The Improbable Existence of Life After Divorce

By R.M. Snider

How Not to Die Alone meets Yesterday in this wryly charming American tale of one man's struggle to undo his worst mistake. Rife with quirky comedy and cringy contrivances, The Improbable Existence of Life After Divorce will keep you abso-bloody-lutely laughing until the curtainfall.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Snider
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781736038024

R.M. Snider

After publishing five books, R.M. Snider finally wrote a humorous novel, proving that she is occasionally funnier than her husband (who works in insurance, so it really shouldn't be this difficult). Her kids are also funnier than she is, but she likes to think she had something to do with that (never mind that they're all adopted).

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Copyright © 2024 by R.M. Snider

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-7360380-2-4

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Cover and interior design (and all the things) by R.M. Snider

Fonts:

Berlin Sans FB Demi (by David Berlow, Desktop License)

Calibri (Microsoft Business License)

Cardenio Modern (by Nils Cordes, free for commercial use)

Chapter 1

Valentine’s Day . . . bummer.

—Dr. Peter Venkman

Russ wasn’t sure why he’d asked Stem to drive. In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never seen the Australian behind the wheel. Russ didn’t even know if his friend had an American driver’s license. Yet, at the moment, he reasoned Stem’s questionable driving skills might be of great benefit to him. He hoped the man might accidentally turn into oncoming traffic—a semi, if luck would have it—that would careen into the passenger side of the Prius at such a high speed that Russ’ airbag would not have time to deploy before his forehead collided with the dashboard, thus ending his pitiful existence. If anyone was most likely to continue on with their life without permanent, debilitating emotional scars as a result of causing such a tragedy, Russ believed Stem would be it—with the exception of Katie, of course, who, by this moment, had probably fantasized at least half a dozen times about his unfortunate and particularly gruesome death.

The Prius turned onto Walnut Street in the cozy college town. To Russ’ disappointment, the hybrid bore not a scratch nor blemish from Stem’s driving. But just as they pulled into Meemaw’s driveway, the driver turned to look at his friend, to say something unusually touching and sensitive—and the car jolted as the front passenger fender grazed the side of Meemaw’s brick mailbox.

Though Stem had passed his driver’s exam some twenty years earlier, he wasn’t used to driving on the right side of the road. Sorry about that, he quickly apologized.

Russ shrugged. A scraped fender was just as well. Not the gruesome death he had wished for, but a small penance, he supposed, for his grievous sin, a mark on the silver paint like the scarlet letter itself. Perhaps he’d touch it up with a streak of crimson nail polish as further punishment for his transgressions.

The driver hopped out, but as he reached a gangly arm into the back seat to retrieve a bag of Wavy Lays, he questioned, You coming, mate?

The look of absolute dejection was an apropos accessory to the dispirited shrug Russ offered as his response.

Stem, whose memory was as reliable as a digital currency chain, found himself strangely at a loss to recall what sentiment he had been about to share with his dejected friend just the moment before he struck the mailbox. But suddenly, it returned. Satisfied, his lips parted in a crooked-toothed grin and he chirped, Things are looking up.

Through hollow eyes, Russ questioned, In what way is that statement true?

"With your recent termination of employment, effective 8:03 this morning, and, since Katie wants nothing more to do with you, you’ve become a free man with no obligations or tie downs. And now that you’re living at Meemaw’s house, you’re only one kilometer from my house. He wasn’t sure this was sun-up enough, so he added for good measure, And only seven hundred meters from the new Dairy Queen."

Stem waited for a positive response from his friend, but when none was given, he grabbed his chips and headed into Meemaw’s to say hello and rummage her pantry for ramen noodles.

Russ occupied the passenger seat for an interminable length of time. He knew how he got there—how it came about that he should be moving back into his childhood home—but he wasn’t sure how he got there. He’d committed a vexing act of indiscretion which had irreversibly impacted his life, catapulting it in precisely the direction he had no desire of going. And now, what could he do but move back in with Meemaw and return to a childlike state, in a sense, relearning his steps, figuring out where he’d gone wrong and growing up again so that, eventually (he hoped, although sometimes he didn’t) he would go back out into the world and do it better a second time.

