We sold the big house and estate and I moved with Marian and the children into a good sized home just outside of Chicago. Instead of 40 acres, we had two. It was enough room to plant flowerbeds and a few fruit trees. Our property abutted woods and so while from the front of the house it was suburban, the back seemed rural.

The house was colonial revival and from my perspective spacious and tasteful. Of course, it was nothing like the home we had when Jeff and I were together. But, it felt much more like my home. It reflected the life I wanted for myself and my children. It was so much like the house I'd grown up in. The front door opened to a large entryway with dark wood floors. There was a long rectangular room to one side. It was both a parlor and music room. In the center of the room, towards the front there was a marble mantle and fireplace. The side I called the music room –despite the fact that none of us played music unless you counted Clara's piano lessons—on that side tall windows took up one corner below which was a window seat with a rose tapestry cushion. The light into that room was simply magnificent. It was uplifting, yellow in the mornings and at night it allowed twinkling prisms from the lighted rooms of neighbor's houses. From the moment I walked into the house, I knew it was mine. I immediately knew where I would put up the Christmas tree—a strnage thought but the hosue had that sort of spirit. It was a home and I imagined my family holidays. I wanted to start over and make up for everything my children had experienced. I wanted to give them a childhood full of memories and happiness. Without Jeff, I knew that was entirely possible. No. It was probable. I knew I would make mistakes, but they would never have to witness violence again. They would heal. I knew they would. We purchased a piano not long after we moved in. The front room required it. It was so long and it begged for a baby grand.

On the other side of the foyer was the dining room. It had a grandeur about it. An entire wall was dedicated to beautiful glass built in cabinets. I filled them with my mother and Mary's china that I'd inherited. We had a long mahogany table and matching chairs. Dinners were rambunctious and so much more fun that at the estate. As much as I hated to say it, the truth was my children were harmed by my life with Jeff. Even when we weren't fighting, the tension caused a great sadness to fill the air. It was noxious and it seeped into everyone's hearts and minds. At our new house, the kitchen was still the heart of the home. Cliché as it was to say. We had a farmers table in the center. The sink was on one wall of the kitchen and it was surrounded by wooden countertops. There was a pantry to one side. Very often in the afternoons I'd find Jeffery in there with a couch pillow, the light off in the little space. He'd be playing with his set of tin soldiers. I'd open the swinging wood door to the pantry; inside there were three floor to ceiling shelves and enough floor space for maybe a couple of chairs. I'd come in to find Jeffery and his tin figures lined up along the baseboard, on the shelves and some hiding behind my canned goods and flour. I didn't know how I'd always find myself surprised to see my little boy there making explosion sounds under his breath.

"Be careful mama. There's a war."

I'd have to tip toe around the dark little space and he would object if I moved a can that was a pretend trench. God forbid one of the little metal men fell down, he'd make two other men carry him off to the side.

"He's dead now." He'd say flatly without looking up at me. As I exited back into the light filled kitchen, I could hear his little explosion sounds or his cherub voice talking for the toy soldiers "Ok men, line up..." He'd whisper to himself.

Clara often sat with me in the kitchen while I cooked. She had taken to drawing pictures of families. She said they weren't our family but every drawing had the same group of characters, a mother, a father, two brothers and an older sister. She'd spend hours perfecting the shading in their hair or other details like the pleats in the little girl's dress. She'd have the family engaged in different activities. Sometimes sledding, at the beach, around a Christmas tree. Always the same family. In her drawings, the mother and father would always be smiling. The little girl in the pictures resembled Clara. One day I asked her, "Is that our family?"

"Of course not," she said. "It can't be our family. You divorced Daddy."

It stuck with me. "You divorced daddy." I didn't know how she'd determined it was my fault.

"Well, Daddy and I divorced each other darling."

"He still wants to be married to you. He doesn't want to be with Anna."

"Why would you say that?"

"I have women's intuition."

"No you don't. You're a little girl. I want you to understand that, Daddy and I both made the decision." I hated the mythology that he let seep into her mind. I doubted he'd told her any such thing directly; I was sure it was the way he'd answered her questions. And, I'm sure there was an abundance of questions from her to her father. She was his favorite and he didn't hide how sweet and charming he found her.

"Besides, this lady doesn't look like you, does she mommy?"

