When Love Warps the Mind a Little opens, Lafayette Proulx has quit his day job, left his wife, hauled his dog and his Royal portable across town to Judi Dubey's house, and set out, at last, to be a fiction writer. But life is complicated. Laf spends a lot of his writing time staring out the window at his dog, Spot; Judi's dysfunctional family is unraveling; rejection letters from editors are coming in; and Judi, of all people, has sent him onto the marriage counselor's couch to sort out his angry feelings about his wife. To make matters worse, Judi is diagnosed with stage IV cancer. Judi - she will break your heart and be remembered as one of the most lovable characters in American fiction - fights a heroic battle against the disease that becomes the backdrop for an exploration of illness, how it limits and expands our capacities for desire and passion, and love, its mystery and transparency, as Judi and Laf struggle to find the memory that will comfort, the truth that will redeem.
|Publisher:||Norton, W. W. & Company, Inc.|
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.90(d)|
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Love Without Its Wings
The day I finished my best story yetabout a social worker whose child gets Lyme disease, slips into a coma, suffers brain damage, becomes a burden to his fatherafter I typed it, retyped it, and mailed it off to the Timber Wolf Review, my wife, Martha, came home from work and, just like that, asked me to leave our apartment forever. What's with you? I said, as if I didn't know. She packed my green plaid suitcase, threw toiletries in an overnight bag, and set it all by the kitchen door.
A month earlier, Martha and I had gone on a couples retreat with some other folks from the parish out at the Trappist monastery in Spencer. The idea of the weekend was to reinvigorate your marriage, renew your vows, and rededicate your life to Jesus. I should tell you I'm not a religious person, and I was more than a little skeptical about the efficacy of this therapeutic undertaking. I doubted that a gang of cloistered celibates would have much to offer us struggling spouses other than the customary Pauline counsel. But then we all got to sharing our feelings so openly, talking about our hopes and fears, and we got so honest and nonjudgmental and everything, and the truth is such a dangerous drug and all, and I was feeling splendid, feeling like the world was pure, refreshing, like some god had created it with humor and generosity, that I was regrettably moved to reveal to Martha the unpleasant truth of my infidelity. I told her about Judi Dubey. But I said, Martha, I'm finished with all that, I promise. That last part was a lie, it turns out.
So as I stood there in thekitchen, my back to the door, hand on my suitcase, I could see that my disclosure had been festering inside Martha all these weeks and had turned her hateful. I told her I loved her. She jabbed me in the stomach with my typewriter. You don't know what love is, she told me, which is probably true. I mean, who does? I asked if we could talk about this. I said, Forgiveness is divine, isn't it? She said, You got what you wanted. Which was also probably true, though I didn't understand it then. I took my last look around the kitchen, trying to secure the details: the cast iron skillet on the stove, the yellow dish towel folded over the handle on the oven door, the crucifix, the wall calendar from Moore's Pharmacy. I knew they'd all wind up in a story some day. A guy like me, who had just given up a career in order to write stories, would be the central character. A story about love and anxiety.
Martha told me to take the goddamn dog and get the hell out. Spot heard the jingle of his leash and came blasting into the kitchen from the parlor and slid right past me into the door. He started barking. I cuffed him one.
Martha shook her head, called me pathetic. "You're thirty-six years old. You're working part-time in a fish-and-chips store, and you're breaking my heart."
Sure, the job thing again. I said, "Martha, you knew I was a writer when you married me."
She laughed. "You haven't published a damn thing in your life.
I said, "Neither did Emily Dickinson."
Spot grabbed his leash and tugged. I told Martha we should talk about this.
She pulled a book of matches from the El Morocco out of her pocket. "Found them in your shirt this morning."
I don't smoke. I lied and said my friend Francis X. had asked me to hold them for him.
"Your shirt smelled like that slut."
When I think about that afternoon now, I wonder if I had acted purposefully, if, in fact, I wanted to get caught, wanted to hurt Martha so badly that she would never take me back. At the time; I imagined I was acting spontaneously, if recklessly, a slave to my late-blooming libido. But infidelity, as you know, is anything but spontaneous. You can't possibly conduct a proper affair without a lot of deliberating, scheming, speculating, and conniving. It's a delicate balance where the excitement must equal the guilt and the sex must be as bright as the future you gamble. Was I no longer in love with Martha? Had I allowed her to become a stranger? If I sound disingenuous, I don't mean to.
"We'll talk about this when you've calmed down," I said. "In the meantime, what about my mail?"
"I'll forward it to you."
I gave her Judi Dubey's address, but not her name.