James married Isabella with the realization that they were different from each other. Her sweet shyness had gradually turned to sulkiness. Her funny comments and endearing goofiness gave way to an increasingly aggressive sarcasm. Slowly James was squeezed into a corner. When Isabella’s irritation peaked, she would stake out the kitchen, producing plates of pasta with tomato sauce haphazardly covered with grated parmesan. James didn't care for pasta. He preferred risotto with mushrooms or artichokes and would have been thrilled to prepare it for the two of them himself.
When James neared the kitchen, Isabella’s flurry of activity increased. She washed plates, loaded the dishwasher, banging the plates and scrubbed the countertops with a vengeance and positioned herself in front of the cupboards, while James waited. When she moved, he reached the pan and a pot for water. He turned to get a knife and spatula, but by then Isabella was aimlessly rearranging the silverware drawer. He could tell by her quickening breath and her cleaning fervour that asking her to move would be the first step toward one of their frequent arguments. Isabella asked him how much pasta he wanted. James said he was not too hungry and put the pan quietly back in its place. Half an hour later, he mechanically ate the plate of hastily prepared pasta, leaving a few bites. He brought his plate to the sink and said thanks by way of a brushing kiss to Isabella’s cheek as she continued to scrub out tomato sauce from the dishes and pans.
Going to Europe had been a way to prove his independence to himself and escape a burdensome family. When he lived in France, each time he made crepes, he changed the recipe and tried different fillings. He was 18 and felt he was a great connoisseur. Then he settled in Rome with Isabella. When he had told her he would make his father’s meatloaf recipe, she replied that she would do it and make her mother’s meatball recipe instead, “same thing” – and scurried to the kitchen. It was not the same thing, but James did not say that.
He sat in front of the television, unable to engage in any program, much less a conversation with Isabella.
Finally, he grew bored and riled by his wife’s clattering plates on the table and the jarring of the silverware drawer.
He guessed it was a signal that she too could not bear his silent presence and he withdrew to a room upstairs.
The echoing pots and plates clicking on the counter, water careening out of the tap, usually sent him out for a soul-saving run.
As James started out the door for his athletic therapy, Isabella would ask how long he would be out. It set him on edge. She had long since said she would go running with him, but then put it off - she did not like to get up early, later in the day there was too much to do, sometimes it was hot, the cool, drizzly days that James loved for running put Isabella in a bad mood. James gave up. James gave up a lot of things, it did not add up to happiness anymore. The marriage had become a dark cloud.
Isabella’s moods improved when her parents came to visit a few times a year. Father, mother and daughter sat on the sofa looking at the television with numb, expressionless faces. When Mario and Anna got up to leave, they suddenly remembered James’ presence and asked him a few random questions, laughed about something James did not understand. He chalked that up to cultural differences and was relieved to see their daughter with a sincere smile. When they left, at the end of the weekend, her humour gradually turned sullen and by mid-week, the benefit of their visit vanishing.
Isabella was the first to mention divorce. It seemed like the appropriate climax to her venting during an argument. James knew that arguing was inevitable in a marriage and sometimes were clarifying, but Isabella’s heated tone had escalated when she said, “divorce.” James was struck by how logical it sounded. He knew she had wanted to stun him and his forgiveness was expected.