The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01

"She's your mother," I said. "And she loves you very much. More than you'll ever know until you have kids of your own someday."

He didn't say anything, but his bottom lip started sticking out.

"You should maybe give her a break, little man."

"Why? She's the one that's leaving, Dad."

I kneeled down beside him. "But it's not because of you, okay? You've got to believe that. She's not doing this because of you."

"I don't care," he said, his voice getting louder. "Who cares why she's leaving. All that matters is she's leaving. And I won't get to see you anymore."

Tears were welling in his eyes and running down his cheeks.

"Sure you will," I said, using my thumb to brush away his tears. "We'll see each other all the time."

"That's not what Tammy Palewski says. She says she never sees her dad. Never."

I pulled him in for a hug.

"But you're not Tammy Palewski, and I'm not Tammy Palewski's dad."

"But what if we move away? Then how will you see me?"

I held his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "I don't care if you move to the South Pole. I'm still going to see you. Got it?"

He nodded.

"If I have to wrestle polar bears and beat up the penguins, I'm still going to get to you, okay?"

He giggled through his tears.

"Why would you beat up the penguins?"

"Just let them get between me and you," I said.

He giggled some more, then went back to peeling.

"Dad?" he said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Can we make some more soldiers after supper?"

"We'll ask your mom. If she says it's okay, then we will. Fair enough?"

"I suppose so."

* * * * *

It was almost eleven before I went to bed. The lights were off, and I shed my jeans and was pulling on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Whitney spoke.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For talking to Kyle. Earlier. I heard you."

I grunted.

She was silent as I slid under the covers, and I laid there looking at the ceiling for a few moments.

"Luke?"

I said nothing. We'd been sleeping together in the same bed since the shit had hit the fan. It somehow seemed natural. But we hadn't spoken to each other. Talking in bed seemed somehow more intimate, and now unnatural.

"Why are you wearing pajama bottoms to bed?"

I thought about that. It wasn't something I'd been consciously doing. Not like using the other bathroom, which had been a planned affair. No, wearing pajama bottoms just seemed like the thing to do now.

"Are you still awake?"

"Yeah, Whit, I'm still awake."

She rolled over, and I could see her outline as she drew closer and her face was almost touching mine.

"I want you," she said.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not."

"Because you don't want me anymore?"

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around."

"But I want you now."

I reached over and turned on the light, then rolled back and faced her.

"What's going on here?"

"I just . . . I don't know. It's just that we seem to be--I don't know--strangers all of a sudden."

I gave a bitter snort. "No shit."

"You know what I mean."

"No, Whit, I have no clue. I'm still trying to figure out how you can just wake up one morning and decide you want someone else."

"I don't want anyone else."

"Really? Could've fooled me."

"But I don't."

"Yeah. Well. I guess the point is that you really don't want me, either."

I slid out of bed.

"Where are you going?"

"The couch," I said, picking up a pillow. "This doesn't seem like a good idea anymore."

"Please," she said.

I looked down at her and saw now that she was naked under the sheets. She looked so sexy and vulnerable and . . . and . . . and I hadn't been laid in almost three weeks.

"Please, Luke," she said again, her hand reaching out and brushing over my erection.

I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to shed my clothes and jump back into bed and fuck her until neither of us could walk. And I felt myself leaning toward her before all of the images of the past week began rushing to my brain.

"I'm signing the papers on Thursday," I said, my voice hoarse.

Her hand went still, and her eyes flashed with fear.

"What papers?"

"To start the divorce," I said. "They'll be ready on Thursday."

She pulled her hand back and cuddled in on herself in a fetal position.

"They said you can go to the Sheriff's office and pick them up. To avoid a scene having you served at work or here."

She gave no reaction, just a blank stare at a spot on the far wall. She was lost in her thoughts.

I looked at her for a moment, all carnal thoughts now banished.

Then I reached over, turned off the light, and made my way to the sofa.

CHAPTER SIX

"What's your hurry, Luke?" Doug Morrisey said.

"Hurry on what?" Peggy Marsh said as she slipped into the booth next to him and placed her tray on the table.

He looked at me for my assent before answering her.

"He's getting a divorce."

Peggy didn't react. Instead, she buttered her dinner roll and dipped it into the bean soup.

