The Good China

She had always believed her life was a simple matter of mathematics. Happiness could be found in the sum of a working equation: the whole of herself added to another, multiplied by love, increased exponentially by the safety of accumulated years. What she had not expected was what came next. A marriage, minus the things each could not give away, then divided slowly by her father and his mother, her lover and his job, her past and his future, a bank note, a car payment, a mortgage. She had not expected that their life together could be so easily reduced, piece by piece, until what was left was a skeleton of the things with which they had begun. Reduced again and again, by the deafening silence of ordinary betrayal, until each was left with only a fraction to define themselves.

The day she moved out, he rose early for work. He dressed and then poured coffee in a travel mug like he had done every day for seven years. He checked his pockets for his keys, his wallet, his identification badge and his cigarettes, then he walked from room to room, taking a mental inventory of what they had collected together, wondering what she would take. He loved the book cases, with the strange assortment of science fiction novels and southern literature. He had memorized every one of their family photographs, tarnished silver and chipped wood. He remembered the hours they had spent together, shopping at flea-markets and yard sales, looking for the right vintage chair and sofa. He touched the corner of her vanity as he entered the bedroom, lingering over her watch and wedding ring. He stood over her sleeping body and imagined her driving north, then he thought of the map in her glove box. He remembered the first time they had fought so bitterly about separation, in the car on their way home from her parents house. He reached out and slowly traced the shape of her hip, her thigh, her calf, and then he turned and walked out. He had carried her hurts for as long as he could. He had his own now. She would have to decide alone what to take and what to leave.


She lay quietly, listening to his morning rituals, the rituals she had memorized over seven years of marriage. The water hitting the tile as he moved in and out of the shower spray, the clinking of his belt buckle, the last gurgles of the coffee maker, the muffled sound of his keys entering his pocket. As he stepped into the bedroom, she closed her eyes, trying to regulate the sound of her breathing. She felt him touch her lightly, heard him sigh and watched through parted lashes as he walked away. She began making a mental list of what she would pack. It was colder where she was going. She should take a couple of flannel shirts, long johns and her hiking boots. She would need to take a few dishes, but perhaps she would leave him the good china.

As his car crunched out of the driveway, faded and finally disappeared, she remembered the long drive home from her parent’s house the year before. The way they had at first talked conspiratorially about her parents. Her mother’s health, her father’s business, fear of debt and obligations. “I never want to be them” he had said. “We should be so lucky” she had replied. She remembered then the way the tension hung in the air. He had known all along, he said. What he couldn’t understand was why it mattered so much. “Do you think I’m happy?” he had asked bitterly, as if mutual misery made all the difference. She knew he wasn’t happy but she also knew he had never been happy, never dreamed of being happy, never imagined happiness was attainable. She did. She wanted more. She wanted more and she wanted less. “I have to do this” was all she could say. She had cried then, but that had only made him more angry. Only created a torrent between them that neither could bridge.

She crawled slowly from the bed, reached out and pulled the blanket up, considering but immediately discarding the idea of putting clean sheets on the mattress. She reached under and dragged out three suitcases of varying sizes, zipped around each other like nesting dolls. She began emptying each drawer into her suitcases, then reconsidered and went to the kitchen for a plastic garbage bag. She stopped on the way back to the bedroom and poured a cup of coffee. She sorted through the bureau, then moved to the closest and repeated the ritual, taking only what she thought she would need for the cold weather. She threw away the entire contents of her vanity, minus her watch and wedding ring. When she was finished and there was nothing left to throw away, she packed one milk crate with shoes, one with books and photographs and one with dishes. She left the ancient coffee maker but took the garlic press and her new crescent knife.

After she dressed and put her belongings in the trunk and backseat of her car, she reheated her coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and began to write. Your checkbook is on the night stand, there’s a list on the refrigerator with all the important telephone numbers and the spare key is on the hook by the door. Don’t forget to pay the paper carrier on Friday. She signed her name and as an afterthought added I love you. She did love him. How could she not? She had fallen asleep curled against the small of his back every night for seven years. She had memorized the lines on his face and the sound of his voice. His fingerprints were all over her. Of course she loved him. Love, after all, was the only explanation she had ever come up with which might explain how two people could add up to so much and be reduced to so little. Love was the only explanation she had for the life she had lived.

 After she finished writing, she folded the note, dressed warmly, took one last look around, then climbed into her car and drove away. Away from a marriage that never fit. Away from a lie she never meant to tell. Away from one thing but towards another. She turned on the radio, put on her sunglasses and began a journey towards the unremarkable truth. A truth which might finally explain how to do the math using only whole numbers.