I turned and looked. Even at 8 years old, Clara was a talented artist. But yes, her drawing did bear a strong resemblance to me. She'd even sketched a charm bracelet I'd often worn. It had jade beads and gold antique Chinese charms. Jeff had given it to me back in Oregon, during our affair. Before Charlie had even been born. It was peculiar to me that she'd chosen my most sentimental token from Jeff.

I stood and walked over to the sink. I spoke with her as I peeled potatoes. "You can talk to me about your feelings, Clara. I'm sure it must be an adjustment for you to move to a new house and a new school. To have Daddy living in the city and us living here. It is a big change for Daddy to be getting married to someone else." I stopped peeling the potatoes, held the peeler and turned to her. "Darling, I would be worried it you didn't think about it."

"I don't have to think about it. You and daddy are going to get married again. I know you are."

I turned to her, "No we're not, sweetheart."

"But, you're madly in love. He loves you so much and you're his wife. You love him." She frowned and looked back down at her drawing. She continued shading in one of the little boy's cheeks.

I walked over and sat down next to her. I wiped my hands on my apron. I didn't want to say no I wasn't madly in love with her father. It seemed like it was shattering a little girl's ideas about love and marriage. Someday she would find someone to love and I prayed that hers wouldn't be like my relationship with her father. Somehow the words came out of my mouth. It was a mistake I knew it the minute I said it, "Clara, darling. I don't love your father any more."

She turned to me and her face grew flush. It startled me. She looked like she couldn't get air. I thought she'd cry or scream but she was so panicked.

"it's all right Clara. I'll always love you. Daddy loves you too."

Her lip started to tremble. "But daddy loves you! Who's going to love Daddy?"

I rubbed her back. I didn't know what to say or how she'd gotten this romantic idea about her father into her head. All she had seen, likely for as long as she could remember, was his obsessive control over me and the violence. Had she told herself a story to make sense of it? Was I puncturing that world of fantasy? I didn't know why but I started crying. I shouldn't have. I should have taken care of her. I felt so guilty about it but I couldn't stop. She stood and left the room taking her drawing and pencil with her. I wanted to go to her and I did a little later, but for a short time I wept, sitting there at the farm table my hands over my eyes.

Often Marion and I sat and had coffee in the morning before we'd start our day. The children would lumber in one at a time, practically sleepwalking. Jeffery still wearing footed pajamas, Charlie in flannel pajamas and Clara in a long nightgown and robe. Clara. They looked like children in a catalogue. To me they were all so attractive. Clara with her head full of red, soft curls; Charlie, just like a boy out of a children's book tall with light brown hair and blue eyes. And, Jeffery, my youngest. His face still retained a little of the baby he had been, rounded with big brown eyes. They'd pull themselves up on chairs and sit around the farm table. Marion or I would fill their glasses with orange juice and serve them eggs, bacon and toast. Clara spent half of our breakfasts rolling her eyes at her brother's and shaking her head. I would watch her as I sipped my coffee. Often I would say, "Clara, can't you find something nice to say to your brothers?" but when I would look at them, they would be making monster faces and opening their mouths to her, showing their half eaten food.

"Ok. That's enough." I'd scold them.

Marian had a room off the kitchen. It was large enough that it was almost an in-law apartment. It had a sleeping area and a larger attached space where she had a couple of chairs and her own television. There was a French door that led to a patio. The children and I had rooms upstairs. There were four bedrooms with a wide landing separating them. Mine had a walk-through closet to my own bathroom. It was completely comfortable and perfect for us.

