we’d been in the hotel for about a half a day, moving from room to room listening to charismatic A.A. speakers, sitting before good-natured A.A. panels, I’d had enough. I couldn’t handle the volume of the place. Everyone was vibrating at a frequency that made me want jump from my skin. I went back to our room, took a long shower, and then lay on the bed in my shorts planning to hitchhike home.
Terry returned in crisply pressed linen pants and a blueHawaiian shirt that didn’t have any wrinkles, either. He leaned against the wall beside the bathroom. “You want to get away from here at any cost,” he said. “Failing that, you want to kill yourself. You’re thinking about stealing my car right now.”
I just stared at him.
Yes, yes, yes
, I thought.
So fucking what?
“If I were you”—he stood up straight—“that’s exactly what I’d do. Go ahead and steal my car. Get the fuck out while you can.”
He smiled. And then he left the room.
When I took Crash home, there was a full-tilt autobahn-eating Mercedes in my ex-wife’s driveway, the G-series, the expensive kind. Jean’s date wasn’t over yet. I’d get the chance to talk with John Sewell sooner than I’d thought. When I took off my seat belt, Crash gave me a wide-eyed look: it was rare that I wanted to see my ex-wife.
I walked in with Crash, armed only with the vague cover story of speaking with my ex-wife about starting a college fund, an idea that had suggested itself after this morning’s abrasion with the very uncollegiate Troy Padilla. I sometimes dreamed up these arbitrary conversations with Jean, hoping that if I distracted her from our custody battle, maybe it would go away.
Jean and “her guy,” John Sewell, were on the patio, drinking the same expensive ginger ales that I stocked myself. Crash wisely ducked into her bedroom.
As he stretched out his hand, I remembered how much I had wanted to like John Sewell that time when we invited him fishing with us off Dana Point; I was guardedly encouraged when Crash brought his name home one weekend. He was about mysize and shape, maybe five years older, going gray, and he had a jaw that belonged in a shaving commercial. He wore a navy suit without a tie, but I knew the tie was around here somewhere. He was the kind of man who held your hand for exactly the right amount of time as he looked squarely into your eyes.
I gave Jean an awkward kiss on the cheek, which is what people like us do to pretend we’re not people like us. It had been years since we’d screamed at each other, but that didn’t mean we were friends. Jean was wearing a tailored jeans jacket over a salmon-colored shirt and a butt-framing pair of slacks. She was a compact but lovely woman, and she should have married the kind of country-club geek she went to USC with, the kind her father always pushed her toward. The kind of guy who grew up to look exactly like John Sewell.
“We shouldn’t be talking,” Jean Trask said. “You’re suing me.”
“I’d be happy
not
to sue you,” I said, “if you’d agree to share custody of our daughter.”
“It’s a good thing, then,” she said, “that it’s not my job to make you happy.”
Her response was so sharp that I almost laughed. “This is ridiculous, Jean. If I lost your trust eight years ago, I’ve more than—”
“You gave away your rights in this situation,” she said. “It would be easier on everyone if you would just accept that.”
I looked at Sewell, wondering how far ahead of me he was. The conversation had gone to shit almost immediately, and yet his expression seemed remote, maybe even bemused.
“This is not unreasonable, Jean. I’ve consented to drug tests.I’ve consented to home visits. For the past eight years, I’ve lived an exemplary life. What do you want me to do that I haven’t done?”
“I want you to drop the lawsuit. You have everything you need. I don’t deny you access to Alison; she even has a room at your house. What
Terry returned in crisply pressed linen pants and a blueHawaiian shirt that didn’t have any wrinkles, either. He leaned against the wall beside the bathroom. “You want to get away from here at any cost,” he said. “Failing that, you want to kill yourself. You’re thinking about stealing my car right now.”
I just stared at him.
Yes, yes, yes
, I thought.
So fucking what?
“If I were you”—he stood up straight—“that’s exactly what I’d do. Go ahead and steal my car. Get the fuck out while you can.”
He smiled. And then he left the room.
When I took Crash home, there was a full-tilt autobahn-eating Mercedes in my ex-wife’s driveway, the G-series, the expensive kind. Jean’s date wasn’t over yet. I’d get the chance to talk with John Sewell sooner than I’d thought. When I took off my seat belt, Crash gave me a wide-eyed look: it was rare that I wanted to see my ex-wife.
I walked in with Crash, armed only with the vague cover story of speaking with my ex-wife about starting a college fund, an idea that had suggested itself after this morning’s abrasion with the very uncollegiate Troy Padilla. I sometimes dreamed up these arbitrary conversations with Jean, hoping that if I distracted her from our custody battle, maybe it would go away.
Jean and “her guy,” John Sewell, were on the patio, drinking the same expensive ginger ales that I stocked myself. Crash wisely ducked into her bedroom.
As he stretched out his hand, I remembered how much I had wanted to like John Sewell that time when we invited him fishing with us off Dana Point; I was guardedly encouraged when Crash brought his name home one weekend. He was about mysize and shape, maybe five years older, going gray, and he had a jaw that belonged in a shaving commercial. He wore a navy suit without a tie, but I knew the tie was around here somewhere. He was the kind of man who held your hand for exactly the right amount of time as he looked squarely into your eyes.
I gave Jean an awkward kiss on the cheek, which is what people like us do to pretend we’re not people like us. It had been years since we’d screamed at each other, but that didn’t mean we were friends. Jean was wearing a tailored jeans jacket over a salmon-colored shirt and a butt-framing pair of slacks. She was a compact but lovely woman, and she should have married the kind of country-club geek she went to USC with, the kind her father always pushed her toward. The kind of guy who grew up to look exactly like John Sewell.
“We shouldn’t be talking,” Jean Trask said. “You’re suing me.”
“I’d be happy
not
to sue you,” I said, “if you’d agree to share custody of our daughter.”
“It’s a good thing, then,” she said, “that it’s not my job to make you happy.”
Her response was so sharp that I almost laughed. “This is ridiculous, Jean. If I lost your trust eight years ago, I’ve more than—”
“You gave away your rights in this situation,” she said. “It would be easier on everyone if you would just accept that.”
I looked at Sewell, wondering how far ahead of me he was. The conversation had gone to shit almost immediately, and yet his expression seemed remote, maybe even bemused.
“This is not unreasonable, Jean. I’ve consented to drug tests.I’ve consented to home visits. For the past eight years, I’ve lived an exemplary life. What do you want me to do that I haven’t done?”
“I want you to drop the lawsuit. You have everything you need. I don’t deny you access to Alison; she even has a room at your house. What
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