Ashbee & Son

How I Came to Place a Call to Edmund Ashbee

Marriage can have its many benefits and its many burdens. It can also have its detrimental effects, like losing friends. In my youth, I had scores of friends, droves of chaps—a profusion of playfellows. Ten years passed. There was no one to call. I needed a place to stay, and I had no one. Ten years as a book editor at a very prominent publishing house. There were no drinks after work or company gatherings that I'd attend. At the end of the day, you only ever have your family. I had only one person in my life outside Ingrid and Charlie. And he was my father, Edmund Ashbee.

Thank heavens that I had a little money on a line of credit from which I could draw.

I took my time getting home. When I got off the train at Chester Station, I decided I'd walk a block or two down Danforth Avenue. I needed time to let my thoughts settle. The sun, now lowering in the sky, breached the armada of white, puffy clouds resting on the horizon. And when its light touched my skin, I felt intense warmth. I concentrated on the feeling. It was good. My mind was quelled. I felt serene. I drew in a deep breath of the early summer air—fragrant with a floral perfume—and reluctantly decided to head home.

The house was empty. Evening was setting in, and Ingrid and Charlie were not at home. Maybe she took him to the park, I thought.

I sat at the table. I breathed in and out evenly for a moment, and then my heart began to race as my mind travelled back to earlier in the week. I saw the letter that rested just there, where I laid my folded hands before me. There was a letter opened and spread upon the table. There were fold lines on the three sheets of paper. It rested beside an empty envelope with my name on it. I figured it was something she would mail to wherever it was I'd move. But Ingrid did not want to wait. She was furious that I'd not packed anything up. She would think I was not being serious about this. It was her wake-up call. I took the letter in my trembling hand. Divorce papers. I flipped through. In black ink: her name in a cursive that flourished with such grandiosity that it leapt from the page. A great sadness swept over me as I read. My eyes stung and grew wet. I read to the bottom of the first sheet, and then to the bottom of the second. It was no longer a hypothetical threat. She would take everything from me.

I turned to the third page, but looked up when I heard a stirring at the door. Ingrid and Charlie had come home from their trip to the park. The papers remained in my hand as my eyes were cast upon the door. They came inside.

"Ingrid," I said. "We need to talk, dear."

"Look, daddy! Mummy bought me a book from the store!"

I said nothing. I did not even make a gesture to suggest an inkling of acknowledgement. I stared into Ingrid's eyes as she stared back into mine.

"Charlie, would you run upstairs and start on the book, my love? I'll join you soon," Ingrid said.

"Okay, mummy," he said, and he kicked off his shoes and dropped his coat and headed up the carpeted stair. Ingrid approached me in the kitchen. A silk scarf wrapped her golden head. She looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. If Hepburn were a blonde. Regardless, she was as delicate and magnetic and beautiful.

"I see you've got my letter," she said.

"Ingrid," I started. A tear had fallen. I could not control it. She saw that it was happening, and she eyed me askance, but there was tenderness there, too. It was infinitesimal, but it was there.

"Don't do this," I said. The papers quivered in my hand.

"No, Toby, I'm not having this discussion with you. Don't even start this." She raised her voice, and the tenderness that was in her eye had vanished for good.

"I love you. No one will have my heart, remember?"

She let out a breath, shaking her head. She took a wine glass from the cupboard and poured from the bottle of red that was sitting on the counter. She took a swallow and set the glass down. "When will you be leaving?" she said. She was bereft of patience.