Russ rolled out of the passenger door, trudged across the lawn of dead weeds, and was hit with the familiar odor of days past as he pulled open the screen door. He was sure he would never get over (and secretly, he never wanted to get over) that shag carpet which occupied every room of the house (including both bathrooms, though mercifully not the kitchen). The burnt orange rug complemented the yellowish macramé artwork and the dark brown paneling. He was almost sure he’d seen a photo taken some time in the early 1970s revealing that the macramé had, in fact, once been white—but he knew you could never trust the colors in photos of that decade. Enhancing the décor was the smell of cigarettes which never seemed to go away although Meemaw claimed she stopped smoking in 2003.

This was his home once, the place where he changed from a boy into a man. And what man was he today? A thirty-eight-year-old soon-to-be divorcee. A fired college history professor. A bloke who’d gathered up his dignity in a trash bag and tossed it over an abysmal cliff.

Russ felt shame wash over him. Perhaps if he was quiet enough, Meemaw would never know he’d moved back in.

Rusty! she hollered over the sound of both televisions—the one in the living room and the one in her bedroom. Even in her stage 4 metastatic cancerous state, her lungs could project.

He stalked down the hallway and stopped at her door.

Stem said she kicked you out, she rasped. And on Valentine’s, of all days. And he said you cheated on her. That was a derned foolish thing to do and I didn’t raise no fool of a grandson. Come here and kiss me and tell my why you did that. And did I know her? It was a her, wasn’t it? You didn’t go queer, did you?

He was so mortified that his eighty-four-year-old grandma knew he’d had an affair that he just shook his head and said, No, ma’am. It was a girl.

A girl? Lawd, you ain’t on the sex registry are you?

No, ma’am. She was a sophomore at the university.

Your student? I thought all them was Christians! Christian University, after all, she trailed off.

Meemaw would’ve been easier to read if she hadn’t lost her eyebrows to the chemo treatments. She always spoke through her eyebrows, and, now, he saw how terribly difficult it was to know what she was thinking.

Well, give me a kiss, then, she demanded. I still love you. Always will, even if you went and done a fool thing like that. Why you did it, I just don’t understand. Don’t care how pretty that college girl was. Katie was the best thing that happened to you since I took you in myself, even if I was raisin’ three other of my grands. Lawd knows no one else ’round here would’ve taken you in, seein’ as you’re half Eastern Indian. This is Arkansas and they don’t call this White County for nothin’! So, why’d you do it? Tell me why you broke my Katie’s heart, not that I mind you movin’ back in with me.

She muted the tv, a sure sign he must speak for what he did.

But how could he explain it? He knew, two months ago when it began, there had been a reason—maybe several—a driving force that had compelled him to forsake his marriage vows to the most amazing woman he’d ever met but, for the life of him, he could not recall any of those motives now.

He shrugged. Guess I thought it was a good idea at the time.

And now?

Now . . . He wanted to say something unreasonable like, "I wish I had a time machine to go back and not do it, but what came out was more realistically an option. I wish I’d just wake up dead."

She snapped her fingers and he sensed her eyebrows shot up so high they would’ve kissed her blue curls had she not lost them too. You can’t wake up dead, and you know that. You’ll either wake up alive—on this earth—or you’ll wake up alive in Heaven. I didn’t raise no fool of a grandson. You say it again and I’m calling that helpline. 1-800-SUICIDE. I’ll have them lock your butt up or whatever they do for people who say dumb things like that.

He felt her chastisement like he was twelve again and had called his cousin Lance stupid. Sorry, Meemaw. I won’t say it again.

Now you done broke up with that girl, didn’t ya?

He nodded, too ashamed to admit it had technically been her who had initiated the demise of their pseudo-relationship.

Meemaw barked, "Stem said she dumped you!"

Again, he nodded.

Good. You deserved that. You know I’d spank you if I was feelin’ up to it. But I still love you. I always will.

She crossed her arms, closed her tired eyes, and sighed. Then, without opening her eyes, she cast a net of instructions. You gonna hafta wash them sheets on that bed before ya sleep on it. Lance’s two littlests stopped over last weekend and I’m just sure one of ’em peed the bed, but I ain’t had the strength to check up on it. And unload the dishwasher, would ya, sweetie? Now Stem says you ain’t workin’, so you gonna be doin’ your part ’round here, ya hear?

He felt even more twelve than he’d felt two minutes ago and dutifully replied, Yes, ma’am.

