VIC AND I ARE fighting. Not in the traditional manner where you'd expect a lot of shouting and the possibility of things being thrown. We don't do that kind of fighting in our house. I know there are couples who rumble like that on a regular basis because they like the drama of it. It energizes their relationship somehow; all the blistering anger burns through the boredom, and they claim to have a better marriage for it. But, possibly because neither Vic nor I like confrontation, we prefer to express marital disharmony through steely silence and the enthusiastic banging of kitchen drawers. Anyone outside of our marriage might not even be able to identify this as 'a fight' — but trust me, this one's a rager.
It started when Vic came home from work (late) to find Maeve shouting at Tim for hogging the TV (which makes a nice change from the washroom) and Angel shouting at Jeffry for accidentally knocking down the fort Maeve had built for her and me shouting at Buddy over Facetime, telling him NOT TO GO TO MONTREAL even as he was standing at the Porter ticket counter buying a ticket for that evening's redeye.
Vic stood in the living room, took in the chaotic scene that I was very much on top of, thank you very much, and had the incredible nerve to say, "I nearly broke my neck on the front steps. Hasn't anyone thought to put salt out?"
To which I tartly responded, "Salting sidewalks is a BLUE JOB. God knows everything else around here is a PINK JOB."
And before you gasp self-righteously and start to think that I really am as unfeminist as Sir Mix-a-Lot on a bad day, let me explain that the concept of Blue and Pink jobs in our house does not, in fact, split along traditional gender lines. None of that patriarchal nonsense happening here. Yes, we use Blue and Pink as codes for His and Hers, but they are simply markers for the two mutually-complimentary skills sets in our marriage.
Blue jobs include: Sanitation (garbage), taking the dog for the last pee of the day (I go to bed early), laundry (all aspects), dishes (but excluding, for reasons known only to himself, counter or table wiping), and snow/ice management.
Pink jobs include: everything else.
Or at least, I felt that way in my annoyance.
I stabbed the hang-up button on my phone, leaving Buddy to make the worst mistake of his life and stormed past my still-getting-up-to-speed-here husband, grabbed the bag of salt pellets from beside the door, flung it open and started throwing fistfuls of salt all over the porch and the stroller which was still, aggravatingly, uncollapsed.
"Argh!" I shouted, flinging one last mittful so aggressively that it flew all the way to the sidewalk, scattering around an Amazon delivery drivers' feet.
I turned back inside, slamming the door behind me and stood glaring at my husband, who had the good sense not to say anything for the moment.
He just dropped his work jacket onto the couch (which he knows I hate because the couch is white and his work jacket is dusty) and left the room without further comment.
Oh, that's how it's going to be, is it? I thought to myself. Two can play that game.
I followed him into the kitchen, as full of anger as if he'd just asked me 'what's for dinner?' even though he hadn't and started whipping cupboards open and throwing pots onto the stove.
Vic opened a beer and sat at the island, just watching me.
I slammed the tap on and filled a big pot with water. Then I brushed past him, bristling with fury, to reach the pantry, where I retrieved six packages of Mr. Noodle which we only keep in the house for the kids to snack on. I made belligerent eye contact with him, daring him to say something.
Again, wisely, he didn't. He just raised an eyebrow in the manner of a dare. He knows I don't like Mr. Noodle any more than he does, and he was calling my bluff.
I angrily tore the first package open with my teeth, forgetting that ramen has a tendency to break apart and scatter all over the kitchen floor, which, of course, it did. I maintained my determined expression even as I had to crunch across dry noodle bits and MSG powder that then dusted the floor and dumped what was left in the package into the pot of water.
After reenacting the same drama with the rest of the packages, I brought the pot lid down so hard onto the pot that the glass cracked.
Realizing I'd just bested myself, I peeked at Vic out of the corner of my eye and caught an unmistakable hint of amusement lifting the corner of his mouth.
I was just opening my mouth to say something I might later have regretted when the doorbell cut me off.
"Jesus H. Christ," he said, sliding off the island stool to go get the door. "Let's hope it's the Mormons so we can invite them in for dinner. There aren't enough bloody people in this house."
FORTUNATELY/UNFORTUNATELY DEPENDING ON your outlook, it isn't the Mormons. It is, instead, my very best friend since grade school, Vivian. Truth be told, I haven't seen much of Vivian since I inadvertently gave her lice, behaved atrociously in front of her girlfriend (who I accused of trying to sleep with my husband when, it turned out, she definitely wasn't) and got really, embarrassingly drunk at their moving-in-together housewarming party, ruining a white shag carpet by knocking over an almost full bottle of Rioja. I didn't help myself when, while trying to mop it up with a handy newspaper which really only served to further destroy the carpet, now smeared with newsprint as well as Spanish wine, I exclaimed drunkenly, "Who'as white carpets anyway? I thought lesbians were s'pose to be practical! They drive Subarus, for chrissake. A white carpet is like a fucking Tessssla. Is definly NOT a Sburabu. Sbubaroo. Subarboo!"
