by Debra Kent
Oh, God. Mary says that she wants to “make the baby go away.” Apparently, Roger phoned her while I was out and insisted she get an abortion or he would get her booted out of the country. She’s been on the phone all afternoon with her Auntie Esta in the Philippines. From what I can piece together, Esta belongs to some kind of underground women’s group that, among other services, dispenses advice on doit-yourself abortion.
“Auntie Esta knows everything,” Mary told me. She waved a paper in front of my face. In the bubbly universal handwriting of teen girls, Mary had scribbled a list of herbs. I recognized a few. Black cohosh. Pennyroyal. “Please,” she begged. “We got to go to the store.”
I grabbed the paper and ripped it up. “Roger lied to you,” I told her, shouting over her sobs. “He’s a liar, Mary. Don’t you realize that by now? Nobody is throwing you out of the country.” I told her that I would arrange for her citizenship. I told her everything would be okay, though I didn’t quite believe it myself.
’Til next time,
V
March 5
Dale called this morning, just when I was yanking Petey out of bed. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
My heart did a little flip-flop of joy. Dale, a social worker and my closest friend when I worked at the Center, one of the few people who knew me in my former life. Dale knew me when I wore stockings and high heels, when I carried a briefcase and earned my own money.
“I don’t know, Dale. How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“Fish.” He paused, waited for me to laugh. I did. “Hey,” he continued, “did you hear the one about the dyslexic-agnostic insomniac? He stays up all night wondering if there really is a Dog.”
I immediately felt lighter and happier. It turns out Dale finally quit the Center. “Too much bureaucratic bullshit,” he said.
“So what are you going to do next?”
“Well, Eric and I were thinking of moving out to Vermont to get married, except I can’t stand those snooty New Englanders. So I guess we’ll just stay here and pretend we’re brothers so our upstanding neighbors keep liking us.”
“You’re not serious. You and Eric pretend you’re brothers?”
“We do! We say we’re twins, fraternal, which explains why we don’t look alike.”
“Which explains why he’s black?”
Dale laughed. “Well, the truth is, we don’t really talk to the neighbors, which is fine by me. They’re all so icky.”
“So you might as well move to Vermont. At least you won’t have to pretend you’re brothers.”
“Maybe. Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you?”
While Petey brushed his teeth, I gave Dale a quick sketch: Eddie, Diana, Roger’s pathological infidelity, Dad’s illness, Mary, the divorce.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s a heavy load for one lifetime. How do you find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning?”
“It’s called Prozac,” I told him.
“Hey, welcome to the club.”
“You too?” I asked, feeling like we were sharing a sly secret.
“Yes, ma’am. Every day for the last nine months. Wouldn’t skip a dose if you paid me.”
“Oh, Dale, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you.”
“Likewise, my friend, likewise.” We made plans to get together for lunch next week, then it was time to get Pete to school. “By the way,” he added, “I’ve got very juicy news about our old friend.”
“Who?”
“Marissa, Clarissa, whatever her name was. The hooker.”
“Oh, God. Tell me!”
“No. Not now. Next week. Over lunch,” he said. “This way you can’t cancel out on me.”
Later, after Pete was down for the night, I tried to explain my feelings about abortion to Mary, feelings that have always been more visceral than political, which is why I hesitate to share them. I don’t think most people would peg me for the anti-abortion type; I mean, it’s not like I’d ever stand in front of Planned Parenthood with a picket sign. Actually, it was my sister Teresa who prodded me into finally crystallizing my thoughts on the topic. We were in the kitchen, and I’d spotted some ants marching across the counter. Roger would have crushed them under his thumb, but I felt compelled to herd them into a Dixie cup and release them outside. I did the same with mice, moths, beetles, even roaches.
“Lemme get this straight, little sister,” Teresa said. “You don’t have the heart to kill a tiny sugar ant, but killing a developing person is okay?” I didn’t want to debate her because I knew I’d lose, but her comment stuck. And once I became pregnant with Pete, I became even more ambivalent about abortion.
