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And even after what Jackson and MJ said, I still find myself thinking about what I have to do next, tomorrow: admit to myself that this—Jackson and I—are over; sleep and begin picking up the pieces of myself; find a lawyer; sell our house; move.
Lavender (2016)
Thursday, January 28, 2016, Janus—I met with a lawyer today. It’s official.I am divorcingJackson. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to do, and I must dosomething.We’ve been together thirty-nine years, married for one hundred and two days. I am Kim Kardashian. I am Britney Spears.
Quite frequently before the SCOTUS ruling, when the subject of marriage equality came up, often in heated arguments, I’d routinely dismissed all arguments by saying I didn’t care because just as not being able to marry hadn’t kept Jackson and I apart, getting married wouldn’t keep us together. Now I feel myself choking on the very truth of those words.
Getting divorced is hard. Aside from the emotional cost, there is the financial cost. Under the terms of our divorce agreement, Jackson gets half of everything. We’re selling our house, and he’ll get half of that as well. I could easily have bought him out, but I can’t bear the thought of living across the street from him and Kitt. My lawyer thinks I am being overly and unnecessarily generous. After all, he points out, I make more money than Jackson and have for a long time. I was the one who built then sold a successful business, the one who achieved. But even after everything that has happened, I can’t bear the thought of Jackson in need, of him living in poverty. I just can’t.
And while it’s true I make more money than he does, that hasn’t always been the case. When I was in college, Jackson often worked two jobs so I could be free to study. Even after I graduated and got a job and he got his plumber’s license, heoutearned me for years. And he took care of me. No matter how late I came home from work, he was there to ask how my day was and there was a warm meal on the table. If I had an important meeting, he made sure I had a pressed shirt to wear and matching socks. If I’d succeeded, if I’d soared, it was because of Jackson. He was the source of my power; he was the wind beneath my wings. Even now, outsiders looking at us may assume I am the hero in our story; no one ever seems to realize thatheismyhero. And his is the only love I’ve ever known.
Sunday, March 15, 2016, Janus—“Upstairs or down?” the maître d’ asked us. The restaurant, Milliways, is famous for its rotating dining room and its sheer glass walls; the upstairs restaurant, 700 feet above the ground, boasts a 360-degree view of the city below. It is as legendary for its view as it is for inducing motion sickness and vertigo in intrepid would-be diners as they shoot at high speed fifty stories up in a glass-walled elevator that climbs the side of the building in a transparent shaft. There are those who survive the elevator ride intact only to develop motion sickness once they are seated in the ceaselessly rotating dining room.
“Downstairs,” I said before Claude could respond.
“I see,” the maître d’ said dismissively, branding us cowards despite Claude’s outfit that was anythingbutcowardly, and directed us to the escalator behind him on his right.
As we stepped onto the escalator, Claude looked at me in surprise. “Are you afraid of heights?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid of dying in an elevator traveling at the speed of light to an unnecessary height in pursuit of a forty-dollar cheeseburger.”
She laughed.
The escalator delivered us to the second-floor iteration of the fabled fiftieth-floor dining room; this dining room was populated with the more timid and less pretentious, who recognized the ability to pay top dollar for food made from the finest and freshest ingredients and prepared by chefs trained in France and Italy, and served by stunning out-of-work actors and models, ought not to carry with it the threat of death by fire, mechanical failure, terrorism, or sheer fear.
I was surprised when Claude called and asked me to a late brunch—just us, she made a point of telling me. Now, I watched her carefully as she untucked her hands from her fur muff and laid it on the banquette beside her. Then she removed her matching hat and laid it on top of the muff.
“What would you like to drink?” our waiter asked.
“I’ll have a French 75,” Claude said.
“Very good, ma’am. And you, sir?”
“I’ll have a negroni, please.”
“What kind of gin?”
“Monkey 47.”
Yes, sir.”
The waiter placed our drinks on the table and took our brunch order. When he left, Claude reached for my hand. I guess our small talk and general pleasantries were about to end.
“We need to talk,” she said. “Or rather I need to talk, and you need to listen. I just need to explain a decision Octavio and I have made and our reasoning. After, we can discuss. OK?”
I nodded and took a sip of my drink, nervous.
“Octavio and I have decided to remain in Jackson’s life. I’m upset with him for hurting you. It was wrong and you deserve better. And I’ve told him that. If Mary Jane had a husband and she did to him what Jackson did to you, we would be so disappointed and angry, but we would not disown her. We consider you and Jackson as much a part of our family as Mary Jane. Nothing could make us stop loving any of you. You see, when Mary Jane promised to be your family, we became your family too. And without you, if Jackson didn’t have us, who would he have?” Claude stopped talking abruptly. “Do you have any thoughts you’d like to share?” she asked.
“No. No. I mean, thank you for standing by Jackson—I hate the thought of him losing anyone else—and for telling me.”
She reached for my hands again. She noticed the watch on my right hand, then glanced at the one on my left hand. “That’s a beautiful watch,” she said, gesturing to my right hand. “Do you always wear two?”
I shrugged. “It was the last watch I bought for Jackson. It was to be his Christmas present. He left before Christmas.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I know. I could have returned it, but somehow that felt like I was throwing him away…”