"Did you hear me?" Doug said.

"I heard," she said.

"And?"

She bit the roll and chewed, looking at me the whole time. When she swallowed, she put the roll back on her tray and spoke.

"You screwing around?"

"No."

"Is she?"

"Sorta."

"Sorta? Jesus, Luke, it's a simple question. Is she screwing someone else? Yes or no?"

"Probably not," I said. "There's someone else. Another guy. I know that much. She says they're not sleeping together, but I'm not sure if she's telling the truth."

"Then she's probably screwing him," she said, picking up her spoon and tackling her soup.

"She says she's confused," I offered, sipping my coffee. "She's in a rut. Not happy with work and with me."

Peggy just nodded, eating her soup and not saying anything.

"You think she's just going through something?" Doug asked her.

"Like what?" Peggy said.

"I don't know. Her . . . well, her period. Or depression?"

Peggy laughed. "Men. Anytime we act a way you don't expect, it's because our monthly visitor has come a calling."

"You know what I mean," Doug said. "Come on, you're the expert here."

She looked at him, then turned to me. "Okay, give me what you've got."

"I just did," I said.

"Has she been withdrawn?"

"Yeah. Two or three months."

"She been sleeping more than normal?"

"No."

"Her appearance slipping? You know, hair not done. Maybe looking a touch more disheveled?"

I shook my head. "None of the above."

"Then it's probably not depression," she said.

I sagged. This wasn't something that could be cured with counseling and some medication.

"Don't get me wrong," Peggy said. "It could be depression. Still, except being suddenly unhappy with her lot in life, there are no other signs that I can tell."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

"So what're you doing about it?" she asked once her soup was finished.

"I'm going in tomorrow to sign the divorce papers."

"Seems a bit quick."

"No shit," Doug joined in.

"It's a lot of things," I said. "Yeah, she only told me nine or ten days ago. That she wanted a separation and she was kind of seeing someone else. But I can't just sit back and do nothing. I can't just wait in limbo and let her spring it on me. I can't live in limbo."

"You need to feel like you're retaining some control over your life and your family," she said.

"Exactly."

"Including the control to be the one who ends it."

"I guess so."

"Why?"

I pondered this, my eyes going from big, chunky, bearded Doug to tiny, frail little Peggy. They were certainly an odd couple. Doug, the middle-aged, burly literature professor, divorced and a personal mess with a mind that scattered thoughts all over the place. Peggy, late-thirties and never married, with the precise mind and pinched looks not commonly associated with clinical psychologists. Oh, and the no-bullshit approach without excuses and qualifiers. She was very much a black-and-white person; there were no shades of gray and no excuses.

"You ever have the absolute love of your life--just totally out of the blue, without a clue it was coming--have her tell you she doesn't really love you anymore? That she's spending time with someone else, and that he's the only thing keeping her sane?"

"Yeah," Doug sighed. "Germaine."

"You?" I said to Peggy.

"Not really."

"Let me tell you something. It's horrible. I mean, words cannot even describe what that did to me. How suddenly empty and useless I felt. It was a whole ton of things, y'know? Like betrayal and like I wasn't good enough, like there's something wrong with me. Like how could she do this? If not just to me; it's to Kyle, too. Like she was suddenly a stranger."

"You're trying to understand," Peggy surmised.

"At first I was," I said. "Not now. Now I don't really care. Now I just--"

"Don't want her to stay in control of what happens here because you're not sure you can handle it. Because you don't want to go through that all over again."

"Bingo."

She shrugged. "Seems healthy enough."

"Really?" Doug and I said in unison.

"Sure." She finished her soda, slurping up the last drops, before putting her glass down and looking at me. "You're not a dumbass. I don't really know your whole history, but I can guess at quite a bit of it. And you're not likely to go running off half-cocked to just get revenge or try to hurt her back. You've thought this through, decided you can't play it by her rules and on her time lines, and you're taking control of the situation."

"Exactly," I said. "And that's good?"

"Don't see why not."

I looked at Doug, who seemed to doubt this.

"One other thing," Peggy said.

"What's that?"

"Remember, this is just a guess," she said, sliding out of the booth and picking up her tray. "I haven't talked with her or observed her or seen anything, so it's just a guess."

