The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (2 page)

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
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Chapter 1:

Comical Visions of Murder

T
ime:
Fast-forward to twelve years later, to any night of the year. It doesn’t make a difference.

“Ow! For Christ’s sake, Erica—can’t you keep this place a little
tidier
?” Ira grumbled as he tripped over our son Warren’s baseball glove in the hall.

Oh, God. Here we go again. I could have sworn Warren had put the glove away when I told him to. I did tell him to. Didn’t I? I bared my teeth at Ira in a lame effort to smile. One of these days I’d get lockjaw besides migraines. Had I subconsciously left that glove there to trip him?

Place:
Our new, large, white-brick house on 3566 Quincy Shore Drive, Boston. Good piece of real estate.
It had taken many years and a lot of sacrifices to buy it and make it our home. Ira’s company still didn’t earn enough to keep us afloat, despite what he always said. And I was happy to do my bit.

But who knew I’d end up like this? Married with children at thirty-four, with thoughts of comic murder drifting through my mind—like clobbering my husband over the head and shoving him into the oven to roast for a couple of days before anyone would ask about him? Not that anyone would miss him.

Have you ever, just for a moment, wished your husband would disappear into thin air—or at least to another country far, far away? Or, more simply, go back to being the guy you married ages ago? What the hell had happened to us, I wondered every day. What had started out with a promise of love had become routine, mundane, deathly dull.

I remembered the days I used to serve him his espresso coffee (in bed) in an elegant cup and saucer. Then we’d gone on to just the cup minus the saucer. And after Warren was born, Ira was making his own and using Styrofoam cups.

And now I was having murderous daydreams where I wiped him out of my sight with a single swat of my hand, or pushed h
im off a cliff (not that there were many on my daily route to work, back from work, picking up the kids and grocery shopping).

But I wasn’t the only one faltering. At least I had a reason—many, actually: a full-time job, two kids, a house to run, meals to prepare, laundry to do—while Ira had become a ghost-like presence, appearing very late at night and disappearing in the wee hours.

“Are you having an affair?” I’d asked him brusquely one rare Saturday he was home.

He’d looked up from his paper, his eyes wide, studying me, and finally sighed. “Erica…”

“Just please tell me, Ira. No beating around the bush.”

“No, I’m not having an affair. Besides, when would I even have the time?”

He had a point there. Ira was always at work. Assuming he was at work and not, say, bonking the cashier girl from the bakery opposite his office building.

He put the paper down and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “And thanks for dropping this on me the one time you see me home relaxing, by the way.”

“When else would I ask you, when you’re never around? Ira, the kids and I never see you anymore,” I said, lowering my voice from attack mode to a more persuading pitch. “We miss you.”

Ira nodded. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m always so busy. I’m overwhelmed. There’s just so much to do and so little time, and Maxine only has two hands.”

His secretary was a college student who came in after her classes to do the paperwork while Ira concentrated on trawling new clients. He paid her next to nothing, but it was still more than he’d ever paid me. The story of my life. I sighed. “Maybe, if we could arrange something—a deal; if you could spend one day a week with us, like maybe Saturday, then I’ll spend some time on your accounts. How’s that?”

His eyes widened. “Really, you would do that?”

“Of course. We’re a family. And it’s time we remembered that.”

Ira nodded, his eyes searching mine. “Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.” And then he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He folded his paper and came over to kiss me on the cheek. I wished it had been on my mouth.

“Things will get better, Erica. The business will pick up and I’ll have more time for you, Maddy and Warren—for all of us.”

I nodded back. “I know. It’ll be okay.”

That had been three years ago.

Still today, he’d come home and bury himself in his paper or surf the Net (in search of more golden egg-laying ducks that would supposedly save his company), taking very little interest in Warren, who was now going on twelve, and Maddy who was eight. It seemed at times that he simply endured their presence, always too tired to play with them or help them do their homework. The truth was that by the time he got home, I had already fed, washed, played and homeworked them and there was nothing left for him to do. Except to
do
me
. Which he hadn’t in ages, by the way.

