Getting Under way : Part 2

An Unfinished Marriage
by Joan Anderson

(Page 2 of 2)

Three young men hop out of the cab and open the side door of the van, as Robin tells them to put the cartons inside the living room. "Just stack them up along the one empty wall," he says, to my irritation, without a glance in my direction.

My heart sinks. In the past year I have tried to create a Zen-like space in our little cottage and soon, it appears, that will be undone. When he filled the guest room closet with ties, suits, shoes, and golfing paraphernalia, I figured it was only a matter of time before he would drop the buttoned up look and settle into casual clothes. But when he declared the basement his exclusive domain and ordered a new desk and file cabinet soon thereafter, I was more than alarmed. His spending spree reminded me more of a bored housewife than a man suddenly free of daily drudgery.

I watch as box after box is carried from the truck and will myself to believe that he has a plan for his new life. With that thought, I stride off through a tunnel of trees certain that motion will quell my internal disturbance. But halfway up the road, I'm besieged again with unkind thoughts again and wonder about the source of my anger. If I loved this cottage best when it bustled with family and friends, why would I now bristle at the intrusion of one? Certainly living apart has made both of us more territorial, but there's plenty of room left for coexistence. I'm feeling invaded, but how could that be? He is, after all, my husband! Besides, haven't I learned after all these years that men come rushing into homes with gusto? Unaccustomed as they are to sleeping babies, meditative states, and everyone else's space, they stomp about, slam doors, and crank up the stereo. Such behavior comes with the territory.

Mercifully my walk takes me out of the woods and into a meadow where the edges of things begin to soften, as does my heart. I hadn't wanted to assume what our life would be like when Robin joined me, and I'm not about to start now. Poor fellow. Giving up a secure job for an unknown future is bound to have some ramifications. For the past thirty years, the better part of his days have been spent within four walls of a small office. Having broken free, he must wonder if he's in exile or under house arrest. One of my tasks as a "recovering wife" is to be gracious and accommodating, even if it feels like adjusting to the strange habits of a college roommate. After all, it took me a year to rid myself of the old and permit new attitudes to surface. He needs the same amount of latitude to stumble into his old self again.

I take a deep breath and forge on, up a gradual incline toward the shoulder of a hill where the view forces me to stop, breathe and be grateful. This must be the most gentle and beautiful morning so far this fall - golden and mellow, as the chilly air quickly becomes warm. My irritable mood drifts away like the falling leaves. Today the trees display deepening hues - mauve, beige, sage, and gray - subtle tones that calm my spirit and remind me of where I am in my life.

I spot a huge pile of leaves and topple into its center, overcome by this season's message. Fall is about coming full circle. It indicates the culmination of birth, growth, and death - not unlike couples that have endured myriad challenges only to arrive at the autumn of their lives. I finger the leaves surrounding me, their patterns and colors individual, varied and vibrant and remember, as a child, how I had wanted to preserve their glory by ironing each carefully chosen leaf between pieces of waxed paper.

It occurs to me that if I want to know the moments as well as digest my experiences, I have to give it time. Our marriage as it was is over. But our relationship as it is, ripened and weathered, has a deeper tone to it - not unlike these wonderfully rich colored leaves that half the world pays homage to each September and October. Moreover, since Robin and I have chosen to reassemble our relationship in a bucolic setting, on our own steam, minus the rules and constraints of a staid society, we are left to receive that which will evolve from our own natural cycles.

I like where my thoughts are taking me. This place and my walk have once again worked its magic. I have regained my balance. The return home will be full of affirming thoughts. My stomach growls as I turn back toward home, quickening my step as the road tilts upward until I arrive at the kitchen door.

With no sign of the truck or my husband, I duck into the outside shower to rinse off, not only the grit collected on the walk, but the remnants of an impulse to control, left over from my solitary life. As the clear, hot water releases the tension from my shoulders, I gaze up at the blue sky and let my immediate and selfish desires wash down the drain. Feeling cleansed, I step from the stall just as I hear the ringing of the phone and duck inside the back door to answer it. It's my friend Charlotte. "How's it going?" she whispers, as if asking for secret information.

I sigh, exasperated all over again, and tell her that right now I'm feeling crowded. "Robin's moved his entire office into the cottage," I say.

"His what? I thought he retired."

"Ah, so did I," I continue, "but I suppose he's hoping to consult or run educational seminars and wants to make sure his books and papers are available."

"Isn't he supposed to be creating a new life?" she asks, remembering some of Robin's and my conversations as we daydreamed about world travel, living abroad a few months of the year, or working for an organization such as the Audubon Society.

"I'm giving him a long leash," I say. "Whatever he said before he arrived has changed with the reality of being here. On my walk today I found myself feeling his pain - recalling my early days of withdrawal from my old life. I remember how lonely change can be."

"You sound like you're getting soft," she goads. "Do I smell the rekindling of some sort of romance?"

"Hardly," I chuckle. "It's about relearning what it is to be married without the budding hormones! A sort of androgyny has set in. We're warming up slowly. One minute it feels familiar and the next kind of strange, like we're on a blind date."

"They were scary," she says with her usual sardonic wit.

"No kidding," I agree. "We've been taking in matinees and then going out for a bowl of chowder - benign activities to be sure, but they keep us relating, none the less."

Uncomfortable with how this conversation is going, and freezing now clad only in my damp towel, I beg off, promising to keep her posted on each new installment. I hang up feeling like a guinea pig in this remarriage business. It was hard enough explaining why I ran away and now more complicated trying to make someone understand reconciliation.

I throw on a robe and head for the kitchen, gingerly pulling open the screen door, half afraid of seeing the mess he surely has created. Robin is sitting on the bench beside the kitchen table staring at the contents of one of the boxes.

Copyright © 2002 by Joan Anderson.

About the Author

Joan Anderson is the author of A Year by the Sea, An Unfinished Marriage, and A Walk on the Beach. She lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and conducts weekend workshops for women throughout the country.