I really, really don't know how it happened. All I know is when it happened. It was a month to the day after the UD job and I though that we were smooth sailing after that. If I tried to say why, exactly, I'd be spouting some conjecture. It had been a process that had festered over the years. I lied, she lied. I cheated once; she cheated about ten thousand times. But, she was an ingrate. I always made sure there was money in the bank. There was always bread and milk in the house and the kids always had some decent clothes, not rags and the remains of burlap sacks sown together.
We had argued about something. I don't remember what the damn thing was, shit, don't ask me about it. I don't even remember driving over to Frank's. I must have driven fast because only ten tense minutes had elapsed during the drive between my house and his on the hill, Whispymound Drive to be precise.
"One day, I guess today, it all just fucking snapped, you know. I always loved my wife, but she really knew, and she still knows, how to fuck me up. Well, I suppose for what we started as, we did good. I started as a hustler, a pimp, a dealer, an all around fucked up lowlife. I ain't proud of it. Never was, but now out of all the bullshit I've put up with… I… I," I stammered, I didn't know quite how to say it. I'd never been at such a loss as what to say in my life. Now here I was on Franklin's pretty comfortable couch not really knowing what to say or do. This kind of existence was shit. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, Well, enemies.
"Michael," he said getting up to get another beer from the fridge, managing to keep eye contact at the same time, "I know that it ain't pleasant, but if you think that this is it with your wife, then that's it. Case closed. If you're confident that you tried everything you could to save this, and you can walk out feeling like you tried that means that it's over," he said as he reached his head into the fridge to grab a Pißwasser.
"Since when did you become a therapist, kid?" I asked.
"Don't you say every one in this town is a psychologist?" He was smiling trying to make me feel better. I appreciated it. This kid, Frank, was more of a son to me than my own son. I'm not saying that I don't love Jimmy, but Franklin is closer to what I want Jimmy to be. I hate that thought. I hate myself for thinking it. I'd think it nonetheless.
"Your right, but I don't know if I'm really ready to throw the towel in. You know?"
"I don't," he mumbled thinking I wouldn't hear. I did; I ignored it.
"Sometimes I feel like I can just walk out. Walk away," I was being honest, "But at other times, like right now, I feel like I can't just take that step. I still love her." I was frustrated. It don't feel good to be on a pendulum of emotions like this. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. Not Madrazo, not Haines (now dead), no one. And before you say anything, I know I already said that. F responded rationally.
"Michael, it depends on how you love her. I mean do you love her the same way you did on the day you married her? Do you love her cuz she the mother of your kids? Do you love her like a friend that you've been through some shit through?" He said this as he handed me the beer.
"I love her like… like… like," I couldn't answer. I love my wife like… Shit I couldn't finish that sentence maybe if I verbalized it again it would come. "I love my wife like. Shit, do I love my wife?"
"Man I don't know. But if you struggling with a question like that I don't know what you gonna do to salvage your marriage. Do you even like her?" That's another thing I liked about Franklin, his head was always level. He weighed the options good, bad, ugly, indifferent, and came up with a logical result in a split second. That was an asset that I figured I would need more of.
"I don't hate her."
"But you don't love her?" though it rang in my ears more like a statement of facts, a declarative sentence.
"No." I said as a tentative response, without thinking, but stuck with the answer.
"Do you like her, as a person, I mean?"
"Yeah, but I think I fell out of love with her years ago," Those words, though foreign, summed it up correctly.
"Then what's stopping you from just divorcing her?"
"I don't know."
"Is it the money?" he inquired, sensible as usual.
"No, I don't care about the money." I said taking a gulp from the beer. That was a half truth. She could take half of it and I'd still have enough to do anything I damn well pleased.
"Then what the fuck is stopping you."
"I guess it's the kids."
"Why would Jim and Trace stop you from doing this?"
"I don't know." I couldn't conjure up a reason.
"Yes you do."
"I want my children to have a stable home," I blurted out. I knew as soon as I said it, that it was a stupid answer.
"Stable home, stable home! Your kids are in their twenties they're moving out and starting their own lives."
"You're right," I conceded. He was right.
"I know I am," Franklin said smugly. "I think that you just like to torture yourself."
"I'm not a masochist," I started, feeling a little defensive, "I don't like making my life any harder than it needs to be."
"Michael De Santa, that is a fucking lie and you fucking know it," he started.
"Jesus Christ, I-"
"No, I'm gonna say this," he looked at me squarely almost meanly, but more like a stern principal chiding a second or third grader. "There were many, many opportunities to avoid trouble, to avoid pain, just in the time I've known you. You could have let me just repossess that damn car, but you didn't. You didn't have to pull that Mexican's house off of that goddamn hill, but you did it. The second Trevor walked into your house, you could have ended him, there and then, but you didn't"
I felt my palms getting sweaty as he laid out the facts and evidence just like the prosecutor did back in North Yankton. Maybe in another life Franklin was a lawyer. I sank lower into his couch as he went on, listing the incontinent facts in to me and to an imaginary jury.
"You could have just robbed the jewelry store and end it. You could have avoided being kidnapped by those Chinese guys and just let Trevor discover that for himself. You, we could have left the Union Depository alone, didn't have to touch that bitch, but we didn't. We went in there and took 'em for everything they got. Then you, me, we take out all the assholes who double crossed us. All that being said, Michael, the last thing you can say is that you try to make your life any easier or less painful!"
"Well is getting a divorce going to make my life any easier?"
"Shit, I don't know, but will getting a divorce make your life any harder?" He posed the question. I thought that I'd found an answer.
"No, I guess not."
"You guess not, you guess not. Michael this is fact. I ask you if you love your wife. You say 'no'. I ask you if you like your wife, and I get some punk ass 'yes'."
"This whole thing is insane."
"Then do what you think is best for your sanity."
"What," I started shouting, my blood starting to boil, "the fuck is sanity?"
"Shit, man, I don't know, but this sure as shit ain't it. If you were sane you wouldn't be here crying your eyes out," he exaggerated yelling, but I realized that I must have been grating his nerves with this discussion. I didn't care.
"Maybe, I'm not sane!" I said, more like shouted.
"No you ain't, and I ain't sane for listening to your miserable old ass." He voice had mellowed for that stament. I, in turn, had to also calm down.
"I know that this ain't fun to talk about, and I'm sorry hat I'm bringing all of this depressing shit into your house."
"It's alright. I know that divorce is a big step and I don't know if you're ready for it. You might be, you might not be."
"Thanks kid," I said finishing the last of that beer.
"You're welcome."