Once we were separated, Jeff never came to the house. Ever. As much as I thought we'd pass or talk for a few minutes when the children spent every other weekend with him and his fiancé, we never did. As soon as I moved Jeff had a driver come to the house, pick them up and after their weekend at his place, the driver would bring them back home. If there were arrangements to be made, he'd have one of his house staff call me. The children reported little to me, but I knew that he and the woman were going to be married once our divorce was finalized. I knew they had purchased a large city apartment, probably like the one he'd had with Margaret. After he left the morning after our last night together, I felt a strong wall come down. It was more a fortress, once it was over with us, it never would be anything at all again. Of course it hurt me and it was difficult to adjust to not having him with me but, there was a sense of relief. Not just because I'd finally gotten out of our marriage and out of bondage in some ways. I knew if I had stayed with him, his tendency towards violence would have reset and the clock would tick again. It would move steadily, at first slowly but then things would speed up and I knew he'd raise his hand to me again. It was a matter of time. I carried a strange guilt and sorrow. The only thought that nagged at me the first year or so after he married Anna was whether he hit her too. For some reason, I thought he wouldn't have. She was so sophisticated and aristocratic. She was pretty and calm. I could see that her deference to him even seemed somehow, well bred. I would never know but I felt certain that I was the only woman he would treat that way. And, because of that belief, very deep down I kept the secret that maybe it had been my own fault. It wasn't that I didn't feel strong in my new life; it was an old wound that refused to heal.

I continued with school and met with the women from the original writing group. We were like old friends even though it had only been a year since we'd met. I spent most evenings with the children and studied or wrote poetry while they were in school or after they went to bed. Things moved in a new way. It was as if I'd escaped to a foreign land where all the rules had changed. Partly it was Chicago. I knew that. I knew if I had ever returned to Sellwood or any small town for that matter, it would have been miserable. I had always wanted a respectable life, legitimacy. I'd wanted to be seen as a housewife and a mother, but the meanings I cast on those roles were false. They were unobtainable.

After six months of living on my own that Joan suggested we go to a new play. It was called Waiting for Godot. A local theater lab was putting on a reading. Joan knew the man who put together the readings there. He also ran a small acting lab out of his studio. His name was Matt Klein. In her mind he was some sort of celebrity. "He's a genius. I think you two would hit it off."
"I'm not looking for anyone."

She nodded as she fumbled in her purse for her cigarettes. She wasn't looking at me as she spoke. "You wait. He is really handsome. He's handsome and not at all up tight."

"Like Jeff?"

She looked up from her purse, "Found them." She pulled a cigarette case from her purse and shook out a cigarette. "Want one?"
I nodded.

"I didn't mean not like Jeff. I'm not trying to be a busy body." She clicked the lighter and held the flame to my cigarette."

The small black box theater was magical. It was really just a stage and less than 50 seats in the whole space; it felt so much like the small poetry group I was a part of. Certainly the staged reading of Becket's play was different than the large productions that I had gone to while married to Jeff. The small Chicago theater lab was raw, it had a creative energy. I felt as if I was witnessing the artistic process. As if I were a part of it. There were no sets or costumes. There were just music stands and the actors. I listened to them as they read through the script, annunciating certain words, pausing before others. Their interpretations were immediate and the play itself, although it left me confused, made me think about philosophy and religion but I couldn't pinpoint why. Being in the theater itself, seeing the faces of the people watching the reading, gave me a different sense of art than I had been exposed to with Jeff and Ed. Certainly they were established and successful. They knew about philosophy and aesthetics, taught college and graduate students. When I was around them I had always been a listener, trying to learn but somehow on the outside. In the black box theater, as a poet and like so many of the people there, we were making art for art sake, I felt as though I belonged. Maybe I even felt a little superior to Jeff and his group.

After the play my friends joined Matt Klein and the actors for a small cast party. We rode the L to the south side to an area known as Rush Street. I had never been to any area of town like Rush street. Honestly, I'd only been on the train a few times in the years that I'd lived in Chicago. Never mind, the neighborhood where we were meeting for the cast part. In the past Jeff would not have allowed me to go to a place like that even with friends. The idea that I'd stayed with a husband who "allowed" or "forbid" me to go places struck me the entire ride on the L. Joan and Nance were making conversation about a poetry reading they'd gone to at a café on Rush street a week before. It was very different from other's they'd gone. The poet was angry and almost yelling the words about youth and society. Something like that. I could only half listen, my mind was too full of who I had been with Jeff and who I'd become with my new group of friends.