"Okay."

"But she's slept with him. Whoever this guy is, she's slept with him."

It was like a punch to the gut.

"It wasn't depression that drove her to finally confront you," she said. "It was guilt. Guilt about her double life. Guilt that while she's doing it--or at least did it--you were there taking care of everything for her."

I couldn't say anything. Whitney still insisted she hadn't slept with him, and I half-believed her. Not totally. Hell, who wouldn't have doubts. Still, she was so insistent.

"Maybe it was just once," Peggy continued. "Maybe a few times. It could still be going on."

"Last night," I finally said. "When I went to bed, she was still awake."

"And she tried to seduce you, didn't she?"

I nodded.

Peggy smiled. "Then the affair's probably over. Her guilt is probably overwhelming, and sleeping with you--having sexual relations with you--may help her expiate her guilt."

"But it won't," I protested.

"But she thinks it will."

Peggy hesitated, like she wanted to say more.

"What?" Doug finally prompted her.

"Just thinking," she said.

"Thinking what?"

"That I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now."

"Why?"

"Because now your decision just got a helluva lot more difficult."

"How so?"

"Before," she said, "you filed for divorce in response to her rejection of you. Now, though, she's not rejecting you anymore. If I'm a betting man, she's trying to figure out how to get past everything--forget what she's done and get you to forget it, too--and just go back to the way it was."

"So now I really am the one pushing for the divorce. The divorce that she really--at least probably--doesn't want anymore."

Peggy nodded, then gave me a tight smile.

"Good luck with that one."

I just slumped.

* * * * *

"Where's Kyle?" Whitney said when she walked in the door.

"Next door," I said, staring out the window and watching him run around and play in the backyard abutting ours.

I listened to her hang up her jacket, then her footsteps approached me. I was surprised--and froze instantly--when she put her arms around my waist and hugged me from behind.

"I don't want a divorce," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"When did you quit seeing him?" I said, not moving.

She said nothing.

"When was the last time you slept with him?"

"I said I didn't do that," she said, her voice sounding tiny.

"You lied."

I unclasped her hands at my waist and turned to face her.

"So when was it? Saturday, when you had to run out for a few hours?"

She didn't say anything.

"Or maybe over an intimate lunch on Monday?" I pressed.

She just stared at me, her face begging me to let it be.

I stared back at her, not willing to give in until I had some answers.

"I said I didn't sleep with him," she finally said.

"Fine. You two didn't sleep together. When's the last time you fucked him? Or sucked his dick? Or let him eat you out? Huh? When was it, Whitney?"

She covered her ears with her hands. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because I don't," I yelled. "Because I think you had an affair and you were all ready to leave me for him. But now I think you've changed your mind, and I don't know why. I don't know if it's because you really do love me, or if you just don't want to give up everything we've got."

"But I do," she yelled back. "I do love you, Luke. And I'm sorry. I just forgot about that for awhile."

I looked at her and could tell she was serious. Her face said it all. Her face and the rest of her body. She was pleading with me to just drop it all. To let it alone and forgive her and just go back to the way things were. To take her into my arms and hold her tight and tell her it would all be okay.

"Say something," she begged. "Please, Luke. Say you still love me."

"I never stopped," I said, all of the fight going out of me.

"I'm sorry," she said, throwing herself at me and hugging me tightly. "I'm just so sorry."

I didn't hug her back, and she noticed after a moment.

"Luke?" she said, looking into my face.

"I got in to see Rebecca early," I said. "I signed the papers an hour ago."

"But you can--"

"No, I can't. I won't, Whitney. I'm going through with it. You still won't tell me a goddamned thing, and there's no way in hell I'm going to just let it drop and spend the rest of my fucking life hoping it--whatever the hell 'it' is--hoping it doesn't happen again. I can't do that. I can't go through this again, and I can't live in dread of you doing it to me again."

She collapsed into a chair, sobbing and apologizing all in the same breath.

I went out to intercept Kyle and take him out for a burger.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A few things they never really tell you about divorce.