Stem was actively involved in slurping his second bowl of ramen noodles when Russ entered the kitchen and turned on the light. In response to the glow, the Aussie wore a bewildered expression, as though Genesis had just begun. What the bloody heck is going on? he demanded to know.

What?

Gaping, he gestured to the light switch. You can’t do that, mate. It’ll run up Meemaw’s electric bill. She’s on a fixed income, you know.

You’re eating up her food and you’re going to lecture me about the electric bill?

Meemaw knows I must have sustenance, his friend protested. Assuming he’d won the argument, he reached up with his long, thin fingers and shut off the light.

The sky was the color of ashes and the small window above the sink let in scant gray light. Russ felt his way around the pantry-sized kitchen as he unloaded the dishes, shuffling past Stem who had planted himself on the step ladder in the middle of the floor. However, after less than a minute of enduring his slurping noises, Russ offered the man a fresh spoon.

No, thank you, Stem said, rejecting the utensil.

Russ insisted. So you’ll quit slurping.

As if Russ had suggested he use a garden hose to rinse out his sinuses, Stem argued, I can’t very well use a spoon. It’s too dark to see the noodles.

Though he was a loyal friend, his presence was sometimes exasperating. For twenty-five long seconds, Russ endured the lingering sound of ramen noodles ungracefully finding their way past the man’s lips, but then, he laid his foot down. As the lights switched on, he plunged the spoon into his friend’s bowl. There!

The bowl was, however, empty. 

Irritated, Russ retrieved the utensil and tossed it into the appropriate drawer. As he returned to the sink to scrub dishes, Stem thrust his skeletal hand into the drawer and retrieved a handful of mismatched flatware before dropping them in the sink.

What are you doing? Russ roared.

Well, they’re dirty now, insisted Stem.

No, they’re not—you just took them out of the drawer!

"Don’t you know how germs transfer? One of these spoons touched the inside of my bowl—which I had eaten out of—and then you put it back in the drawer with the others, so now they’re all contaminated."

I don’t care! Russ said stubbornly.

Stem stomped his foot, his brown curls shuddering from the impact. Meemaw is immuno-bloody-compromised! You can’t allow her to use spoons with my germs on them. What if I’m sick?

"You are sick," growled Russ as he jammed a pot on the bottom rack of the dishwasher.

Stem laid his bowl in the sink, and, as he headed for the door, called, I’ve got a classful of future physicists waiting on me and I don’t have time for your nonsense!

Oh, no! yelled his mate. You’ve got plenty of time before your class starts. Come back here and clean your dishes!

Stem guffawed. Meemaw says guests don’t have to wash their own dishes. You, on the other hand, live here.

It had taken nearly two weeks for Russ to get another job. Unremarkably, none of the nearby state universities were interested in hiring a tenured history professor who had recently been fired for having an affair with a sophomore (and in the middle of February, to boot). But the retailer American GadgetTech in Cabot didn’t mind, as long as he could work nights, weekends, and holidays.

And he could. And he did. For a month, Russ immersed himself into the mindless work of selling cheap electronics to people who wished they were cheaper. And he did what he could for Meemaw, which he’d never felt like was enough—and even more so now that she was dying.

On March 23rd, Russ took a bowl of chicken broth into her bedroom. She was sleeping like a bag of bones hidden under a mound of blankets.

Meemaw? he called softly.

Oh, there’s no reason to knock, she crowed before falling into a coughing fit.

Russ wasn’t sure when it was customary to call hospice in, but he had already suggested it a number of times. Absolutely not! Meemaw had objected. And if you call them I’ll crawl out of this bed and whip your hide!

He waited patiently for her coughing spell to ease up, and, though she recovered slightly, she never did completely.

Sit down, she ordered, taking the bowl from him. She sat it on her nightstand amidst an array of mugs and cups half-full of other food and drink items she’d been offered. He always meant to clear them but never remembered to before she fell asleep again, and he worried the clanking of dishes might awaken her.

I need to tell ya somethin’, she began. Now, I know I’m dyin’ and I know, soon as I do, your cousins will be upon this place like maggots on a carcass. So, what I’m fixin’ to tell ya is very important. So, listen, sweetie. I ain’t got the breath to say it again. Now, over there in my closet on the far-left side behind my church dresses—oh, by the way, bury me in the blue one—there’s some—oh, and my pearls—other items which are of utmost importance. I’m sorry to say, but it’s your entire inheritance and I want you to have it. It ain’t for Lance or Becky or JoAnne or none of the others. It’s just for you. Now, go on. Go get it.

