Time to Go (11 page)

That's not it. This is it. There wasn't a wrench. There is a Mike.

My wife fell in love with him and told me this at breakfast, not dinner. She said she didn't want to tell me at night because she wanted to give me plenty of time to adjust to it before I went to bed and also time for her to get her things out of the apartment and move in with a friend. We have no child. We tried for a while but couldn't. Then I had a corrective operation and we could have a child, but she said the marriage wasn't as good as it used to be and she wanted to be sure it was a very good marriage before we had a child. That was three years ago. She's had several affairs since then. She told me about them while she was having them. I didn't like her having them but put up with it because I didn't want her to leave me. I don't know why I mentioned anything about a gift. Maybe because her birthday's in two weeks and I've been thinking recently about what to get her. A bracelet, I thought. But that's out. This morning she said she realizes this is the third or fourth serious affair she's had in three years. She's had one or two others but they were quick and not so serious. She doesn't want to continue having affairs while she's married or at least still living with me. It isn't fair to me, she said. She also said I shouldn't put up with it and shouldn't have in the past. Not that if I had told her to stop she would have, she said. But I should tell her to get the hell out of the house and should have two to three years ago. Since I won't, she'll have to leave me. That means divorce, she said. The marriage isn't working out. What's she talking about? she said. The marriage is so bad that she doesn't think it'll ever work out—it never will, that's all, never. And because she wants to have children, maybe two, maybe three, but with someone she's very much in love with, she'll have to end our marriage and eventually get married to someone else. Maybe it'll be with Mike but she doubts it. He's married, but about to separate from his wife, and has indicated he never wants to marry again. He also has two children from a previous marriage and has expressed no interest in having more. Anyway, she said, it's fairer if I stay here and she goes, since she's the one breaking up the marriage. Of course, if I want to leave, she said, then she'll be more than happy to stay, since it's a great apartment and one she can afford and she'll never be able to get anything like it at twice the rent. “If you don't mind,” I said, “I think I'd like to keep the apartment. Losing you and also having to find a new place might be a little too much for me.” “I don't mind,” she said, “why should I mind? I already said the apartment's yours if you want. So, do you mind if I start to pack up now to go?” “No, go right ahead.

I'd love for you to stay forever, naturally, but what could I do to stop you from going? Nothing, I guess, right?” “Right.” She went to the bedroom. I brought the dishes into the kitchen, washed them, sat down at the small table there and looked at the river. She came into the living room an hour later with two suitcases and a duffel bag. “This ought to do it for now,” she said. “If it's okay with you, I'll arrange with a friend to come by for the rest of my stuff some other time.” “Sure,” I said. “You moving in with this Mike?” “No, I told you, he's married, still living with his wife. I'll be staying with Elena for now. If you want to reach me for anything, you can get me there or at work. You have her number?” “I can look it up.” “But you won't call me at either place for very personal reasons, will you? Such as saying how much you miss me or things like that and you want me back? Because I've definitely made up my mind, Jules. The marriage is finished.” “I understand that. I mean, I don't understand why it's so definitely finished, but I do understand that you definitely feel it is. But I can't make just one more pitch? There's nothing I can do or say or promise to help you change your mind?” “Nothing.” “Then goodbye,” I said. “I'll miss you terribly. I love you tremendously. I'll be as sad as any man can be over a thing like this for I don't know how long. But that's my problem, not yours, I guess, and eventually I'll work it out.” “I'm glad you're taking it like this. Not that you'll be sad—I don't want you to be like that—but at least that you see the situation for what it is and that in the long run you'll be able to handle it. Because it'll make it much easier—it already is—for both of us. You'll see. You'll get over me before you know it.” “Not on your life,” I said. “Yes you will.” “I'm telling you. Never.” “No, I know you will. Goodbye.” She opened the door, put the suitcases right outside it, said “I'll be back for these in a minute,” and carried the duffel bag downstairs. “I'll help you with the suitcases,” I yelled down the stairs. “No need to.” she said. “It'd actually be better if you closed the door so we won't have to say goodbye again.” I shut the door.

