The Breakup

by Debra Kent

  “Yes, it does,” I answered. What really boggled my mind is that someone so different from me—a keen, unaffected, earnest, American-history-loving chemistry professor—seemed to be interested in me. I wondered whether I could return the attraction, whether I could find long-term happiness with someone who reads the Journal of Quantitative Spectroscopy and Radiative Transfer. Maybe he’s exactly what I need right now. I wonder what he’s like in bed. Based on the way he kissed me that day in the car, I’m willing to bet he’s not half bad.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  March 2

  I had a new plan. I would take Mary home with me and together we would confront Roger.

  I drove out to Lake Merle, pulled up to 144 Lark’s Way, and jumped out of the car. I braced myself for Tippy, the pregnant cat. But Tippy never appeared, and neither, it turned out, did Mary. The blinds were all drawn, just as they were last time, but now I knew there was no life behind those windows. I pressed my ear to the door, but heard no music, no clanging of pans. I rapped softly, then a bit harder, then kicked, but there was no answer. I went to the back and pried at a window. It slid open.

  The place was empty. The wicker furniture, my ugly painting, the bookcases—nothing remained! I called out the girl’s name and listened for her light footsteps, but there were none.

  How could she have disappeared? Where had she gone? All at once I had the most overpowering urge to run back to the Jeep, the same feeling I’d had as a kid running up the stairs from the basement, suddenly petrified for no good reason.

  I called Libby from my cell phone. A computerized voice reported that the number was no longer in service. I was anxious to share the news with someone. I tried Omar but his secretary said he’d be out of the office all day. I called my best friend Betsy, but her phone just rang and rang. I drove past Ben Murphy on the way home and waved at him but he looked right through me, as if he didn’t even know me. I’d never felt so utterly alone.

  I looked at my watch. It was noon. Omar said the divorce papers would be served between 1:00 and 2:00. I had to get home in time. Every nerve ending in my body buzzed. My tongue and fingers and feet felt like they were shooting sparks.

  When I got into the house, I could hear Roger in the shower, singing happily. I arranged myself casually in the family room, snapped on the TV, then snapped it off. Couldn’t bear the noise, the lights, the color. My head felt like it was filling with helium. I thought I would either float away or explode. Eventually, the sound of water flowing through pipes ceased, and Roger was padding across the upstairs hall in his slippers. He called down, “Home already, love?”

  “Yes, honey,” I called back. My voice cracked, and “honey” came out like some awful croaking noise, like a frog flattened under the wheel of a semi. I glanced nervously toward the window. Omar had said that a sheriff’s deputy would be delivering the papers, but the car that arrived at precisely 1 P.M. was an ordinary Ford Taurus, and the man who got out was wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt and jeans. I figured that the sheriff’s deputy had more important things to do than serve divorce papers to philandering husbands, and this guy was just filling in.

  The man checked the envelope, then the address on our mailbox. I decided to go out to the back deck so Roger would have to be the one to open the door. I heard the knock, then Roger’s footsteps tripping down the stairs. I heard, “Roger Tisdale?” And then something I couldn’t make out.

  I reappeared and watched as my husband stared at the envelope.

  “What could this be?” he mused aloud.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it?”

  “Fabulous idea.” He offered me a toothy grin and pulled out the papers. He examined them, but said nothing.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say something?” I asked. I had the uneasy feeling that something had gone wrong. Roger just smiled at me.

  “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He handed me the paper. “I believe this is meant for you, my sweet.”

  I snatched the paper from Roger’s hand. At first glance I could see it was a picture, a photograph, actually a Xerox of a photo with a line of type underneath, a caption. I thought it was a newspaper clipping, and in my disoriented state I thought it was some kind of divorce announcement, a newspaper wedding announcement in reverse.

  Then I realized it was a picture of me and Eddie in bed at the Econolodge. I read the caption again and again, unable to make sense of it, unwilling to believe it.

  It said, simply, “You lose.”

