Close the Cabinet
Starina Catchatoorian recalls giving her ex-husband an ultimatum.
Geoff kept his bong upstairs but our fights were always in the kitchen.
Leaning against the counter, I watched him open a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup as I told him I didn’t want to live in a house filled with drugs anymore. He curled the serrated blade around the edge of the can in measured twists, then tossed the opener onto the table.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” He said.
Other than the excessive amount of records and guitars, nothing in our apartment reflected me—a fledgling singer-songwriter who was raised by Thai and Armenian immigrant parents, and taught to never trust bad boys like Geoff.
A 70s duplex loft with wall-to-wall turquoise carpeting, sliding mirrors, and a naked mermaid silhouetted on the shower door, our house defined Geoff. Other than the excessive amount of records and guitars, nothing in our apartment reflected me—a fledgling singer-songwriter who was raised by Thai and Armenian immigrant parents, and taught to never trust bad boys like Geoff. I was the compliant partner who silently grieved as he trashed my chintz loveseat because it didn’t fit his rocker decor. Now, sitting in its place was a life-sized aluminum shark.
Geoff carefully lifted the lid from the soup can. His trademark newsboy cap was positioned backward to keep his straggly locks in place.
“People used to say I look like Axl Rose,” he once told me when we first started dating in 2000. How I longed to be that confident and detached. Even in his walk, a dangerous sexy swagger, he possessed a bravado I thought I could never have. It was his cocky attitude that seduced me into saying “I do.”
“Where the hell do you expect me to smoke?” Geoff asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. I almost felt guilty, putting him into such a quandary. This was Chicago in 2007, before pot was legal. As a daily smoker, other than in his car or the guitar store where he worked, he had few places to toke up. But more than guilt, I felt relief in speaking up. For the first time in our five-year marriage, I’d said what I’d never been able to say before: It’s me or the weed.
How I longed to be that confident and detached. Even in his walk, a dangerous sexy swagger, he possessed a bravado I thought I could never have. It was his cocky attitude that seduced me into saying “I do.”
Geoff slammed the saucepan onto the burner. The coils went from black to blazing orange in a matter of seconds. He slapped the cupboard above the stove and it popped back open, swinging on its hinge. As he strode over to my side of the counter, I instinctively backed away, my mind racing with thoughts about words that might placate him. We could work it out with our couples therapist, or I’m sorry, forget I said anything.
Suddenly he raised his arm, and my entire body stiffened as I buckled down, my head bumping the cabinet door. We both froze. When I blinked my eyes open, the soup was hissing to a boil and my arms were wrapped around my head. I straightened myself and saw Geoff staring at me with strangely soft, bewildered eyes. A rush of shame coursed through my body.
***
I’d only cried in front of Geoff twice in our seven years together. On our first Christmas as a married couple, after opening one sex-related gift from him after another—Playboy bunny underpants, black fishnets with a hole in the crotch, 10-inch wooden goth heels—I cried, “How am I supposed to walk in these?”
“You don’t have to walk far baby, just to the bedroom,” Geoff said.
I’d asked for Christian Dior heels.
I traced my finger around the heart-shaped hole carved inside the platform of each shoe. The unfinished wood was coated with cheap black paint. Beside me, the stiff crotchless fishnets sat in a pile of tinsel next to a pink bottle of warming lubricant. I glanced up at the lopsided angel atop our glimmering tree and tried to hold back tears as I whispered, “Who do you think I am?” It was a question that perpetually hounded me throughout our relationship. Who was I if not the sex bunny rock-n-roll fantasy?
Geoff slammed the saucepan onto the burner. The coils went from black to blazing orange in a matter of seconds. He slapped the cupboard above the stove and it popped back open, swinging on its hinge.
