by Steven Wexler

Glynnis Neldman stood atop her three-story, center cul-de-sac, ivory Colonial Revival, red terry kimono open, toes to the gutter, nothing left to live for.

“Don’t do it, Glynnis!”

“Don’t move!”

“How did she get on the roof?” Brunswick Police.

“Anyone inside?” Brunswick Fire. 

“Probus!” cried Glynnis.

“Where’s Harold?” 

“Who knows? The office? Wouldn’t you be?”

“She’s making light of suicide,” said Carol Dirthy. “Be careful, Glynnis!”

“Just relax!”

“Probus!”

Deep in the heart of O’Sullivan’s, under maroon plexiglass hood, facing chrome, candle, and no recognizable others, Jill Dewey and Harold S. Neldman finished their last Mojitos, cheek to shoulder. It was a good lunch for Harold, an affirmation of virility not unlike a junior CPA’s first time around GAAP. He closed his email and wiped his mouth.

“Dessert?”

“Sure.” 

Harold signaled the waiter.

“So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?”

“Yes.”

“As in today?”

“As in where are we going?”

“I’m going to sell my company.”

“You are not.”

“Right after dessert.” Harold put his hand on Jill’s. “Then I’m going to buy you a very special—”

“After divorce.”

“Oh.”

“Yes?”

Harold met Jill on Rater. Glynnis was upstairs in the bathroom talking to Debbie Wengander about a Helen Jon one-piece and math tutor for Lindsey. Harold sat at the electric fireplace immersed in a digital candy story of never-ending options, a man of the world. Jill, a Dover soul, freckled and firm, practical and reserved, imbued with real desire, swiped back.

Harold, the semi-handsome Neldman, had ascended in the Northeast like those accountants before him, the chosen grandchildren who boldly aimed beyond white picket fences and Cadillacs for captains of industry and their blondes. Harold arrived with Kenmouth and Company, but not before committing to Glynnis Sacks of Schuyler High, Brooklyn.

“The tiramisu, Harry.”

“Whatever you want. Hold on. I have to get this.”

Harold pressed his cell to his ear. Jill tilted apologetically to the waiter.

“What? She’s what?”

A block away from Glynnis’s constellation, curbside, Probus H. Neldman leafed through his new Submariner while Candice Tate practiced her Mandarin.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried.”

“A 4 on the Calc is good.”

“Whatever.”

“You’ll get a 5 on the Macro.”

“I don’t care.”

“我想你确实在乎.”

“Whatever.”

“Dude!” The Willow Lane Bats shredded up.

“Oh, jeez.”

“Check it out!”

“What?”

“Your mom. She’s killing herself.”

“What?”

“For real. Come on.”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

“Fine.”

“Aren’t you going to Costa Rica next week?” said Candice.

“St. Croix. After the SAT.”  

“Bro!”

Harold’s Aston Martin got no further than the outermost ambulance.

“That’s my house. Is she okay?”

“So far, so good.”

Harold rushed forward. “Glynnis?”

The kimono closed. Carol understood.

“Probus!”

“Ma’am, can we talk?” Brunswick Police.

“Glynnis! Are you crazy?”

“Sir, we got this. Wait. Is this your wife?”

   “Why?”

“She keeps shouting ‘Probus.’”

“That’s my son. Where is he? Glynnis, get off the goddamn roof!”

“Why is she looking at the clouds?”

“I don’t know, Carol. Maybe you put her up to this?”

“I was watching The Table.”

“Glynnis!”

“No, Harold. I have to jump.”

“You don’t.”

“Ma’am, just step back a bit.”

“Please, officer. This is between us.”

“And Far Meadow Estates.” Carol, mid-selfie with Brunswick Fire.

“Glynnis!”

“I can’t go on. You’ll have to take Lindsey to the dentist.”

“I have a meeting!”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Probus—Probus, don’t look.”

“Probus!”

“He’s right here, Ma’am.”

“Probus H. Neldman, do you mind telling me why you didn’t sign up for Latin IV?

“I said I didn’t need it.”

“Not according to Mr. Grizinsky!”

“You didn’t sign up for Latin?”

“Dad, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I was right about the internship and I’m right about this!”

From the adjacent Cape Cod: “Jesus Christ! I can’t hear myself think!”

“Joyce, if I were you—and last I looked, I am not—I would mind my own business.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Joyce, it’s so.”

“Amy has an essay assignment, Glynnis!”

“Oh, please. ‘Amy.’”

“Fine. You wanna jump? Then jump already!”

“Go to Hell, Joyce! You and Michael and that Sheltie—to Hell!”

“Damn,” said the Willow Lane Bats.

“Ma’am, we’re gonna send up Sergeant Murphy. She wants to talk to you. Is that okay?”

“Did Probus register for Latin IV? No? Then no.”

“I don’t want to, Mom.”

“You don’t know what you want!”

“Glynnis, I want a divorce.”

“What?”

“It’s over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re done.”

“You say this in the cul-de-sac?”

“I met somebody.”

“Did you? Because if I remember correctly, I put you through law school.”

“I didn’t go to law school.”

“Well, you’ll need to now, Harold.”

“Why?”

“I’ll take everything. The Jupiter townhouse.”

“I thought you were jumping off the roof!”

“The Aston Martin, Harold! Your Roth!”

“Ha! Take it!”

“Mrs. Neldman?”

Glynnis spun furiously. 

“Are you okay?”

“Candice.” Glynnis tightened her sash. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“You’re good.”

“Probus is going to Brown, you understand?”

“All right.”

“Princeton Early Access said no. He didn’t have the extra curricular.”

Candice took Glynnis’s hand. “Who does?”

“You do. I told him.”

“Glynnis, come down!”

“Go to your fling, Harold!”

“Here.” Candice and Glynnis sat on the roof.

“Talk about extra curricular.”

“You’ve a nice view.”

“I agree.”

“You know, I saw my mom with Dr. Hazelton.”

“Well, that was nothing, Candice.”

“My dad found out.”

“Your parents love each other very much. How did you do in European History?”

“Human Geography? A plus.”

“A plus?”

“I don’t believe in love.”

“Very nice.”

“Love is a lie for the ostensible greater good.”

“A plus.”

“A myth.”

“You look thin.”

“A lie.”

“Very thin.”

“Glynnis!”

“No. I don’t think so.”

---

Steven Wexler is Professor of English at California State University, Northridge, where he teaches courses in rhetoric, writing studies, critical theory, and popular culture.