10. The Taming of the Screw-up

About a month after we'd decided to divorce, the big blow-out screaming affair happened. It was the last fight - to date - we would have about our marriage, for one very important reason which you'll see below.

D was a lover of melodrama. He thrived on conflict. Always one to pick a fight when he was younger, he could hardly resist the chance to disagree with you. He wasn't self-righteous, he'd tell you: he was right. About everything, from government policy, to the foibles of our friends, to just about everything we did. It was like living with a teeny, tiny dictator for 7 years, and having our third of an acre be his only domain. It was sad, and maddening.

D was also really enjoying his nights out, at bars, at pool halls, AA, whatever. All I knew was, for several weeks now, he'd been out 4 to 5 nights a week till at least 2am. This would not have bothered me except that Loud n Dusty, the pickup truck I'd bought for him, was notably loud in our quiet, idyllic suburban neighborhood, and struggled to stay quiet particularly on hills. By which we are surrounded. So there wasn't much I could do about the fact that Loud n Dusty would wake me up, every night. (I didn't dare wear earplugs, since I wanted to make sure I could hear Little One if anything was needed.)

This, our last fight, occurred one Friday afternoon when D picked me up at the bus station. After several weeks of being woken up in the middle of the night, and not being able to go back to sleep, I was, how you say, over it, and just bitchy-ass tired.

"Sorry I'm late," he said when I got in the car. "I just got back from downtown."

I didn't notice that he was late. What I did notice, however, was that he was driving what used to be our car, but had been my car for about a month now - ever since he'd bought Loud n Dusty. It was odd, I thought, that I'd given him $3,000 for a truck which he was now not driving. This was not the first time he'd figured he could just take the family car wherever he wanted.

"Okay," I said. "Can I ask, what's wrong with your car?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well - if you're driving this car, then you're not driving your car. And if you're not driving your car, I am guessing that something happened to it? Is something wrong with it?"

I have to admit, I was passively-aggressively peeved at this point. But I was also using logic, which always unnerved him.

We pulled up to a red light. "Why the FUCK are you hassling me?" He yelled at me. "All I did was go DOWNTOWN and now so what if I'm FUCKING DRIVING YOUR CAR!" I mean, really - really? This was the reaction?

"You know what, bitch?" He continued. "Fuck this."

And with that rather eloquent pronouncement, D put the car in park, turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition, and got out of the car, which was still sitting at the red light. I sat in the passenger seat for about 3 seconds before remembering that I had my keys on me. I jumped out, ran around to the driver's side just as the light was turning green, turned the car back on, and drove past D as he stormed across the street, walking away.

I drove home, shaking. Terrified. I was wondering whether I should call the police, if I was in any physical danger. But you know what? I was really, really pissed off. For the first time, I was not only ready for battle, I was hungering after it. I craved it. I wanted to tell this motherfucker off for the first and last time, and that feeling of purpose gave me the backbone I so desperately needed.

So I called his cell phone, which I knew he had on him. He let it ring to voice mail. So I called back. And he let it ring to voice mail. So I called, four more times. Each time, the same result, except the last time.

Finally, he picked up. "What?" Belligerent, but not screaming; this was good.

"Where are you?"

He hung up.

So I drove down our long, winding hill, trying to see if I could find him. And there he was, walking at a heart-stopping pace up our hill. I did a u-turn and rolled down my window. "Want a ride?" I asked, not un-sweetly.

He got in, surprisingly, and the yelling started as we drove back up the hills. Most of the entire conversation happened in the front seat of the (my) car, parked in the driveway. I think the UPS lady even walked past us on her way to the front door. My, but what a sight we must have been.

Blah, blah, blah, went the fight. But this time, it was a down-and-out FIGHT. I was yelling back. And I have to tell you, it felt really, really good. We were re-hashing old territory, re-covering old ground which, given the current divorce track we were on, didn't really mean much anymore. It was simply a battle of wills, each of us trying to out-do the other with "I'm more hurt, no I'm more hurt" rhetoric. I'm not proud of it, but I had had enough, I was exhausted, and I needed to get it out of me. Much of it was venting, and in true "head in the sand" manner, I've forgotten most of it. Except for one line, which helped tremendously in the days and weeks ahead.

During the conversation, at some point, he took it upon himself to use the phrase, eyes all a-bulge, "If you come after me with this divorce, fuck you, I will BURY YOU."

Bury me. Bury me? Like, with a shovel, or with a lawyer? Either way, it was a conversation-stopper.

I stopped arguing with him and opened my eyes wide, as if to say, "Really? Did you just say that?" And I have to say, it was a little hard to do - I was actually enjoying being in the fray for once. But this crossed a line.

I looked at him calmly, took a deep breath, and said, "Let me be very clear about something here, D. If you threaten me again, ever, or if you ever make me feel threatened in any way, I will have you put in jail. By the way, what you just said, about burying me? That's your last chance. Are we clear?"

I could not have stopped him colder if I'd slapped him across the face.

The conversation took a dramatic turn after that, with his mea culpas and my "sure, okay, sure"s. If you could prick someone with a pin, and watch all of their aggression quickly vent out of them - that's what this looked like. He simply deflated in front of me.

I was riled, but attempting to reign it in. I had to go pick up Little One at daycare, and besides, everything that had been said - with the exception of the "bury you" comment - had been said before. There was nothing new to learn there.

But I now had a very important tool in my arsenal: I could, and now would, yell back. And, as it turned out, that was indicative of the fact that I was learning how to be un-afraid of him. As someone who had spent much of the relationship a little (or a lot) afraid of her own husband, this was a monumental shifting of the sands beneath me.

And it felt good.

After that, I notified my parents, and one other friend, about what D had said to me (the burying comment), so that they would be able to help me document what had happened. Before, I'd just wanted to get legal. And I had; I had a good divorce lawyer, who had helped me file joint divorce papers with D, and she was a wealth of information. She had even recommended a good lawyer for D, but he had as of yet not called the lawyer, telling me he would, eventually.

But now, I was mad. D was running me for money, a car, an apartment, alimony, and not even looking for a job of his own. He wasn't taking care of Little One, who was still in full-time daycare. He was staying out most nights now, with zero compassion for its effects on me (still the breadwinner in our household), and zero desire to compromise over it.

Things went on like this for another few weeks, until I finally found an apartment for him. He was utterly incapable of doing this sort of thing on his own and had asked for my help.

On November 1, he moved out, his cousin helping him move and pack all of his stuff. It was about 2 months and a week after The Text Message. My mother was visiting, to help me coordinate (and cope). Little One was still oblivious, being too young to really get what was happening.

We established an early parenting plan. Although he was supposed to start paying childcare as soon as we had filed the divorce papers (late September), I took pity on him, since he had no income.

For the first two weeks, Little One would trade off between our house and his apartment, always for just a few hours at a time. I was adamant that she would not spend the night at his apartment until he had a place for our child to stay - an actual bed, a room. He barely batted an eye agreeing with me.

Ah, dear reader, here's where it really gets interesting. Because on November 16, I found an email which would utterly change not just the course of this divorce: It would force me to change in ways I could never have imagined.