The Notion

The Notion.

I glanced at him, careful-like. Didn’t want him to notice me noticing him. He swaggered into the kitchen, giving me that look, his brown eyes narrowing. I could feel my fingers tingle. He still had that effect on me even after all these years. I lifted my glass of Rosé wine, the cheaper kind, nothing too fancy, we didn’t do fancy too often. Kids had been away from six. I could hear him rattling the oven door, checking his food.

When we met, he was a real popular guy. Had loads of girlfriends and loads of history. I Ignored it. We went to the pictures on our first date, didn’t get popcorn that night. Didn’t think it was ladylike.

He was good-looking; still is I suppose. Looking pale this evening though.

“Arg!” he growled. It went quiet. A noticeable silence after such a loud yelp.

I froze for a moment, quickly setting my glass to the side of my chair.

“You, okay?” I shouted. I heard mumbling as he shuffled to the door.

“What?” he said, tilting his head, as he clasped his hand.

“Nothing. I just asked if you’re, okay?” He attempted to roll his eyes, not easy when you’ve had a few.

He sighed. “Is it nothing, or is it, fucking something?

“I was just asking are you okay,” I said, moving a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Thank you,” he said loudly, nodding his head slowly. “So, it’s not nothing…it’s, did I burn my fucking hand doing something you can’t do, cook a pizza.”

He tightened his lips, coldly staring at me before he turned and walked back towards the stove. This was the thousandth time we had this exchange. Tonight, it’s a pizza. Last week I watered his wine. I flirted with someone. I didn’t respect him. I let myself go, etc., etc. It’s all the same. His life is controlled by circumstantial notions.

“Six months we've had that cooker. Five minutes it would take you to learn how to work it, its not rocket science,” he said, walking back to the door. “Five fucking minutes.” He all but snarled, holding the pizza in his hand.

This was him turned for the rest of the evening, a downward spiral from sanity. He stepped into anger effortlessly, like sliding on an old slipper.

I noticed my stomach tightening, my fear becoming cautious and controlled. I became an observer, an assessor of his drunkenness. Whoever he was, it was evaporating. I got to know him a bit less each day.

Giving a slight cough, I cleared my throat. Trying to make it as unnoticeable as physically possible. “I can use it. You don’t let me,” I said knowing I can’t win by answering or saying nothing. I’ve tried every possible response, nothing works.

He becomes blind, only hearing a distorted echo of himself. I become a blur to him, almost transparent. My words are simply white noise.

Thirty seconds passed.

“So, you doing the cooking from now on,” he said, swaying more than usual as he walked back into the living room setting his plate precariously on the arm of the chair.

I stared intently at the balancing plate. One small sway to the right and it would be laying on the floor. He would rage.

“Yes, I said.” Relieved that he maneuvered into the seat without knocking it off.

He turned around. A red streak of pizza sauce was smeared across his face as he munched loudly on a piece of crust. "Your hand okay?

“Where’d you hide the wine?” he said, wiping his mouth, then sliding a pizza-sauce knuckle on his knee.

He was always clean-shaven. Always smelt nice. He had many contradictions.

“You’ve got a glass beside you,” I said, nodding towards his half-filled beer glass on the floor.

“The red wine,” he said, turning to me, his eyes closed.

Quietly I took a deep breath. “I think it’s all gone. Want another beer?” I said in a compromising way as I slowly got up. He didn’t answer. Sometimes I wasn’t even worthy of even a contemptuous response.

He lifted his plate to the floor, groaning as he stooped. A crust edge slid off. I sat back down, slowly, almost creeping back into my chair.

“I’ll get it,” he said, puffing, wrenching himself up. This was all part of the performance. No deep thought was given to it; it all came naturally, like a drunken muscle memory. He shuffled his way to the kitchen. “When’d these go in?" he muffled.

Did he say when or where? I thought. I got up and walked to the door. He was standing staring into the fridge.

“They’re in there,” I said.

He turned around. His mechanical slowness was so effective. He dropped his chin to his chest and pointed into the fridge. “These beers,” he said. His tone laced with malice, it crawled over my body like an uninvited hand.

I looked between him and the shelf of blue tins. “Yes, those ones.”

“Ah right,” he said lifting his chin in the air and then turning to nod to the fridge.

I stood there, feeling nailed to the floor. He wasn’t finished yet; his body language was always one step ahead of his mouth.

“These beers here are in the fridge. Thank you. But that wasn’t what I asked. I asked you." He paused closing his eyes. “I asked you when you put then, them in the fridge.”