We got off the L and walked the short distance to Pete Cleary's Magic bar. Again, I compared that new experience to my very recent past. When we walked in the sounds of conversation and laughter rose and it immediately drew me into the spirit of the night. The establishment looked older with wood paneling and a large mirror behind the dark wood bar. Patrons sat on stools around the bar; mostly they were older men, a couple of women and a couple of younger people. In the past when I'd gone to clubs with Jeff, Ed and Elisabeth they were big dance halls with valet's outside waiting with our car. I'd always felt I'd been ushered here and there but never walking around through the city and experiencing it for myself. With Jeff, I left home in a car, went to a restaurant, club or theater and then I was driven by Jeff back home. While it was oppressive to me as I looked back, I could also remember having always felt fortunate. I had compared my new life with him to my earlier ones in Sellwood and Bend. Back in Oregon I was completely unaware that places like Chicago's art and theater scene existed. I suppose I'd seen supper clubs in movies and fancy restaurants but I had no idea really about that lifestyle until Jeff inducted me into it. But then, I didn't realize there were places like Pete Cleary's magic bar.

Matt Klein and the actors were sitting at a large round table with wooden chairs. There were about ten of us and it was so new and exiting to me that I found I wasn't nervous at all. I was so swept up in this legitimate artistic life. Everyone talked about Waiting for Godot and tried to dissect its meaning. Of course Matt had his interpretation as did the actors.

I didn't hear what someone had said to him, but Matt responded. "No. No. I'd never do it as the second coming." His eyes fixed on me for a second. It was unexpected and made me feel nervous. I smiled at him and he smiled back. Instead of keeping it subtle and secret, as Jeff would have, Matt stopped talking and extended his hand. "I'm Matt."

"Oh hi. I'm Eve. I'm a friend of Joans and Nance."

"I'm glad you came. Nice to meet you."

After we shook hands he turned back to the man next to him.

"I think if I were to stage it beyond a reading I wouldn't make them tramps. Vladamir and Estragon would be captalists. Business men."

"That's what they did in New York." The man --I recognized him as one of the actors reading from a script on stage earlier—he inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette and looked up at the ceiling as he blew it out. "the script says Egstrom's clothes are shabby."

Matt let out a breath and smiled at me again. I smiled.

Nance chimed in "why don't you make them women."

"Impossible" the actor next to Matt said. He flicked his ash several times in the large glass ashtray in the center of the table.

"Or women in men's clothes." Joan chimed in.

Matt laughed and lit a cigarette. I was half listening, half studying him. I was trying to reimagine the few glances we'd exchanged. It was the equivalent of my mind playing tricks on me. It was insecurity and attraction. Hopeful and then fearful.

After a short time a few people had left and our little table grew smaller. The actor who had played Egstrom stood and stretch. "I've got to get up early." He said. Matt stood and shook his hand. The actor put on a blue knitted cap but before he did he bowed to me, Joan and Nance. I smiled and said goodbye. It was just Matt, Joan, Nance and myself. Joan was either intentionally or unintentionally monopolizing Nance's time with some hushed conversation.

Matt sat down and looked at me. Smiled. "Eve, right?"

I nodded.

"Will you drink more wine if I get another bottle?" He asked. He started to get back up.

"Oh." I said. It was awkward and uncertain.

He sat back down. "I'm sorry I –"

"I'll drink some" Nance said without looking up from her conversation with Joan.

"All right." Matt started to stand again.

"I'll have some too." I said.

He returned with a carafe of red wine. "Ladies?" he said to Joan and Nance. They stopped talking for a minute and took their glasses. "Thanks much." Nance said.

He smiled at them. During the exchange I was studying him. He was so attractive. It would be foolish to say that I was innocent but I felt so unschooled in meeting men. There had only been three men in my life and really there had been no real courtship with any of them. I also didn't like the uncertainty. Someone like Matt wouldn't lay it on thick, manipulate. He seemed thoughtful and conscientious. That made it even murkier because maybe he was just being friendly. He didn't treat women so differently from how he did men.

I let out a breath.

"Is everything OK?" He asked.

"Yes. Of course."

"Thanks for coming to the reading."

"I loved it. I've never been in a theater like that."

"No?"

I reached for the pack of cigarettes and took one out. I realized after a second that I was waiting for him to light it for me, but he didn't. I wasn't sure if that was poor manners or feminism. I blew out the match and put it o top of the accumulating pile of butts in the ash tray.

"No." I held his gaze for a moment. "I'm getting a divorce." I had no ideas why I would say such a thing. I wasn't thinking. The connection between never having gone to a black box theater and Jeff was only clear to me.

