Less than 24 hours earlier, he was a happy man, or at least a contented one. At that time he was relaxing on the City of New Orleans, heading home to see his wife for the first time in a month. The train was behind schedule, as usual, which meant he wouldn't be home until well after midnight. Knowing he'd have to be back on this train heading south on Sunday morning, every minute was precious to him. As the train crept through southern Mississippi, he planned his Saturday. He'd sleep late, then have his coffee by the backyard pond he'd dug before leaving for law school. He'd play with the cats awhile, and maybe take a walk in Overton Park. But above all, he'd get reacquainted with his wife. He'd remind himself of how her glasses tilted ever so slightly to one side, of the way she still drawled her 'A's while trying to hide her Alabama accent, even of the way her breath tasted in the morning. (It's odd, the things you find endearing after eleven years of marriage, he thought.) They'd go out to dinner at Automatic Slim's, their favorite restaurant. He even imagined that he might be able to talk her into some sort of sexual activity. It may be a short weekend, but it would be a lovely one.
He was half right, although it would become the longest short weekend of his life. It started when he came out of the train station and got into the idling car. He had hoped she'd be glad to see him, but instead she was angry about having to come downtown at 2:30 am to pick him up, as if it had been his fault that the train was late. In fact, she hadn't even bothered to dress beyond putting a coat over her nightgown, and wasn't even wearing her glasses. Well, that's why she didn't come in to meet the train, he thought. Then in the morning, when his offer to cook her breakfast was gruffly refused, he chalked it up to the lack of sleep. He decided to try to lighten the mood."Geez, anybody'd think you didn't love me," he said. It was something he'd said a thousand times before; she was not one to say "I love you," so this was his way of getting her to admit it.
"I wouldn't have married you if I didn't love you," was the reply he heard. She also had said this a thousand times before, only this morning that's not what she had said. What she actually had said was this: "I don't." Then she had begun to cry.
"What's the matter? Why are you crying?" he said, before it hit him. He looked at her blankly.
"I said I don't love you. I want a divorce."
Most of the rest of the day was lost in the fog that took over his brain, until the cat brought him back into the daylight world. He was being driven back to New Orleans, and she was doing the driving. She had refused to let him stay in the house and, lacking any other way for him to get back home ("back home," he now realized, was a phrase that meant exactly the opposite from the day before), they'd decided that she'd drive him there. Besides his weekend luggage, the only thing he'd taken with him was his cat, Charlie, a cat who had been with him since he was single, and who had (wisely, it now seemed) never warmed up to his wife. Her opinion of Charlie was not improved when his incontinence required her to pull over so her soon-to-be ex-husband could change his pants.
Back on the road, he switched on the car radio and tuned in the Alabama/Auburn football game. The silence was too painful; he needed a distraction. He could have tuned into the Michigan/Ohio St. game, since Michigan was his team, but her team was 'Bama and he knew she'd want to listen to the game. That's the kind of guy he was: understanding to a fault. Or maybe he was just accustomed to avoiding trouble. Maybe all those years of being understanding in order to avoid confrontation is what had led to that morning's denouement. Maybe...no. Stop. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Let's just get this day over first.
He made a couple of inocuous observations about the football game, both of which went unanswered, so he stopped. He noticed that again she wasn't wearing her glasses. "Did you get contacts?" he asked, mildly surprised that she'd never told him that was her plan. "Laser," came the terse reply. He suddenly realized that this had been in the works for quite some time. How long, he wondered?
When they arrived in New Orleans, he had to give her driving directions to his apartment. She didn't know the way. How long? Was this why she had been so enthusiastic about his idea to go to law school? At Thanksgiving dinner, nearly a year ago now, she had told everyone how proud she was of what he was doing, giving up a six-figure income to study law to help the indigent. He had been deeply moved by this surprising display, but now he thought it might have been a sham designed to ensure that he stick out the long tough one-L year. Maybe she didn't love him even then. Maybe she'd never really loved him, like he'd been saying in half-jest for a decade.
When they arrived at his Uptown flat, he asked if she'd like to come in and watch the second half before starting the five-hour return trip. He didn't really mean it; it's just the kind of thing he'd say without thinking. She just looked at him with a look of disbelief, with a little pity mixed in, and pulled away from the curb. Carrying the still-shaking Charlie, he went into his one bedroom patio apartment and pulled the door closed behind him.
And he was alone.
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