Leftovers: A Novel (6 page)

Vivian walked casually into the living room with the beer but Paul was gone.

“Paul?”

She actually ran to the front window to see if his car was still there, and it was. Thinking he must have gone upstairs, she grabbed the gift from the coffee table, put it in her pocket and went up with the beer.

“Paul?” she asked again as she reached the top of the stairs and stood in the doorway to their bedroom.

Paul came out of their bathroom wearing just his boxers. Vivian paused admiring his body. He had massive shoulders that narrowed down to his waist. His arms were strong and vascular, his legs powerful and defined. And he had the perfect amount of body hair, which highlighted his muscles making it look as though an artist had painted them on. Once on a trip to the Boston Museum of Fine Art, Vivian stood before a breathtakingly beautiful Greek statue and realized that was Paul’s body. She found it both intoxicating and irresistible.

She snapped out of it and handed him the beer. “Oh, I saw Doctor Moody today and well, it was a false alarm. But I’m sure next month I’ll do much better and oh . . . ” She took the gift out of her pocket. “It’s nothing too fancy but I thought you’d like it.”

Surprisingly, Paul pulled her close to him. “Let me give you my gift first.”

He brought his lips close to hers and then paused a moment. The hesitation made her dizzy with anticipation. He slowly planted his full lips onto hers and kissed her deeply.

But as Paul unzipped her dress allowing it to fall to the floor, the phone started to ring. Not knowing what she should do, Vivian just stood there in her bra and half-slip. She was about to speak but he put his finger to her lips. He literally swept her off her feet into his arms and carried her to the bed, laid her down and kissed her again even more passionately.

Paul’s gift slipped from her hands to the floor as he ravaged her from head to toe, except for touching the scar around the waist. He never did and never would. It wasn’t out of respect for Vivian’s self-consciousness about it. It was because it repulsed him so and Vivian knew it.

On this rare and erotic occasion, he pulled out all the stops knowing exactly how to pleasure his wife. Vivian’s need for Paul’s affection was like a parched and wilted flower thirsty for rain. She was in heaven. Time stood still and the world was good again.

•  •  •

Sated, Vivian laid on her stomach wrapped in the sheets with her head turned away from the bathroom. She had dozed off and now half-conscious, she wondered if what she had experienced really happened or if it was just another dream. She heard him in the bathroom and closed her eyes. Although exhausted, the thought of him making love to her again made her feel exhilarated.

Paul came out of the bathroom completely dressed and sat next to her on the bed.

“Vivian?”

She kept her eyes closed and smiled coyly as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

He paused. “Vivian, I’m leaving you.”

Her eyes instantly opened wide. Paul attempted to move but Vivian’s grasp tightened around him.

“Vivian.”

He tried to stand up.

“Let go.”

Paul tried prying her arms away but she clenched harder.

“Vivian!”

He escaped from her grip and walked over to a packed suitcase sitting by the bedroom door. Totally thrown, she sat upright trying to collect her thoughts. Without looking at her he left the room.

She jumped to her feet, grabbed her bathrobe and ran out after him.

Paul had reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, keeping his back to her. “Vivian, your hair’s a mess, you’re a terrible cook and you’re barren.” He turned and walked away as she flew down the stairs. He passed through the dining room to get to the front door as she appeared.

“Any husband in his right mind would leave you. You’re like, you’re like cold . . . ” and without even giving her the decency of looking her straight in the eye, he just casually gestured to the dining room table, “ . . . leftovers.”

Then, something absolutely extraordinary happened. Vivian spoke back.

“You bastard,” she whispered viciously.

Paul came to a complete stop. “What was that?” he asked incredulously. And before he could turn around to look at her, she was on top of his back.

“You goddamn bastard!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she locked her forearms around his throat and her legs around his waist forcing him to drop the suitcase. She squeezed as hard as she could, marveling at her own strength. Never did she think she could feel so much rage.

Neither did Paul. Unable to breathe, let alone speak, he stumbled into the living room squirming to get her off of his back. But she was up for the fight. The adrenaline pumping through Vivian’s body signaled to her that she could hang on all night if she had to.

“Who?” she demanded.

Squeezing his throat even tighter, Paul choked. “Ugh . . . awww . . . eeeeh . . . ”

“Tell me!”

He managed to get out, “Who . . . what?”

“Who the hell is the other woman?” Vivian couldn’t believe the power she felt. It was both thrilling and frightening at the same moment. If need be, she thought she could crush him. “Who is she?” she screamed louder than she ever had in her life.

“El . . . ”

Paul whipped around thinking he could fling her off but Vivian wasn’t budging.

“What’s her name?” she shrieked, almost demonically.

For a split second she eased up on his thorax and he spit it out. “Eleanor Gates.”

Vivian let go of her grip and slid down his entire body till she hit the floor.

“Eleanor Gates?” she whispered.

Paul rubbed his throat and coughed. “You know her?”

Vivian started laughing hysterically. “You idiot. She’s already got some fool wrapped around her little finger buying her mink stoles.”

“I bought her that.”

Very slowly, Vivian got up to her feet as Paul cautiously watched her.

“Were you just with her?” she asked, in a frighteningly calm voice.

He looked down at the floor. She took a step towards him and he hung his head lower. And then it happened. With 25 years worth of unexpressed wrath surfacing from her belly, Vivian made a fist, pulled her arm back and with all her might she threw an uppercut punch that slammed up into his chin. Having caught Paul’s tongue between his teeth, blood squirted everywhere.

He felt his mouth. “You cut my tongue!” he muttered through the spit and blood.

