The Site of Big Shoulders: Fiction: Coffee

Coffee by Bill Teitelbaum

Holly was pouring him a cup of coffee. "Look, man, I have to ask you — I mean, was I ever a good wife to you?"

"Holly, we've been through this a hundred times already. I never said you weren't a good wife. But we were married a long time, Holly. We're different people now. We never really knew our minds then."

"But how am I a different person now? I'm just old now, that's all I am. I'm a house now."

"Holly, listen to me, we have to stop this. This is bullshit, Holly."

She didn't get it, though. She stood there like something broken, like she was waiting for the repair-guy to show up.

Photograph by Erin Brauer

Not me, Clymer thought.

And yet he was always a little afraid to say no to her. He could never tell how it would take her. Maybe at first she would understand, but then maybe the next day or so she could become angry and bitter about something and she would knock him to the kids for it. He had seen it happen.

The kids were smart, though, Clymer reminded himself. They knew more than they let on.

Though probably the best thing, thought Clymer, would be for Holly to meet a guy with kids of his own. Somebody steady. With his head screwed on. Clymer didn't know how he would deal with that, but for Holly definitely it was the best thing he could think of.

Briefly, he wondered if there might be anyone at the showroom he could fix her up with. It seemed reasonable enough. Most of the other salesmen were divorced, too.

Only you had to ask what divorce had accomplished for them. Like Holly they all seemed angrier now than they had been when were they were married. They couldn't see out, people like that, they had no quiet.

Plus, Clymer realized with a little jolt of alarm, the more she saw of guys like that, the better probably he looked to her.

He watched her rummaging through the cabinets over the sink. "I think there's some Scotch left. You want some?" She took down the bottle and held it to the light. "I don't even know why I keep it here. You want a splash?"

The kids were smart, though, Clymer reminded himself. They knew more than they let on.

Clymer watched as she topped off his coffee.

Grow up, he would scream at her in his head. This is what it was about. How did you meet people? How did you live? What made her think he knew this stuff any better than she did?

Only nothing seemed to register. It was the reason why Clymer had been wondering recently if maybe the only real answer for him might be just to leave the area, just pick up and go somewhere. He would miss the kids terribly, but when he thought the situation through he didn't see an alternative. You were better off miserable than live this way.

Should he line something up then, he wondered, or what — just go? It all seemed impossibly simple to Clymer.

But that was the great thing about selling cars, he reminded himself. He could even move to Hawaii if he wanted to.