The Great Divide

The thin red line of duct tape, strewn across the length of my new home, mocks me. Its crimson forbiddance toys with my emotions and I grimace. It stands steadfast like a barrier, keeping me at bay and away from the west side of the house. The west side has been claimed in the name of my husband, Jeremy, which inevitably entitles him to the dining room, family room, guest bed and bath, and our office. The bastard has all of my craft supplies too. I narrow my eyes as I pace the length of our kitchen, frustration and pent up energy are getting the best of me. As commander in chief of the east wing, I have domain over our kitchen, master bedroom, bathroom and sunroom. The Great Divide is what we’ve started referring to this childish upset as, and both of us being as pigheaded as we are, refuse to surrender and admit defeat.

This house, our one-story bungalow on Hunter Hill, may be perfect in my husband’s eyes, but I have never tasted distain in the way that I have for this shoddy, rundown shack. My husband bought this house, and moved me from my beloved Charlotte, so the only way that this tape is coming up is if we leave this hell-hole once and for all. He may love the forest, but this life is not for me. I crave saltwater like my husband craves the sex he hasn’t gotten since this battle between the Johnsons began. So, ‘til death do us part may come quicker than he’d ever fathom, depending on how this war between the wedded plays out. But for now, the red tape mocks me, spewing its battle cry, a testament to my husband’s idiocy. It mocks me. And I hate it.

“Caroline?” I hear my husband’s voice beckon from the hallway. The hallway has been perfectly cut into two halves – his and hers. It’s the place where negotiations take place. It’s the common ground, where compromises are shut down, stakes are raised and threats are waged against the enemy. It’s where I’ve begged Jeremy for my glue guns, and he’s lusted for what’s underneath my pajamas. “Caroline!”

“What do you want?” I round the corner from the kitchen sipping nonchalantly on a bottle of beer. It’s a Guinness, my husband’s favorite. I immediately feel a sense of victory when I see his expression darken.

“Really? You’re drinking my beer now?” He narrows his eyes on me as he watches the ember bottle caress my red lips. The beer is warm as it finds my belly and I smile, knowing good and well that he wants, so desperately, to be my lips against the bottle and the bottle against my lips.

“It’s so good.” I bite my bottom lip. “Did you call me in here for something, dear husband? I have a pot roast in the oven that I can’t wait to devour.”

“Pot roast…” His voice sounds like a child. He’s hungry. I’ve been rationing his food allotment since this whole ordeal began. As commander of the kitchen, I have the final say over what my hubby gets to eat, and I’ve been diligently permitting him the finest oatmeal and corned beef our cupboards have to offer.

“Mhmm, so if there’s something you need, please get to it.” I giggle.

“I was wondering if you’d changed your mind about this foolishness. This is getting silly, Caroline.” His steal-blue eyes go dark, as though there’s a storm cloud passing over them.  

“Well, I’m not the one who bought a house without consulting my wife, Jeremy.” I sigh, dramatically. “This house is horrendous, and I want to go home. So, unless you’ve changed your mind about returning to Charlotte, then no… I see no end to this madness in sight.”

“This house is exactly what we need, Caroline.” He starts to cross the tape but stops, knowing his passage onto my side of the divide would mean the admission of his defeat, and more so would mean us returning to Charlotte, pronto. “It’s perfect. I wish you’d give it a chance.”

“What’s perfect about it, Jeremy? The rickety old shutters? The seventies style tiling? The unfinished carport that doesn’t even hold both of our cars?” I pace back and forth as I list off a few of the many things I loathe about this house.

“You’re always focused on the negatives.” Jeremy rolls his eyes. “This house is charming. How can you not love the spacious backyard and the wood burning fireplace?”

“I just don’t.” I frown. “I miss the ocean, Jer.”

“You and the ocean.” He scoffs. “Sometimes I think I married a mermaid.”

“Oh honey, you couldn’t handle me if I was a mermaid. You can barely handle my sass as a human.” I flash him a wink and I can see the affect it has on him. Men are so easy.

“Well, I’m hungry.” He huffs as he walks up to the edge of the tape. He runs a hand through his shaggy, dusty red hair. His biceps flex with his movements, and it tugs at a deep part of me that, regardless of our bickering, longs for my husband.

“I’ll bring you some dinner when I’m finished with my pot roast.” I blow him a kiss and wander back to the kitchen, sashaying my hips a little more deliberately than normal, accentuating my assets just to drive him extra mad.  

