The War of the Roses

  The War of the Roses

  Warren Adler

  This is the novel that inspired one of the most famous movies about divorce ever made, starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. Oliver and Barbara Rose are a passionate couple who meet at a Cape Cod auction while bidding for matching figurines. The figurines belong together, and so do the Roses. Their perfect love, complete with dream home and wonderful children, is fated to disintegrate, however, and when Oliver collapses in an apparent heart attack, Barbara’s indifference brings the true state of their marriage out into the open. The war they wage against each other eventually descends into brutality and madness, as they destroy each other’s most prized possessions and spiral into chaos.

  The global impact of both the book and the movie has brought the phrase ‘The War of the Roses’ into the popular jargon describing the terrible hatred and cruelty engendered in divorce proceedings.

  The Roses’ bereft children are featured in the novel’s sequel, The Children of the Roses.

  “Warren Adler writes with skill and a sense of scene.”

  — New York Times Book Review

  “Warren Adler surveys the terrain [of marital strife] with mordant wit. This accomplished tale… builds to a baleful yet all-too-believable climax.”

  — Cosmopolitan

  “The War of the Roses is a clever look at the breakup of a marriage…. It is Adler’s achievement that he makes the most bizarre actions of each (party) seem logical under the circumstances…. Both frightening and revealing.”

  — Washington Star

  Warren Adler

  THE WAR OF THE ROSES

  For Page and Clyde

  1

  A cold rain whipped across the clapboard facade of the old house, spattering against the panes. Like everyone else in the bone-damp parlor set up theater style with folding wooden-slat seats, the auctioneer raised his gloomy eyes toward the windows, perhaps hoping the gusty rain would shoot out the glass and abort the abysmal performance.

  Oliver Rose sat on an aisle seat, a few rows back from the podium, his long legs stretched out on the battered wooden floor. The room was less than half full, no more than thirty people. Behind the auctioneer, strewn around like the aftermath of a bombing, lay the assorted possessions of the family Barker, the last of whom had lived long enough to make some of this junk valuable.

  ‘…it’s a genuine Boston rocker,’ the auctioneer droned, his voice cracked and pleading as he pointed to a much abused Windsor-style rocking chair. ‘Made by Hitchcock, Alford and Company, one of the finest names in chairs.’ He looked lugubriously around the silent room, no longer expectant. ‘Damn,’ he snapped. ‘It’s a genuine antique.’

  ‘Ten bucks,’ a lady’s voice crackled. She was sitting in the first row, bundled in a dirty Irish sweater.

  ‘Ten bucks?’ the auctioneer protested. ‘Look at these tapered back spindles, the scrolled top rail, the shaped seat….’

  ‘All right, twelve-fifty,’ the lady huffed. She had been buying most of the furniture offered, and it seemed to Oliver that the auction was being held for her benefit.

  ‘The whole thing stinks,’ a voice hissed. It came from a veined Yankee face beside him. ‘The rain’s mucked it all up. She’s got the antique store in Provincetown. She’ll get it all for a song and sell it off to the tourists for ten times as much.’

  Oliver nodded, clicking his tongue in agreement, knowing that the rain was his ally as well. Most of the tourists who had crowded into Chatham on Thursday and Friday, hoping for a pleasant Memorial Day weekend at the beach, had left by midmorning. At the Breaking Wave, where Oliver was a summer waiter, the dining room for the Sunday lunch looked and felt like an offseason resort, and his tips had matched the mood.

  But the weather on Cape Cod, at best, was uncertain. He was used to it. All through Harvard undergraduate school, he had worked summers at the Breaking Wave, amusing himself at the antique auctions on those days he couldn’t get to the beach. He was especially fond of those held at the old cottages after the owners had died off Rarely could he afford to buy anything, although occasionally he picked up a Staffordshire figure for a song.

  He had grown up being watched over by the four female figures of Staffordshire pearl ware representing the Four Seasons garbed in decollete white robes. They peered out of his mother’s dining-room china closet, emblems of his father’s war service in England. Once he had broken Spring, which he had removed in a clandestine pre-puberty compulsion to feel the little lady’s tits; the figure had slipped out of his hand, and was decapitated on the floor. Always good with his hands, he had done a magnificent glue job and his mother was never the wiser.

