This was another one of those occasions when time slows down. I began to enjoy myself. I remembered when my school bus crashed into a garage and it seemed like the open black mouth had widened in stop motion. I remembered Tom and me hanging out in his bathroom talking about girls we liked. I saw us playing catch and fighting the Cole twins behind the oak tree. I heard endless discussions, all in an instant, about the best running back, how you unhooked a bra, whether it was better to be a Formula 1 driver or a movie star.
“You motherfucking bastard. You bastard. You goddamn, motherfucking bastard.” Peg hit him again, this time with both hands. She pushed at him and he cringed. I still held Sherry’s hand. She was frozen. Peg sprung out of the booth, grabbed her purse, spun on her heel and walked quickly out.
I was calm. “Do you mind picking up the tab?” I asked Tom. “You can have the leftovers.” I stood and turned to my wife. “Coming dear?” Sherry slid out of the booth and followed me to the car.
The first words Sherry said were, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s nice. Are you sorry because you got caught? Sorry because you hurt me?” I got on a roll. “Sorry because you ruined our marriage? Sorry because you hurt one of your best friends? Sorry because you destroyed my oldest friendship? Sorry for what? What exactly are you sorry for?”
Sherry started to cry, not heavily but genuine tears. They rolled down her cheeks. I drove on. She started to speak, but I held up my hand to stop her. She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She was sobbing.
I stopped the car. “You can get out now,” I said. She looked out the window. I was in front of her parents’ house.
“No.” She almost moaned the word.
“Out. Out or I’ll throw you out.” I tapped on the steering wheel. I suddenly shouted, “Get out!” I didn’t look at her as I drove away.
My plan when I got home was to pour myself a stiff drink and watch TV until I fell asleep. Instead I snapped. I opened Sherry’s closet and stared at her clothes. I started tearing the hangars off the rod, clawing at the buttons, trying to rip the seams apart. I went into the kitchen and came back with a chef’s knife and a large glass of Dewar’s. I stabbed at her clothes, yanking the knife down through the fabric, cutting, tearing.
I got drunk. I built a fire in the fireplace and threw our wedding album into it. I scooped an armload of her underwear and tossed each piece into the flames, watching each one light up. Then I sat in my armchair and watched a classic football game on ESPN until I fell asleep.
These were the painful hours. That stretch of time when every moment is freighted with significance, none of it good. I was crushed. I felt the pull of the dark side. I could now understand why people killed themselves, why jealous lovers killed the ones they loved. I could see that on the other side of love lies anger which runs at least as deep.
The morning brought calm. The house was clean except for the bedroom, where shreds of Sherry’s clothes littered the floor around her closet. I left those where they lay. In the fireplace, I could see the charred spine of our wedding album, straps and clasps from burnt bras, a tie from a nightgown. My mind was empty, no longer in a rage.