With or Without You (2 page)

After the unceremonious ending to our lovemaking, I locked Byron out of the bathroom while I cleaned myself, refusing to talk to him, to listen to his explanations shouted through the bathroom door. I took the longest shower of my life, even standing under the spray when the water finally faded from scalding to lukewarm to chilly. Then, showered and dressed, I sat in the very centre of our sofa smelling of soap and talcum powder. But still, I felt dirty. It would take more than a Silkwood shower to make me feel clean.

Byron stood before me in his long navy-blue silk robe, a present I’d given him the previous Christmas. The robe boasted a Superman logo on the back, as if the wearer were some sort of comic book hero, rather than the bastard he’d just revealed himself to be. Byron was doing his best to explain that calling me by his boss’s name had simply been an innocent slip of the tongue.

Slip of the tongue.

As soon he said the words, he winced, understanding that his tongue had been slipping up and over my clit only an hour before. That perhaps this particular turn of phrase wasn’t the most thoughtful.

I felt my eyes glaze over as he continued with his monologue. Although he wasn’t cheating on me, it
was
true that he wanted to break up with me. Tonight’s after-work romp had been his way of saying goodbye. I stared at him, feeling something akin to revulsion. Unfortunately, he seemed to take my silence as an indication that he should continue to talk, when, in reality, all I wanted him to do was shut up.

Byron spoke broadly, motioning with outstretched arms to nothing in particular, as if inviting our sofa, or fireplace, or framed art prints to join in the conversation. A lawyer, Byron’s given to theatrical gestures, and I watched as he kept track of his movements in the gold-framed mirror above the mantle. Did he always need to look at himself in the mirror? His well-manicured hands reached beseechingly forwards, in a manner that he often employed when approaching a jury. Addressing me now, he used a voice vibrating with tender feeling. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you, Eleanor.’

I clenched my bottom lip between my teeth, sensing what was coming, but not being able to fully believe he would actually say the words. I found myself dreading the very sound of his modulated breathing as he prepared to speak.

‘It’s just that I’m not
in
love with you any more.’

I despise clichés. At any other moment, I would have wished for a red Sharpie pen to strike through that line. But as he spoke, this cliché took on a personal meaning, and words – which I have always trusted more than any human being – failed me.

Silent, I stared past Byron and out of the window to the ocean. I found it somehow easier if I didn’t have to look directly at him. From our eighteenth-floor apartment, the waves glittered in the moonlight, turning to silver as the foam broke over the sand. I wished desperately that I were down there on the beach, feeling the water on my bare feet, no matter how cold. Perhaps the cold would wake me up. This had to be a nightmare.

When Byron finally paused, I took a deep breath, let it out, and finally whispered, ‘But you
do
love Gwen?’ Even
as the question escaped my lips, a small voice in my head asked: Do you really want to know? He’s leaving you. Why he’s leaving doesn’t matter, does it?

‘You must have sensed the end was coming. You must have known that something was wrong between us.’

I tilted my head to the side, aware that I was mimicking the look our canary gives me at feeding time. Was he actually calling me a fool for missing the signs?
What
signs? This evening his mouth had been pressed between my spread thighs. His tongue had made those delicious circles up and around, leaving me shaking. How could he possibly have thought that one last time together would somehow soften the blow?

The buzzer sounded and Byron, who had now begun pacing nervously from the fireplace to the kidney-shaped glass coffee table, perked up visibly at the chance to leave the room. I remained seated, aware of the soft velvet sofa cushions beneath me, the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The sense of impending doom made me feel as if I were a part of a soap opera, one that I could not escape from by simply changing the channel.

Byron called out from the hallway, ‘For you, Eleanor. This guy needs your signature.’

I stood slowly and walked down the cream-coloured carpet to the front door. A man in an all-brown uniform stood outside, saying, ‘Package, lady, and boy is this bitch ever heavy.’ He had a gruff, not unkind face, and I wondered fleetingly if he could see the tears in the corners of my eyes. But no, the man handed over a clipboard and turned towards Byron to discuss the recent respite from La Niña. I felt suddenly exhausted as I printed my name neatly on one line and signed just as neatly below. Eleanor Jane Romano.
Romano.
It would never be Eleanor Jane Millman. I would never be Byron’s wife.