  Now, as if out of guilt, he had .acquired a modest collection of his own, some common sleeping-child figures and a ubiquitous sailor and his wife and child. He had done a bit of research on the subject as well and, although the figures were comparatively cheap, he suspected that, someday, they would increase in value.

  The auctioneer reached for the boxing figure and held it above his head. Then, putting on his glasses, he read from the spec sheet.

  ‘Staffordshire pearl ware. The pugilist Cribb. He was the champion of England in 1809….’

  Oliver stiffened. The idiot is breaking the pair, he thought, appalled by the man’s ignorance. Cribb was white. There was a black figure as well, Molineaux, an ex-slave who had fought Cribb twice, losing both times. Both pugilists had been immortalized by caricature in drawings, on pottery, and through figures like these. They were always pictured together, facing each other, fists raised.

  ‘Fifteen bucks,’ the lady in the first row shouted.

  The auctioneer looked at the figure and shrugged. It wasn’t, as Oliver knew, a work of art. Merely a souvenir, probably selling for tuppence when first made by an anonymous back-street potter. The auctioneer glared contemptuously at the audience, obviously wanting to hurry the sale.

  ‘I have fifteen,’ he croaked. ‘Going at fifteen. Do I hear sixteen?’

  Oliver raised his hand. The auctioneer smirked, perhaps at Oliver’s youth.

  ‘I have sixteen,’ the man said, showing a sliver of optimism.

  The lady in the dirty Irish sweater turned in her chair. Her face looked like soggy dough; her red-tipped nose was runny.

  ‘Seventeen,’ she cackled.

  ‘I have seventeen,’ the auctioneer said, his eyes shifting back to Oliver.

  Oliver raised eight fingers, clearing his throat as well. The heavy lady huffed and shifted in her chair. Reaching into his pocket, he nervously pulled out his money. He had thirty-seven dollars, representing his total weekend tip income. If he got Cribb, he wanted to have some left for Molineaux.

  ‘Nineteen,’ the lady boomed out. A gust of rain spattered against the glass. The auctioneer ignored it, warming to his task. Oliver’s heart pounded. ‘Bitch,’ he muttered.

  ‘Twenty,’ he shouted.

  ‘Idiot,’ the woman rebuked, turning to fix on him her gaze of utter contempt.

  ‘I have twenty. Twenty once.’ The auctioneer, a thin smile of satisfaction growing on his lips as he looked at the woman, raised the gavel. ‘Twenty twice.’ Oliver held his breath. Down went the gavel. ‘Sold.’

  ‘Goddamn,’ Oliver muttered, energized by the experience, savoring the flush of victory.

  ‘Well, you beat the old cow,’ the Yankee beside him twanged.

  The black figure came up a few moments later. Oliver felt his guts tighten. It’s a pair, he told himself, pumping his resolution. He peeled off what he had spent on Cribb and tucked the money safely in his pocket, clutching the remaining bills in a sweaty hand. There was only seventeen dollars left.

  ‘This is another Staffordshire pugilist, the fighter Mol
ineaux, a former slave, who boxed in England in the early eighteen hundreds.’

  ‘Ten bucks,’ the lady in the dirty Irish sweater shouted. She did not turn to look behind her. Oliver shouted out, ‘Eleven.’ Please, he begged in his mind, enjoying the excitement, sensing his surrender to his determination. At the same time, he rebuked himself. He had no business squandering his money.

  ‘Twelve,’ a voice chirped from behind him. He turned quickly, startled by this new voice. Two rows behind him, a young girl with long chestnut hair hanging from under a sailor cap smiled primly, a flush on her apple-contoured cheekbones.

  ‘Shit,’ Oliver mumbled as the auctioneer responded.

  ‘I have twelve.’

  ‘Twelve-fifty,’ the girl shouted without hesitation.

  ‘Don’t they know it’s a pair?’ he whispered to himself, as if their bids were, somehow, a form of vengeance. He held up his fist, in which he clutched the sweaty bills.

