Antifreeze

By James M. Bellarosa

Before marrying, 30-year-olds Jill and Derek Owen saved for a sizeable downpayment on a house. After the purchase they furnished their home immediately and expensively, and honeymooned there when they married soon afterward.

Their house was one of about 50 attractive properties in a nine-year-old subdivision. Most belonged to young couples, intoxicated with the ecstasies of raising children.

Derek worked as a school teacher, Jill as an licensed practical nurse. Shortly before marrying, Jill cut her work week to three days, partly so she could spruce up the house for their arrival. The lighter schedule fostered her acquaintance with many of the housewives nearby, and often enabled her to join or invite them for coffee. Before long Jill was seeing six of the women regularly, and considered three of them friends.

As enraptured newlyweds, the Owens reveled in their happiness, and endured only minor squabbles as they gradually adjusted to life together. But one Sunday ten months into their marriage they had their first full-blown argument. They yelled, cursed, exchanged insults, and when it was over, they weren't speaking.

That night at ten Jill showered and went to bed. Soon after, Derek entered the bedroom and turned on a small lamp. Jill propped herself onto her elbows and snapped: "You're not sleeping in here tonight. You're using the sofa."

Surprised, Derek hesitated. Recovering quickly he snorted, "No I'm not."

"Oh yes you are!" Jill insisted. "Be a man and do the right thing."

"The right thing?!"

"Because that's your role, and because on any given night on this street, there are at least five sofas on duty," Jill said. "Other husbands do it. They do their duty until they make things right with their wives again, and they don't complain."

Derek frowned, told Jill he thought the best approach to dealing with their differing opinions on exile was to reconcile them. "I'm staying put," he said.

"And those men — well, you should see the sofas where they serve their time," Jill continued. "Stained, faded, frayed, flea-ridden... you should see them! It's a disgrace what they sleep on, but they do it!"

Derek kicked off his sandals, nudged them under the bed.

"And you've got a brand new Chippendale out there — fit for a palace," Jill went on. "And those poor guys when it comes time to settle down, the fleas are just breaking camp. Have you ever noticed when they visit us? They stare at the Chippendale and count sheep — long wistful gazes because they can see I shot the works to provide for your... leaves of absence."

"All you want to provide is a great divide!" Derek scoffed.