The deliveryman, expanding waist neatly encased in a thick leather support belt, grunted as he lifted the box.
Byron pointed to the small table in the front hallway, and the man lugged in the package and set it down heavily. He paused in front of me for a moment, looking down at the clipboard and reading my signature. ‘Have a good evening, Ms Ramiro.’ Then he slammed his way out of the door before I could correct him. Ramiro. Romano. What did it matter, anyway?

I waited in silence. The package held little appeal, but continuing the conversation with Byron held even less. I had to go to the kitchen for something with which to open the box. Tweety chirped happily as I rummaged through the junk drawer until I found the utility scissors. Back in the hall, I cut through the thick twine that wrapped the box and then through several layers of heavy butcher paper. Even when the cardboard itself was exposed, I had to jam the blade of the scissors through multiple layers of heavily veined packing tape. Byron stood to the side, watching me intently. Apparently, he had no fear of being near me and a sharp object at this point, although I seethed with a quiet rage.

I felt oddly ineffective as I dug through the packaging materials, letting the Styrofoam peanuts spill out of the box and onto the floor. Finally, with what seemed like Herculean effort, I had the box half-emptied. Inside was a pot. I could see it through the last thin layer of packing plastic. Once I cut through the final skin of bubble wrap, I exposed the large earthenware urn with painted designs around the rim, now faded with age. The top of the pot was covered and tightly sealed with some heavy-duty substance. I touched the surface to discover more clay, layers and layers of clay, followed by a thick coating of glaze. There were no cracks in the pot or in the covering. I let my fingers wander over the clay, feeling the smoothness of the glaze, broken by indents where designs had been inlaid.

With even more effort, I pulled the urn entirely out of the box and set it on the table, knocking the cardboard box to the floor. Then, momentarily forgetting Byron
even existed, I took a step back to look at it and realised where I’d seen pots like this before: at ARTSI, the Art, Research, Translation, Science Institute where I work. Although the museum portion of our institute is smaller than places like the Getty or the LA County Museum of Art, our private funding has provided us with several lovely pieces from antiquity.

Byron stood at my side, amidst the abundance of tiny white Styrofoam packing peanuts. ‘Who’s it from?’ he asked curiously.

I bent down and dug my hand inside the box, feeling around for a letter. Byron took a step forwards and flipped over the top of the box. There, imbedded beneath more layers of clear packing tape, was a packing slip. I picked up the stainless steel scissors again and cut through the surface, then pulled out a folded piece of paper.

While Byron watched, I stared at the letter through squinted eyes, not wanting to go in search of my reading glasses. ‘It’s from my great-aunt,’ I said, softly. ‘She willed it to me.’

‘But what
is
it?’ Byron insisted.

All the letter said was that the pot was mine, willed to me by my great-aunt Rose. The lawyer’s letter was carefully typed, and attached to it, with a paper clip, was a faded handwritten note. I brought the note closer and tried to decipher my aunt’s barely legible scrawl. Byron continued to investigate the pot, touching it, stroking it. I wanted to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I just didn’t have the energy. Not until he said, ‘Shit, Nellie, it looks like a port-a-potty. Something you’d bring with you when you go out camping.’

‘It’s an urn,’ I said, my voice hostile. ‘My aunt knows – I mean, knew – I studied things like this, that I would never be able to have something like this for myself.’

Actually, no one really has things like this for themselves. Not any more. All ancient artefacts of this quality are in museums. It’s always been a cause for some heated
arguments in my family. My great-aunt was an avid traveller and collector, an adventurous archaeologist who funded her own excavations and occasionally kept the best treasures for herself. When family members urged her to give up her prized loot that lay scattered around her cavernous mansion, she said, in a voice roughened by years of smoking, ‘Nonsense. Everything is stolen. The Elgin Marbles. The Rosetta Stone. Some of the most beautiful artwork in the world was taken by thieves in the night. Why should I give my art to museums? Should the museums give back all of their stolen art? And give it back to whom? The creators are long dead. Wouldn’t they want the person who would most appreciate their artwork to keep it safe?’