As I sit down at the kitchen table with my plate filled with roasted beef, soft potatoes and rich, earthy vegetables, I frown. I should be having dinner with my husband. We should be devouring this meal together, and then devouring each other for dessert. But we’re not. We haven’t in over two weeks. That’s how long this “Great Divide” has withstood our attempts to get our way. It’s growing more and more infuriating with each passing day too. If I have to stare at that red tape much longer, the tape that makes a mockery of both my marriage and my pride, I might blow a fuse. I shovel a forkful of food into my mouth, savoring the velvety gravy and tender meat. I know Jeremey would do just about anything for a plate of this food right now, but tonight he’ll feast on oatmeal, as he has for sixteen days, and as he will until his stubbornness falters.

 I look around the kitchen of this place that I begrudgingly call home. The window that looks out into the backyard is small. I barely consider it a window. The tile in our kitchen is a burnt orange, with an intricate copper floral detail etched into every square. God-awful. I shudder as I picture the rest of the house. Nothing about this shit show entices me to stay. I want to be by the ocean, in my two-story townhouse that overlooked the coastline. There was always a salty, summer breeze and the flora there was spectacular.

As I finish up my dinner, and rinse my scraps into the disposal, my mind lands on my husband. I know he means well, and he wouldn’t have bought this house if on some level, some pea-brained, pungently stupid level, he hadn’t thought it was the right choice for us as newlyweds. He loves it here. The thick forestry of Montana lends itself to his upbringing in Alaska. This dated and dirty farmhouse reminds him of his mee-maw who passed away when he was seventeen. Part of me feels selfish… wanting to leave a place that corresponds to fond, precious memories in his life. But, the stubborn parts of me, the parts that far outweigh my compassion, don’t plan on giving in until we’re on the interstate bound for Charlotte.

“Hey Jer, dinner.” I purr as I round the hallway, a piping hot bowl of plain oatmeal is nestled in my palms.

“Oatmeal, my favorite.” He takes the bowl from my hands, his fingers grazing mine for a moment – there’s that fluttery feeling in my stomach again. “You shouldn’t have, honey.”

“Anything for my strapping husband.” I smile. I watch as he takes a bite of the oatmeal. I didn’t even put sugar or milk with it. He takes another dissatisfied bite, and then another. I take the opportunity to let my bathrobe fall around my ankles. I fight dirty, dirty and ruthless. I’m dressed in the skimpiest lingerie set I own. Red lace and soft silk adorn my girlish figure, clinging to my hips and breasts like it were made for me. My slender stomach glistens with the baby oil that I so deviously lathered myself with. I jostle my hair so that it falls behind my shoulders, and it releases the fragrant scent of my sexiest perfume. Jeremy looks up and his expression darkens again.

“Oh come on,” his eyes wander the length of my body, pausing for an extra beat at my cleavage. “You’re not fighting fair.”

“All is fair in love and war, Baby.” I bite my bottom lip and slide my left foot up and down my right calf. I lean against the hallway wall, arching my back slightly as I do.

“You know that’s not fair!” He wriggles in his seat against the wall. I can see how I affect him and it’s satisfying to me. I have to wonder how long he’ll keep this up. How long will he keep fighting before he tears this tape right off the floor?

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean.” I smile, doing a small, innocent shimmy where I stand.

“Caroline.” He warns me, standing and taking a step closer to the barrier.

“Careful, Jer, unless you’re ready to move back to Charlotte.” I smile, noticing how close he is to the line of tape.

“Damn it.” He takes an irritated step back.

“Let me know when you’re ready to forfeit, Jer.” I smile. “I’ll just be over here trying to get some sleep. Although with the air conditioner in this crummy old house being the way it is, I’m far too hot to sleep.” I hold out the word hot and watch as my husband grows increasingly more aroused.

“You temptress.”

“You know it, Babe.” I laugh and find my way back to my bedroom, leaving Jeremy to his cold oatmeal and sexual frustration.

Days continue to pass and I’m confident we’re getting nowhere. He still wants to stay, I still want to leave. No one is giving in. I go about my daily business – reading in the sunroom, a long bath with lavender salts, tidying the kitchen in an attempt to make it more bearable for the time being. Even though Jeremy is only a few feet away, on the other side of the house, I feel like he’s miles from me. I miss him. I miss his kiss, his touch, his warmth. I miss my husband.

As dusk falls on Saturday, marking three weeks since the dastardly red tape found its way into my life, I find myself more restless than usual. Pacing doesn’t calm my nerves, nor does cleaning, cooking or reading. All I can think about is that fucking red tape. Why is Jeremy so stubborn? Why can’t we go home? Why does he love this house so much? I feel a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach as a thought enters my mind. Why do I hate this house so much?

