Top critical review
1.0 out of 5 starsSliced!
Reviewed in the United States on February 3, 2013
Marsha and I had been married for 23 years. We were, I suppose, happy
in the way that people must be if they have stayed together for 23
years. More than two decades of living together had ground down the
burrs and sharp edges that we rubbed against each other in the first
turbulent years of the marriage. But those first years were also years
of passion. It was inevitable, I suppose, that the passion had died
along with the turbulence. It was, I suppose, a fair trade, but I
wasn't sure.
This helps explain what happened last October. I was in a strange
mood. It was a few days after my fifty-fifth birthday and I was
dwelling on the fact that I was closer to sixty than to fifty. Being
truly excited about anything seemed to be something in the past,
something that could never be recaptured. It was probably the reason I
was having occasional bouts of insomnia. It was in one of those bouts
that I left the bed, quietly, so as not to awaken Marsha, and went to
the kitchen. I thought that a banana might help me get back to sleep.
It was 3am. Turning on the bright fluorescent kitchen lights would
have made sleep even more hopeless, so I made do with only the
candle-like dimness of the kitchen nightlight.
I opened the utensil drawer and pushed away the peelers, whisks and
serving spoons to get at the 571B. There it was, in the dim kitchen
light, and it was as if I had never seen it before. The big
conspiratorial smile. In the dimness of 3am it was as if she and I
were alone in the world.
I heard from the bedroom "John, are you OK?" Overcome with feelings of
guilt I slammed the drawer shut and responded "Fine. I just couldn't
sleep." I was sure that my voice was shaky and that Marsha had to know
that something was up. After 23 years of marriage there was little I
could hide from her.
I went back to bed. I couldn't sleep, but there was now a new
reason. I could not empty my head of the image of that wide, twisted,
seductive smile.
At work the next day I couldn't concentrate, but I managed to win the
struggle against the temptation to rush back home to the utensil
drawer. I lost the struggle the following day. I went home right
after lunch, when I knew that Marsha would be at her book club
exchanging gossip. Her car was not in the garage, so the coast was
clear, but I was nervous. I had never done anything like this. I
hurried into the kitchen and flung open the utensil drawer. There she
was, with that twisted smile. She somehow knew that I would be coming
for her, and she was ready to go.
We're just friends; there's nothing wrong with this; we'll just go for
a drink. This is what I told myself, but who was I kidding? Why would
friends drive 15 miles to an out-of-the-way bar? Anyone in that bar
could have instantly seen through the just-friends lie. They could
also have seen that she had me completely wrapped around her soft
straight blades. I had my usual bourbon and she had a banana
daiquiri. But mostly we just looked at each other. And I talked.
I don't remember just what I said, but I do remember having a feeling
that I could tell her anything, my dreams, my sorrows. It was a feeling
that I had never had before, a feeling that our souls connected.
The time flew by, four hours, and I realized that I would be late
getting home. We fled the bar, and I drove much too fast, which was
particularly stupid since I had been drinking. It was if I had become
someone else. This was not me. I wouldn't be driving after drinking
and I wouldn't be cheating on my wife. Yes. I had to face it. That's
what it was. Cheating.
I got home an hour late and made an excuse about a work meeting going
long. I hid "Hutz" (for that was I called her) in my pocket until I
could sneak her back into her drawer. My wife stared in a strange way
at the bulge in my pants and I could sense that she suspected
something. Looking back I understand that it would have been best if
my wife had caught me that evening, and it had stopped right then. Or
would it have been? Would the pain to follow not have been a price
worth paying for those few weeks of ecstasy?
But she didn't catch me, and the cheating descended into a torrid
wonderful/terrible all-consuming obsession. I would buy Hutz gifts,
small gifts at first, but as my grip on reality loosened the gifts
became bigger and bigger, finally leading me to take out a second
mortgage to pay for a custom designed set of pearls that fit perfectly
in Hutz's little spaces. My wife had to sign on the second mortgage,
so I told her it was for home improvements. At this point I didn't
think twice about lying to her.
The danger itself had become a big part of the excitement. It was if
we were daring the world to discover us. And I think I did want to
shout from the rooftops about my happiness. Because of this, or for
whatever reason, we got more and more careless. We used motels closer
and closer to home. The end could have been seen by anyone not
blinded, as I was, by a fire that I had thought would never be lit
again.
But a fire that can heat can also burn, and it finally consumed me.
It is all a blur, the private detective, the flashbulbs, the
headlines... And now, here I am out on the street. I lost my job. My
kids, Cookie and Alexander, had to change schools and use false names
to avoid the mockery of their peers. Still, all I can think about is
Hutz. Yes, Hutz. She was a survivor. After my wife threw her out she
met and worked her magic on a rich Cuisinart, and they went off to
live in Oxnard. Me? I lie here in the gutter, fighting off my memories
with cheap wine, but every time I see a banana peel that fight is
lost.
