I was the best man at the first wedding of my cousin Will, which was the start of a marriage that was so disastrous that when it was finally over Will was forced to take a good hard look at what went wrong.
Will is not especially introspective, but like the entire Eastern European branch of my family he is wildly superstitious, so after due consideration Will came to the logical conclusion that the breakup was my fault: He felt that my presence had somehow jinxed the nuptials and as punishment not only did he not ask me to be the best man at any of his subsequent weddings, but I was not even invited to the ceremonies.
Now, if Will were the introspective type he would know that he really can’t blame me for all his failed marriages. This is because, after adjusting for first names, he keeps marrying the same woman over and over again: his wives have all been several years older than him, blonde, busty, bossy and belligerent.
It came as no surprise to anyone except Will when his latest marriage headed south and I knew from the family grapevine that although he had filed for divorce he and Irene were still living together. I saw him at my sister’s house on a recent Sunday afternoon and I assumed that, given his track record, he would have the break-up dance down to a science. I was wrong.
Will was a case study in misery. He greeted me with specifics about how long his marriage had been loveless and sexless and the narrative went downhill from there. I heard about Irene’s messed up family and her drug addicted sons, one from her first marriage and one from her second. He told me that he is broke because Irene used all his money posting bond for her drug addicted brothers. “I’m done with women,” he told me repeatedly. “I’m through with marriage. I’m sticking with my dog.”
In the course of this excruciating afternoon Will told me that he is an underappreciated saint who did the cooking and the cleaning and the yard work. He cleaned the litter box and took Irene’s mother to the doctor. He regrouted the tile and recaulked the bathtub and never got so much as a thank you in return. “Can you believe I had to sleep on an air mattress in the den?” he asked.
By mid-afternoon my eyes were starting to glaze over so I went to the kitchen for a Diet Coke. I found my sister hiding under the sink, wedged behind the cleaning supplies. “For God’s sake,” she said through clenched teeth, “don’t mention the word ‘FaceBook.’”
When I went back to the living room Will had his laptop computer out. “Can you believe Irene already changed her relationship status on FaceBook?” he said. “Take a look!”
“But you filed for divorce,” I said innocently. “What did you expect?”
“I expected her to grieve,” he said bitterly.
By late afternoon Will was running out of stories so he started over from the beginning. This is when my sister suggested he take the dog for a walk. “You’ll feel better,” she said throwing him the leash.
Will was gone for an inordinately long time and when he returned he was a changed man. “I met your neighbor, Laurie,” he told my sister, exuberant. We exchanged glances. Laurie, a realtor, is in her early 50’s, busty and has a reputation as a pitbull. “She invited me over for drinks,” he said dreamily. “I think I just met my next ex-wife!”