What had gone wrong? Exactly when had we started taking the slide? Ira’s work was absorbing him completely, killing any other interest in family life. Not that he had ever been a real family man. He’d tried. He had tried so hard, but year after year he became more and more detached from us all. We never went places together anymore, he never came to parents’ night or to family reunions at my aunts’ Italian restaurant.

He was always cranky, but refused to tell me why, no matter how many times I’d sat him down to try and get to the bottom of it. I’d even suggested marriage counseling but he always said I had too much imagination.

And then one day, it simply got worse.

“Erica—you know I don’t like eggplant! If you can’t even keep track of the basics, just quit your job, already!”

Yeah. And then with what he earned, for the rest of our lives we would be having our dinners at Chez le Salvation Army. I scooped up Maddy’s dolls and Warren’s tractors, plunked them in their toy bins and rushed the kids through dinner and off to bed, anxious for the next day to come.

If I could only slow the reel down while I was at work or with the kids and my best friend Paul, and speed up the dreaded few hours Ira was home, my whole life would be made.

I quickly grilled Ira a steak and defrosted a
caponata
, my grandmother’s amazing onion, potatoes and red pepper dish, upon which he frowned. But my home-baked (actually, the hotel’s in-house baker’s I’d passed off as my own) apple pie shut him up almost instantly and he was happy. Until I’d decided to strike the iron while it was hot (mainly while he was home) and talk to him once again about the major root of our arguments.

Life was becoming too hectic and expensive here in the States. Working hours were longer than down-time. Our work/life balance was unbearable. I wanted to go back to my family’s homeland, Tuscany—and at one time it had been our common dream. Tuscany would be our haven, the place we’d planned to move to for a life change. We’d always wanted to buy an old stone farmhouse with haylofts, granaries and tobacco towers, and spend our time restoring them before renting them out to paying guests. We’d produce wine and olive oil and I’d swap my job as manager of the uber-luxurious Farthington Hotel with hanging laundry and sweeping out rooms, because they’d be
our
rooms,
our
property. And our children would see more of us.
Us.
What a nice ring it had.

I have never suffered having a boss very well, so to me running my own business felt like second nature. Even the kids had grown up under the idea of Tuscany.

I’d stay at home and run the business, bake pies, buy a couple of dogs (or maybe not—Ira’s allergic), and see the kids play in the open fields. Ira would oversee the crops and boss everyone else around. We’d been determined for that to happen one day. Back then Ira used to say, ‘Wow, yeah, absolutely.’ Then he switched to ‘Someday,’ to finally just a lame smile without a comment. And lately the smile had disappeared, too.

He’d have to crack sooner or later. So to get the ball rolling again, I suggested we enroll the kids into an Italian language and culture course.

“Italian?” Ira folded his paper over and sighed his usual sigh that always began an argument. “You’re not still going on about Tuscany, are you?”

“Why not? We’d be so much happier. Why shouldn’t we do this?”

“Because this is America! Nobody leaves America.”

“Yes, they do. Lots of people are returning to their homelands.”

“Italy is not our homeland.”

“It is mine.”

“And when was the last time you went to Italy?”

“Every year up until I met you,” I challenged. “I still have family there.”

But Ira was shaking his head, completely closed to the possibility. Which wasn’t fair. This was my life, too. And the children’s. I wanted a more genuine existence. I didn’t mean cows and sheep for Christ’s sake, but at least some open spaces where we could go bike riding and for walks in the afternoon, where the sun shone ten months of the year. Like one of my mother Marcy’s size four Versaces, the city lifestyle here was too tight for me. I needed space to breathe.

“It’s out of the question,” Ira said finally, throwing his paper down, and I followed him into the bedroom where he began to rummage through his drawers.

I rested my hands on my hips. “Why? Why is it out of the question?”

“Because I will never move to Italy. I’d hate it and the children will hate it as well. Just accept it so we can get on with our lives, okay?”

