Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [43]
“Well, I have a job, too—”
“So don’t give me this ‘take care of things’ crap,” she said. “You’re not home anywhere near as much as I am, I’m the one who has two jobs, and mostly you do exactly what you want, just like every other fucking man in the world.”
“Susan . . .”
“Jesus, you come home early once in a while, and you act like a fucking martyr.” She sat up, and turned on her bedside light. “Every woman I know works harder than any man.”
“Susan, I don’t want to fight.”
“Sure, make it my fault. I’m the one with the problem. Fucking men.”
He was tired, but he felt suddenly energized by anger. He felt suddenly strong, and got out of bed and started pacing. “What does being a man have to do with it? Am I going to hear how oppressed you are again now?”
“Listen,” she said, sitting straighter. “Women are oppressed. It’s a fact.”
“Is it? How are you oppressed? You never wash a load of clothes. You never cook a meal. You never sweep a floor. Somebody does all that for you. You have somebody to do everything for you. You have somebody to take the kids to school and somebody to pick them up. You’re a partner in a law firm, for Christ’s sake. You’re about as oppressed as Leona Helmsley.”
She was staring at him in astonishment. He knew why: Susan had made her oppression speech many times before, and he had never contradicted her. Over time, with repetition it had become an accepted idea in their marriage. Now he was disagreeing. He was changing the rules.
“I can’t believe you. I thought you were different.” She squinted at him, her judicious look. “This is because a woman got your job, isn’t it?”
“What’re we going to now, the fragile male ego?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? You’re threatened.”
“No it’s not. It’s crap. Who’s got the fragile ego around here? Your ego’s so fucking fragile, you can’t even take a rejection in bed without picking a fight.”
That stopped her. He saw it instantly: she had no comeback. She sat there frowning at him, her face tight.
“Jesus,” he said, and turned to leave the room.
“You picked this fight,” she said.
He turned back. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did. You were the one who started in with the traveling.”
“No. You were complaining about no sex.”
“I was commenting.”
“Christ. Never marry a lawyer.”
“And your ego is fragile.”
“Susan, you want to talk fragile? I mean, you’re so fucking self-involved that you had a shitfit this morning because you wanted to look pretty for the pediatrician.”
“Oh, there it is. Finally. You are still mad because I made you late. What is it? You think you didn’t get the job because you were late?”
“No,” he said, “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t get the job,” she said, “because Garvin didn’t give it to you. You didn’t play the game well enough, and somebody else played it better. That’s why. A woman played it better.”
Furious, shaking, unable to speak, he turned on his heel and left the room.
“That’s right, leave,” she said. “Walk away. That’s what you always do. Walk away. Don’t stand up for yourself. You don’t want to hear it, Tom. But it’s the truth. If you didn’t get the job, you have nobody to blame but yourself.”
He slammed the door.
He sat in the kitchen in darkness. It was quiet all around him, except for the hum of the refrigerator. Through the kitchen window, he could see the moonlight on the bay, through the stand of fir trees.
He wondered if Susan would come down, but she didn’t. He got up and walked around, pacing. After a while, it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten. He opened the refrigerator door, squinting in the light. It was stacked with baby food, juice containers, baby vitamins, bottles of formula. He poked among the stuff, looking for some cheese, or maybe a beer. He couldn’t find anything except a can of Susan’s Diet Coke.
Christ, he thought, not like the old days. When his refrigerator was full of frozen food and chips and salsa and lots of beer. His bachelor days.
He took out the Diet Coke. Now Eliza was starting to drink it, too. He’d told Susan a dozen times he didn’t want