I was still reading the letter when Byron’s cellphone rang. He slid it out of his briefcase and checked the ID, then quickly tucked the phone away again, unable to hide the guilty look on his face as he did so. I knew without thinking that the call was from Gwen. I knew without understanding exactly how that the whole monologue he’d given me for the past half-hour had been a fantasy.

Without looking at Byron, I turned on my heel and headed down the hallway.

It was time to start packing.

Byron didn’t seem to expect that. I don’t know why – I don’t know what he thought I’d do after he told me we were through. He watched me the way people watch accidents here in LA. Not offering any help, simply gazing as I grabbed a few different belongings and shoved them into my suitcase.

I stalked to the dresser and filled my small embroidered jewellery box with the few scattered gold earrings, antique brooches and delicate golden bracelets that lay on the glass top. I left behind any gift he had ever given me, taking only those items that were of family value or
given to me by friends. Byron meant nothing. History meant everything.

‘Listen –’ he started.

I wheeled on him again, tossing the jewellery box into the bag and fastening the suitcase shut. ‘I don’t want to know what you did, or why you did it. I just want you to get out of my way.’

‘Look,’ Byron said next, and I had to physically push him away as I moved down the hall, glancing into our home office but deciding not to stop for the books. I could have them sent later, or have movers come and pack them for me. I paused only to pick up my laptop. I carefully zipped the machine into its sleek red case – a gift from my ultra-hip best friend Nora – then slipped the bag over my shoulder and hefted up my suitcase again. I took both bags to the front of the apartment. Byron continued to trail after me, sputtering gibberish.

‘You can’t just walk out of here. Talk to me. We need to make a plan. Who gets what. Who moves out. We need to discuss the situation, like adults.’

I whirled around on him. ‘Discuss it? Discuss what?
You
are breaking up with
me
.’

He hesitated, looking at me in alarm. But once I started, I found myself unable to stop.

‘Why are you freaking out now? Because
I’m
angry? Did you need to control the whole situation, Byron? Couldn’t you have at least let me experience it in my own fucking way?’

I’d never sworn at him before. After working for so many years in a museum – before college, during college and after – I have hardly ever raised my voice from that hushed tone reserved for keeping other people quiet. A library voice. It suits me. Now, I found great pleasure in raising the volume.

‘But where will you go?’ he asked as I pushed past him.

‘Don’t,’ I told him. ‘Just don’t. Don’t pretend you care.’

I still felt ill at the fact that he’d been on me hours before. Knowing the whole time that we were through, he’d still wanted one last fuck – I shook my head. I couldn’t even bear to think about it. I had my suitcase and my laptop, and now I needed to leave.

‘You tell Gwen when she calls again that you’re all hers.’

‘Gwen,’ he said, still trying to pretend that there was nothing there. ‘Come on, Eleanor –’

‘Stop,’ I said, a coldness building inside of me.

He did. That guilty look I’d seen before flickered across his face once more. In a flash, I remembered all the different times she’d called. Work, he’d always say. But hadn’t I wondered? Hadn’t I told myself not to go down that route, not to worry? Even when I’d heard gossip at his office, people talking when I walked past, hadn’t I pushed that out of my head, as well? Late nights at the office. Calls he’d go outside to take. It all made sense now.

I turned to leave, and then spun back around to face him, unable to keep myself from adding a parting shot, ‘And, let me tell you, Byron, from what I know about Gwen, this little fling you’re having will be over within the week.’

He didn’t deny it this time. He simply stared at me. For the first time, I looked into his grey eyes and saw nothing. Not storm clouds. Not silver skies. Not paintings by an abstract artist. Instead, I saw an empty hollow. A cement sidewalk. Then, I continued, my voice steady but loud. I could feel my back molars clenched together and I relished the thought of chewing up each word and spitting it out at him. Words can hurt. I’ve always known that. I’ve never doubted their power. ‘I’ve seen people like her in action, Byron. They like danger. They like creating chaos. Think about it. What did she talk about when she fucked you? Did she whisper about how dangerous your liaison was? About what might happen
if the two of you got caught? She’s a calculating, conniving cunt.’