Page 3 of The Husband Diet
But I wasn’t the only one faltering. At least I had a reason – many, actually: a full-time job, two kids, a house to run, meals to prepare, laundry to do. While Ira had become a ghostlike presence, appearing late at night and disappearing in the wee hours.
‘Are you having an affair?’ I’d asked him brusquely one rare Saturday he was home.
He’d looked up from his paper, his eyes wide, studying me, and finally sighed. ‘Erica…’
‘Just please tell me, Ira. No beating around the bush.’
‘No, I’m not having an affair. Besides, when would I even have time?’
He had a point there. Ira was always at work. Assuming he was at work and not, say, bonking the cashier from the bakery opposite his office building.
He put the paper down and squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘And thanks for dropping this on me the one time you see me at home relaxing, by the way.’
‘When else would I ask you when you’re never around? Ira, the kids and I never see you anymore,’ I said, lowering my voice from attack mode to a more persuading pitch. ‘Wemissyou.’
His face softened. ‘I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m always so busy. I’m overwhelmed. There’s just so much to do and so little time, and Maxine only has two hands.’
His secretary was a college student who came in after her classes to do the paperwork while Ira concentrated on trawling for new clients. He paid her next to nothing, but it was still more than he’d ever paid me. The story of my life. I sighed. Time to make a deal.
‘Maybe we could arrange something. If you could spend one day a week with us – like maybe Saturday – then I’ll spend some time on your accounts. How’s that?’
His eyes widened. ‘Really? You’d do that?’
‘Of course. We’re a family. And it’s time we remembered that.’
Ira nodded, his eyes searching mine. ‘OK. Thanks. I appreciate it.’
And then he did something he hadn’t in a long time. He folded his paper and came over to kiss me on the cheek. I wished it had been on my mouth.
‘Things will get better, Erica. The business will pick up and I’ll have more time for you, Maddy and Warren – for all of us.’
I nodded. ‘I know. It’ll be OK.’
That had been three years ago.
Still today, he’d come home and bury himself in his paper or surf the net (in search of more golden egg-laying ducks that would supposedly save his company), taking little interest in Warren, who was now twelve, and Maddy, who was eight. It seemed at times that he simply endured their presence, always too tired to play with them or help them do their homework. The truth was that by the time he got home, I’d already fed, washed, played and homeworked them, so there was nothing left for him to do. Except todo me. Which he hadn’t in ages, by the way.
What had gone wrong? Exactly when had we started taking the slide? Ira’s work was absorbing him completely, killing any other interest in family life. Not that he’d ever been a real family man. He’d tried. He’d tried so hard. But year after year he became more and more detached from us all. We never went places together anymore. He never came to parents’ night or to the family reunions at my aunts’ Italian restaurant.
He was always cranky but refused to tell me why, no matter how many times I’d sat him down to try to get to the bottom of it. I’d even suggested marriage counseling, but he always said I had too much imagination.
And then one day, it simply got worse.
‘Erica, you know I don’t like eggplant! If you can’t even keep track of the basics, just quit your job already!’
Yeah. And then with what he earned, for the rest of our lives we’d be having our dinners chezleSalvation Army.
I scooped up Maddy’s dolls and Warren’s baseball glove, plunked them in their toy bins and rushed the kids through dinner and off to bed, anxious for the next day to come. If I could only slow the reel down while I was at work or with the kids and my best friend, Paul, and speed up the dreaded few hours Ira was home, my whole life would be made.
I quickly grilled Ira a steak and defrosted a caponata – my grandmother’s amazing onion, potato and red pepper dish, minus the eggplant upon which he frowned. But my homebaked (actually, the hotel’s in-house baker’s I’d passed off as my own) apple pie shut him up almost instantly and he was happy. Until I’d decided to strike the iron while it was hot (mainly while he was home) and talk to him once again about the major root of our arguments.
Life was becoming too hectic and expensive here in the States. Working hours were longer than downtime. Our work–life balance was unbearable. I wanted to go back to my family’s homeland in Italy, Tuscany. At one time it had been our common dream. Tuscany would be our haven, the place we’d planned to move to for a life change.
We’d always wanted to buy an old stone farmhouse with haylofts, granaries and tobacco towers and spend our time restoring them before renting them out to paying guests. We’d produce wine and olive oil, and I’d swap my job as manager of the uber-luxurious Farthington Hotel with hanging laundry and sweeping out rooms, because they’d beourrooms,ourproperty. And our children would see more of us.Us. What a nice ring it had.
As I’ve never suffered having a boss very well, running my own business felt like second nature. I’d stay at home and run the business, bake pies, get a couple of dogs (or maybe not – Ira’s allergic) and watch the kids playing in the open fields. Ira would oversee the crops and boss everyone else around. We’d been determined for that to happen one day. Even the kids had grown up under the idea of Tuscany.
Back then, Ira used to say, ‘Wow, yeah, absolutely.’ Then he switched to ‘Someday,’ and finally just to a lame smile without a comment. And lately, the smile had disappeared, too.
