A Foot In The Door

I look around the house to make sure that it doesn’t look like we‘ve lived in squalor since Lars left. And we haven’t. It is just that sometimes I don’t vacuum as often as I’d like. And the cats think the world is their scratching post. Thank God I got rid of the leather furniture. The sofa looked like a carcass they’d clawed apart to avoid starvation.

And soon enough, Lars is in the doorway, awkwardly knocking on the door of the place he called his home for 7 years. I almost pity him. There are at least a thousand people I’ve never been married to and who have never lived here who would be perfectly comfortable just opening the door and walking in. And they’d be welcome to do so. I guess when you sue someone for divorce and try to take all of their money and destroy their happiness, all of that goes out the window.

He awkwardly steps into the foyer, barely inside the door. I can tell he’s uncomfortable and does not know what to do. He nervously pets the kitten and speaks to her even though he is morbidly allergic to cats of all kinds. Thankfully the kids come out to greet him. Or at least Hil does. Pat is more reluctant. I am not really clear on the reasons why.

“How’s your foot doing?” he says when Hil has picked up the kitten and walked out of toxic range.

“Well, it’s seen better days, that’s for sure,” I say, feeling a little awkward myself.

“Want me to look at it?” The question sounds so formal and estranged. You’d never imagine that we ever saw each other naked.

I extend my foot out a bit and hike up the pant leg just a little. He squats to take a better look.

“It actually doesn’t look too bad,” he says. “I mean there is no doubt that it is infected but I was expecting much worse. It doesn’t even look that swollen.”

I am somewhat relieved as he starts to stand again. But then he quickly squats again and says. “Let me see it next to your other foot.”

I put the two together, pleased that my pedicure is still looking fresh. I pull up both pant legs so the feet and ankles are in full view.

He sort of snorts a little chuckle. “Oh, yeah. It’s pretty swollen. I forgot how skinny your ankles are.”

Is it just a comment? An observation? An insult? Or is it a simple memory of familiarity that time and distance has allowed to be pleasant? Like when you look at your teenager and remember the night she projectile vomited and blew out diapers for 6 hours straight the night before your big interview, and can find the zany humor in it now that it is locked away in the corner of your mind?

I decide to look at it as a sign of peace. We’d each taken a step toward each other. Finally. I asked a question that gave him credibility and he demonstrated kindness that I’d not anticipated. And made a little inside joke in doing so. Perhaps my humbling experiences with my job and with Scott have made me less monster and more human than he once recognized. And maybe his life with Liza has finally filled him with enough joy that he doesn’t have to take away mine.

Maybe.