Chapter 1: Out of the Blue

We were just finishing up the dinner dishes as we usually did. What didn't go into the dishwasher, we did by hand. Joyce washed and I dried. I snapped the towel out, folded it and put it on its hanger.

"Don't go anywhere, Geoff. I've got something for you," my wife said.

I was intrigued. This was different, so I sat in my usual kitchen chair waiting for her return. She wasn't gone more than twenty seconds when she returned carrying a manila envelope. She put it on the table and slid it toward me.

"What's this?" I asked, picking it up and looking at the front.

"Read it and see for yourself," she said. She seemed a bit nervous to me.

I looked at the front of the envelope, and along with my name, was the name of a law firm in the top corner. I didn't like the look of this at all. I looked up at Joyce.

"What's this about, Joyce?" I asked again.

"Look inside, Geoff. That will tell you."

I opened the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers. The heading on the title page told me everything I had hoped it wouldn't. Petition for Divorce.

I looked up a Joyce again. "What the hell is going on, Joyce?"

"I'm divorcing you, Geoff." She seemed unable to continue, but her expression was firm and it wasn't pleasant.

"Why?" It was all I could think of at the moment. I was in turmoil and trying desperately to reason why this was happening.

"I'm not happy with my life. I want more from it. Our boys are almost grown and I'll be forty this December. I've spent the last twenty years cooking and cleaning and doing the laundry and all the other things a wife is expected to do. Now ... I want a life of my own."

"Is it something I've done wrong?" I asked, hoping I would get some kind of explanation for what she was proposing.

"No, Geoff. You've been a good husband and a good provider. Unfortunately, that isn't enough. We married when I was only nineteen. I missed out on part of my youth. I'm not going to miss out any more. I still have forty years left if I'm lucky. I want them to be exciting and fulfilling and meaningful. Being married to you doesn't offer that."

"Jesus, Joyce, is this some kind of early menopause thing?"

"No! It is not," she snapped angrily.

I was thunderstruck. We were only three weeks from our twentieth wedding anniversary and she was telling me that it was over? Our life wasn't meaningful, or fulfilling? What the fuck? I was at a complete loss for words. I was shaking my head, I realized, but I couldn't come up with anything to say.

"Just sign where the tabs are, Geoff. Let's get this over with as cleanly as possible. I don't want to fight about it."

I looked down at the papers in front of me. Little red plastic tabs with the words Sign Here were randomly poking out the side of the sheaf. I took a deep breath.

"Joyce ... is this your final word? No discussion? No chance to change your mind?"

She nodded with a grim look. At least she wasn't taking any pleasure in this.

"So I'm pretty much useless as a husband ... is that it?"

"No, Geoff. It's just that ... it's me ... it's what I want. I've sacrificed twenty years to you and the boys. Now ... I want my turn."

"So this is really about you. To hell with me. To hell with our sons. Joyce comes first."

"Don't be nasty, Geoff. That's not your style. I've made up my mind. Whether you agree or not, we are getting a divorce, so just sign the papers."

"The hell I will!" I snapped. "You think I'm going to let you walk away with one cent more than the law allows then you're in for a big surprise. I'm not signing anything until Pete goes over this with a fine-tooth comb."

"Fine. Have Pete send it to Ocsana Dirovich at Wendler-Milton. The address is on the envelope," she said in frustration. Our voice levels had been rising as the conversation progressed.

"Where are the boys?" I asked. "I have to talk to them about this."

"I gave them some money to go out to dinner. I talked to them after you left for work this morning. They know what's going on."

"I suppose you intend to sue for child support?"

"Just for Ross. Matt is eighteen. They've decided to stay with me in the house. I've already moved your clothes and things out of the bedroom into the guest room."

"Well, we'll see about that. This house is half mine. It's worth a half-million on today's market and there's only about eighty thousand left on the mortgage. You want the house, then pony up two hundred and ten grand and it's yours."

"Don't be stupid, Geoff. Where am I going to get that kind of money?"

"Simple. Re-mortgage the house. You want it, you pay for it."

At that point, I stood and pushed the chair back and walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to the guest room. I looked in and found my clothes hanging up in the closet and when I opened the drawers, the t-shirts, underwear and socks put away as well. My toiletries were stacked on the top of the dresser.

I was fuming. I needed to calm down and collect my thoughts. I wanted to strike out at someone ... something. I would never hit Joyce, I had always thought, but I was perilously close to breaking that rule. She had just told me that I had wasted twenty years of my life loving and supporting her. She put no value on it other than her own sacrifices, as she characterized them.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, the house strangely silent. I wondered if she had gone out. What to do. The boys were out, but they both had cell phones and I could contact them without having to negotiate or inform Joyce. I wondered if she had given them the same story as she gave me. I wondered what my sons thought about it all.

I wondered about Joyce and why she felt she had to do this. She was an attractive woman with a good job. She dressed smartly, and radiated a presence that most other women couldn't. She was fairly tall and slim, but her exceptional posture wasn't rigid in the way some people can be. I had thought she loved me ... or at least she said she did. I hadn't seen any reason to doubt her.

We had married when I graduated from the local college. She was a good looking blonde then, but decided to let her natural brunette color return when she went back to work four years ago. Apparently she thought people would take her more seriously with dark hair. This evening in the kitchen I got a whole new perspective on Joyce Nelson.

As I sat there, I realized I didn't belong in this house any more. I was a stranger now; at best a guest. Any idea that I would stay here was out of the question. I walked downstairs and into the garage to get my suitcases. I would pack as much as I could and find a hotel or motel for the next few days. I didn't want to be here another minute.

It took me almost an hour to load the essential clothes and accessories I would need to live on my own. I could return and get the rest tomorrow when Joyce was at work. Tonight I wanted out of there, and pronto. I carried the two suitcases downstairs and into the garage, putting them in the back of my vehicle. I found an empty bankers box, then went to my office and unplugged my laptop, printer, and scanner, and packed them in the box.

At no time did I see any sign of Joyce. As I was about to leave, I looked upstairs and saw our bedroom door was closed. I wondered if she knew I was leaving. There was one way to make sure. With a bit of effort, I removed my wedding ring and placed it in the middle of the kitchen table.

It was still light at eight o'clock that evening in mid-May. Monday night and I was looking for a place to stay. I was driving aimlessly, not knowing where I was headed. Finally, I pulled over to the side of the road to think.

Our home was up in the hills on the west side, overlooking the Columbia River. We were surrounded by orchards and the occasional vineyard, and the view out over the valley was spectacular. We had bought the house at a bargain price ten years ago and it had been a home we thought we would never have to leave.

My office, Valley Computer Services, was near Wenatchee Valley College, a handy location considering how many computers were in the hands of students. Unfortunately, the hotels on the town side were backing on the mainline of the BNSF railroad, and I knew that wouldn't work. I drove to the East Wenatchee side and found a motel not far from a shopping center and the bridge across the river. The vacancy sign was lit and I checked in. It was clean and seemed quiet enough. It would have to do for the present.

I got little sleep that night. My mind was still reeling from Joyce's declaration, and I spent a good part of the night going over the past twenty years trying to determine just what went wrong. I shed some tears for what I would be losing. It all seemed so hopeless. Joyce hadn't left me a single thread to cling to.