I knew what he meant. “From lunchtime. Two o clock.” He wasn’t looking for clarity he was searching for opportunity, avenues to display his disappointment and hardship.

“It’s okay.” He smiled lifting three cold tins from the fridge. “I’ll put these in the freezer, get them chilled,” he said squeezing them between frozen packs of veg.

Like music, the doorbell rang. It was ten to nine.

“Who’d that be?” I said looking at him, lowering my eyebrows.

He shook his head turning his lips downward, shrugging his shoulders, slow and laboriously rubbing his chest with indifference.

The bell freed my feet, as I turned to answer the door. I could see a figure through the bevelled glass.

“Hi Lena, sorry for the late call, is Michael about.”

It was Paul, one of Michael’s co-workers. “Yes Paul,” I said, just as Michael came out.

“She not inviting you in." Michael joked, smiling brightly like it was his wedding day.

Paul chuckled. “Just dropping this file off. Looks like you’re having a good night,” he said in all sincerity.

Michael walked up the hall. “We always do. Wanna come in bud?”

“Can’t. We’re going to Romano’s, the new place on 85^th Street.”

“You and Sara?”

“Yeah…five years. Well, five tomorrow. But who’s counting,” he said, smiling nicely.

I smiled at Paul. I am. I said using my head voice. Eleven years, two kids. A broken thumb. Two black eyes, two police calls and two hospital visits, should have been more but I was overly generous with my endurance.

My mother liked him, though my two sisters didn’t. They only told me about five years ago, at a christening for Jude, my younger sister’s first baby. Helen, my older sister just came right out with it. I was glad actually after the crying stopped. I felt so ashamed, and still do if I’m honest. Shame lives in your eyes, and your eyes tell everyone you meet, it screams out, even to bus stop strangers you never met.

“Five years, Jesus Paul, it was like yesterday,” I said.

Paul was normal. Played football on Saturday morning and Tuesday nights. Went out for meals with Sara, and drinks with his buddies, and didn’t beat his wife.

“Well Paul, I’m enjoying a very tasty burnt pizza, bet you’re jealous.” Michael joked, as he casually put his elbow on my shoulder. The context distracted me. I didn’t want Paul to get the wrong impression any more than necessary. I moved; his arm slipped off. I smiled.

“Burnt. I take it you cooked it your good self?" Paul said, nodding to Michael.

Michael tightened his lips and put his hands on his hips, the manly way. “Paul. Course I did, sure I’m the cook of the house. That right Lena. I’m the boss cook.”

Paul laughed. “Where’re the kids?”

Michael jerked his head back. “Serious! Kids on a date night,” he grinned raising his eyebrows.

I looked at the back of his head. He made me wanna puke. Nothing wrong with a date night, fair play. Those words just didn’t belong in his mouth. He had no right to say something so jovially normal like it was…yeah normal.

Paul’s eyes were darting between Michael and me like he was watching an entertaining tennis match. He was buying into Michaels’ performance. Jesus, I thought.

“Right guys, have to go. Sara’s waiting in the car. Be good." He winked. “Michael, you gotta bit,” he whispered, pointing to his cheek.

I smiled. I’m sure it looked a bit forced. “See-ya, Paul. Enjoy your evening.” I waved at Sara.

“Right, see ya Monday,” said Michael.

We watched Paul go out the gate to the car, Sara waved. I was envious, sadder than anything else. I felt defeated; deflated, that surprised me. Paul was a glimpse of something I long lost if I ever had. It wasn’t an extraordinary thing he was doing, yet it was. His unexpected visit reinforced I was doing the right thing.

“Looked like a right fucking clown,” Michael said, leaning right into my face.

I felt a bead of spittle hit my lip. I ignored it. “What?” I froze. My eyes went wide like they needed to capture everything.

“Looked like Lilly,” he said, referring to our youngest.

“Michael, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m lost!”

“Wish da-fuck ya-were lost. Standing at the door, you and him having a good laugh.” His face was now red, his eyes suffocating me.

I just stared at him like a lame deer caught by a dump truck headlight. My heart raced. I shook my head no. Words in my head became congealed. I couldn’t think, I had no idea what he was talking about. He was swaying more than usual. He threw his hand to the wall, steadying himself.

I recoiled.

He laughed. His nose was eight inches from mine. I hated the smell of stale breath beer.

“You wouldn’t let Lilly go out like that,” he said turning his face for me to see.

It clicked.

“Sorry Michael. I didn’t think, didn’t have time—”

“Didn’t think,” he grabbed my shoulder and pushed me up the hall. “In the fucking room.” He paused to let his thoughts catch up with his anger. “My fault again I take it,” he said parading the floor. “Another night fucking ruined.”