  I felt a boiling wave roll up my body, an enveloping sense of disorientation. This couldn’t be happening. My husband grinned like a hyena. I stared at the picture until my eyes burned from the fumes of the ink on the page. Only one person could have snapped that picture, and I vowed that if I ever got my hands on her, I’d rip her lungs out.

  “What, exactly, were you expecting, my precious?” Roger squinted at me. “Let’s see. . . . Could it have been . . . divorce papers, perhaps?” He snapped his head back and roared with laughter. “Oh! I wish you could see the look on your face. Priceless!” He wiped tears from his eyes and pointed at me. “Priceless!”

  I grabbed the phone and punched in Libby’s number. Roger sneered, “Let me guess. You’re calling your private investigator, right?” How could he have known that? I slammed down the phone and raced out to the Jeep, locked all the doors, and picked up my cell phone. I could see Roger watching me from the doorway, laughing harder than ever.

  After a few shrill rings, I got that same recording again. I tried Omar next, but the secretary wouldn’t put me through. When I gave her my name and insisted on speaking to him immediately, she said he wasn’t taking on any more new clients. I frantically explained that I wasn’t new, that I’d already retained him. She insisted that she didn’t have my name in the files! “That’s impossible,” I cried, the knot in my stomach now wedged in my throat. “Look under Ryan. R-Y-A-N. Or maybe Tisdale, my husband’s name. T-I-S-D-A-L-E.”

  The secretary sighed. “Okay. I’ll check again.”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks and waited. Dear God, please. Please.

  “Sharon Ryan?”

  “No, no, that’s not me.” I was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “Oh! Wait! Mr. Sweet just walked in. Let me see if he’ll take the call.” She put me on hold and I thought, Of course he’ll take the call, you idiot! But it was her voice, not his, that came on the line. She sighed again. “I’m sorry. I was correct the first time. Mr. Sweet isn’t taking any new clients at this time. Would you like to speak with one of the associates?”

  “I told you before! I am not a new client!” My voice ricocheted inside the Jeep. My ears throbbed. “Please,” I whimpered. “You’ve got to believe me. He’s my lawyer, for God’s sake. Okay?”

  For a moment I thought I heard my answer back, thought I heard her say “Okay.” Then I realized that it was the echo of my own voice, feedback from my stupid cell phone. The secretary had hung up. I had been talking to myself.

  I sat in the car and fought back an overpowering fatigue, an almost primitive urge to go to sleep, to shut down, shut everything out. Roger was no longer at the doorway. I pulled out of the driveway and just started driving. I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had to keep moving.

  My cell phone rang. It was Roger. “I know you’re in no mood to talk with me but I just wanted to remind you that I’ve got a rehearsal at two. You’ll have to pick up Petey today. Okay?”

  “Okay!” I snapped the phone shut.

  I thought about Mary. That poor girl. What had Roger done to her? I had to contact that guy who runs Classy Ladies, tell him about Mary’s disappearance. My skull was vibrating. I found myself outside Omar Sweet’s office. I pulled into a visitor parking spot and ran inside. I punched the elevator button, decided I couldn’t wait, took the stairs instead. I spotted the secretary right away, a frazzled-looking redhead with a silver ring in h
er eyebrow. “I’m here to see Omar Sweet, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

  She looked at me blandly and buzzed his line. “Mr. Sweet, Ms. Ryan is here to see you, and she says she refuses to leave until you talk with her.” She looked at me again. “Have a seat. He’ll be right out.”

  I felt triumphant. Now we were getting somewhere! “No, that’s fine. I think I’ll stand.”

  I heard a rustling down the corridor, the movement of Omar’s swift, long legs. “Ms. Ryan?”

  I turned toward the unfamiliar voice. He was a short, round man with greasy black hair. His shoulders were speckled with dandruff and I could smell his stale breath even from a distance. “Ms. Ryan?”

  I figured it was one of his flunkies. “I’m here to see Omar, please.”

  The man extended a hand. “I’m Omar Sweet.”

  The last thing I remember was the pale watercolor on the wall behind his head, and the kelly green carpet, the way it felt against my cheek when my face hit the floor. When I opened my eyes, the secretary was holding something under my nose, a slice of lemon. I heard her whisper, “Look. It’s working. She’s coming to.” The man with the greasy hair was propping me up, offering me a paper cup. “Have a little water. Are you okay?”

