Author Information
The End
by David Seaman
"Have you ever been to a marriage counselor?" It was after work and Jack and Reggie were at a chain restaurant sitting at the bar; an unusual sidetrack.
"Thirteen," Reggie answered. He smacked his lips as he placed his drink on the bar.
"Thirteen times?"
"Thirteen counselors," Reggie giggled. He shook the ice in his empty glass, signaling the bartender for another.
"How'd it work out?" Jack asked.
"Thirteen is always the magic number." Reggie smiled, eyes glassy and twinkling.
"Oh," Jack said, realizing.
The bartender put a fresh scotch in front of Reggie. Jack covered his glass, shaking his head no and the bartender left.
"Since there was no fourteen I'm guessing something changed," Jack said acerbically.
"What's happening with you, Jack?" Reggie said, now seriously.
A few heartbeats filled time.
"Liz is leaving me," Jack said.
Reggie took a full swallow but never let his eyes part from Jack's. "I'm so sorry. I really am. I won't ask what happened or why because those are all stall questions. There are no answers."
"Well, I want answers. I want to know; I want to know when-" Jack clamped his eyes and throat shut and then drained his glass. "What the hell happened to vows?"
"Listen, Jack," said Reggie, "when we make those vows were all young and shiny and we still think anything is possible." He looked into his glass. "What did she tell you?"
He paused for a moment, thinking. "She says that I checked out long ago. She feels alone even when I'm there." Jack leaned in and his voice got steady and measured. "She feels afraid of me, like she can't talk to me and every move she makes she waits for my criticism; my judgement. She said she's always waiting for an attack." A change in his voice: "She cries in her car on the way home to me." His voice got softer. "It not just that she feels I don't love her anymore, she feels like I hate her."
Later in the car as Jack thought of going home to Liz he began to cry. They were thick and familiar tears. NPR came from the speakers and could have been any language as he slowed through the tolls. He looked at the clock, trying to formulate his explanation why he was an hour late. He pondered the punishment possibilities: Silence. Confrontation. Issues that weren't related to anything. He sighed. There was no way to prepare.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the motion sensor lights came on exposing everything like a prison yard. The tears were replaced by anxiety. He turned the car off and sat, breathing deeply with eyes closed. He collected his briefcase, keys, gloves, and exited the car. Instead of slamming the car door he leaned against it until a "click" indicated it was shut. He looked up and saw his son's room, lit by the glow of a night light. His love for the boy made him despondent. How to protect him?
He entered through the kitchen door, hung his keys on the hook, and put his coat over the back of a chair. The kitchen had been closed for the night; only under counter lights and the hum of the dish washer. He heard the television from the den. Jack went bravely toward the sound where Liz was sitting in the good chair, clipping coupons in front of the television. She didn't look up. He sat on the couch across from her.
"Did you put your paycheck in the checkbook?" Liz finally asked him as she slipped coupons into an organizer.
"No. The checkbook lives in your purse," he reminded her. "I left it on the counter." He swallowed.
"Hmmmm," she said.
"Liz," Jack said. Had she heard him? She didn't react. "Liz. I'm leaving you."
She looked up; stopped in routine for an instant, as if planning her next move.
"Really," said Liz.
A tear fell down his cheek as he prepared for the inevitable attack.
© nov 18, 2016