Meemaw had never spoken of inheritance or wealth, except to say they didn’t have any and wouldn’t be getting any, so Russ’ interest was piqued. Not that he wanted to dwell on her death, but he was a reasonable fellow and knew it was inevitable.

Back here? he asked, pulling her dresses out of the way.

Yes, she nodded. Back there in that corner.

He reached in, felt a fang, and screamed.

Oh, don’t be a baby, she chided. It’s only a bobcat. Here, I’ll get it— which they both knew was impossible with her constant coughing and sputtering.

With the help of his phone flashlight, he retrieved said bobcat—which was thankfully very dead and stuffed and conveniently mounted to a platform—along with a cookie jar shaped like a rooster, a wooden easel contraption, and a shoe box of assorted trinkets.

Now, bring those here, she ordered.

As soon as he laid them beside her on the bed, she all but snuggled the bobcat.

You never met my sweet Jasper baby, she said as she stroked his fur. Used to be my pet when I was a little girl. Daddy had him stuffed when he died and told everyone who came to the house that he shot and kilt himself a bobcat. Truth is, we just found her as a kitten and I raised her up and tamed her. Anyway, I never had her out when y’all was growin’ up ’cause y’all were so mighty wild, and, by the time I’d raised y’all, your older cousins was already havin’ babies and they were twice as children from hell as the rest of you, so Jasper just got stuffed away in my closet. But turns out, these things are worth some money. So, I want you to hide him from your cousins—hide all this stuff—’cause they’ll be upon this place lookin’ for treasures of every kind, which, to their disappointment, they won’t find. Tossing him a wink, she grinned and whispered, And then, once they all leave, you can sell it. Would probably fetch a thousand dollars on eBay.

Everything she had just told him—save for the part about his cousins, which was entirely true—he found preposterous, and he owed that to the oxycontin/fentanyl concoction she was throwing back every few hours. However, he listened straight-faced and yes ma’amed his grandmother when appropriate.

And this here is a cookbook stand. I had hoped it’d be my sweet Katie’s and she’d get all my recipes—you’ll have to go snag those from the kitchen shelf, the one below Peepaw’s old cheese grater. And that rooster cookie jar was my grandma’s, so I figured it’d be worth something. And those are just old things in that box. You can sell them if you want, but they all mean something to me. I’ll write it down for you, not that you’re likely to care.

Russ realized he hated this conversation. Not because there was anything unpleasant about Meemaw, but because she was giving her things away which meant she really was dying. With all his recent loss, he found it impossible to hold in his tears.

Oh, don’t start that up, she snapped, waving her hand as though swatting a fly. You know how I can’t stand to see a boy cry. Well, come here, sweetie.

She pulled him close, which he allowed, and he’d expected to feel the squishiness of her bosom like he always had as a boy, only now her chest was as welcoming as a cadaver.

Now, now, she said, almost belittlingly as she pushed him into the chair beside her bed. She never could stand boys crying, but worse, she didn’t like feeling culpable for it. "You’re the executor of my estate. So, when I’m gone, whatever the cousins don’t take, which’ll probably be everything, will be yours to sell and do whatever ya want with. Don’t keep nothing for my sake. Sell it all, I say, and make yourself a little money. Lawd, I know you ain’t makin’ much at that pitiful job you got. And make sure my sweet Katie knows I love her and always will. You’d better tell her that orI’ll skin you. I want her there at the funeral—I want you both there. I wished y’all’d get back together before I die so I could see y’all together one last time. But anyway."

She crossed her arms and rested her head and eyes. But just as quickly, they popped back open.

Now, hide that stuff I just gave ya, she instructed. You won’t have any time once I die. Your cousins will be upon this place, like I said. Locusts on Egypt.

He had nowhere particularly to hide a bobcat, rooster cookie jar, cookbook stand, and shoe box of trinkets except for the back of his car, so he hauled them out and laid them to rest there, shutting the hatch as one throws dirt on a grave. He also remembered to grab her recipes, although he doubted they would ever find their way to Katie. He needed to rush to get to work in time, but after the conversation they’d just had, he couldn’t bear to leave without kissing her again. He tiptoed into her bedroom, making note that he needed to clear her nightstand of the untouched food elements—and also call in hospice, despite her protests. Her cheek felt unusually thin, like the old sheets which had been on the bed in the extra room when he had come to live with her at age nine, so he kissed her forehead instead.

