Non-Happy Endings

“Could there be anything more terrifying than

a husband and wife who hate each other?”

-August Strindburg

“What do you say when it all becomes absurd?

“I’ve never considered it from that perspective before.”

“I wouldn’t think you would have. That’s the shame of it.”

The afternoon shadows crept across the kitchen window sill toward evening twilight. Just outside small birds chirp-chattered to each other in the flowering hedge of bushes as the setting sun striped the sky in rust and gold. The damp hay smell of cut grass blew through the half opened window on the breeze. Inside, intent on her tasks, Rachel stole repeated glances toward the digital clock on the stove.

A pile of vegetable slices grew in a colorful pile of orange, greens, and yellow to the right of the cutting board. The luminous digits flicked past seven fifteen. Rachel’s expression soured further with each passing minute.

At seven twenty-six, the sound of the garage door opener filtered into the kitchen. Rachel pressed her eyes closed. Quite a few minutes of silence followed; she paused. More silence. She looked toward the garage. The sudden sound of the car door slamming caused her to wince involuntarily. Her hands flat on the counter, her shoulders hunched, she waited. The door to the garage opened. She uncoiled.

“So what precisely about this situation do you find absurd?”

“Where do I even start? I should ask you what about this you don’t find absurd.”

“I have to say, if you keep insisting on answering my questions with nothing more than questions of your own, I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere.”

The Bud Light clock, tucked away behind the bar among bottles of whiskey and vodka, pointed in the direction of six thirty-five. The very fact that Michael knew where to look for it was in itself a good indication that he spent entirely too much time slumped on the wooden barstools of The Idle Monk. Michael caught the bartender’s eye and passed his fingertips in front of his neck, signaling for his tab. Frowning he pulled his car keys out of his pocket.

Behind the wheel of his car, the scowl had not disappeared from Michael’s face. Working his way through the evening in-town traffic, his speedometer did not signal any pressing desire for haste. Slowly the city thoroughfares gave way to subdivision streets and then the familiar driveway up to the featureless off-white garage door. Michael mashed down on the button of the remote control. The two vertical creases between his eyebrows cut a little deeper.

“I’m so sick of you pretending to be all superior and rational. You act like you can just reason everything alright again.”

“I could think of worse approaches. Emotions are all well and good, but you being overly emotional and dramatic won’t get us any closer to a solution.”

“Fuck you.”

The shouts and recriminations still hung in the air. Rachel glared at Michael’s back as he retreated into the living room. She turned toward the kitchen window and slammed her fists down on the steel edge of the sink basin. The shock of the impact brought a sharp expletive from her lips. Staring past the glass panes her eyes began to tear.

A flutter of movement in the window of the house opposite her caught her attention. The neighbor, Marsha Preston, ducked to the side out of view, but not quite in time. Rachel’s face reddened further, and with an irritated gesture she wiped the moisture from her eyes. She stepped back to the cutting board and the few remaining carrots stacked on its left. She picked up the abandoned chef’s knife and positioned a carrot length-wise on the wooden board.

The sound of the television flicked on in the living room. Reflexively her grip clamped down on the knife handle. The strokes of her chopping grew rapid and violent. Without hesitation she thrust the next carrot into place, slicing in fury, not stopping until the blood from her finger had formed a small pool on the board’s surface.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. I try really hard—I do—to understand your point of view, to understand why you constantly get so angry. But you keep indulging in these irrational outbursts.”

“There you go again. Acting like it’s all my fault. It’s easier for you isn’t it? Easier just to make it out that I’m just being emotional. I’m just someone who gets mad for no good reason. At least according to you.”

“What am I supposed to say to that? If I respond truthfully, because that’s exactly the way you behave, you’ll just start yelling again.”