  “Are you sure you’re Omar Sweet?”

  The man smiled warmly. “Last time I checked.” He helped me to my feet.

  “But the Omar Sweet I met was tall and . . . bald.”

  The man ran a hand through his hair. “No, I assure you Ms. Ryan, it’s all mine.”

  I stared at him. “Look. Something terrible has happened. You don’t understand. A man who called himself Omar Sweet was going to be my lawyer. He was supposed to serve my husband with divorce papers this morning. Tall, bald, silver goatee. Does he work here? You’ve got to tell me!”

  I sounded like a lunatic and looked like hell. He had no reason to believe me. “Look. I’ve got to go.” The man insisted I stay until I felt better, offered me coffee or a can of pop. But I had to help Mary. I had to get to the library. There were public computers there. I could go on-line, send an e-mail to that Prost guy, who ran CLIT.

  I took a left on Bemble and now I was about a half mile from the library. The road was clear. If I didn’t hit any red lights, I’d make it to the library in three minutes. Someone tried to cut into my lane. An old lady. I honked wildly. Get out of my way! But she scooted in front of me, then, naturally, slowed to a snail’s pace. I checked my speedometer. I was now going eight miles an hour. Shit! I pulled up next to her and lowered my window. “Learn to drive, you batty old bitch!” I screamed out, watching my own spittle fly out the window. The woman turned to look at me. Jesus! It was Carla Schumann, Pete’s first baby-sitter. A sweet, caring woman who said she thought of me as a daughter. I prayed she didn’t recognize me and raced ahead.

  The library was unusually crowded. I was afraid I might not get a computer, but I found an open one in the corner. I got on Netscape, quickly set up an e-mail account, typed in classyladiesinternationaltrade.com, and waited. I e-mailed H. Wilhem Prost, said I had reason to believe that harm has come to one of his “girls.” I told him everything I knew, gave Roger’s name, and asked him to write back ASAP.

  I checked the e-mail account, and, miraculously, found a response from Prost: “Sorry, but I have no records of any CLIT girl interacting with anyone named Roger Tisdale. In fact, we haven’t transacted any business with any gentlemen in your city. Good luck with your search. H. Wilhem Prost.”

  I left the library and started sprinting toward the Jeep. I couldn’t run. My shins ached, and I got a stitch in my side. I felt weighted down, paralyzed. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed a parking meter for support and stood there, panting, crying. Passersby were staring. “What the hell are you staring at?” I screamed out. “Mind your own goddamn business!”

  I wobbled back to the Jeep. I was suddenly filled with the most visceral need to be with Petey. Regardless of what happened with Roger, I would always have my son. My chest ached with yearning to hold my child, to smell his hair, kiss his fingers. It took twenty minutes to get to his school, and in that time I called my mother and Betsy, neither of whom were home. I felt so disconnected. It was an awful, alien feeling. Pete looked confused when I showed up at his classroom. He was afraid I’d come to take him to the doctor. I strapped him into his booster seat, and told him we were going to see Daddy’s rehearsal.

  I wasn’t done with Roger. I had no idea what I would say to him, but there was no way I’d let him go about his business as if nothing had happened. I pulled up to the Dante Theater, and for the first time in my life, I parked in a handicapped spot. The lobby was locked, so Pete and I went to the back door, which was almost always open. A young woman strode several paces in front of me, her glossy black hair swinging as she walked. Oh, God. Could it be? I quickened my pace and called out to the girl. “Mary?”

  Just as she turned around to face me, Petey started tugging my hand. I felt drugged, heavy, hot. I struggled to break through a kind of gelatinous barrier between me and the girl. I wanted to touch her, but she was always just out of reach. She smiled wickedly at me, pulled a wad of chewing gum from her mouth and popped it back in. Pete pulled my hand again, harder now. “Mom?”

  “Not now, Pete,” I muttered.

  “Mom? Please.”