So come on up,” and I say “Okay” and start climbing. But not enough what for my feet and hands? Places, ledges, perches, niches, nooks, holes or whatever they're called to put my feet in or on and my hands to get a good grip on to climb up more than eight to ten feet on this wall. My hands are holding on but I can feel them about to slide off.

“I can't make it up this way,” and one of them says “Sure you can, don't give up now. Climb. All you got to do is climb.”

I try to but can't find anything higher to stick my foot in or on or anything also for my hands to hold on.

“No, I can't make it up another inch,” and one of them says “Then drop down and we'll throw you a rope.”

“I might break an ankle or something if I drop,” and one of them says “From that height? Don't be a baby. Just drop.”

I drop, landing on both feet and hurting one around the ankle.

“I knew I shouldn't have,” and one of them says “Shouldn't have what? What happened, you hurt your foot?”

“Not the whole foot, just the ankle. What I said before. What I told myself not to. From now on I'll stick to taking my own advice.”

“Could be you didn't fall right. But watch it—here it comes,” and the rope drops from the top of the wall to the ground.

I pull on the rope. Seems a bit slack. “You sure you have it real tight up there—I mean, where it won't fall down when I climb? Secure, I mean.”

“Secure, sure—you think we'd take someone's life in our hands?”

I pull on it again. It still feels slack and I say “I don't know. It doesn't feel that secure. What do you have it tied around?”

“We have it around this and that and something else. Not only do we have it secure but this rope's the best you can get for climbing. You coming or not, for if not we'll pull up the rope and leave.”

“But it's secure,” and one of them says “Secure as it'll ever be. I'm telling you, it's taut.”

I grab hold of the rope with both hands. I've climbed ropes before. In high school: not very well but it was a start. In college, where we still had to take, at least in my college, four physical science courses they called them then to graduate. One of those courses had rope climbing in it. Twenty feet to the ceiling I think we had to climb. Maybe thirty, because it was in the same gym the college basketball team played in—and then with our feet wrapped around the rope in some way, we slid down. I remember the physical science teacher saying when I got down “You ought to be a genie.” I remember saying to him—

“Hey, you coming or not? We only have so much time.” “Coming, coming,” and I start climbing. It all comes back to me as I hoped it would. As my hands pull, my feet and knees push. Something like that. I'm about fifteen feet up when the rope suddenly feels loose in my hands and I yell “It's coming loose,” and someone on top says “Where? What?” and just then the rope comes off whatever it was around above and I fall.

I come down hard. This time I know I sprained a foot, maybe broke one. It certainly hurts.

“Didn't I tell you to check the rope?” and someone says “You didn't say to check it. You asked if it was secure and we said it was. Anyway, we did check it. You must have been too heavy for it. What do you weigh?”

“You said that was the best rope around for climbing, so what does it matter what I weigh? If I weighed three hundred pounds it should've been able to hold me.”

“You weigh three hundred pounds?” and I say “No, but that's not the point.”

“It would be if you weighed that much. This rope might be the best, but it only holds till around two-fifty, maybe two seventy-five. What do you weigh?”

“Less than two hundred, way less. Oh, forget it. I'll never be able to get up there no matter what I do, and certainly not with a broken or sprained ankle, so I'll be seeing you all.”

“Sure, give up. That's what you do. That's what almost all you guys who want to come over do, though it hardly seems the attitude to take if you're sincere about being in here. Look, if you want, we can throw you a rope ladder.”

“Rope ladder attached to what? No thanks. You have a regular ladder—wooden, aluminum? But wait. What do you mean all us guys? That rope wasn't my fault but yours. What were you giving me, some kind of test?”

