The windows are steamed up and I’m shivering, so I turn on the ignition and blast the defroster. That’s when I realize that it’s not 6:00A.M., like I figured, but 8:34A.M.
In twenty-six minutes I am getting divorced.
Obviously, I don’t have time to go back to Reid’s and shower. As it is, I will have to break the land speed record to get to the Kent County Courthouse on time.
“Shit,” I mutter, throwing the car into reverse and peeling out of the parking lot of the bank where I must have fallen asleep last night. There’s an Irish pub around the corner, and last call is 3:00A.M. I have a vague recollection of a bunch of guys having a bachelor party, of being invited to do some tequila shots.
Fortunately, there’s no snow yet, or for that matter an overturned truck on the highway. I park illegally in a spot that isn’t really a space (not a bright idea at a courthouse, but really, what am I supposed to do?) and run like hell into the building. “Excuse me,” I mutter, my head pounding as I run up the stairs to Judge Meyers’s courtroom. I bump into a woman with her two kids and a lawyer reading a brief. “Sorry . . . pardon me . . .”
I slide into the back row of the benches. I am sweating, and my shirt’s come untucked from my pants. I haven’t had a chance to shave, or even wash up in the bathroom. I sniff my sleeve, which smells like last night’s party.
When I glance up again, I see her staring at me.
Zoe looks like she hasn’t slept in seventy-seven days, either. She has dark circles under her eyes. She’s too thin. But she takes one look at my face, my hair, my clothing, and she knows. She understands what I’ve been doing.
She turns away from me and fixes her gaze straight ahead.
I feel that dismissal like a hole punched through my chest. All I ever wanted was to be good enough for her, and I screwed up. I couldn’t give her the kid she wanted. I couldn’t give her the life she deserved. I couldn’t be the man she thought I was.
The clerk stands up and begins reading through a list.“Malloy versus Malloy?”she says.
A lawyer stands up. “That’s ready, Your Honor. Can we have the process on that, please?”
The judge, a woman with a round, sunny face, has decorated her bench with seasonal items—Beanie Babies dressed like Pilgrims, a stuffed turkey.
“Jones versus Jones?”
Another attorney rises. “Ready, nominal.”
“Kasen versus Kasen?”
“Your Honor, I need a new date on that. Could I have December eighteenth?”
“Horowitz versus Horowitz,”the clerk reads.
“That’s a motion, Your Honor,” another lawyer replies. “I’m ready to go.”
“Baxter versus Baxter?”
It takes me a moment to realize that the clerk is calling my name. “Yes,” I say, standing up. As if there’s a thread connecting us, Zoe rises, too, all the way across the room.
“Um,” I say. “Present.”
“Do you represent yourself, sir?” Judge Meyers asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Is your wife here?”
Zoe clears her throat. “Yes.”
“Are you representing yourself, ma’am?” Judge Meyers asks.
“Yes,” Zoe says, “I am.”
“Are you both ready to go forward with the divorce today?”
I nod. I don’t look at Zoe to see if she’s nodding, too.
