly and efficiently deposited it into the trash. Jonah was so overwrought that he slept by Matthew’s bed for a week and virtually shadowed my son for the whole winter break, convinced that Matthew was about to be impaled by a renegade patio chair or flattened by a meteor. And I won’t even mention the tirade he gave me about my lack of appreciation for our children’s artistic efforts (which was a load of hooey), and my lack of respect for his space, and my lack of sensitivity to his needs as a parent. In response, I told him he
was lacking a few things as well: a sense of smell and his marbles.

Jonah’s computer takes center stage on his desk, surrounded by stacks of office-supply catalogs, company brochures, business magazines, and invoices.

At this moment, he is searching through one of the stacks, his face a mask of consternation. He doesn’t find what he is looking for and sidesteps over to the rowing machine, where another pile of debris adorns the seat. The pile and a thick layer of dust belie the fact that Jonah has not exercised in a while.

“Jonah,” I say again, ignoring that fact that he is ignoring me. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His back is to me now as he crouches next to the machine and fingers through his magazines.

“I’m not upset,” he replies in a monotone.

“You’re right. It
is
Wednesday.
Hump
day.” I have reached a new low today, I realize. Do I honestly believe that regurgitating this stupid joke is going to turn things around with Jonah?

“It’s a stupid joke,” he says as if reading my mind. “But don’t worry. I got the hint.”

“Jonah, I love that joke,” I lie. Wow, two new lows in the space of thirteen seconds.

“Right,” he scoffs. “Just forget it, okay?”

“Look, why are you so upset? I’m sorry. I was trying to concentrate and you kind of interrupted my train of thought.”

He pulls a magazine from the bottom of the pile and stands, then turns and smacks it on the desk. “Well, excuse the hell out of me. I sure didn’t mean to
interrupt
your train of
thought
.” He spits out this last phrase as if it is unimaginable
that I actually
do
have a train of thought. “What are you doing on the computer anyway? You’re always in front of that damn thing lately, and I know for a fact you haven’t joined Facebook. I tried to friend you and it turned out the Ellen Ivers I requested is ninety-two and lives in a nursing home on Long Island.”

“I’m writing.”

“Writing?” Confusion overtakes his features. “Writing what?”

“Just writing, Jonah. You know, that thing I used to do before we got married and had kids?”

“Why?”

Why?
Why?
The problem with this question is that it brings back some ugly stuff for me, like my resentment toward Jonah for never having taken my writing career seriously. I earned a modest living as a writer, but because I was willing to give it up so readily when we started a family, he assumed either I wasn’t any good or I didn’t have the motivation to seriously pursue it. Frankly, Jonah wouldn’t know whether I was any good because not once has he ever read, nor shown any interest in reading, something I’ve written. For a long while it irked me, and I would bring it up when I wanted to take an argument to the next level of nasty. But as time went by, and life got crazy, and I saw how hard he was working to support his family, I let it go and gave him a pass on the issue. Until now.

“I’m a writer, that’s why.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. (Dr. Phil would be disappointed, but fuck him.)

“Writer? Ha! You haven’t written anything in fourteen years,” he retorts.

“Twelve,” I correct him, aware that my pulse is throbbing in my neck. This always happens when I get angry, and right
now I am so enraged I finally understand that TV show
Snapped!
In fact, I am contemplating a course of action that will definitely get me my own episode.

“So what is it?” he asks, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your memoirs? A self-help book? Another novel? Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

I feel my eyes practically bug out of my head. Jonah’s dismissing my writing as frivolous is normal, par for the course. He is not an artistic person. In fact, it is possible that he has no right brain inside his skull at all, though I have never forced an MRI on him to prove my suspicions. He just doesn’t understand the whole creative process. But he has never been so hostile about my creative pursuits, or about any other subject, for that matter. I wonder if perhaps I am witnessing a midlife crisis in the offing and he is choosing to explode all over me and my writing because I just happen to be here. Somehow, this possibility doesn’t make me feel better.

“Seven chapters, wasn’t it?” he continues, riding the wave of derision. “Seven chapters and then, poof! Stowed away in a filing cabinet, never to be worked on again.”

“You are being a complete asshole,” I seethe, but he isn’t even paying attention to me.

“I know, I know, honey, you gave it up for me. But you needed a lot more than seven chapters to be the next Janet Evankovich.”

“It’s
Evanovich!
And it was
eight
chapters, thank you very much, and if you remember, I stopped working on it because I had a fucking baby!” My voice rises in volume with each word until I am shouting at Jonah across the four feet of space that separate us. Those four feet might as well be a chasm. “And then another baby, and then, because you wouldn’t get a fucking vasectomy, another!” I hate myself for
throwing out this last bit of venom because I cannot imagine my life without Jessie in it. But after Matthew was born, I was so overwhelmed with the two boys that I was ready to hang up the
No Vacancy
sign and be done with procreating. I asked Jonah on numerous occasions to at least make a consultation with a doctor, but the idea of having a needle in the proximity of his ball sack caused him to practically weep with terror. (He wouldn’t last one minute on
Fear Factor
.) I had chosen not to go on the pill because I was still nursing and was afraid birth control hormones would affect my milk or pass through to the baby. I refused to get an IUD, as I had tried it right after we got married and bled like a spigot for six weeks straight until I had the damn thing removed. Jonah promised me that he would not get me pregnant, joked that he was probably out of sperm anyway and that condoms had never failed us before. Famous last freaking words.

“What are you saying? That you wish we didn’t have Jessie? You’re unbelievable!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Or that it’s
her
fault you never got back to your
illustrious
career?”

I start taking huge gulps of air to keep the top of my head from blowing apart. This man in front of me is someone I don’t recognize, a stranger. And the suddenness with which he has appeared is alarming. Jonah and I fight, like most married couples, but we usually manage to keep our arguments civil and the outright nastiness to a minimum. He is purposely attacking, belittling, and provoking me, and these are things he rarely does. This is a fight I was not planning on having and will not be able to win. He won’t win either, and I think this is just occurring to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “You’re right. I’m being a jerk.”

“I said
asshole
.” My voice is stony.

He nods. His mouth is still set in a grim line. “Okay. I’m being an asshole.”

“Okay.”

Now
this
is typical Jonah, calling a ceasefire before things can get irrevocably out of hand. I am relieved that my husband has returned to his body, but also annoyed that I didn’t get a few more zingers in. Plus, I am totally furious at him for the things he said.

“I’m just a little stressed out with work,” he tries to explain. “But I have no right to take it out on you. I’m glad you’re writing again, I think it’s good for you.”

I call bullshit.
“Mmm-hmm.”

He perches his butt on the front of the desk and sighs. “So. What
are
you writing?”

None of your goddamned business
, I think. “Nothing important,” I say. Then I turn and walk from the room.