Book 1, Chapter 3: Anything but the Kitchen Sink
Maximillion+Sybil...
Sybil was leaning over the architectural drawings strewn about the scuffed granite counter-top. She couldn’t fully decipher all of the numbers, lines and shapes, but at least she wasn’t looking at into his malignant eyes. The therapist said that a project might be a positive way to reconnect with this man who had become a monster. A remodeling project would force discussion, decision and collaboration in contrast to the silence, deadlock and apathy that dominated their marriage.
Maximillion and the architect were engaged in discussion on the other side of the kitchen. As her focus blurred amid all of the white lines, her mind meandered - her life had become overwhelming - her marriage had fallen into elegant decay - her two sons were no longer oblivious. When her neurons regrouped and her powers of concentration returned, there was only a single glaring thought: "How can I possibly stay with this man?" As enticing as the prospect of a new kitchen was for Sybil, the prospect of one more day as Mrs. Max Sharper was hopelessly daunting. As the conversation on the other side of the kitchen drew her back to the task at hand, her eyes focused on the damaged corner of the island she was leaning against. The chipped corner where the butt of his pistol landed hard a few weeks back during another alcohol-fueled, tear-drenched, too-heated argument. She wondered how much longer she could remain the cornerstone of this family - her family, when Max did nothing but chip away at it. "Honey, what do you think about a hood against the south wall as opposed to one floating in the middle of the room? I feel like the stove and the hood will look so much less obtrusive if we lay it out that way," Max asked. "Yeh, I think you are right. I'd rather something other than a vent hood be the focal point of the entire kitchen," Sybil responded. The architect agreed and noted the change to the drawing. "Did we decide on the farmhouse sink?" asked Sybil. "I don't know baby...it's an added expense and this project is already going to be spendy." Max replied. "Max, if we are going to do this, we have to do it right," Sibyl pleaded, "We only get one shot at this. Plus, this is supposed to be a collaborative process, remember?" He knew she was referencing the exact words of the therapist, and right at this moment he resented her for invoking their new marital mantra in front of the architect. "Ok, you are right, we only get one chance." The words spilled reluctantly from his mouth. Max motioned to the architect to make note of the farmhouse sink. "One chance"...she thought. And how many chances had she given him? 50? 100? 1,000? She'd lost track a few years back after he struck her for the first time. The thought of that night angered her so much right now. That was the moment where the dream disintegrated. That was the moment her world stopped spinning. That was the moment he transformed from the man she fell in love with to the monster she feared. It was such a confounding moment - like everything you thought you knew was built on a foundation of clay. It ushered in a period of exquisite torture for her. By all appearances, she had everything she had ever dreamed of back in the small Midwestern town where she grew up. She had a perfect home in a suburban swim-tennis oasis. Adorned head to toe in Lululemon, she drove an imported SUV to her excellent yoga studio after dropping her kids off at private school each day. She swung her Babolat tennis racquet and hydrated with Kombaucha during her private afternoon tennis lesson. She carried a Tory Burch handbag just below her Micheal Kors watch as she shopped at Whole Foods in her True Religion jeans. She picked up her two above-average sons from school and cheered them on at LaCrosse practice. But then she went home to him. All this extravagant absurdity provided little oxygen. She was still drowning in her own dream - now an almighty incubus. Every day from that point on was different. By hitting her, he shattered one world and opened an entirely new one full of ominous possibilities. Wasn't a husband supposed to protect his family? She never felt safe after that point. Wasn't a father supposed to be a role model for his sons? She refused to believe her sons would grow up to hurt women. Wasn't making love supposed to be life's rare extravagances? She dreaded his touch. As he again rested his hand on her shoulder -- his little reminder of how he dominated her -- to walk the architect to the door, she cringed. For Sybil and Max, there were five stages of spousal abuse: shock, excuse-making, reasoning, bargaining and reconciliation. She been through the cycle countless times; she was now jaded - hard as granite.
