Big Time

Twenty One

When they returned from their honeymoon, John went back to his long hours. The team was closing their first major deal, which once done, was quickly followed by their second. This meant minimum 12-hour days, five days a week. And once or twice a week, 12 became 14. Occasionally, even more. Barbara seemed to understand before, but John increasingly felt her unhappiness. She spent longer days at the gym and started personal training with Rebecca.

One night, just after their first wedding anniversary, John arrived home later than usual, just after 1:00 a.m. They were trying to close another deal and he was wiped out. He changed out of his suit and, wearing only his boxer shorts, approached his side of the bed, checked his alarm clock was set, sighed heavily and got under the covers.

“Another night where I get five hours of sleep,” he mumbled, partly to see if Barbara was awake.

She opened her eyes. “Get home earlier and you’ll get more sleep,” she said matter-of-factly, turning over in bed, away from him.

“Sorry babe, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was awake,” she said, sitting up. “If you want more sleep, employ more people and leave work earlier.”

“I’d like to, but we’re swamped.”

“You say that all the time.”

“That’s because we are. And employing people just adds to people wanting my time,” said John, closing his eyes. “Not to mention the costs.”

Barbara cuddled up to him, now wanting some warmth from his body. John put his arms around her and was drifting off when she said, “I need to talk to you.” He opened his eyes, with growing unease. “You’ve been coming home near midnight, tonight it’s one a.m. and we don’t even get a chance to talk … you just pass out.”

John pulled her in, squeezed her close and kissed her forehead. “It’s just while we are getting the business off the ground,” he said.

Barbara stayed silent and rigid. John had learned that her silence was an alarm worth heading.

“What’s wrong, Babe?” he asked, tired and annoyed that this couldn’t wait for the weekend.

Barbara was about to answer him when he yawned in her ear. She turned to look at him straight on and examined his flickering eyes—bloodshot, with dark hanging bags.

“Your eyes.”

“What about them?”

She turned on the bedside lamp. “They’re red.”

“I’m tired—can’t this wait till Saturday?”

“Talk to me,” Barbara said.

“Let’s talk in the morning.” His eyes shut again.

“I miss you, John.”

His eyelids opened temporarily. “I miss you too, Babe, but I’m beat.”

“I don’t care about the money, I just want us to be close again.”

John’s eyes fluttered open. “This isn’t the time. We’ll talk on the weekend. I promise.” His eyes closed again.

She turned over, yanked the lamp chain and swallowed back tears. “I’m not here for the Barneys card and the brownstone,” she said, but John was breathing deeply, already asleep.