I slid into my seat which had now become my trench, a bunker. He shook his head as he paced the floor, answering his own contentious notions. He always came up with the right answers. He walked to the fridge and lifted out two beers, both for himself. How could one beer be suffice after such a traumatic and humiliating experience?

He walked back in wiping his face with a tea towel. He had that exaggerated contorted look as if he was using coarse sandpaper.

“That all off,” he said, half turning his cheek in my direction.

I took a wild guess. “Yes. Looks like it,” I said tilting my head enough for him to notice my tentativeness. He flumped into his chair, crunching his fallen crust with his boot heel into the carpet. The TV was humming in the background, some hospital drama.

He opened one of the tins. “Christ,” he said, flicking the froth off his finger.

He sat staring at his wet finger, shaking his head as if it had just been bitten by a rattle-snake. This is the opportunity thing. These terrible things happen, burning his hand, overcooking the pizza, Paul calling, his messy eating, and so on... He ties them all together like a conspiracy theorist and there you are. My continued covert plan to ruin his life once again exposed.

“Where’s the kids?” he said, leaning forward still looking at his finger.

I paused for a moment. “Helens. They’re having a sleepover,”

He nodded his head. “Sleepover." He shakily placed his beer on the floor and sat back in his chair with a grunt.

“Away to the bathroom,” I said, casually rising from the seat. He didn’t answer as I left the room, just sat staring at the wall. This was a good opportunity to call Helen.

Heard a groan as I reached the top of the stairs.

“Hello, Helen. How’re the kids,” I whispered.

“Great. They had a ball. All in bed now, still hear some giggling. How’re things there?”

“Don’t ask. Think he was sneaking some. Seems drunker than usual. Looks like he may be falling asleep.”

“Where are you.”

“Sitting on the toilet.”

“Thanks for the detail.” Joked Helen. “So, plan still on?”

“Well, wasn’t planning on him going asleep so soon, not complaining. Was getting into it ten minutes ago. Thought it was going to be another late night. Pushed me up the hall.”

“Bastard. Want us to come over now?”

“No, I will call you back in ten minutes, once he’s sleeping that’s him.”

I ended the call and went to the stairs, sitting on the top one. There wasn’t a sound, every minute without noise was good. The realization of what was happening was intense, though almost unreal. I looked at my phone, it was 9:15. I had arranged for Helen to be ready from eleven.

Everything was at her house, kids’ clothes, some of mine. I thought I could grab a few more things if I don’t need a quick exit. Over ten minutes had crawled by. I crept down the stairs, the last one creeks, so I carefully skipped it.

I realized five years ago I wanted out, that changed to escape. I had been saving for almost two years. Had a place thirty miles west, just behind Calais mountain and a new job. My employer was really good. They had offices all over the place, could have gone further but this move was done reluctantly. I loved it here, with good friends and family. He all but destroyed it.

I gathered myself and walked back into the room. He was leaning forward again. Head bowed; his fingers entwined. The beer tin was on its side. I tip-toed over and lifted it up. Didn’t breathe for a second.

I walked out to the kitchen taking my glass on the way. The relief of him being unconscious was palpable. He can lie slumped like that until noon tomorrow for all I cared. The creek in his neck might make him think. Hasn’t yet though.

I quietly tidied up the kitchen, non-jangling mess only. I looked at the oven clock, it was 21:33 My confidence rose as I walked back into the living room.

He looked pathetic sitting there. I curled my lip as I looked at him. Studying the waste.

A thought crossed my mind. I sat down. He was too still. He’s dead, I thought, unmoved. No way is he dead. I knew if I tested this thought I would have to try and waken him and that wasn’t happening. I moved closer to him. I couldn’t see his face the way he was crouched over. I got right beside him putting my knee in the spilled beer.

I couldn’t see a thing. No movement, not the slightest sound. "Jesus. He is dead." I whispered in cupped hands.

I gently touched his shoulder, barely, then a few more times with slight increases. He was dead.

Helen and Tony got here before the ambulance. A massive heart attack, he was thirty-seven.

The ambulance people were great. Careful in their words and dignified, treating me as if I was a grieving wife who had just suffered a great loss.

Helen and I said a lot without saying a word as he was brought away. I stayed at her house anyway that night. He was cremated a week later; we were courteous to his family and friends.

I was shocked, not at the sudden death, but my relief, never thought I would take it so well. Didn’t feel guilty either, later on, I pitied him. It’s a strange kind of freedom when something like this happens.