Page 50 of The Marriage Game

What did I do wrong?

“Well, isn’t that nice, Max,” Dorothy encourages me. “Thank you so much for sharing. It’s always helpful to recognize the actions our spouses take to support us–no matter how big or small. Jill,” she looks at her, “do you have a response or would you just like to share your own symbol of Max’s love for you?”

Jill blinks and her hard expression is replaced by her fake smile. The one she uses when she’s in the role of ‘politician’s wife’ at public events, but doesn’t really want to talk to whoever it is she’s been forced to talk to.

“How funny,” she says with false cheer, “what I want to share is also work-related.” She rips her gaze off me and addresses Dorothy. “My symbol of Max’s love for me from the last six months is that when he was presented with the opportunity to run for attorney general, rather than making the decision by himself,” her eyes swings back to me, hard and cold despite the smile still pasted on, “he was sure to come home and discuss it with me first. The way he included me in such an important decision shows me just how much he values me.”

She delivers the words with perfect pitch and feeling; everyone in this room believes she’s being genuine.

Everyone that is, except for me. I heard her real meaning loud and clear: I didn’t include her in my decision to run for attorney general and that made her feel as if she doesn’t matter to me.

The chill that ran through me settles in for a good long stay, and I shiver. Why is she making such a big deal out of this? Sure, I could have come home and talked it over with her…I just didn’t think I needed to. We’ve always been in agreement about my political aspirations.

Or at least, the last time we talked about it we were. Which admittedly was before my last term—two years ago.

“Well, isn’t that nice.” Despite saying what seems like an affirmation of them, Dorothy appears displeased by Jill’s words; it hits me then that Jill said Dorothy overheard our fight in the hotel room. Which means she knows Jill is lying.

Will she say anything? I find myself almost hoping she will—that’s how irritated I am with Jill. I may not have had some awesome answer to Dorothy’s question, but at least I made an effort. At least I said something true.

Some part of me recognizes that my irritation is just a front for what I’m truly feeling: guilt. I feel guilty that I clearly hurt my wife. So why can’t I bring myself to apologize?

Because I want to be her hero, and I haven’t been for some time. So I’m pulling away from her to protect myself. Apologizing doesn’t help me with that.

While I’ve been busy processing all of this, Dorothy has turned back to the audience. She’s giving them directions to pair off with their spouses around the room and complete the same exercise.

I sense someone’s gaze on me, and when I look out I see Luke staring at me, a pensive expression on his face. Oh right. My in-laws all know Jill just lied onstage too. My irritation rises, spurred on by a burst of embarrassment.

“That was…informative.” Finished with the audience, Dorothy turns back to us. She addresses Jill, “I’m disappointed, Jill, that you felt the need to lie here onstage.” I sit up straighter in my chair. Good—someone else recognizes that Jill is in the wrong here. “But, Max,” she goes on, “it’s quite obvious to me that Jill isn’t pleased with how much time you’ve been spending working lately. It was in poor taste to compliment her on a role she felt you forced her into taking.”

I bristle. Then deflate.

Who is this woman that seems to see through our every facade and magically get to the heart of the real issue? Now I know why the Pharisees got so worked up about the stuff Jesus said to them. It stinks to be called out on your crap. Especially when you’ve been operating under the illusion that your crap made you a worthwhile, and maybe even admirable, human.

I can’t think of a fitting response, and Jill seems to be struck mute as well. We both just sit there. It’s unlike us. Usually we’re both strong communicators.

Except with each other, apparently.

Although, that’s mostly a Jill issue. How hard would it have been for her to just tell me she didn’t want me to run instead of doing the whole ‘I want to be your campaign manager but only so I can sabotage your campaign’ song and dance.

“Nothing to say for yourselves,” Dorothy makes a tsking noise. “I knew I was right to put the two of you in that cabin, you clearly are long overdue for some important conversations. Don’t feel bad, it happens in a lot of marriages. We stuff down resentments until there are too many to keep in. I myself did that with my husband’s golfing habits for the longest time. I think the two of you should skip this afternoon's horseback riding outing and stay back to talk.”

“What?” Jill finds her voice to protest this suggestion. “We’re not skipping horseback riding. Max and I are just fine, thank you very much. We don’t need any of these special accommodations you keep setting up for us like we’ve got some sort of marriage disability.”

“Dear,” as always, Dorothy is unruffled by the outburst, “everyone who’s married has a marriage disability. It’s called natural sin.”

“Then perhapseverybodyshould be excommunicated to a cabin,” Jill shoots back.

“Sadly we don’t have enough cabins,” Dorothy replies. “Consider yourselves lucky to have been given one.”

“Yes, we’re very lucky to have one double bed to sleep on.” Sarcasm drips from Jill’s words. For the first time Dorothy shows signs of cracking—with laughter that is. She purses her lips and looks down at the floor, making it very clear that she knew about the less than ideal bed situation.

“Surely a couple that rushed through breakfast to go ‘make out’ enjoyed the benefits of such a small bed,” she says when she’s regained enough of her composure. “Cuddling and whatnot…” she trails off.

Jill’s cheeks flame red. “What did or did not happen in that tiny bed is really none of your business,” she informs Dorothy. “But as I’m sure you can surmise, a couple that rushed through breakfast to go make out would obviously also like to enjoy the romantic aspects of a couples’ horseback riding excursion.” She grabs hold of my hand with the force of a toddler overcome by separation anxiety.

She really is committed to this marriage game we’re supposed to be playing. Aside from her slip up on stage, anyway.

“In fact,” she continues, “I’m very much hoping the two of us can disappear into the woods together during the ride.”

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