InsaneJournal

Current mood:	cranky
Current music:	David Bowie, Heroes

The air on the way to the cabin is cool and damp, and smells like dirt. This is supposed to be my decompression. There is no cell phone signal up here, and though it is only thirty miles from the house, it feels like an eternity. Everyone is coming up. Four bedrooms, crammed with 15 bodies. The Grandkids sleep in sleeping bags on the living room floor, and I spend the first night bunked with Iason and Greg. It feels familiar, to talk into the darkness, to make stupid jokes, to get slap-happy from lack of sleep. It feels like childhood. Eventually, we nod off. Greg snores, Iason tosses and turns. The next morning, it all starts to fall apart.

It was simple enough until Rodney came up. Just family, and it was nice but then we split off into groups and did different things and I told Rodney we were going rock climbing and suddenly Jo and I are swept away to go back into the city for dinner and he spends the rest of the night flirting with my wife in front of me. My wife does nothing to stop him. In fact, she does it herself. I, half drunk on a bottle of wine, ignore it and sit in stony silence on the drive back up to the cabin. Everyone is asleep. I take the blow up mattress out to the living room, giving Rodney my bed but kick the grandchildren out in the process. I spend the rest of the night on the couch, watching The Truman Show as Jo dozes in front of the television. When I get into bed, she turns her back to me. I pray for a better tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, more painful than the day before. I spend most of the time in the City, working despite the fact that this is supposed to be my vacation. Neil Diamond plays, then the Pops. I make an announcement; wish the world a happy fourth and America a happy birthday. The speech is short, and I slink off backstage to drink wine out of a white plastic sports bottle. No one notices, everyone else is drinking, too. For a moment, I feel good. I wonder if this is why people become alcoholics; wonder if it’s possible for me to slip into something like that at my age. I stop short of getting drunk and let my slight buzz die a slow and natural death. I go to bed at three AM in our empty house in Boston and wake up at 8 to take my slightly hung-over staff to breakfast in Quincy. It is Sunday, July 5th and it is the day I catch my wife kissing my friend, both their feet over the edge of the dock, acting like teenagers while the rest of the family has headed up to Maine to enjoy the sun and the beach. I should scream. I know I should say something, let them feel like the assholes they are but I just walk back to the house unnoticed and for a day, I simmer. When Tuesday comes around, I am already on edge. I head home from work early, citing an upset stomach. I spend most of the day in bed, and when Jo confronts me about it, I snap. It is the worst fight we’ve had in years. Accusations fly. Tears come. Divorce isn’t mentioned. I go out for a walk. She goes to her sister’s house. That night, she comes home. We avoid each other, and I end up sleeping in the guest room. I apologize this morning and go to work but by the time I get home, I once again feel vulnerable and I end up apologizing even though I feel I’ve done nothing wrong. She says that’s all she’s wanted, just some attention.

I feel like hell.