The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan Page B

is here, in my house.
    I went to my comfortable, old butcher-block countertop and began slamming, chopping, and beating the components of a tuna casserole into a combination of ingredients that ended up more like tuna soup. I was spending far too much time in the slamming and beating stage of life. But I admired Mrs. Krantz for one thing: She was a pretty goodreporter of everyone’s comings and goings. Come to think of it, I had seen his unmistakable markings, like a cockroach leaves his trail. The bathroom rug was moved to the front of my toilet, a comfortable arrangement he enjoyed for hours on end upon the throne. I thought Tick had picked up the habit. But it wasn’t Tick. It seemed the Ex continued the dumping even when he moved out, leaving a coffee cup and the daily newspaper ragged and defiled on the bathroom floor.
    Later that same day—with the interview completed and a new lease on life—temporary though it was—I stared out the kitchen window, contemplating my two matching, lovely Japanese maples, when a very loud voice boomed from the front yard and through the house.
    â€œATSAPEPPER ATTABOY ATTAWAYTOGO.”
    I walked across the kitchen and down the hall, annoyed at myself for tiptoeing through the rooms of my own house. I peeked out the front window.
    There he stood, feet planted like a general, so that all the neighbors could see and hear what a good dad he was. He was playing catch with Tick. I should have been pleased that he tossed the ball around with our son, when a lot of dads didn’t bother, but I couldn’t stand the sight of him since he’d moved out, and had at last taken up with the quiet, venomous Babsy—the name stuck in my teeth like old meat. That simpering adoring hypocrite, the one who taught Sunday school, all the while she was screwing my then-husband. That was some feat, since he claimed he was only fixing her tire.
    The Ex showed up nearly every afternoon, and his baseball talk and his bravado woke up the squirrels, scared the dogs and cats, and thoroughly pissed me off. Today, he wore a new pinstripe suit, gold-stripe tie loosened. He bent over and wound up for a pitch, making a show of it, with hiswing tips dug in the grass next to the For-Sale sign that stuck like a dagger into my yard. I still hated seeing that realty sign and knowing I would have to give up my house with its lovely, large rooms, parquet floor and winding staircase, and the wallpaper it took me weeks to pick out—an enormous blue and red Victorian trellis design on cream. But, the house would eventually have to go, and so did I. As I looked out at the Ex, I knew that sooner would be better than later. His shouts of encouragement, all the fake cheers, hurling the fact before the neighbors’ ears, that dad was home, when, in fact, he was not, wore on me until I went to the back of the house and stayed in the kitchen, which, for all the irony, I realized that is exactly where he always preferred me to be.
    I took the tuna casserole out of the oven carefully, set the bubbling concoction on the stovetop, and screamed.
    I hadn’t spoken to the Ex since his lawyer, who had trouble fitting into the leather armchair at his grand conference table, sat the two of us down during the divorce proceedings and said to me, “Before things get too far out of hand,” it was up to me—as the “defendant” in the case—to rethink the topic of “maintenance” (like I was a car), and that I was asking too much of his client. And further, that I wasn’t even entitled to any such support in the state of Indiana (or Texas, for that matter, the attorney added, somewhat unnecessarily). I should “be less negative about the whole thing anyway, and look for a real job,” he said. “Get out there and earn a good buck.”
    I wanted to punch him in the face. The meeting ended when I got up and tipped the chair over, tangling my purse and tripping over