The last thing I remember about that particular evening is being put into an Uber by Viv, who told me to call her when I wasn't such an asshole. Then, unfortunately, just before she shut the cab door, I caught sight of Leslie (Viv's girlfriend and the one I'd accused of sleeping with my husband) glowering at us from the front door, so I rolled the window down and shouted back at her "G'night, Goldilocks! I'sorry I called you a slut! You'res a good person actually. With a very slutty carpet!" Then, cackled with self-amusement for a block or two before finally falling asleep in the backseat.
You can, perhaps, understand why, outside of a painstakingly worded letter of apology to them both and a few polite Facebook exchanges between former best friends, Vivian and I haven't seen much of each other in the last three years.
So, I am both shocked and delighted to see her in my kitchen, ushered in by Vic.
"Alice is just pulling together a gourmet feast. You're just in time."
I hesitate, unsure of how to approach her, but then see her bloodshot eyes are sprung with tears. All notion of embarrassment or distance evaporates and I rush over to her, putting my arms around her and giving her the 'shush shush' sound my mother always made when we were little and one of us was upset.
"Viv, what's the matter?"
Vivian, who is the strongest, feistiest, no-guff-taking, most self-assured person I've ever known, literally sobs against my shoulder. I see Vic make an "I'm out of here" face and make a quiet exit, leaving the two of us hugging beside a steaming pot of now overcooked ramen.
"Leslie," she sobbed.
"What about Leslie?"
"She..." More sobbing. Some unintelligible words, then, "... in love with someone else."
I grip my poor friend tighter.
"She what?"
Vivian gulps for air and pulls back from my shoulder. "She's in love with someone else. I don't even know who. I don't know why! Who just bails out on five years like that?"
"Oh my god, Viv. I'm so sorry," I say, rushing to open a bottle of wine (not Rioja, just in case it should bring up negative associations). "How did this all come out?"
"Tonight. I don't know; I just felt like something was wrong, you know. Like, she'd been distant. Working a lot. Not interested in bed, ever. I just figured, you know, woman stuff. Lesbian bed death, all that."
"Is that a thing?"
Vivian eyes me circumspectly. "Alice, that's a thing in all relationships." She accepts the glass of Malbec I'm offering and takes a deep gulp from it, then another. "Tonight, I called her on it. Like, really threw the gauntlet down. I know there's something up, blah, blah. I know you're seeing someone, don't deny it. All that."
"And did she? Deny it?"
My friend puts her wine glass down and covers her eyes with both her hands. "Nnnnnooo!"
I tut sympathetically and top up her glass (and my own). "I'm so sorry, Viv. I know it doesn't help to hear it, but I never really liked her."
"You didn't, really?"
"Well, I mean, at first, I thought she was a scheming slut, then later I just thought she didn't like me, so I didn't like her."
"Alice, you can't call women sluts. It's very unfeminist."
"Are you kidding me? I used to have a T-shirt with SLUT across the front in rhinestones, remember? It was super feminist! A reclaimed word! Anyway, as long as you believe in slut-equality it's fine. And I do. I think men can be just as slutty as women. God bless us everyone." I clink my glass against hers, trying to lighten the mood.
She laughs and swipes at her eyes, trying to stem the flow of mascara that's making its way down to her spectacular cheekbones. I help her by wetting a cloth and dabbing some of it away.
"Mum?" says a voice from just outside the kitchen door. It's my son wondering, I suppose, what is going on with dinner.
"Oh, sorry, honey. It'll be ready in a minute." I look into the pot, which now contains ramen so waterlogged and overcooked that it resembles a sponge. "Actually, can you ask Daddy to order some pizza? I think we could all use a little comfort food tonight."
Tim half-nods but can't seem to tear his eyes away from Vivian. No doubt, it's an unusual occurrence to see an adult crying in the kitchen, not to mention one as breathtakingly pretty as Viv, even with mascara all down her face. I catch an unmistakable blush creep up his neck toward his cheeks before he turns and runs off down the hall to deliver my request to Vic.
I turn back to Viv. "So, what now? What are you going to do?"
She swirls the wine in her glass hesitantly. "Well. I... was hoping I could crash here for a bit? Just until I get myself sorted out?"
I don't even blink, although I have a strong hunch that Vic is not going to be crazy about yet another person bunking down in our house, and I say, "Of course you're staying here. I'm going to make up the pullout bed in Vic's TV room, and you're going to stay as long as you want."