It Happened on Maple Street

I’d set the notebook on the kitchen counter while I made a stop in the bathroom. He’d arrived while I was incapacitated. I grabbed up the binder—my 2004 Policy and Procedure Manual. I was president of a multimillion-dollar international writers organization that had more than 9,600 members.

“You’d think, after nineteen years of marriage, you’d at least be able to get a simple thing, like picking up after yourself, right.”

Had his nose always been that thin? His eyes that beady? Where had the pretty blue gone? I didn’t see any color in them now at all.

“Dammit,” he said again, slamming his hand against the counter. “I take care of you. Why can’t you take care of me? I don’t ask for much.”

I didn’t say anything. It would only anger him further.

You parked with the wheels turned again. Do I have to do everything for you?

You’re a writer, not a business person. You aren’t good with numbers. I’ll take care of the finances. You worry about getting that book written.

Just wait for me to take you to the grocery. Lifting the bags isn’t good for your back.

Let me make the phone calls. You’re good at writing, not so with real conversation. I understand, though, it’s because you spend all day alone with the people in your head, how could you be expected to carry on normal conversation?

Other conversations replayed themselves in my mind while Chris got himself a drink—the Cognac he had every single night as soon as he got home. It was expensive. But he didn’t have many extravagances.

I waited until he’d had a couple of sips and then said, “Remember, I have a writer’s meeting tonight.”

It was more than that. We were having a three-day board meeting in Albuquerque. I’d been in meetings all day and had rushed home on dinner break to put the casserole in the oven for Chris and to make certain that I was there to greet him as he expected.

We’d never had children—my fault, I’d never been able to conceive— and Chris was right. He really did ask for very little. A clean house. Dinner at night. His wife home when he got there.

And available when he needed her. But he didn’t complain about all of my traveling as long as I had meals planned and ready for him to reheat while I was gone. And he hadn’t complained about the seven years it had taken me to get published, either. The years he’d supported me while I sought to make my dreams come true.

He’d been my rock six years before when my father died.

“How late are you going to be?”

“I’m not sure. The advent of e-books might change the publishing world in the very near future, and we’re already being challenged to look at our definitions of publishing. Tonight’s a special brainstorming session on . . .”

I’d have said more but Chris was reading the paper he’d picked up from the bin by his chair. I placed it there every evening before he got home.

I walked over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Dinner’s ready. It’s in the oven on warm. There’s salad in the fridge. Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of them when I get home.”

He nodded. Glanced my way and smiled. “Be very, very careful. You’re a small woman. And gorgeous. Which makes you prey to all the creeps out there.”

Hating the reminder that because I was a woman I was vulnerable, I nodded. “I will. See you tonight.” I probably wouldn’t. He’d be asleep before I returned, and we’d had separate bedrooms for more than ten years—ever since he’d found out I couldn’t conceive.

I don’t think he heard me, anyway.

I don’t think he’d heard a word I’d said in years. I’d published more than thirty books in twelve years and Chris hadn’t read a word of them. He didn’t really know what I was capable of. Or didn’t want to know.

My writing frien

ds had pointed it all out to me. After one of them overheard a particularly bad phone conversation between Chris and me. I’d been in New York, meeting with my new agent. I’d been wined and dined. And he’d let me know that I’d made a bad decision taking on the agent I had. He’d said I had no business sense. I knew words, not numbers.

What made my friends mad was that I agreed with him. I will never forget hanging up from that call to face the woman I respected more than anyone else in the world. Her lips were pursed, her cheeks red, and she said to me, “You’re responsible for a multimillion-dollar organization that is growing in amazing numbers and you think you have no business sense?”

I understood. Chris felt threatened by my success. Like my ability to sell books would somehow make him less valuable. So he had to make certain that I saw less value in myself than I saw in him.

He was afraid I was going to leave him.

He needn’t have worried. I’d given him my word to be with him until death parted us, and I was going to remain loyal to him. Just because I had a successful career didn’t mean that I was a better person. Nor did I let my success go to my head. My business, as any business, was fickle. As a writer I was only as good as my latest book.

Besides, I knew full well, had always known, that life wasn’t about money and career. It was about family. Chris was my husband. And he’d been good to me.