The sound of wheels rumbling across gravel makes her jump. Stand up. Tense. It is now or never, she supposes, this hideous moment of truth. To let him enter the house would be fatal, like lowering the bridge and inviting the Vikings in for a cup of tea. She knows the advantage is hers and must be taken. So out the bathroom door she goes, padding across the Berber carpet on the landing and heading down the stairs. Plunging into a world she doesn’t understand and is unprepared for. Ill-equipped and unfamiliar with notions of separation and divorce and alimony. Seen them on TV, to be sure, and heard of onetime friends at the club doing it, but it is nothing she was raised on or cares to know anything about, thank you very much. Not until this moment, anyhow. But on she scoots, along the hallway and out onto the porch. She stares down at him, sitting there in his El Dorado all balding and tanned and distant. The man she loves. And then it happens. The gesture. An impatient wave from him that unwittingly heralds her attack. She sees it—that dismissive “hurry up already” shake of the wrist—and she takes a breath. A long breath, there at the top of the steps, with tears starting to collect in the corners of her eyes. His snapping fingers call her to battle. Snap-snap-snap. And then down she rushes, and down and down. Headfirst and growling, moving with surprising urgency toward the big Cadillac. She sees that her husband responds by desperately trying to raise the tempered window as she approaches. Finger tapping the metal button repeatedly.

For a small woman, she hits the door with enormous speed and power. The car rocks on its springs and her husband is tossed hard to one side. Before he can gather himself she attacks again, throwing herself like a rabid dog against the half-opened window. Again and again. And then again. Bang-bang-bang. And for the first time in their marriage—perhaps even in his life—the man senses fear within himself. Feels a squirt of urine shoot out into his briefs. In another situation he would throw open the door and spill out onto the ground, ready for a fight. But not this time. No. For as his wife continues to press herself against the glass and shriek at him, he can only grab the webbing of his safety belt in horror. Leaning for all he’s worth to his right. Holding on for dear life.

Switzerland