Chapter 2: Half of Nothing
Friday morning arrived beneath a gray Ohio sky.
I was making scrambled eggs when Gary walked into the kitchen wearing his good jeans and the blue shirt he usually saved for church or family gatherings.
He had shaved carefully. His hair was combed. His truck keys rested beside his plate.
Something about the sight of him made my stomach tighten.
"You're up early," I said.
"Got things to take care of.""
He sat down, unfolded his napkin, and began eating.
I watched him butter a piece of toast with the same casual precision he had used every morning for decades.
Then he reached beside his chair and pulled out a thick envelope.
He slid it across the table.
"What's this?"" I asked.
"Something we should have done a long time ago.""
I opened it.
The first page had my name printed near the top. The second had Gary's. Beneath them were paragraphs of legal language I had to read twice before the words made sense.
Divorce petition.
For a moment, I couldn't hear anything except the refrigerator humming behind me.
I looked up at my husband.
"You filed for divorce?""
He continued cutting his eggs.
"Yes.""
"When?""
"Earlier this week.""
Earlier this week.
The same week my ticket had disappeared.
The same week he had started bringing me tea.
I placed the papers on the table very carefully.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
He sighed, as though I were making an unreasonable demand.
"I've been unhappy for a long time, Patty. I think you know that.""
I searched his face for some sign of embarrassment.
There was none.
"Thirty-four years," I whispered.
"That doesn't mean we have to spend the rest of our lives miserable.""
"Miserable?""
He finally looked at me.
"You heard me.""
I thought of the years I had worked part-time at a school cafeteria while raising our children. I thought of the evenings I had spent helping his mother wash and dress herself. I thought of the months I had gone without buying new clothes because the truck needed repairs or one of the children needed money.
I thought of the nights I had sat alone at the kitchen table waiting for Gary to come home from fishing, wondering why I felt so lonely with a husband still living under my roof.
"Did I do something?"" I asked.
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
"That's the problem with you. You always make everything about yourself.""
The words struck harder than I expected.
I looked down at the papers.
"Is there someone else?""
He paused.
Only for a second, but I saw it.
"That isn't the point.""
It was the point.
It was always the point when a marriage ended after three decades, but I wasn't going to beg him for a confession.
Instead, I asked, "What about the house?""
"The house is mortgaged to the roof.""
"The mortgage is almost paid off.""
"Almost isn't paid off.""
"And the savings?""
He wiped his mouth with his napkin.
"There aren't any savings worth talking about.""
That wasn't entirely true. We had a modest retirement account and a joint checking account, though neither was large enough to make either of us wealthy.
But Gary spoke as though our entire life together had been a financial disaster.
"The truck's in my name," he continued.
"Most of the bills are in my name. So I wouldn't expect much, Patty.""
He leaned back and smiled.
"Half of nothing is nothing.""
I stared at him.
There it was.
Not grief. Not regret. Not even anger.
Contempt.
He had spent thirty-four years watching me make a home out of whatever we could afford. Now he was sitting across from me, explaining why I deserved almost nothing from the life we had built together.
I felt something inside me go quiet.
Not broken.
Quiet.
"Have you talked to a lawyer?"" I asked.
He looked mildly surprised.
"Of course.""
"And you think this is fair?""
"I think it's practical.""
He stood and carried his plate to the sink.
I watched him rinse it, set it in the dishwasher, and walk toward the stairs.
"Gary?""
He stopped.
"Are you leaving today?""
"Yes.""
"Where are you going?""
"That doesn't concern you anymore.""
He said it without turning around.
Within an hour, he had packed two suitcases, his fishing rods, several tackle boxes, and the old canvas duffel bag he took on weekend trips.
I sat at the kitchen table while he moved through the house.
Every drawer he opened seemed to release another memory.
The fishing picture from Lake Erie.
The framed photograph from our twenty-fifth anniversary.
The worn leather jacket I had bought him for Christmas twelve years ago.
He took what he wanted and left the rest.
When he came downstairs with the last suitcase, he stopped in the doorway.
"You'll be fine," he said.
I almost laughed.
"Will I?""
"You're a strong woman.""
It was the sort of thing a person said when they wanted credit for abandoning someone without feeling responsible for the consequences.
He set the suitcase beside the door.
"Don't make this ugly, Patty. We can handle it like adults.""
I looked at the divorce papers still lying on the table.
"You've already made it ugly.""
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, I thought he might shout.
Instead, he picked up his keys.
"Take care of yourself.""
Then he walked outside.
I followed him to the front porch.
The air smelled of wet grass and the faint smoke from a neighbor's woodstove. Gary loaded his suitcases into the truck, secured his fishing equipment, and climbed into the driver's seat.
Before starting the engine, he patted his back pocket.
Once.
Then again.
His wallet.
I watched his hand linger there.
He didn't know I was watching closely enough to understand.
The truck started, and he backed down the driveway.
He was heading toward the city.
Toward the State Lottery Claims Center.
Toward the $2.4 million prize he believed he had already won.
I stood on the porch until his truck disappeared beyond the bend.
Then I went inside and closed the door.
I did not cry.
I did not throw the divorce papers across the room.
I did not call our children to tell them their father had abandoned me.
Instead, I washed his breakfast plate.
I wiped the kitchen counter.
I went into the backyard and watered my tomato plants, even though the soil was already damp from the previous night's rain.
The small chores steadied my hands.
For nineteen years, I had bought a lottery ticket every Friday. For nineteen years, I had watched Gary laugh at me for spending two dollars on a dream.
He had assumed the habit was foolish.
He had never asked why I chose those particular numbers.
He had never cared enough to notice that I always turned the ticket over before putting it beneath the pineapple magnet.
And he certainly had never asked why I wrote something on the back.
That was his mistake.
At noon, I made myself a sandwich.
At one, I called the hospital to check on Marilyn.
At two, I sat on the front porch with a glass of iced tea.
The telephone rested beside me on the wicker table.
I had spent thirty-four years waiting for Gary to come home.
Waiting for him to apologize.
Waiting for him to notice how much I did.
Waiting for him to remember that I was a person with feelings, not a piece of furniture that had come with the house.
I wasn't waiting for him anymore.
At 2:47 p.m., my cell phone rang.
The number displayed on the screen belonged to the state.
I answered on the second ring.
"Hello?""
"Is this Patricia Dunn?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Linda. I'm calling from the State Lottery Claims Center.""
I sat straighter.
"How can I help you?""
There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of papers being shuffled.
"Mrs. Dunn, your husband is here trying to claim a winning ticket.""
I looked out across the yard.
The tomato plants swayed gently in the breeze.
"I thought he might be.""
Another pause.
This one lasted long enough for me to hear a muffled voice in the background.
Gary.
He was saying something too loudly for me to make out the words.
Linda lowered her voice.
"Ma'am, we have a problem with the back of this ticket.""
I closed my eyes.
"What kind of problem?""
"The ticket has already been signed. And the signature doesn't match your husband's identification.""
In the background, Gary's voice rose sharply.
"That is my ticket! I brought it in! You can't tell me I don't know my own property!""
Linda cleared her throat.
"Mrs. Dunn, we need to ask you a few questions.""
I lifted my glass and took a slow sip of iced tea.
"Of course," I said.
"Ask away.""
Because the signature on that ticket was not Gary's.
May you like
It was mine.
And the words written beneath it were about to turn his victory into the biggest mistake of his life.
