Chapter 7

I'm sure that on that Friday, Martha made sure that she was finished at work by five o'clock, in order to be home at five-thirty. After all it was Valentine's Day.

She was probably cheerful as she drove home, wondering where we would go to dinner, our tradition on Valentine's Day. I'm supposed to do the whole thing — a card, flowers, and a small box (at her request) of candies; she loved the chocolate, hated the calories.

Usually for Valentine's Day, we would go out to dinner someplace special. It was expected that I would have made reservations weeks in advance if necessary, to get into the finest new restaurants, and to get the best seats.

It didn't work out that way, though.

First, I was late getting home because I'd been getting my Valentine's Day gift from Stephanie, and was in no special hurry to get home.

It was past 6:15 when I arrived at the house. Martha's car was already in the garage, as I opened the door and drove in.

I must have seemed preoccupied, because I walked past the living room without even noticing that Martha was there.

Martha spoke up,

"Mark! I'm in here, in the living room."

I stopped and turned back a couple of steps, and my eyes adjusted to the lower light level, and sure enough, there was Martha.

Martha was dressed nicely for work, so she wouldn't have to change out of her outfit. She looked like she had been reading the newspaper to wait for me to arrive. When she saw me, she put down the paper and turned off the news on the television, and looked around for her purse, wondering if she needed to take it with her to dinner, I suppose.

"Oh, sorry. Couldn't see you in there," I said, "Have a good day at work?"

"Why ... yes, I'm sure. But..." she stammered, as she looked at me expectantly.

I think that Martha was totally confused. I wasn't carrying anything — no cards, no flowers, no candy. Nada. I wasn't rushing to her to tell her that she was my Valentine sweetheart. She was perplexed. What could this possibly mean?

"Where are... , I mean, what are we doing for dinner?" she finally got out the words.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not that hungry tonight. Why don't you just fix yourself some left-overs, and I'll get something later, if I feel hungry," I replied, completely serious, and then I walked back to my office and shut the door.

I suspect that at first, Martha thought that it was some kind of joke. She didn't find it funny, I'm sure, but she was going to try and put her best face on anyway. Why ruin her evening by getting angry at me right off the bat.

She knocked and opened the door to my office, to find me looking back at her from the chair in front of my computer.

"Mark, honey, do you know what today is?" she inquired sweetly.

I looked back at her, my face with just a slightly wry smile,

"Can't fool me. It's Friday, February 14th. But I have to let you know, I cheated with the answer: I have a calendar right in front of me on the wall," I informed her, completely calmly, without any particular emotion. Her eyes followed my finger to the calendar to which I was pointing.

"Oh! I guess so," Martha said, as she retreated, with a look of fear and curiosity in her face.

I could almost read her mind: My goodness, he doesn't remember! He is going to have to see a doctor. It could be Alzheimer's or something. He's too young to be losing his mind.

She didn't even notice that my hair was still damp from my shower with Steph. Funny, that, when I thought back on it — I had showered with Stephanie because it was fun, not to conceal our affair. But it didn't matter, my erstwhile wife didn't notice anyway.

What I didn't know was whether my wife's plan had been to 'grant me' some sexual relief that night. After ignoring her that evening, I knew she wasn't going to offer now. Not that I gave a rat's ass.

On Sunday I would discover that Martha decided on her course of action, and called our eldest son Daniel to ask for help.

That night, for once, Martha and I were in entirely reversed positions. That night, Martha was the one in emotional turmoil, sure that there was something very wrong, just not sure of what.

On the other hand, I was asleep almost immediately, dreaming about a petite, redheaded woman, who was telling me that she was available as often as I want her, and whenever I can find the opportunity. That king-sized mattress sure was comfortable; especially when I was feeling satisfied.

The Saturday after Valentine's Day was like most weekends had been in the past year; Martha and I basically avoided each other. Only this weekend, Martha was nagged by an undefined fear.

Sure, she was plenty pissed that I had seemingly forgotten about Valentine's Day, but she contained her anger, offset by her fear that this was a sign of some major medical issue that needed to be diagnosed and corrected.

After talking to our son Dan on Friday night, Martha just lay low Saturday, keeping out of my way, which, it turns out, was fine by me.

Sunday was another matter.

Sunday morning, Dan had called me from his cell phone, already on his way to the house by the time he felt it was permissible to call. He spoke to me, and I agreed to go out to lunch with him.

In fact, to his surprise, I was in good spirits, and at first blush, was acting perfectly normal. I could see in his expression that he was relieved. We took separate cars, and went to one of the chain-restaurants that would serve either breakfast or lunch when we arrived.

We ordered our meals, and chatted about Dan's family, various projects and activities that he had been working on, and how my classes were going. Finally, I looked at my son, and decided to stop playing around,

"Dan, I'm sure glad to see you, and I'm delighted that you've come all the way down here to see me, but maybe you could come around to the point of whatever it is we need to talk about," I said, laying it on the line.

"Dad, Mom is worried. She is worried about your memory, whether you need to see a doctor, or something," he told me; with clear distress at having to even raise this issue.

"Now why would your mother think that I'm having a problem with my memory? Here we go: Pi is equal to 3.14159265. Is that enough places? I could go for fifteen more if you wanted," I smirked a little as I said it; I was teasing him, and he knew it.

"It isn't your long-term memory that she's worried about, Dad, it's your short-term memory — about recent things. Like she tells me that she asked you repeatedly to fix a clog in her sink, but you kept forgetting," he gave his first example.

"What she told you is a little misleading, Son. Did she mention that the sink that she's talking about is the one in your old bathroom? The sinks in the master bath are working just fine, and I'll guarantee you that if we have any guests staying over in your old room, I'll clean the sink before they use it. I just don't see the same urgency to do it that your mom does," I explained, knowing that I too was doing a little prevaricating.

If his mother wanted him to know that she'd moved out of our bedroom, let her explain it to him. Maybe she would be more honest with him than she'd been with me.

"The other thing she mentioned," he continued in his investigation, "was that you forgot Valentine's Day altogether. She didn't get into details, but she implied that you didn't get her any cards, or flowers or candy, and that you didn't take her out for dinner, like you always do."

"Dan, I think that it is your mother who is having the memory problem. I was completely aware that last Friday, February the Fourteenth, was Valentine's Day. Perhaps, what she doesn't remember is that she made it clear to me Christmas evening, after you all had left, that she was not interested in romantic evenings, or gifts, and in fact that they make her angry.