“No. And I was only talking for all of us here about hundreds like you. ‘I want to come up.' ‘I want to be over.' ‘I want to be in there,' and so on, right? But give them two good shots at it and when they fail for their own reasons—”.

“My own reasons?”

“—then that's it, they give up, but don't you worry about it, because when they get home they'll complain we're keeping them out, we don't want them in, we're only playing with them, and so on, right? You wait and see. You'll be just like the others.”

“Okay, throw over the rope ladder. But secure it, will you?” and he says “Don't worry, it'll be secure. We want you here. We've nothing against you or the others. But we can't just let everyone in, can we? People who don't even want to make an effort? Believe me, you get in, you'll feel just like us. So make the effort. Climb. We might be serious but we don't play tricks,” and he throws the rope ladder down.

I pull on it. It's tight. “It's tight,” and one of them says “You mean good and tight. Start climbing.”

“Because of my foot it might take me a little longer than usual, but I'm on my way. You have someone to fix a foot there?”

“We have everything. Someone to fix a foot, someone to make a new foot if you want. Anything you want with feet, arms, head—any part or anyone thing in the world. Maybe the one thing we haven't got so much of right now, or at least for you, is time, so come on.”

“Right,” and I start climbing. The foot really hurts, but what they said makes it seem worth the pain. Once on top they'll probably give me something to ease it, and it also should be much easier getting down the other side. Who know how they work it? Maybe they've a sliding pond. Or more rope ladders or wooden ladders or steps, even. Probably steps. They take good care of themselves. They have the means and ingenuity. Whatever it is, they got. Probably steps or maybe even some motorized car. An elevator or funicular or seat car or whatever it's called that's used in skiing to go up and down a mountain—a chair lift. Anyway, they want me now. Want me? I'll say they're still interested in having me, but if I don't make it now, then that'll be the end of their interest for a while. It first came in the mail. “You're invited,” it said. To such and such place, “which you'll have to get out to on your own. We know you want to be with us and will be excited at receiving this. Now we're inviting you to be with us. It won't be easy for you, but we also don't think it'll be that hard. In other words, you've more than proven to us because of your past deeds, industry, sincerity, perseverance and honesty that you're the kind of material we want and could even use here, so come on a coming.” That's what the letter said. “Come on a coming. We'll be waiting,” and it gave the directions, time and date and said to wear my work clothes. So I came. When I got here and looked around and didn't see anyone or anything but this wall, one of them said from on top of it “You there—up here.” “Where's the door?” and one of them said “Door? You have to climb up, old friend, up up up.” “With what?” and someone else said “Your hands.” I tried, couldn't make it. Tried the rope, couldn't make it. So now I'm climbing the ladder. Seems easy enough despite the ankle pain. They didn't make it that tough for me. Probably some sort of initiation, those first two. Though I just about knew I couldn't make it by hand or rope. I went through both figuring that falling ten to fifteen feet each time would prove even more to them how sincere and persevering and so on I am. It worked. I'm not sure that's how I felt those two times, but they have given me a third chance and this ladder is relatively easy to climb.

The strut—no, what's it called?—the ring, the rung, though maybe also the strut, or even the crosspiece, beneath my bottom foot feels loose. I climb a step higher and the next strut, rung or crosspiece is loose, so now both feet are on loose crosspieces, I'll say. I climb a step higher and that one splits in two, so now one foot's on a loose crosspiece and the other's dangling in the air. I'm twenty feet up and have about fifteen feet to go and the crosspiece in my top hand is loose too. I climb a step higher and the crosspiece above the broken crosspiece splits in two and the next crosspiece my top hand grabs is loose, so now I'm dangling there, two feet in the air, hands holding on to two loose crosspieces I'm sure are going to split, and I don't know what to do.

“Help, please, the ladder crosspieces are breaking or coming loose,” and someone yells “Hey, what's happening down there? We know you've a bad ankle or two, even a broken one, but we got to get down our side of this thing one of these days too.”