We Are Water. Wally Lamb

Four

       Orion Oh

      She didn’t just walk out on me one day; she migrated to Manhattan in stages. Day trips into the city to meet with gallery owners or important collectors turned into overnights. And after she won that NEA grant, those overnights turned into four-day work weeks because she used the money to rent studio space at a building in SoHo—a place that was owned and operated by some artists’ cooperative that Viveca had connections with.

      “You’ve worked successfully at home all these years,” I reminded her. “Why do you suddenly need to make art in New York?” Because she wanted to come up from the basement and be in the company of other artists instead of our washer and dryer, she said. Because in New York she’d be able to get on the subway and, fifteen minutes later, be standing in front of some masterpiece at the Met or MoMA, or walking into some gallery in Brooklyn to see a show by some up-and-coming artist that everyone was talking about. “Sweetie, I just want to try it,” she told me. “It’s an experiment. It’s only for a year.”

      “I don’t know. I just don’t want us to turn into one of those long-distance-marriage couples,” I told her. “Look what happened to Jeff and Ginny’s marriage when they tried it.” For one thing, she said, she took exception to the term “long-distance” when you could get from Three Rivers to Manhattan or vice versa in under three hours. And for another, she wanted to remind me that it was Jeff’s infidelity, not the geographical distance between him and Ginny, that ended their marriage. I considered making the point that being a workaholic was a kind of infidelity, too, but I held my tongue. How many times, when the kids were younger and she was housebound with them, had she leveled that same criticism at me?

      “And this is something you really, really want?” I said. “Something you think is going to fuel your work?”

      She nodded emphatically, no trace of ambivalence whatsoever.

      “Then let me talk to Muriel. Maybe she can do some juggling in the department and finagle me a leave of absence. There’s got to be plenty of sublets in Manhattan, right?”

      She folded her arms against her chest. “And what would you do all day long while I was working? Hang around some tiny little studio apartment? I know you, Orion. You’d go stir-crazy.”

      “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I said. “Because I’d never be resourceful enough to get up and leave the apartment. Go out and engage with one of the most exciting cities in the world. I’d probably just sit around, watching soap operas and twiddling my thumbs.”

      I smiled when I said it, but Annie looked exasperated. For one thing, she said, Viveca had already offered her a room in her apartment, rent free. What was she supposed to do? Tell her that her husband would be moving in, too? And more importantly, she wanted to be able to immerse herself in her work without having to keep to a schedule, or even look at a clock if she didn’t want to. “But how could I do that if I knew you were waiting around for me to quit for the day?” She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. “Sweetie, this is such a great opportunity for me. It would be for one year, not a lifetime. And we’d still see each other every weekend. I’d like to think we have a strong enough marriage to handle that.”

      I smiled. “Just for a year, huh? With weekend furloughs?” She nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s try it.”

      If she was preparing for a show or had to hobnob with some wealthy art patron who was in town for the weekend, the only day she could spare me was Sunday. I’d drive down to New Haven and meet her at the train station. We’d walk over to the green, grab some lunch at Claire’s or the Mermaid Bar. Compare notes about the kids—which one of us had heard from which, which of the three we were worried about that week. (More often than not, it was our wild card, Marissa. Or Andrew, who by then had entered the military and was facing the possibility of deployment.) We’d spend a couple of hours together, then head back to Union Station. Stand together out on the platform and, when the train came into view, hug each other, kiss good-bye. Then she’d board the Acela or the Metroliner and ride away. And as her one-year New York experiment turned into a year and a half after a couple of big purchases courtesy of viveca c, those kisses became pecks, the hugs became perfunctory. “My part-time wife” I’d started calling her, at first in jest, then in jest-with-an-edge. Later still, I hurled the term at her in outright anger.

      Looking back, I’m amazed at how much in denial I was about her and Viveca. Yeah, I’d get worried from time to time, but what I thought was that maybe she’d gotten involved with some other guy. I’d imagine him, worry about him, even sometimes picture her walking hand in hand with him—some artist or musician type, some lanky younger guy with a porkpie hat and a couple of days’ worth of stubble. But the only time I confronted her about another man, she got huffy—said that it was all about her work and that my insecurity was my problem, not hers. And hey, whenever I called her? She was almost always there where she was supposed to be—at her studio or at night at Viveca’s. Once when I called and Viveca answered, she said, “You know, Orrin, one of these days you and I will have to meet in person.” I let it go that she’d gotten my name wrong, and that we’d already met several years back at the Biennial opening. “I’d like that, too,” I said. I went down to visit Annie at the apartment two or three times, but each time it was when Viveca was out of town for the weekend. I still don’t know when they made the switch from roommates to lovers. Annie’s told me it happened over time, that their affair wasn’t “premeditated.” I believe her. Interesting, though, the way she’d put it. As if it was a crime. Which it was, in a way: the murder of our marriage.

      Sometimes we want something to be true so badly that we convince ourselves that it is true. How many times had I suggested that to one of the undergrads sitting across from me in my office? Some self-deluding young woman who was trying to convince herself that a boyfriend’s having smacked her around was a one-time thing; some young guy’s assertion that, although sex with other guys excited him, he wasn’t really gay. “Put your hand out,” I’d tell these students. “Now bring it closer. Now closer still.” And when their hands were a half inch from their noses, I’d ask them to describe what they saw. “It’s blurry,” they’d say, and I’d suggest that sometimes the closer we got to a situation, the less clear it looked. And that when wishful thinking trumped the reality we might otherwise be able to see more clearly and manage, we were setting ourselves up for a rude awakening … Psychologist, heal thyself. Little by little, I began to withdraw my own hand from my face, as it were. Began to face the fact that Annie and I no longer were together. That she had defected.

      The showdown came one Sunday afternoon when, in the middle of an argument we were having about her absenteeism, I said, “Do you even want to be married to me anymore?” We were in our kitchen. I was at the stove, making dinner—frying up eggplant on one burner, simmering marinara on another. Annie was at the table, going through two weeks’ worth of accumulated mail. Of course I do, I wanted to hear her say, but what she said, instead, was that she wasn’t sure anymore. That she was confused.

      “Confused?” I picked up the frying pan and slammed it back down against the burner. The noise made her jump. “Well, if you’re confused, how the hell do you think I feel?” At this stage of our crumbling marriage, our battle roles had reversed themselves. Annie had always been the one who yelled and banged things when we argued; I was the one who spoke softly and civilly, maintaining the upper hand. Now I was the shouter, the slammer. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself. Stood and walked out of the room, out of our house, and down the road. I stood at the window, watching her go. That was my rude awakening.

      Later, when the meal I’d made was starting to go cold, she came back. We sat in silence across the table from each other. Chewed, swallowed. Each bite I took landed like a stone against my stomach. “Look, if you’re confused, then go see someone,” I finally said. “Or maybe we can go together like we did that other time. I can make some calls, get a referral to a good marriage counselor and we can—”

      “I