Buck, age sixteen, was not at the party but knew most of the kids involved. He assured his parents that he was not sneaking beers, but he would be driving soon, and Simon knew that when he entered that phase of life all bets were off. Paula was convinced they could lead by example, monitor the kids’ activities and friends, and protect them from doing the things that all kids wanted to do.
And she didn’t like the idea of each one putting up five dollars for the winning pot. It was nothing but a form of gambling.
As the first game was about to tip off, Buck asked Danny, “What’s the over?”
Without hesitating, Danny replied, “One twenty-four.”
Simon was a bit startled by the quick response, but said nothing. He would listen even harder and hopefully not detect any more signs of fluency in the betting games. Teenage online gambling, especially in sports, was a growing problem.
Paula frowned and asked, “What does that mean — ‘the over’?”
Buck and Danny froze. Simon decided to jump and try to help them with “Total points scored by both teams.”
“I didn’t ask you,” she replied calmly. She looked at Danny and asked again, “What is ‘the over’?”
“Dad’s right. The total points by both teams.”
“And you can bet on that?”
“If you want to. I never do.” He was not convincing.
“Well, I would hope not. I hope you’re not betting at all.”
Buck stared at the television and said, “We’re betting now, Mom. Everybody put up five dollars for the winning pot, so everybody is betting at least five dollars. That’s gambling.”
The tip-off gave them a chance to take a breath and enjoy some silence. Simon was greatly relieved that the moment had passed, but he was also convinced his sons were gambling at some level. He would think of a way to discuss it with them later. Should he really be that worried? Neither had jobs, income, or savings. Like most teenagers, they watched sports around the clock it seemed, and knew more players, stats, and ESPN gossip than he could ever absorb. What if they were gambling and winning? Sure it was illegal for minors to bet online, but the laws were proving to be thoroughly unenforceable.
What if Buck and Danny could pass along inside tips to their father?
Janie fell asleep before ten. Around eleven, Paula had seen enough and said good night. Half an hour later, the boys were dozing and Simon ran them off to bed. When all was quiet, he eased down the hall and entered his bedroom. The lights were off. He assumed his wife was asleep. He planned to silently brush his teeth, put on his pajamas, and sneak back to the den.
In the bathroom, he was startled to see a full bottle of scotch next to two tumblers and a small ice bucket. He opened the door just as Paula was flipping on the lamp by her night table.
“There’s a bottle of whiskey in here,” he said.
“Yes there is. Pour two drinks and have a seat in the chair.”
He did as he was told. Five minutes passed in complete silence as they sipped scotch in the dim light and refused to look at one another. Finally, he said, “Thanks for the drink. I needed it.”
“You’ll probably need more.”
“Okay. What’s the topic for tonight?”
“It’s not divorce. We’ve had that conversation. I haven’t had sex in over four months.”
“I remember, vaguely.”
“There’s not much to remember.”
“Ouch. So this is a sex talk?”
“It is. I’m forty-one years old, Simon, and I’m not ready to give up on sex.”
“I could do with more of it.”
“I want sex, Simon, but not with you.”
It was a kick in the gut that he absorbed without flinching. Instead, he gave a slight shrug, then took a long pull from his tumbler. “Got somebody in mind?”
“No. And I’m not looking for a boyfriend. The last thing I need in my life is another relationship. When we finally get divorced I can’t see myself ever thinking of marriage again.”
“I’m kinda sick of it too.”
Each took a deep breath, then another sip.
“So you want one of those open deals?” he asked.
“The marriage is over, we’ve already agreed on that. Now we’re trying to get out of it. Until then, I want the freedom to fool around. I’ll be discreet and I’ll stay away from married men. I’m looking for fun, not trouble.”
Simon would replay the conversation a hundred times in the days to come, and the one feeling that would always surprise him was how little he cared. He had not loved Paula in many years, and he realized at that moment how much he disliked her. The idea of his wife “fooling around” was actually exciting because he would happily accept the same freedom.
He said, “You don’t need my approval.”
“No, but we have to agree. It wouldn’t be fair for this to become an issue when we divorce. Plus, you’re a lawyer and I don’t trust you.”
“Thanks. I’ve always trusted you.”
“And I’ve always been faithful. Have you?”
“Yes.” He rattled his ice, needed some more, and said, “I guess we have no choice but to agree to open things up.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I really don’t care what you do.”
“Nor do I care what you do.”
“Okay. A deal.”
“Pour me some more scotch. I’m not finished.”
She finally spoke when the second drink was half gone. “I saw Harriet today.”
“Harriet?”
“My therapist.”
“Oh yeah. Her. I forgot about Harriet.”
“I haven’t mentioned her in some time.”
“It’s great that you’re getting therapy, Paula, because I probably need it too. Problem is I can’t afford it. They charge more per hour than I do.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“Aren’t we dealing with personal problems here?”
Several years earlier, as things unraveled, they had discussed seeing a couples therapist, an expert to show each one how screwed-up the other one really was and guide them back to true and lasting love. It never happened, primarily because by then both were sick of each other and the last thing they wanted was a lame effort at forced happiness.
Simon had paid $200 for one hour with a counselor whose real objective had been to lock him in for ten more sessions. Matilda gave better advice to their clients as they waited to see Mr. Latch.
Paula said, “Anyway, Harriet thinks we should talk to the children and prepare them for the inevitable.”
He took a sip and thought about this. “She’s probably right. We can’t keep on like this. The kids are growing up and they’re not stupid.”
“Buck and Danny have us figured out. Janie knows things aren’t right. Harriet says it’s best to tell them one at a time. The sooner the better.”
Another sip, another long, heavy pause. Simon finally said, “Okay, I’ll talk to the boys. You handle Janie.”
“I think that’s best. Let’s do it tomorrow afternoon, one at a time, then have another pizza for dinner and watch basketball.”
“One happy family.”
“When was the last time you and I were happy, Simon?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Nor can I.”
Both took a sip in the quietness. From fifteen feet away he could hear her breathe. She was sitting in the bed, propped up on pillows, covers up to her waist, her fine breasts almost peeking through the sheer nightgown. For a moment, it was difficult to visualize her crawling into bed with another man.