Rusty? she said, her voice groggy yet, somehow, peaceful.

Yes, ma’am?

I forgot to tell ya. Peepaw had some storage shed over in . . .

He waited, feeling the pressure of his one o’clock work schedule combined with the very little time he still had to enjoy her presence. After a minute, he whispered, Meemaw?

Hmm?

You were saying something about Peepaw’s storage shed.

Rose Bud is where it is. Mermaid Lane. The end of it. All the way to the end. Key’s in that box of knickknacks I gave ya. He always kept one with him—left this duplicate here in case he lost the other’n. He practically lived there, it seemed. You know, I never went there, not after he disappeared anyway. Didn’t even tell the police to look there. Didn’t even think about it. Figured he’d run off and left me with all these wild kids to raise, which he did.

Her coughing spell lasted so long that Russ knew without a doubt he would be late to work. Oh, well. With any luck, he’d get fired and could live off the sale of the bobcat carcass for a month or so before having to reenter the job market.

It also struck him, though, that he hadn’t heard Meemaw talk about Peepaw for years. The man had disappeared when Russ was twelve. It was Searcy’s oldest unsolved missing person’s case. Oddly, at the time, it almost seemed like the most natural thing for him to have done.

Yes, Peepaw was here a few days ago, but he never came back. That’s fine, I think. Yes, just fine. Peepaw was hardly ever around anyway.

And now that Meemaw mentioned it, Russ did vaguely remember Peepaw’s storage shed. Strange, how that memory just came right back. Peepaw used to go there for days at a time. It didn’t seem odd when Russ was a kid that his grandfather would disappear for such long stretches, but now, as a man himself, it did seem very peculiar.

Meemaw? I’ve gotta go to work now.

I love you, Rusty, and I always will. The spare key’s in that box. He must’ve tooken the original.

I’ll take care of it, he promised, hurrying to the door before another revelation of inheritance seized her.

Russ drove to work, remembering only as he sat in his car for his thirty-minute meal break that a large, stuffed predator lingered somewhere behind his seat. When he got home at 10:50 that night, he went in to check on Meemaw. She lay there cold, with her arms still crossed and the same expression upon her face—dead.

Chapter 2

Katie came to the funeral.

Russ had seen her from a distance, but she had not sat with the family nor joined their procession, nor had she greeted any family members after the funeral. But she had been there and Russ realized it was the first time he’d been in the same room—same building—as her since she’d been at that 8:00am meeting in the dean’s office. She’d had to find out from Dean Scarborough that morning that her husband had screwed around with a sophomore named Caydee, of all names. The hurt look in her eyes as he admitted yes, he had done that, had been crushing. He had taken Katie—his Katie—his precious, sweet, humble, loyal, trusting Katie—and he had crushed her soul like a mean-hearted boy stomps a frog. For reasons he still could not work out, he had done the very thing he knew would hurt her the most. And yet, she was the last person he’d wanted to hurt in all the world. If everyone was lined up and, for some extraordinary cosmic reason, he had to crush all of their souls one by one, he’d put her at the end of the line. And when he reached her . . . he’d never willingly crush her. Never. But yet, he had. He saw it in her eyes.

It was like the terminator, he’d told Stem.

Ah, said his friend, nodding.

In the first movie when Sarah Connor crushes his head and his red eyes go out.

They just sat on his bed in his room at Meemaw’s like two schoolboys pining over the loss of one of their loves. Only Russ wasn’t in high school—he was a thirty-eight-year-old ex-college professor, and Katie wasn’t just some junior school crush. She was his only love. His wife of eight plus years. The one he’d waited twenty-nine years to find. He was her protector. She was his fawn. He didn’t deserve her—that he knew from the first day she noticed him. It was something about her spirit, the one inside her. It had spoken to his in a supernatural way, and said, You matter. You’re important. He had never felt that way with anyone except for Meemaw. Even with Stem, his best friend, he sometimes believed he could be forgotten, second-tiered to a box of Fruity Pebbles or a frozen supreme pizza. But Katie had given him something he’d yearned for, something he needed in a wife. He knew she loved him and was devoted wholly to him.

And he’d crushed her.

I spoke to her,