“Then I’m confused,” the husband said. “Is this a happy ending or not?”
“Well, Audrey’s child isn’t brain-damaged,” I said.
“So there’s, you know, that,” his wife said.
“You know what I mean.”
We, the three of us, debated that question. The bottom line, the wife and I agreed, is you can’t possibly know. Maybe divorce would have jolted Paul the Husband to life and Paul the Lover would have been a great stepfather, so goddamn that Polish roofer. Or maybe Audrey leaving would have been a disaster, so thank goodness someone contaminated that first lead sample. Either way it was terrifying, the little accidents that change people’s lives completely. The husband said that was bullshit, people make their own lives. But it bothered him more that Audrey had settled for less than she obviously wanted and wouldn’t explain why. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. I told him he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Everyone who read Audrey’s screenplay complained about the ending.
My wife made contemplative faces and, when asked her opinion, said she wasn’t sure. My indignation mounted. These were important questions, the stuff of being human, and I was in trouble for telling a story that had raised them? Telling me to avoid Audrey was insane—what would come next, ordering me to quit my job, leave the state, change my name so Audrey couldn’t find me? After a while my wife started clearing the table, was in the kitchen for some time, and returned with the oversized sugar cookies she had baked. “In case anyone has changed their mind,” she said, and the husband grabbed one.
As we said our goodbyes I wondered if our guests would continue the discussion on their way home, and, if they did, what turns it might take. My wife and I drifted back to the table, where we sat, her opposite me, arms and legs crossed tight again, both of us staring at the sugar cookies. My adrenaline was subsiding, and indignation with it. I was tired. If I had let the evening die a quick and natural death, it would have ended two hours ago.
“Look,” I said. I had been thinking that it was worth a try. I would say that believe it or not Paul was a grad student in the animation department, and believe it or not Audrey and I weren’t friends like we used to be, we were no more than colleagues now. But I couldn’t come up with a viable explanation for why I would have thought it was funny to make my wife believe that she had been—and always would be—a consolation prize. Second place to a woman I still saw every day. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop.”
“But…”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
We resumed our silent staring.