Even our sex life becomes routine. She never initiates or refuses, but participates with an unspoken sense of obligation that borders on offensive and often leaves me feeling depressed. Whenever I ask if I’m doing something wrong, Portia says, “You are the best lover I will ever have,” which seems like a way around talking straight about the problem. Still, I don’t push her. I feel as though she’s healing that broken heart of hers the best she can—and I, of all people, know that recovery takes time.
The worst part is that Tommy misses the old Portia. He doesn’t exactly say anything about the change, but I can read his eyes and body language. The little man is sort of careful around her now, almost as if he has reverted to taking care of his mother figure, which breaks my heart. He’s forever volunteering to help with chores around the house—like carrying in groceries or taking out the garbage or dusting or folding laundry or weeding the flower beds—and Portia usually says that it’s easier to do the work herself, and while that frees up Tommy to play with his friends on the block, it also leaves him feeling confused and maybe even rejected, although I never ask him about his feelings about Portia. It’s too painful for me to address my own, let alone deal with the effect my wife’s depression is having on the boy we are raising.
Saying she doesn’t have the emotional energy, Portia even stops making the drive back across the bridge to see her mother. More and more time passes in between trips east, and we only go when I pester her about visiting the old woman.
Time passes, and Mrs. Kane stares at the Buy from Home Network and Tommy grows and I teach and bartend and Portia finds things to keep herself occupied, at least superficially.
I plan little weekend family vacations and surprise dinners in the city, buy tickets to plays and musicals I think she will like, take her to a comedy club, allow Tommy to buy tickets to a few rock concerts we go to as a family. I even skip lunches to save my own money and buy designer clothes for Portia. She refuses to spend any of “Ken’s money” on anything but the mortgage and essentials for Tommy, saying, “What do I need new outfits for?” While she always says thank you and smiles whenever she opens the wrapped boxes I give her, nothing I do ever makes her eyes light up the way they once did, and she never wears what I buy, unless I make a specific request.
Ken and Julie send postcards from Honduras, along with short reports on the missionary work they are doing. Portia rips the first few up with a rage that scares me enough to throw away the future notes without letting my wife read them first.
“Maybe you should try writing again,” I sometimes dare to say when her crying wakes me up in the middle of the night, and she’ll always respond, “I’m okay. Just go back to sleep.”
The world is a hard place and can be hardest on the hopeful, but I just can’t seem to let go of the woman I married—the one who believed wildly in possibility.
CHAPTER 33
On Tommy’s ninth birthday, I lead my first-grade class to the after-school pickup with a bit of a lift in my step. In my front pocket are tickets to the monster truck rally that Tommy and his best friend Marcus have been wanting to attend. Marcus and I are going to surprise Tommy with a night of hugely obscene vehicles, five-foot-high tires driving over and crushing normal cars before bursting through flames and soaring off ramps over bikini girls as heavy metal music blasts from gigantic speakers hung above.
Basically a nine-year-old boy’s dream.
Portia has agreed to go, mostly—I think—because it’s Tommy’s birthday, and he specifically requested that she be a part of things. She hasn’t really been all that social lately, turning down invitations from friends and complaining about being tired far more than seems possible, especially because she’s been going to bed early and sleeping twelve hours a night. Tommy has playfully nicknamed her “Sleeping Beauty.”
Once my last student has made her way into her parent’s car, I lock up my classroom and attempt to leave the building, but the Crab—who has somehow held on to the role of principal, even though she is approaching her two hundredth birthday—sticks her head out of the office. “Just the man I was looking for,” she says. “I hope you’re not attempting to leave early, Mr. Bass. The teacher’s handbook states that you may not leave the building before three thirty without permission from administration, which as you very well know means me. And as I have given you no such permission, I know you weren’t about to exit this building.”
The Crab and I have become friends. Her evaluations of my lessons are always marked Exemplary, and I haven’t left for a higher-paying public school teaching position yet, which I believe both baffles and impresses Mother Catherine—we both know she’d write me a recommendation letter if I asked. The truth is, I like teaching here, and Mother Catherine is a fantastic principal who puts the needs of the kids first over the politics of parents who pay hard-earned cash to send their children to a Catholic school. I actually respect the Crab—a lot. And Portia has more than enough money left over from her first marriage for us to live comfortably.
“It’s Tommy’s birthday,” I explain. “We’re going to see a monster truck show.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to make you late for such a cerebral event as monster truck night, Mr. Bass, but I’m afraid I need to speak with you in my office before you leave. Something urgent has just come up. And since you are technically still on the clock, I suggest you follow me.”