Norman Mailer said there were four stages in a marriage. First the affair, then the marriage, then children and finally the fourth stage, without which you cannot know a woman, the divorce.
That night Julianne visits me and hands me the papers. I’ve just taken two sedatives and drunk a large Scotch, desperate to sleep. The alcohol and the Valium are starting to work when she appears, pushing past me at the front door and striding into the kitchen. She spies the bottle of Scotch and it seems to confirm her suspicions.
Calmly and dispassionately, she tells me about her decision. She wants me to understand that she has thought this through very carefully. She might use the term ‘long and hard’ but my mind is fuzzy. I feel as though I’m floating on the ceiling, looking down at myself, hearing myself trying to explain.
‘Gordon Ellis broke in here and said things about Charlie - terrible things - I just sort of snapped.’
‘Snapped?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t snap, Joe. You never snap.’
‘I know, but this was different.’
‘Did you want to kill him?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes.’
She is quiet a long time, staring into space, her lips pressed into thin straight lines. I keep waiting for her to speak. ‘Is that how little you think of us?’
‘What?’
‘Is that how little we mean to you?’ I can see anger climbing into her face. ‘You tried to kill someone. What if you’re sent to prison? What sort of father will you be then? We’re not living in the Middle Ages, Joe, men don’t challenge each other to duels. They don’t bash each other’s heads in.’
She flicks hair from her eyes. I can see the twin furrows above her nose. Charlie has them, too. I want to defend myself, but the drugs have turned my brain to treacle.
Julianne sighs and hands me the divorce papers. ‘It’s time to move on, Joe.’
‘What does that mean exactly?’
‘What does what mean?’
‘Moving on. You see, I don’t think we move at all. We run up and down on the spot and the world moves under us. Days, weeks, months, pass beneath our feet.’
‘So you’re saying we’re like hamsters on a wheel?’
‘Going nowhere.’
Julianne scoffs at this and tells me to grow up. Looking at her hands more than my face, she asks me to sign the papers, saying something about it being both our faults. We got engaged too young and too quickly - six months and three days after our first date.
‘This isn’t about love any more, Joe. You joke about your Parkinson’s. You pretend nothing has changed. But you’re sadder. You’re self-absorbed. You obsess. You monitor every twitch and tremor. You’re like an archaeologist piecing together his own remains, finding bits and pieces but nothing whole. It breaks my heart.’
Her face is drifting in and out of focus. I concentrate on the tiny vein pulsing on her neck just below where her hair curls and touches her skin. Her heart never stops beating. Mine feels like it’s slowly breaking or grinding to a halt like an engine without oil.
I remember our wedding day, standing at the altar, saying, ‘I do.’ After we kissed I wanted to punch the air and yell, ‘Hey! Look at me! I got the girl.’
On my side of the congregation were doctors and surgeons and my mates from university. Julianne’s side was full of her hippy friends, painters, sculptors, poets and actors. My father called them the ‘Three P’s’ - potheads, pissheads and pill-heads.
‘Are you listening to me, Joe?’ she asks.
‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’
‘There’s nothing else to talk about.’
‘Please? I’m exhausted. I just need to sleep.’
She nods and stands. I feel unsteady on my feet.
‘Don’t hate me, Joe.’
‘I could never do that.’
She puts some dishes in the sink and tells me to go upstairs to bed.
‘Stay with me,’ I ask, ‘just for a few minutes.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
My fingers touch her hair and I want to press my body against hers and put my lips against the pulsing vein in her neck. She opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind.
‘Stay.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Just five minutes.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘If I stay it will only make things worse.’
‘For you or for me?’
‘For both of us.’
As she opens the door, I see Annie Robinson on the doorstep about to ring the bell. Her eyes go wide and she rocks unsteadily on her feet.
‘Oh!’
‘I’m just leaving,’ says Julianne. ‘Annie, isn’t it?’
Annie giggles nervously. ‘I’m sorry - I laugh when I get embarrassed. It also happens when I drink.’ She leans forward and whispers, ‘I’ve been to the pub.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Julianne.
Annie looks at me accusingly. ‘I left messages for you.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.’
‘Were you busy ignoring me or just beating up Gordon Ellis? I was coming round to slap you in the face, but now I’m too drunk.’
‘I wasn’t ignoring you.’
‘Maybe I’ll just puke in your garden instead.’
Julianne looks even more uncomfortable.
Annie stumbles slightly and Julianne has to steady her. Annie apologises. ‘Don’t mind me - I made the mistake of fucking your husband.’
Julianne flinches.
Annie giggles. ‘This is pretty surreal, isn’t it?’
That’s not the word I’d use, but I’m not going to quibble. Succumbing to the pills and booze, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Julianne steps around Annie and hurries down the street, disappearing quickly from sight.
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ I ask.
Annie’s nostrils flare and her voice changes. ‘You’re an arsehole!’
‘I’ve been told that already today - or maybe I was an idiot. I can’t remember now. I’m just so tired.’
‘Are you still sleeping with your wife?’
‘No.’
I can’t see Annie clearly any more. She says something about feeling ashamed and humiliated.
‘I only came round to give you some information.’
‘Information?’
‘About Gordon Ellis - we were at university together, remember? I was looking through some of my old photographs and I found something.’
I’m reading her lips.
‘There was someone else in one of the photographs. I only recognised him because he’s been in the papers. He was one of Gordon’s mates. They shared a house.’
‘Who?’
‘Novak Brennan.’