  With a rush of adrenaline and a feeling of relief so profound it made me weep, I realized I’d been dreaming. I wasn’t backstage at the Dante, but in my own bed. That vivid feeling of the scratchy carpet against my cheek was the prickly embroidered decorative pillow I’d been too tired to toss off the bed. Roger was snoring, whistling through his nose, and I’d never been so grateful to hear his drone. It was three in the morning. The clock on the VCR was flashing like a strobe light (we never did figure out how to set it). I could hear the ice maker churning downstairs. Pete was at my side, rubbing his eyes. His pajama top was open and by the aquamarine light of the VCR clock, I could see a ghostly sheen of sweat on his bony chest.

  “I had a bad dream” he whispered.

  “Me too,” I told him. “I had a bad dream too.” I pulled him into bed and curled my arms around his waist. His hair was damp and smelled like baby shampoo. I squeezed him tighter. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

  “No,” he whispered back. His body softened in my arms, and soon I heard the deep, measured breathing of his sleep. As I held my son, I allowed myself to recall bits of the dream, gingerly reconstructing it from the few remaining shards. I tried to find the deeper meaning in that horrible nightmare, some higher purpose. Today I have the chance to expose a philandering husband, end a torturous marriage, begin anew with my child. But in my dream, I was going nowhere, completely stuck, completely alone. Why had I manufactured a dream in which the people I’d most depended upon—my lawyer, my investigator—were all shills in the service of my husband? And why, instead of divorce papers, did Roger hand me a photo of me in bed with my lover? I knew that dissecting the dream this way would dilute some of its power, but I was too tired now. I had a long day ahead of me and it was almost 4 A.M. Eventually I slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  March 3

  I didn’t awaken until the alarm sounded at 7:30. I felt elated, and even found myself singing in the shower, “It was a dream, it was a dream, it was all a bad dream!”

  Roger rapped on the pebbled door. “What are you so happy about?”

  “I’m just glad to be awake!” I shouted over the roaring shower. “I’m thrilled to be alive and awake on this fine day!” I squirted blue Garden Musk shower gel on a sponge. I’d bought the stuff in desperation years ago, after I overheard someone at the store say it worked like an aphrodisiac on her husband. It hadn’t had the same effect on Roger. In fact, he said it smelled like insecticide. I brought the soapy sponge to my nose and inhaled deeply. I thought it smelled like sex in the woods. I loved it.

  I dropped Petey off a
t school and sped out to Lake Merle, as planned. I held my breath as I approached the house. What if my dream had been prophetic, and Mary had really packed up and left? Or what if there was no Mary after all? But before I even got out of the car, the door flew open and Mary was waving happily. “Mrs. Ryan! Mrs. Ryan!” I waved back at my new best friend. “I hoped you would come today,” she yelled, “and here you are!”

  She was wearing denim shorts and a black T-shirt I’d bought at Target years ago that bore the words: “I Fish, Therefore I Lie.” I still don’t know why I bought that shirt given the fact that I’d never been fishing. It had been among the things Roger said he’d take to Promise House. Mary’s closet was probably filled with all the dreck I’d bought on impulse and never wore.

  She pulled me inside. “Tippy had her babies!” She linked her arm in mine and led me past my ugly painting into the small kitchen. The condo smelled of fried food and Pine Sol. The cat, who lay in a cardboard Hammermill paper box, gazed up at me dully, while six tiny kittens nuzzled against her belly.

  I took a deep breath. “Mary, I need to tell you something.”

  She squatted by the box and stroked the cat’s head. “Do you want one of the babies?”

  “No, honey, I don’t. Listen, we need to talk. Now.”

  “Do you want some pop! Or tea?”

  “Roger is my husband. And we’ve been married a long, long time.” I watched her try to process this information.

  “My Roger? Roger Tisdale? My husband?”

  “Yes.” I pulled out a picture from my wallet. It was my wedding picture.

  She brought it up to her face and squinted at it. “Not my Roger. Mine’s older. And not so fat.”

  I sighed. “That’s what he looked like back then, Mary. He’s older now. He lost weight. Believe me, it’s him.”