JК
Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 365 из 398"
I amincredulous. And I find myself wondering again just what in hell I am doing married to a woman like this. Even if I had no other reason for wanting a divorce, this idiot child she gave me would be enough.
I want a divorce.
I need a divorce. I long for it. I crave a divorce. I pray for divorce.
Divorces seem impossible. They're so much work. It's hard to believe so many really take place. It's enough to stab the heart with envy, turn eyes dewy with pining and sentiment. People less proficient than I am manage to breeze right through their divorces without breaking stride, while I can't even get a foot out the door.
I want one too.
I have always wanted one. I dream of divorce. All my life I've wanted a divorce. Even before I was married I wanted a divorce. I don't think there has been a six-month period in all the years of my marriage — a six-week period — when I have not wanted to end it by divorce. I was never sure I wanted to get married. But I always knew I wanted a divorce.
"If it doesn't work out," I kept assuring myself right up to the day of the ceremony, "I can always get a divorce."
I can't always get a divorce.
I don't know how it's done.
Maybe I attach too much importance to a shirt.
I'll have undershorts at the laundry. Will she let me come for them? Or will she burn them, hide them? Will she tell me my little boy is upset when he isn't? That she cannot live without me when she can? I know she'll tell me she's thinking of killing herself. The obstacles appear insurmountable. In the summer my winter clothes are in mothballs; in the winter, my summer suits are hanging somewhere else and my sneakers are packed away. How will I ever get them all together? I'd need weeks. I don't have time to get a divorce. There's so much packing to be done (she won't help), so much talk to go through. (How does anyone ever get it finished?) There'll be fights, discussions, more fights. (Will it never end?) Bank statements will already be in the mail. A letter will be due any day, a pinstripe suit I like has just been sent to the cleaner's. There'll be books to be boxed in corrugated food cartons from the supermarket, the smaller the lighter, the lighter the better. No wonder I keep finding reasons for postponing the action: the welfare of the children (a fat lot of good it's done any of them to have us stick together so long), the money, the office, my wife's health, a dinner party for the following week or a date for the theater with another couple that will have to be broken. Neither one of us will want to call; we'd rather stay married.
I amincredulous. And I find myself wondering again just what in hell I am doing married to a woman like this. Even if I had no other reason for wanting a divorce, this idiot child she gave me would be enough.
I want a divorce.
I need a divorce. I long for it. I crave a divorce. I pray for divorce.
Divorces seem impossible. They're so much work. It's hard to believe so many really take place. It's enough to stab the heart with envy, turn eyes dewy with pining and sentiment. People less proficient than I am manage to breeze right through their divorces without breaking stride, while I can't even get a foot out the door.
I want one too.
I have always wanted one. I dream of divorce. All my life I've wanted a divorce. Even before I was married I wanted a divorce. I don't think there has been a six-month period in all the years of my marriage — a six-week period — when I have not wanted to end it by divorce. I was never sure I wanted to get married. But I always knew I wanted a divorce.
"If it doesn't work out," I kept assuring myself right up to the day of the ceremony, "I can always get a divorce."
I can't always get a divorce.
I don't know how it's done.
Maybe I attach too much importance to a shirt.
I'll have undershorts at the laundry. Will she let me come for them? Or will she burn them, hide them? Will she tell me my little boy is upset when he isn't? That she cannot live without me when she can? I know she'll tell me she's thinking of killing herself. The obstacles appear insurmountable. In the summer my winter clothes are in mothballs; in the winter, my summer suits are hanging somewhere else and my sneakers are packed away. How will I ever get them all together? I'd need weeks. I don't have time to get a divorce. There's so much packing to be done (she won't help), so much talk to go through. (How does anyone ever get it finished?) There'll be fights, discussions, more fights. (Will it never end?) Bank statements will already be in the mail. A letter will be due any day, a pinstripe suit I like has just been sent to the cleaner's. There'll be books to be boxed in corrugated food cartons from the supermarket, the smaller the lighter, the lighter the better. No wonder I keep finding reasons for postponing the action: the welfare of the children (a fat lot of good it's done any of them to have us stick together so long), the money, the office, my wife's health, a dinner party for the following week or a date for the theater with another couple that will have to be broken. Neither one of us will want to call; we'd rather stay married.