To apply for a divorce in the simplest manner possible it took twenty-one legal documents that my husband and I needed to sign simultaneously in the presence of a notary. We will submit the packet of papers to the area court with a $220 fee. We will receive summons for a trial sometime between thirty days and fourteen months after the paperwork had been processed and will have to appear before a judge who will review our case and determine whether or not our marriage really has suffered an "irretrievable breakdown." One of the forms is meant specifically for us to explain what led to the separation. I sat staring at the paper, unable to put into words what transpired between us in the months that led to the day my ex announced he was moving out. He suggested we blame the government or that we had developed different views of happiness. I pulled something together using the phrase "irreparable rift."
After months of putting off the responsibility of finalizing and making legal the decision he made over a year ago, my ex finally agreed to meet me today to sign the papers. I spent three hours last night sifting through internet websites, piecing together the necessary forms, scanning legal jargon, trying to make sense of the mess of questions and laws. My printer ran out of ink half-way through the twenty-one documents that could not be saved to my computer so I had to retype all of the forms again this morning after buying another small black cartridge. As my printer was spitting out the final sheet, my ex texted me to say he hadn't filled out the single form I'd sent to him, that he couldn't find the paperwork necessary to answer the questions, and he didn't see why it was such a rush to have the papers signed. I had visions of our failed marriage stretching on for another summer, another school year where I wouldn't have time to draft the papers. I explained how long they had taken to fill out, how I'd put today's date on all of the forms, how he'd agreed to do it today, how it had been over a year since he'd moved out. I persisted with patience and he agreed to meet me.
When I woke up this morning humidity was hanging in the air around me and the new yellow blossoms on my zucchini plants were opened wide to drink the first rays of the sun. By afternoon dark clouds covered the sky and dropped drenching rain to the earth below. A tornado warning was issued in a state that rarely sees the whirling winds.
My husband arrived at my back door, soaked in sweat, wearing a faded black shirt with a gaping hole in the right armpit and pale jeans that he got as hand-me-downs in high school. "It's fuckin' hot out there," he said, slamming his summer scally cap to my kitchen table and striding over to the paper towel roll so that he could sop up the sweat dripping down his face and neck. I tried to talk him through the papers, explaining what I'd filled in so that he could voice his objections. He was hardly listening and kept starting unrelated conversations.
He offered to drive us to the local bank where we'd have them notarized. When we were together I drove everywhere since his reckless pedal pushing and corner clipping sent me instantly into a panic attack. I agreed to let him drive the mile down the road knowing that he'd be less prone to anger if he could blast the AC and music of his choice. I clasped my hands together in my lap and silently repeated a mantra as he sped down the street. I glanced in his backseat that was overflowing with boxes, workout equipment, and fishing gear laid out across the two rows of fold down seats. He caught by backwards gaze and said, "Shut up. That's why I bought a truck."
At the bank we entered the metal detector protected doors one at a time. The green light took too long to flick on while I was trapped between the glass doors and I silently started scanning the contents of my purse, wondering if there was something there I shouldn't be carrying. I pushed through with relief when the red light went out. I turned to watch my husband come through behind me. The men behind the glass office partitions glanced up at us and looked back at their desks, trying to appear busy. In high school I was attracted by his careless way of dressing. As an adult I'd silently wish he would dress up on occasion rather than always wearing worn-out hole filled t-shirts and jeans. When we were apartment shopping in better neighborhoods than we'd grown up in I asked him to dress nice so that we wouldn't be turned away immediately. He ironed creases down the center of his ripped jeans. I never again asked him to dress up.
I could tell the notary in the bank had already made up his mind about us before we walked through the bullet-proof glass into his corner office. He watched me critically as I unclipped the papers and spread them out before us. I pointed carefully to the form, indicating to my husband where he should sign. As I dragged the pen across the line to sign my name, I felt like beaming and busting into tears simultaneously. What a relief to be rid of this marriage forever; how devastating to see something my life had once depended on come to an end.
I handed the form to the notary who barely glanced at them before handing them back, a smug smile spreading across his face as he said, "You've done this wrong." "I don't understand what you mean," I said, feeling my husband's temper rising beside me. "You both signed the form," he said. "We're supposed to," I answered. He lifted the sheet again, brought it closer to his face, then placed it back in front of me. "You were supposed to sign here and print your name there; he signed where your name should be." I breathed in, something I've learned to do when I need to speak from a place of calm and reason. "We are signing a joint petition," I explained. "I am Petitioner A," I said pointing to the words below the line I'd signed, "and he is Petitioner B. We've signed where it indicates that we should." Seeing his mistake, he lifted the sheet again, muttered a soft, "Oh," and continued to fill them in without speaking. I pretended to be engrossed in the other forms to avoid my husband's gaze. He touched my arm to get my attention. Our eyes met and we exchanged words without speaking. I was thankful he hadn't audibly voiced his insults toward the man.
It didn't take more than two minutes for the forms to be signed and for the man to hand them back to us with parting wishes for a happy holiday. I slowly and deliberately slipped them back into the gold paper clip and manila envelope, folding down the clasp at the top. My husband stood impatiently beside me as I closed the envelope, just shy of bulldozing through my chair to leave the office. We walked out together and climbed back into his truck. By then the clouds had grown darker, more threatening, and the winds were whipping through the trees. He came back into my home to look for something he thought he'd left behind that he found in his back pocket. We spoke for a few minutes longer, a conversation meant to keep up appearances although no one was looking. When he left, I locked the door behind him, glanced up at the clouds on the verge of bursting, and took a deliberate breath in.
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