List: A Novel

Shrink

SHRINK 135 Fine, I said. I meant it. We were ready to try something else. So, here we are. I mean, I’m here, and she’s there.² I said some unkind things. I’m too embarrassed to repeat them. She declared our discussion at an end. Fuck you, she said. . 136 Well, then. Fuck you, too.² She pointed at the door. I waited till I found a house to rent. I slept in our bed, and used our bathroom, and cooked dinner, like always. I told the kids at the end of the month. They knew, already, and they understood. That’s what they said. Only no one told them I was taking the old dog, because three was too many for their mom. That caused a fuss.² He was their dog, they said. They picked him out. Raised him. They couldn’t remember not having him. Their entire lives. And we’re not talking about little kids here. My girl is so tall. My boy almost old enough to drive. 137 That’s a long time to have a dog. Such a good boy. And he’s coming with me, their father. I’ve known them even longer.² Of course I get it. The dog never argued with their mother. He didn’t make anyone do chores or go to their rooms. He never punched a wall. He’s a gentle beast. I like him better than me. By a lot.² Anyway, it’s apples and oranges. They’ll miss me, too. It’s what they said.² What happened between my wife and me? That’s a tough question. Here’s an answer: We never went out, even when we could. 138 At home, she took her friends’ phone calls, while I went upstairs to watch TV. Does that explain it?² The kids helped me move. We packed boxes, and I rented a van for the weekend. We hauled stuff down the front steps of the house and back up new ones at my place. Their mother didn’t like it, but I wanted them involved. I wanted them to know it was just a few miles over. I let them pick bedrooms. I put myself in the one left over. We ate pizza on the floor. We settled on one of the Rocky films, or part of it. The kids wanted to head home halfway through. They said they’d be able to sleep without seeing Sly win the final fight. I was glad they could sleep.² Me, I was back to the futon and frame. A kitchen with bubbled linoleum. 139 A yellow stove. Empty walls with nail holes. Dust. Whatever that smell is. Pizza. Chinese food. Unfolded clothes. Beer every night. Being alone. Feeling very bad.² To be honest, I already drank beer every night.² Now I wake and walk the dog. I make coffee. Eat toast. Listen to the radio. Drive to work, like always. Exchange a few words with my colleagues. They all know. They look at me these days. 140 They don’t say a thing. I work. Grab takeout on the way home. Walk the dog. Turn on the TV for the noise. Go on the Internet. Maybe read. Hit the hay. Think about the new noises here. The asthmatic furnace. Creaking ceilings. Chimes on the neighbor’s porch. Eventually, sleep. Repeat.² Then there’s everything else. My boy phoned because his sister called him a turd, and his mother didn’t want to hear it. And their mother wanted to talk to me, because the kids couldn’t drive themselves to practice, and she couldn’t be two places at once. No plans had been made. 141 Be prepared for my calls, she said. I said I didn’t know what I’d do without them. . She passed the phone to my boy, who asked, again, why he couldn’t move with me, and the dog. I said he knew why. Though he and his sister were always welcome, anytime. But he should stop asking to move. He would hurt his mother’s feelings. I figured that was the point.² Add to my days: Driving the boy to hockey. And swimming for my girl. Piano lessons. Choir. Rides after yearbook. After school newspaper meetings. From the library. To movies with their friends. Parties. Weeknight games. 142 Games on weekends. Fundraising events. It seems like a lot. It is...