"Oh." Matt nodded but didn't seem distracted by my comment. "You and your ex husband didn't go to theater?"

"We did. But big productions. Syphony. Opera."

He nodded. "did you like those?"

I grew serious for a moment. I shook my head. "Really I didn't."

"Because of the things you went to see or because of your husband?"

Our conversation was very intimate very fast, but it felt like one I would have with Joan. He felt like a freidn and I didn't think he was being invasive. I thought he was understanding.

"you could write a play about my marriage. It was complicated."

"I know. I had one that didn't work out too."

"So you know."

He nodded. "But you're not divorced yet."

"We've been separated for six months. He's living with someone." I inhaled a drag and held it for a moment.

"Oh that's pretty terrible."

I shook my head and shrugged. "Really that's not the bad part."

At some point after the last carafe was empty, Joan walked over to me and leaned down so she could talk quietly to me. "We have to go, Eve. Do you want to come with us?"

It had never dawned on me that I could stay and talk with a man with out questioning glances or even without my own objections about my respectability. Matt and I were having an intellectual conversation.

Matt looked at me, there was no innuendo or flirtatious smile. "want to get coffee and talk more? Do you have to get home?"

I didn't have to get home, the children were with Jeff for the weekend. It was just Miriam at home and she usually went to bed early. I realized I could make my own decisions.

"I think I'll go get coffee with Matt."

Joan kissed me on the cheek and Nance waved. "See you on Thursday Eve."

Matt and I ended up at one of those metal diners. It was almost midnight by the time we got there. It seemed that once we'd made the decision to spend time together alone, there was no pretense. We talked and talked.

"I've never been able to write poetry," he said. "I wish I could"

"It just came to me one day. A poem. My husband and I had a--" I shook my head. "I'll have to tell you about it sometime. But, I knew things were over with us, I realized that I'd never really had time to think. I didn't know there was anything artistic about me at all. It was something so foreign to me. Really, I was almost startled when I thought of my first poem."

"Isn't that how art is? Whatever it is: poetry, theater, painting. When I write a play, I am so lost in it I don't even notice. Then when it's finished sometimes I can't believe I was the one who wrote it. Not because I think it's a masterpiece but--it's almost although I don't recognize it as mine."

"Yes, I hadn't thought of it that way, but I know exactly what you mean."

"I have so many scripts around the theater, in drawers. All over. You'll see. More often than I'd like to say, I find a scene laying around and I know –rationally—that I wrote it but I'll have no recollection of it at all."

I took a sip of my coffee. "You know, I think that writing has changed my life. Yes, that was the very point when everything looked different to me. I'd been with my husband almost ten years. It was one of those traditional Father Knows Best marriages, complete with me dressed up with a cocktail waiting for him after work."

Matt laughed. "I can't see it. Honestly I can't."

"Oh, It's true." I smiled at him. " When things got bad, I could never escape. And sometimes it got really bad, but after the poetry it was like a door opened. It was a door that had always been there but I didn't notice it. I opened the door and things changed with Jeff."

"I like that metaphor. I think more people should look for those doors. Open them and find out what lies they've been telling themselves." He stopped as the waitress stood above us and offered to refill our coffees. He looked and me with an expression that said 'should we have more? Are we crazy?'

"I'll have more" I said.

"Me too."

"Do you think it's better that you had that life before. Maybe it made you more feminist. You can speak for the other side. You lived it?"

By the time we finished talking it was nearly midnight. I turned to him. "Do you know if the L is still running?"

He looked at his watch. "I think it is. Why don't I walk over with you and you can see."

We walked together through gritty Rush street. I felt elated. I wasn't frightened for my safety. Perhaps I should have been with the hotels and seedy clubs. The thing was, there were people everywhere. I just felt like a person. Not a victim or prey. I was just walking through the streets with my friend. When we got to the stop, we found out the train was still running.

"Well, thank you. I really enjoyed myself. I don't know if I've ever talked to anyone like we did."

"That's a wonderful compliment. I guess some people just click."

"I guess so." I smiled at him. The air was growing cool and the train tracks hissed then there was a rubble of a passing grain. 

"Let's do it again?"

"I'd love to, any time."

"OK. I"m going to call you. Is that all right?"

I smiled at nodded. He walked closer and kissed me on the cheek.