That Old Cape Magic

all their married lives, she’s never so openly confronted him before.
    WIFE
    I’m saying that out of sight isn’t out of mind. You think you don’t let your mother into your life—into
our
lives—but you blame
her
when a birdcraps on you. Think about that. You believe your father’s gone because he died, but he
isn’t
gone. He’s haunted you this whole year. Right now he’s in the trunk of your car, and you can’t bring yourself to scatter his ashes. Do you think maybe that
means
something?
    Griffin came to a stop sign, or what he assumed was a stop sign—something octagonal, possibly red. He listened for the approach of an oncoming vehicle, but there was no sound, nothing except the tolling of that far-off buoy. He took a left, recalling, or seeming to, that this would take him through the village and down to the harbor. But that was somehow wrong, because almost immediately the road was lined on both sides by dark, ghostly trees instead of houses, which meant he was heading away from the harbor. Never mind. It didn’t have to be the harbor, or even saltwater. All that had seemed to matter yesterday, but not today. The important—no, critical—thing was to dispose of the man and, in doing so, win the only winnable part of yesterday’s argument. That was the crux of Joy’s case. That
his
parents, despite their physical absence, had intruded on their marriage as much as hers had, that he perversely wanted them to. If he could prove her wrong about this, then maybe her whole argument would collapse.
    Outside of town the fog was, if possible, even thicker, and Griffin’s hair was now as wet as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Turning on the wipers helped a little, but his headlights, even on low beams, just made matters worse. Every quarter mile or so he’d pass a mailbox that marked a narrow dirt road where he could turn around and head back into town, but for now, not wanting to appear indecisive even to himself, he was content to keep moving forward. A minute later he passed beneath a highway—Route 6, he guessed—which explained why he hadn’t come to the shore yet. Inanother mile or two, if this road was reasonably straight, he’d reach the National Seashore on the Atlantic side. Hard to imagine a more remote stretch, especially at this hour of the morning and in this weather. No chance he’d be interrupted there.
    WIFE
    You want this to be about one day—the day you found me so brokenhearted—but it isn’t. You’re unhappy every day, and it’s getting worse. You’re a congenitally unhappy man.
    HUSBAND
(choking back his emotions)
    I’m never happy? I wasn’t happy last night?
    WIFE
    Okay, last night, for a few short hours, you were. But you always retreat, Jack. It’s like you’re afraid it won’t last. Like if you admit to being happy, someone will steal it from you.
    (A BEAT , while he considers this)
    Yes, there was a time when my heart went out to Tommy, and yes it got broken. But I mended it. I mended my heart.
    ON THEIR REFLECTION IN THE GLASS. His, in the F.G., goes OUT OF FOCUS as hers comes in.
    WIFE
    I’m sorry I haven’t been able to mend yours, because God knows I’ve tried. I’m exhausted from trying.
    HUSBAND
(looking gut-shot)
    Maybe you should stop.
    WIFE
(heartsick, looking away)
    I have. That’s what you’ve noticed these last few weeks. Me stopping.
    FADE OUT.
    Congenitally
unhappy. The word was not hers, of course. In thirty-four years he’d never known her to use it until yesterday. But Tommy loved it, even though Griffin always had to correct his spelling—
congental
or
congentle—
on the page. (“Think of genitals,” he’d advised, to which Tommy had responded, “I don’t like to think of genitals. I’d rather spell it wrong.”) No doubt he’d used the word yesterday when Griffin was in the shower and she called him back to explain why she wouldn’t be coming along to L.A. Griffin could imagine how the conversation had gone, Joy confiding how their marriage was deteriorating, how they seldom made love anymore, how his ambient discontent had deepened to the point of pathology, how he’d been driving around for the better part of a year with his dad’s ashes in the trunk of his car. And Tommy—because in the end he was Griffin’s friend—advising her not to be hasty. “This shit ain’t new, kiddo. The guy’s always been a congenital malcontent. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Remember the famous house