She threatened him. “I’ll cut more than your tongue, you bastard!”

“Bitch!” he slurred.

“Oh, you think this is being a bitch?” Vivian ran to the fireplace mantel and grabbed a framed picture of the two of them. She spun around and threw it at him just missing his head. It smashed against the wall shattering glass everywhere. “How long? One week? Two weeks? A month?”

“Five months,” he stated, almost proudly.

Like a tornado, Vivian went ballistic ripping the room apart. Anything and everything that wasn’t bolted down she started hurling at him: a vase, an ashtray, a book, even a floor lamp.

“Why?” she demanded as she picked up a glass paperweight from the desk.

“Why what?”

She threw the weight, which he tried to dodge but it got him right in the solar plexus. He doubled over trying to catch his breath.

“Why did you just . . . make love to me?”

“I thought it was the decent thing to do,” he admitted, sheepishly.

This sent her over the edge. She started pummeling him with magazines, pillows, a waste paper basket and another lamp.

Protecting his face from the flying objects Paul shouted out, “I love Eleanor!”

“You don’t know how to love anybody but yourself!”

He cowered as she threw more things at him forcing him towards the front door.

“And Eleanor loves me!”

Vivian ran into the dining room and picked up a candlestick. “She’s a whore,” she screamed as she threw it at him. It just missed his head, embedding itself into the wall.

“Vivian?” Paul said as his picked up his suitcase. “This is really unattractive.”

She looked at the table as he opened the front door. “Leftovers are never pretty!” she screamed as she lifted the casserole.

Paul flew out of the house just as she heaved the leaden Pyrex dish at him like a shot put. It sailed out of the house and smashed onto the concrete walkway.

Vivian ran to the front door as Paul made a getaway in his car. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “And the doctor said it’s your fault!”

•  •  •

Vivian stood in the shower for over half an hour aggressively scrubbing her skin with soap trying to get Paul off of her. She looked at her right hand and examined the reddened knuckles that were beginning to swell. Shaking, she turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

Drying herself off, she walked into the bedroom. On the floor was Paul’s gift. She picked it up, looked at it for a moment and then surprised herself by caressing it gently. She looked over at the framed picture of Paul on her night table and picked that up too.

She touched his face. The anger and strength that Vivian had felt was liberating and empowering but terrifying at the same time. As quickly as it surfaced, she tried desperately to push it down, feeling guilty about what she had just done. Vivian may not have needed a professional to help her realize why she so passionately wanted children, but she certainly could have used a therapist to help her deal with the sick and dysfunctional relationship she had, not only with Paul, but with her mother as well. But her generation frowned upon psychoanalysis and the townsfolk of Abbot already had plenty enough to talk about. She didn’t need to add mental illness to the list.

As Vivian’s rage dissipated, utter sadness crept in and that’s when the floodgates opened up. She gathered Paul’s picture and gift into her arms and collapsed onto the bed sobbing uncontrollably.

The phone started to ring again but she paid no attention.

As quickly as Vivian allowed her protective walls to come tumbling down, she rebuilt new ones that were twice as large and even more impenetrable. It was her survival technique.

A few weeks after he left, Paul sent Vivian a letter from a lawyer explaining that he wanted the easiest and fastest divorce possible. Hence, he flew down to Juárez, Mexico for a “quickie”. Only one partner in the marriage needed to apply making these proceedings very attractive to estranged American couples. The Mexicans called it a “divocios al vapor”. Translated, it basically meant—divorce granted as rapidly as marriage evaporated. All Paul had to do was go to the city hall, pay a fee and the divorce was final in about three hours.

If that wasn’t humiliating enough, Vivian was mortified when she discovered that Eleanor went with him and the travel agency they used offered a package deal, which included: legal representation, round trip airfare, transportation, room and board, plus a cocktail.

Once the marriage was over, Vivian became more and more reclusive. No longer did she participate in the Garden Club or any of the other, few, social activities she was involved in. The only person who seemed concerned about her was Babs. But Vivian shut her out too and stopped answering phone calls all together.

Days blurred into weeks and Vivian only left her house when she needed essential items. Food was rarely high on the list. A huge pile of mail had accumulated in an unused wooden salad bowl that sat in the middle of the kitchen table. All bills, Vivian never opened them. She had but a small amount of cash on her; therefore when she did venture out for purchases, she charged everything to store credit.

On one such rare occasion, she threw on her uniform, covered her head in a scarf and headed out the back kitchen door. A brisk and sunny autumn afternoon, Vivian slipped on a large pair of dark sunglasses, climbed up into the Buick and managed to start her up on the fifth try. She backed it out of the drive and put it into park, as she checked the mail.

When she opened the box a flood of bills and collection notices spilled out onto the sidewalk. She gathered up the envelopes, stuffed some into her purse, threw the rest into the back of the car and then pulled herself back into the driver’s seat. She revved the engine, shifted into first gear and the car’s exhaust system back-fired. A bright orange flame leapt out of the muffler as the car burped out a loud pop and then stalled. Unfazed, Vivian shifted into neutral, started it again and took off down Osgood Street wearing her blank, public face.

She turned the corner onto Clark Road passing by the Shepherd estate. Its ancient maple tree on the corner of the property was blazing with orange and red leaves proudly displaying its fall foliage but Vivian didn’t notice.

She sailed down the hill. The oaks, beeches, dogwoods, and hickories all screamed at her to admire their color but Vivian was in her own world. When she reached River Road, she plopped over the railroad crossing, drove over the roaring Drake River via the wrought iron bridge, turned left and chugged up Mill Road.