I roam around the kitchen, the sunroom and the master, taking in all the miniscule details this farmhouse has to offer. It’s dated, dusty and lacks any semblance of modernity. It’s hours from the ocean and is surrounded by thick wooded land as far as the eye can see. Despite all of this, however, my husband, the man I chose to spend a lifetime with, sees something in these four walls that I’m somehow missing.

I meander to the master bedroom and flop down on our bed. There’s a bookcase next to our king size bed, our bed that has felt remarkably empty without Jeremy lying next to me, which houses all of our photo albums. I pull one out that Jeremy’s mother made for him growing up. I flip through the pages, smiling at my husband’s youthfulness and cheesy grin. His red hair and freckles were adorable when he was little. Soon enough, I come to a page dedicated to Jer’s mee-maw. There’s a particular photo, however, that jumps out to me as I scan the page.

My eyes fall on a photo of Jeremy, sitting on his mee-maw’s lap in a rocking chair on the front porch of her old farmhouse. I’m stunned to see the resemblance it has to our current abode. Both houses are small and quaint. Both are dated and a bit rundown, with collapsing shutters and chipped picket fencing around the yard. But the smile on my husband’s young face at the time speaks to me. I can see the love in his mee-maw’s eyes and I can see the joy in his. I frown.

“Jeremy?” I call out as I slide the photo album back onto the shelf and walk out into the hallway. “Hey Jer?”

“What’s up?” He saunters out of the family room wearing nothing but a low-hung pair of blue jeans that hug his hips perfectly. My insides twist into knots and I have to keep myself reigned in to refrain from touching his chiseled torso.

“I want to talk…” I swallow a lump in my throat. “About the house.”

“You know where I stand on this, Caroline.” His voice is curt but gentle.

“I know.” I sigh and I walk up to the edge of the red tape. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?” He questions, raising an eyebrow as he, too, steps up to the tape. We’re closer than we’ve been in weeks. I can feel his breath on my neck as he waits for me to go-on.

“This house is just like the one your mee-maw lived in isn’t it? The house you spent every summer at in Alaska?” I chew on the inside of my cheek nervously.

“It is.” He murmurs.

“I think I’ve been a little hasty in my judgement of this home, Jer.” I look up and down the hallway, taking in the inside of our house before my eyes fall upon my husband once more. “This whole time, I’ve thought this silly feud was all about pride and victory. I thought it was about a crummy old house and whether or not it was good enough for our future.”

“Uh-huh?” He probes me to continue.

“But this house means so much more to you than that. And I realize that now.” I sigh. “This house has emotional ties to your childhood that I will never be able to understand. It takes you back to a place of kinship and laughter, to simpler times. This house is more than four walls and crackling paint to you, Babe. And I see that now.”

“What are you saying, Caroline?” He eyes me suspiciously from where he stands, mere inches from my face.

“If this house is that important to you, if the memories are that important to you, then we can stay. I love you, Jeremy. And I miss my husband.” I let my voice drop down to a whisper. “We can stay.”

Jeremy doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply stands there, inches away from me, separated only by a strand of crimson tape and the anticipation that lingers between us, hinging on what he’ll say or do next. Before I have a chance to reiterate my surrender, he closes the space between us, his lips finding mine in a heartbeat. He kisses me more passionately than I’ve ever been kissed before. And after a few intoxicating moments of his lips crashing against mine again and again, he pulls away.

“What is it?” I pant as I stare at him. He doesn’t say anything again, instead he bends down and rips the red tape that has divided us for so long clean off the floor. He crumples it in one hand and tosses it over his shoulder as his body finds mine in the dimness of our hallway. The force with which he meets me sends me stumbling backwards into the wall. His torso presses into me and I can tell just how much he’s missed me.

We fumble around our farmhouse, kissing, touching, and lusting for each other. Jeremy rips the red tape from every portion of flooring and wall that we come across. And as he leaves a trail of discarded division in our wake, we tumble into our bedroom, together, for the first time in far too long. Just as he had ripped the tape up from the floorboards, with virility and hunger, he rips into my clothing, leaving me exposed and ready for what both of us have wanted for three weeks now. I close my eyes as my husband takes me in his arms, laying me gently on our bed, in our bedroom, in our house on Hunter Hill. This house may not be my idea of paradise, but right where I am – beneath my husband, the man I love so dearly, most certainly is. And there’s truly no place else I’d rather be.

THE END