TWENTY-TWO
There is one sure way to find out who has more power in a relationship. Start a fight. Start a fight with all the righteous grievance on your side. See if your partner, who should be cringing and apologizing, or at the very least listening, winds up going on the offensive and attacks you for invasion of privacy and a lack of trust, and then accuses you of transferring your own feelings of insecurity over not having a job onto the relationship. Then, when you try to bring the conversation back around to his behavior, see whether or not your partner cuts off your response by saying, “I'm just too mad to finish this right now.” If you find yourself looking at your partner's departing back, your rage turned into a deep, painful, roiling unhappiness, then guess what? He's top dog.
I walked upstairs to the attic and informed Hunter that I had found the letters. He heaved a deep sigh and half-turned in his chair. On his computer screen I could see an instant message from someone.
“Oh, God, we're not starting that again, are we? Christ, Abs, maybe you should go back to the city and go back to the Institute. You really are falling apart out here.”
“I can't go back.” My voice was a whisper.
“Then go find something else. Do something before you drive both of us crazy, sitting around the house all day long.”
“I haven't just been sitting around.”
“You didn't even start unpacking the boxes till today, you don't have a job, you don't cook—”
“I'm looking for a job, in case you haven't noticed, and I cooked last night, but you said you didn't want—”
“I mean cook real food.”
I took a deep breath. “Listen,” I said, “we are not talking about what I am or am not doing. I came up here to discuss those letters. And Magda.”
Hunter nodded slowly, as if hearing something he had always suspected proven true. “I know what this is. This sudden lack of trust, this new need to be in my face twenty-four hours a day. You've lost your own direction. But you're going to have to work this out for yourself. You can't hang on to me every second, hoping I can give your life purpose.”
“Hunter, that is completely unfair! I found a letter you wrote that seems to be telling me to contact our accountant. Were you thinking about divorce? What exactly happened in Romania? I think this is something we ought to discuss.”
“Fine. You stay here and discuss it. I'm heading out.” Hunter quickly saved the files on his computer and pressed the button to shut it down.
“No,” I said again, louder, standing up. “You are not going to Moondoggie's to flirt with that waitress again.”
Hunter's face began to flush with color. His eyes glittered darkly. “You are really intent on pissing me off today, aren't you?”
“So you think this is all my fault?”
“I've had enough of this shit, Abra.”
“No, I have!” I ran out the door in front of him, my heart pounding so hard I could barely think. I half-expected him to grab me as I raced down the half-finished stairs from the attic, but he must have been too surprised.
At the bottom, I stopped and glanced up. Hunter was leaning over the railing, looking at me as if he were seeing a madwoman. “Abra, what the hell are you doing?”
“Taking the car before you do.” I walked outside without taking a coat, knowing I would find the key in the ignition: country habits. The car was too warm and musty inside, and it took me three tries to move the seat so that I could reach the pedals. I almost never drove. Hunter said he hated to let someone else have control, and it wasn't an issue with me.
We'd never had fights like this before. Before Hunter came back from Romania, we'd never had fights at all. That was one of the reasons he'd chosen me, I think: his calm little nun, his serene and quiet girl, his willing sidekick.
I gunned the engine and took off.