  ‘I have thirteen,’ the auctioneer called, staring directly at the girl. She’s hesitating, Oliver thought.

  ‘Do I hear thirteen-fifty?… I have fifty – thirteen-fifty,’ the auctioneer shouted. Oliver was sure the auctioneer was playing games and scowled at him, then turned and rebuked the girl with his eyes.

  ‘Fourteen,’ he growled. His throat was tightening. He felt the tension in his stomach. Damned bitch, he cried inside himself. It made no sense at all to break up the pair. The auctioneer looked toward the girl.

  ‘I have fifteen,’ the auctioneer shouted, warming to his task, ignoring the whiplash of rain that pounded against the house. The audience grew restless.

  ‘Sixteen,’ Oliver croaked.

  ‘Seventeen,’ the girl responded quickly, her voice carrying over the din.

  ‘It’s a damned pair,’ Oliver shouted, shaking his head. He opened his palm and unrolled the bills, checking the denominations. Seventeen. That was it. Not even small change.

  He turned again and looked at the girl. She was calm, almost serene. But there was no mistaking her determination.

  ‘I have seventeen,’ the auctioneer said, staring at Oliver, his glare offensive, intimidating.

  ‘Eighteen,’ Oliver shouted, his voice crackling. The room seemed to grow quieter. The sound of pounding rain faded. Knowing he hadn’t the money, he felt sinister, manipulative. His breath came in short gasps.

  ‘Nineteen,’ the girl responded. ‘Twenty,’ he shot back.

  The girl hesitated and a lump rose in his throat. He looked at the girl again. Their eyes met. There was no mistaking the fierceness of her determination.

  ‘Twenty-one,’ she snapped.

  All right, he decided, nodding, thankful for the reprieve. Tough little bitch, he thought.

  ‘I have twenty-one once.’ The auctioneer paused, watching him. Oliver felt his blood rise. So I’m a coward, he told himself, wallowing in his humiliation.

  ‘Twice…’ The auctioneer shrugged. Down went the gavel. ‘Sold.’

  Oliver sat through the rest of the auction in a funk. Hell, he could have borrowed the money. But why? What was the point? By the end of the auction he had calmed down, and when he went to pay for and collect his figure he confronted her.

  ‘It’s a pair,’ he said. He must have been eyeing the figure acquisitively because she seemed to draw it closer to her. ‘They go together.’

  ‘That’s not the way they were sold,’ she said, flashing green eyes, widely set, in rebuke.

  ‘He didn’t know what he was doing.’

  ‘I liked it,’ she said as they walked out of the parlor, huddling in the crowded hall as the group opened umbrellas and prepared to walk into the gusty rain.

  ‘All I had was seventeen bucks. I deliberately bid it up.’ He felt foolish and vindictive, telling her that.

  ‘I got carried away,’ he added, hoping to blunt his pettiness.

  ‘So did I,’ she admitted. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Too damned stubborn.’

  ‘My father says tenacious.’

  She smiled, showing white, even teeth. The smile warmed him and his antagonism faded. ‘Suppose I’d bid it up to a hundred?’

  ‘I was worried you would.’

  ‘You would have gone along?’

  ‘I hate to think about it.’

  He returned her smile and moved with her to the doorway.

  ‘Why did you want it?’ he asked.

  She hesitated, coy now. He sensed the give and take of flirtation.

  ‘It’s for one of the girls at the Chatham Arms. I’m a baking assistant for the summer. Her brother’s in Golden Gloves. She’s one of the maids. Takes a lot of crap. I thought it would be nice. Instead of a tip.’

  He was touched, feeling guilty suddenly.

  ‘A shame to break up a pair. Even for a good cause.’

  She opened her umbrella and stepped into the rain. He ducked under it, although it didn’t do either of them much good.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m a sportsmanlike winner.’

  ‘I’m a lousy loser.’

  The Chatham Arms was on the other side of town and they walked through the main street. His hand covered hers as they jointly clutched the umbrella against the wind. The rain came at them horizontally and they finally took refuge in the doorway of a closed toy store.

  By then they had traded vital statistics. Her name was Barbara Knowles. She was a student at Boston University. She had wanted to spend the summer as a volunteer for Jack Kennedy to help him win against Nixon, she told him. But she couldn’t afford that.