First, apparently it's common to still live under the same roof while the whole thing plays itself out in the courts. That's why Whitney got to live in the house until the final judgment even though everyone knew I'd be keeping the house. (It was a gift from my parents; they're loaded.) As such, Whitney had no claim to the house and wouldn't be getting any portion of it in the divorce, but she could still live there until the final judgment was entered and the judge agreed with what everyone already knew.

Second, even relatively simple divorces can take longer than you'd ever imagine. If everything was agreed upon up front, it could be over in three months or so. If even the smallest thing was still at issue, though, it could take a year and a half. A year and a half of still living in the same house, by the way. I still shudder at the thought.

Third, it's damned trying on everyone to still live in the same house while the divorce is going on. Doug was right: It sucked way worse than I'd ever thought possible.

So once the written discovery was done, and we all confirmed that we both knew most of the financial picture, Rebecca suggested a settlement conference to speed things up.

Imagine that: A lawyer trying to get it done quickly and cheaply with the least amount of pain. I know, it surprised me, too.

"Professor Patterson," Whitney's lawyer said, extending his hand to shake mine. "I'm Jim McNally. Whitney's attorney."

He was tall, late forties, full head of graying hair, and handsome as hell. Rebecca had already mentioned all of this to me, of course. His dashing good looks, easy charm, and instinct for the jugular. He was good, which still seemed like an oxymoron when discussing a lawyer.

"Call me Luke," I said.

"And I'm Jim."

He said hello to, and hugged, Rebecca. They seemed like old friends from way back. How do they do it? How can lawyers act so friendly with each other, then turn around and fight like hell against each other? They were all a different breed of cat, that's for sure.

We all walked into his conference room, and I saw Whitney already there, sitting and fidgeting.

"So," McNally said once everyone was seated, "how're we gonna fix this mess?"

He was looking at me, as was Whitney, but I said nothing. Instead, I did what I was told: I shut my fucking mouth--Rebecca's words, not mine--and let Rebecca do the talking for me.

"It's really pretty straightforward, Jammer," she said. "Joint custody of Kyle; Luke as residential parent; Whitney can--"

"Luke as residential parent?" McNally interrupted. He turned to Whitney, who avoided his stare.

"Luke as residential parent," Rebecca confirmed. "He's the one who's taking care of the boy now, so why change?"

McNally's eyes narrowed. This was clearly coming as a surprise to him.

"When you say he's the one taking care of Kyle now, you mean he's . . . ."

Rebecca turned to me and nodded.

"She means," I said, "that I'm the one who feeds him, helps him with his homework, goes to his parent-teacher conferences, gets him to the doctor and the dentist, gets him to school. You know: The one who takes care of him."

"And Whitney? You're saying she does nothing?"

I looked at Whitney, my eyes staying on her as I spoke. "Not at all. She helps out as best she can. But I'm only in class nine hours a week. I've got office hours another nine hours. Then I spend some time with research and meetings and the like. Still, my schedule works around his school far better, and I'm the one who takes care of it. Whitney words longer hours. Way longer hours. She helps out when she can. That's how it's always been with us."

He looked at Whitney, but she refused to meet his stare. After a moment, he turned back to us.

"All right, let's leave the issue of residential parent to the side for now. What about visitation?"

"Standard," Rebecca said.

He nodded, expecting this.

"Support?"

"Statutory," she said. "Nonresidential parent pays the residential parent twenty percent of net income. They can equally divide the cost of health insurance--or both keep him on their respective policies, for that matter, at their own costs. Equally divide uncovered medical expenses and school tuition and stuff."

He jotted this down on his legal pad, saying nothing.

"What about financials? The house?"

"Luke's nonmarital asset."

"You gonna give Whitney a disproportionate split based on this?"

Rebecca had warned me to expect this. Even though the house was mine, and there was nothing Whitney could do to get any part of it, the court could still take my total assets into consideration when splitting up the property. So because I had a house worth two hundred grand already, the judge could award Whitney a disproportionate share of the marital assets.

"What's she looking for?"

McNally looked up, hesitated, then spoke. "She's got a 401(k) plan."

Rebecca smiled. "I noticed that when I went through the discovery. Came as quite a surprise to Luke, too. He knew nothing about it."

I looked at Whitney, saying nothing about the newest bit of information that had come out in the divorce and wondering what other secrets she'd been keeping from me. She only stared at the legal pad in front of her.