It would’ve been easier to just give up and cry in frustration. But I was a strong woman and a mother of three (yes, I’m counting Ira).
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said, feeling my patience slowly strengthening again.

He watched me warily, his hand buried in a neat pile of socks.

“I’ll forget about Tuscany—for now—if you agree to let the kids take Italian lessons.”

He groaned. “Is this one of your tricks, Erica? Because it won’t work.”

“It’s not a trick. All I want is them to learn the language. That’s all I ask.”

Ira stalled.

“What difference does it make to you?” I urged him in earnest. “I’ll be the one ferrying them back and forth to lessons anyway.” I didn’t mention I’d also be paying their tuition because then he’d get defensive about income again. Tech.Com still wasn’t doing very well (actually, it was a bottomless money pit), but he never wanted to talk about it.

“Don’t you remember, Ira? Don’t you remember our dreams?”

But Ira shook his head. “It was only ever that, Erica. A dream. It’s time to wake up. Besides, have you even
thought
about me? About my company? Or am I expected to ditch everything and chase you around the globe?”

“Would you?” I asked hopefully. “Like you said you would, once upon a time?”

“That was a very
long
time ago, and our lives have changed since then.” After demolishing my neat piles, he found his favorite pair of socks and then began to upturn the second drawer in search of a pair of briefs.

“Changed for the worse,” I muttered, and when he glared at me I added defensively, “You’re always saying how you hate Boston.”

“That’s only when I’m stressed!”

I raised my evil eye at him. “You’re always stressed. And you’re really getting on my nerves. I can’t remember the last time you and I had a laugh together or a decent conversation.” Nor could I remember the last time he’d kissed me, the last time I’d
felt
any love vibes flowing between us.

“That doesn’t mean that I have to bury myself in the Tuscan hills.”

It seemed as if Ira would rather drive nine-inch nails into his skull before agreeing to Tuscany. That could easily have been arranged.

“Listen to me, and listen good!” I snapped, scaring even myself. “The only reason I want to go is because I still cherish those dreams—as opposed to
you
! It’s not just about money or careers! I see the kids only a few hours a day and it’s not enough! Before I know it, they’ll be off to university!”

“That’s because you want to be a
hotel manager
,” he scoffed, now bunching his fists.

“No, Ira. I’d rather stay home and cook and be a full-time
mother
. But I can’t. I need to work to support this family.”

Truth was, without my income we’d still be living in that shitty place on the edge of town. And I’d never said anything about how the marriage was sucking my life dry. I’d do anything for my kids. And it really didn’t matter who made more. We were a family. Weren’t we?

Ira knew I was right but didn’t give me the satisfaction. He shrugged. “Find a part-time job, then.”

“A part-time job is not
enough
! We have the kids’ school tuition, ballet, soccer, school trips and a gazillion other things, not to mention that gas guzzler you continue to drive around town for God knows whose benefit.”

At that, he turned to me, his face red with anger. “We wouldn’t be in this situation now if you hadn’t left Tech.Com to have a baby! If you’d stayed by my side like a proper wife should!”

I blinked. So that was what it was all about? All these years he’d resented my earning enough elsewhere. Not sharing his dream with him. And now he didn’t want to share mine. But I had never had any choice to stay at Tech.Com. We had children to feed and clothe and shelter and protect. I couldn’t keep up with the romantic and impractical notion of the woman who follows her husband to the edge of the earth. Unfortunately I was the only one who saw things clearly. Ira had been blinded all these years by his dream, financed by my job. And now he was throwing all my sacrifices back in my
face
?

“A proper wife?” I said, feeling my cheeks burning. “I did what I had to do to feed my children, seeing that you weren’t capable.” I bit my lip, because I’d never wanted to hurt him, but knew now I’d been too kind to him. Besides, Ira had never censured himself in order to be kind to me. He was past delusional if he thought he was right. So, I let him have it.

“Are
you
a proper husband?” I demanded, getting braver by the second. “The one who hardly glances at his kids anymore when he comes through that door, and stares at the TV set while they’re trying to talk to him?”

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
4.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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