  ‘Anyway, I like baking. It’s fun. And the pay’s good.’

  ‘Unless you spend it all.’ He pointed to the figure wrapped in soggy newspapers.

  ‘You, too.’ She laughed and he noticed that her eyes were really hazel and had turned from green to brown in the late-afternoon light.

  ‘I guess I just like old things. They’ll be worth more than money someday. Like these figures.’

  ‘You can’t eat them.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Anyway, I’ll have to avoid temptation. Better stay away from auctions,’ he told her. ‘Harvard Law is damned expensive. I start in the fall. My deal with my folks is that they pay tuition and I pay living expenses.’

  They were huddled together in the tiny storefront entrance. When she spoke, he felt her warm breath against his cheek. A current, he knew, was passing between them. Something wonderful and mysterious. He felt her response.

  ‘Don’t give him away,’ he said, sensing his note of pleading. It was, after all, a symbol of their meeting. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ She pouted with mock sarcasm, holding it over his head like a club.

  ‘One isn’t much good without the other,’ he said. ‘It’s a twosome.’

  ‘I beat you fair and square,’ she said.

  ‘Well, the battle isn’t over yet,’ Oliver whispered, wondering if she had heard his voice above the beat of the rain.

  ‘Not yet,’ she agreed, smiling. She had heard him.

  2

  Through the dormer window of her third-floor room, Ann saw him open the side door of the garage. Holding his toolbox, he moved over the flagstone walk toward the house. A reddish spear of light from the slipping September sun bounced off the metal tools laid neatly in the box. Starded by the sudden glinting beam, she moved back out of the dormer’s niche, her heart pounding.

  Hoping that she was out of his field of vision, she watched him pause and reattach a string of English ivy that had fallen from the high cedar fence. The fence formed a backdrop for a line of still-maturing arborvitaes that separated the back garden from the neighbor’s.

  Seldom could she study him so minutely, free of her self-consciousness and clumsy shyness. Besides, she was certain that Oliver Rose viewed her as a country bumpkin from Johnstown, Pennsylvania, that is, if he ever took the time to assess her seriously.

  In his beige corduroys and blue plaid shirt, he looked oddly miscast as a man wh
o worked with his hands most of his spare time. Even in his basement workroom – surrounded by his neatly hung power tools; his nuts, bolts, nails, and screws in little glass containers; his circular saw, lathe, and myriad mechanical gewgaws -he could not shed the image of his regular calling, a Washington lawyer. Or, as he characterized himself: ‘Just a plodding barrister.’

  The deepening orange light set off his wavy, prematurely salty gray hair, which he still wore long, despite the new convention. His lightly speckled thick mustache and jet-black eyebrows gave him the look of an anglicized Omar Sharif, a resemblance quickly dissipated when his wide smile flashed and his blue eyes caught the right light, giving away his Irish antecedents.

  If Oliver could have surmised the extent of her interest, he would have been flattered, of course, but appalled. Ann herself was appalled. The sensation had crept up on her, like the muggers who, she had been warned, prowled the Washington streets. Not here in the Kalorama section, of course, where there were almost as many embassies and legations as private residences and, therefore, fully protected by a vast army of special police. Her newly acquired neighborhood snobbery amused her as she recalled her sense of logic. She was afflicted, she decided, tearing her eyes from the dormer window, with an adolescent crush, an emotional aberration hardly worthy of a twenty-two-year-old woman. She was, after all, despite the warmth of her acceptance in the Roses’ household, merely a glorified au pair girl. The label, she knew, was unfair to them. They tried so hard to make her part of the family, and the free room and board, traded for vaguely defined ‘services’, gave her the wherewithal to pursue her history master’s at Georgetown University.

  Looking suddenly about her room, she could not repress a joyful giggle as she recalled the flat offer of ‘room and board’ that had tantalized her in the classified pages of The Washington Post.

  Barbara had described each piece of furniture with the confident authority of a museum guide. Ann had no knowledge of antiques. Yet living among these pieces of tangible history piqued her interest and she would wonder how other past lives had fared among these objects.