The second time I cried in front of Geoff occurred near the end of our marriage, a few weeks before the tomato soup fight. I sat alone on our tattered, beer-soaked couch watching Steel Magnolias. For the third night that week, Geoff had gone out. On this particular night, he ventured out into a snowstorm to go see a friend’s band play. Sometime after midnight, I stopped wondering when he would be back.
In the final moments of that classic film, M’Lynn delivers an impassioned monologue desperately pleading to her girlfriends, the heavens, and me, the viewer, “Why?” She had fought so hard to keep her diabetic daughter alive, yet despite all her efforts, she died. Her sorrow touched me; her stinging bitterness I knew well.
Geoff rolled in after 2 a.m. slurring his words. He was moaning about his lost flip phone as he staggered behind the couch, where I sat in the dark, a quilted wedding blanket wrapped around me, the TV flickering blue light across my tear-stained face.
He stopped and took one quick look at me, then the TV.
“Sad movie?”
I ignored him, my watery eyes fixed on the screen.
Like M’Lynn from Steel Magnolias, I was grieving a death of my own: that of my marriage. But unlike her, I wasn’t screaming at the heavens for answers. I knew why.
***
It’s not entirely surprising that I chose Geoff. I felt a strange safety in his rage, a comfortable familiarity. As had been the case with my rigid Armenian father, Geoff’s anger monopolized our home. And for both men, the switch from calmness to fury was erratic.
Geoff rolled in after 2 a.m. slurring his words. He was moaning about his lost flip phone as he staggered behind the couch, where I sat in the dark, a quilted wedding blanket wrapped around me, the TV flickering blue light across my tear-stained face.He stopped and took one quick look at me, then the TV. “Sad movie?”
My dad once said, “If I catch you lying, you’re gonna get it, do you hear me?” twisting my ear as he cornered me outside my bedroom. I’d arrived from theatre rehearsals overjoyed, my arms filled with books on acting and plays by Tennessee Williams and Chekhov. I’d found my tribe—a group of black-clad theatre romantics who spoke in iambic pentameter. This new high school group and the passion they unleashed in me immediately threatened my father.
“I hate you!” I screamed as I slammed my bedroom door and flung my books against the wall.
I held my breath as I stared at the door, still rattling in its frame. I was sure my dad would bust through and give me the belt. But he never came. Finally, after several minutes, I collapsed, sobbing into the rug. For the first time in my life, I stood up to my father, and he backed down. I was surprised and relieved, yet I felt more alone than ever. If I didn’t have his rage, it was as if I didn’t have him at all.
I sat for hours that night watching my door, theatre books scattered around me, and in the hollow space of waiting for my father’s return, I whispered, “You will never see me cry again.”
***
Until that night in the kitchen with the tomato soup, I had kept my childhood wounds buried deep inside of me. And now, here I stood paralyzed, my mind suddenly flooded with broken images of my past, as it raced to piece together the woman I had become.
“I was just going to close the cabinet,” Geoff said, lowering his arm.
“I know.”
I watched the steaming soup cascade into his bowl in one quick swoop, dribbles of red splashing onto the counter. Geoff clinked the pot with his metal spoon once, then took his soup bowl and walked upstairs.
It’s not entirely surprising that I chose Geoff. I felt a strange safety in his rage, a comfortable familiarity. As had been the case with my rigid Armenian father, Geoff’s anger monopolized our home. And for both men, the switch from calmness to fury was erratic.
It would be several weeks before he handed me divorce papers, but I knew at that moment as I quietly shut the cabinet door that our marriage was over. Moreover, it was a marriage that had never even started.
Recently, a close friend who attended my wedding told me, “I’d never seen a bride so terrified while walking down the aisle,” and it moved me to tears. Under the glint of my white wedding gown, she saw what I couldn’t see at the time: my enormous doubt and fear.
As a kid, I didn’t have the choice of leaving my dad, but now as a grownup, here was my chance. I wiped the red splatter off the Formica and held the empty soup can. With the tip of my finger, I gently folded the jagged lid back into itself and tossed it into the trash.
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