Michael pressed his fingers in small circles against his temple. The hosts of Sports Center were filling the TV screen with enthusiastic banter, but his gaze kept shifting back toward the kitchen. Still looking off to the right, his other hand reached toward a ring-stained coaster on the end table as if expecting something there. His fingers closed on air, and Michael’s head snapped around and then quickly back toward the entry way to the kitchen. An uncertain grimace on his face, Michael hesitated for a moment; then with a muttered curse he slouched deeper in the plush recliner.

Rachel emerged from the kitchen. The muscles in his shoulders tensed as his head pivoted from one side to the other while she walked through his peripheral vision behind him and disappeared down the hallway. His eyes fixed on the hallway, he half lifted himself from his chair. He held himself there for the space of a few seconds and then heaved up and hurried into the kitchen. There was a sucking sound of the refrigerator door opening and rattling of glass; he returned with an open bottle of Coors Light.

Placing the bottle on the coaster, he made as if to sit down but then looked again toward the dim hall. Standing up straight he looked around uncertainly. He stepped to the hallway opening and stopped. Rather than proceed, he gave his attention back to Sports Center’s never-ending run of loud comments and opinions until it cut to commercials. Only then his he lean his body to look down the hallway. Light shown from the open bathroom door.

Michael walked down the hall and stood outside the bathroom. He saw Rachel standing over the sink, water running, a band-aid box out on the vanity. The scarlet in the stream of water caught his eye, and leaning closer he caught sight of the thin red line of a cut along the side of her left index finger. He stood there silent. She did not look up. He watched a moment longer, shrugged, and walked back to his chair.

“You’re always doing that. Always acting like you know what’s true and what’s not. Well, you want to know what I think is true? I think you don’t give a damn about me. I could die in a car crash, and you wouldn’t care.”

“Of course I would. If you were dead who would I have to make my life an excruciating, miserable hell?”

“God. And you wonder why I can’t stand even looking at you.”

Rachel pulled the band-aid tight around her finger. The empty wrapper and plastic backing tabs littered the counter. Her hand swept them into the waste basket. She leaned forward on her hands and looked up, confronting her reflection in the mirror. She frowned back at herself. Her fingers slowly traced the faint suggestions of lines running across her forehead. She dropped her hand to her side.

Leaving the bathroom she began to walk back toward the kitchen then stopped herself short. She stood listening. Television voices continued non-stop in the living room. She opened her mouth as if to speak out, hung there in indecision, turned and ran back down the hall toward the darkness of their bedroom. At the doorway she caught her momentum with her arms outstretched against the doorframe. The black-grey outlines of domesticity surrounded her: large forms of a dresser, an empty bed, nightstands; small shapes of jars, frames, bric-a-brac. Rachel collapsed in the doorway and wept.

“Why do you insist on doing that? You know I hate it when you walk around in there naked. Put a robe on at least.”

“Whatever. You’re just mad because you can only wish to ever have sex with me again. You know, you always were a lousy lay.”

“You poor thing. If your intent is to arouse some attraction in me, you’ll need to start taking much, much better care of yourself. Do you really think that the sight of all your flab and pasty skin does anything but repulse me?”

Lost in the mindless glow of the expert analysis, Michael gradually became aware that something was wrong. Taking up the remote he muted the TV. In the uncovered silence he heard the sound of crying. He shifted uncomfortably in his recliner. His hands turned the remote over and over again. The crying continued.

He jabbed the remote toward the screen and brought the sound back up. Eyes unfocused he sat gripping the arms of the chair. Sports Centershouted at him. Finally he flung his body up and away. He found himself in the kitchen. Scattered ingredients of an almost finished dinner lay forgotten. The night dark window threw his blank expression back at him. In the background a door slammed. He reached over and flipped off the light.

“Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

The sound of the television came back on and choked the tears in her throat. Rachel’s fingers balled into fists. Her face a snarl, she stood and stormed over to the waiting bed. She yanked away a pillow and the comforter and hurled them into the hall. She swung the door closed, hard, and then locked it.

“I have no doubt you do. Maybe one day I’ll care.”