I dug up a book of photos taken inside the womb, the one I read practically every day when I was pregnant with Pete. As Mary and I flipped through the pages, I thought: This is Mary’s body, not mine. Mary’s pregnancy, not mine. Mary’s choice, not mine. But I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least tried to offer a different perspective. I think she has changed her mind. She hasn’t asked about the herbs, hasn’t called her Aunt Esta. So I think we’re okay. For now.
’Til next time,
V
March 6
I just had some film developed, which means it’s time once again to confront the issue of my weight. The first few shots were taken over a year ago, when I was exercising daily, sometimes even twice a day, and eating Lean Cuisines every night. It was around the time I’d first met Ben on the StairMaster, and I remembered how confident I’d felt in my black flared stretch pants and tight white cap-sleeved cotton T-shirts.
Toward the end of the roll were the pictures Pete had snapped a few nights ago as I prepared dinner. Only a year had passed, but I appeared ten years older. My arms were twin dolphins, my face an overripe melon. As Pete happily pawed through the prints, I felt only shame. What had happened? Why had I lost the zeal to keep my body lithe and fit? A year ago, clothes shopping was a pleasurable experience. I could wear black stretch capri pants. I felt comfortable in shorts and swimsuits. I’d see slim women and include myself in their elite club, a club whose members can unselfconsciously wear sleeveless tops and short skirts and clingy matte jersey. Acquaintances stopped me on the street just to say, You look fantastic! Or, What’s your secret? A neighbor who had just begun working out confessed that I’d been her inspiration.
What would those admirers think now? I’ve quietly tucked away the black capri stretch pants and all the rest of the small-sized clothes and remorsefully calculate the money I spent on my new body, the body I’m apparently not destined to have. I find myself searching through my closet for oversized stretch pants with elastic waistbands. There are angry red marks where my pants and bra straps cut into my flesh. How can I contemplate dating again, disrobing in front of a man, letting him wrap his arms around my waist? Intellectually, of course, I believe that everyone has a right to a relationship, regardless of size or shape. My mother and her neighbors used to cluck over married women who had let themselves “go to pot.” Mom had restricted her calories through every pregnancy, and never gained more than fifteen pounds with each baby, as she is fond of reminding me. I once found her weeping in her bedroom—I was sure my father had died in a car accident on the way home from work. It turned out that she had gained three and a half pounds.
I find it impossible to accept my body as it is now that I’ve seen those pictures. Somewhere at the margins of consciousness, in that murky place beyond the tranquilizing effects of medication, I feel the purest disgust for my body. I find the prospect of starting from square one daunting and depressing. I dread starting again with the rigorous workouts, the tiny meals. Weighing, measuring, calorie calculating. . . . Motivation is magical and elusive. I had it once. I’ve got to get it back. To hell with self-acceptance. If Prozac is to blame for any of this—and my doctor says it may be—then I’m through with Prozac. I’d rather be crazy th
an fat.
’Til next time,
V
March 7
Roger called with a news bulletin. He crunched the numbers and came to the conclusion that even with alimony, I can’t possibly live in the manner to which I have grown accustomed. “Face it, Valerie,” he declared. “You can’t afford to live without my income. You’ll be pushing all your worldly belongings through town in a shopping cart by the time Pete’s in third grade.” I shuddered. “So forget about the divorce,” he continued. “Let’s make our marriage work.” I hung up on him and disconnected the phone.
Omar is scheduled to take Roger’s deposition tomorrow. I can’t wait to see what Roger concocts about his assets. I hope he lies, I really do, because the less money he claims to have, according to Omar, the larger a settlement I’m likely to get.
’Til next time,
V
March 8
Roger’s deposition went exactly as Omar had hoped. My soon-to-be ex-husband insisted under oath that he had no assets other than the trust fund, the income from his theater projects, the little bit he has made teaching, and our joint holdings: the house, vehicles, material possessions. Roger made no mention of Swiss or Cayman bank accounts, paintings, cash, or gold. He didn’t even name the condo on Lake Merle. Now Omar plans to argue that because Roger lied under oath, and given his criminal history—sexual harassment, statutory rape, bigamy—I am entitled to not merely half, but all of his hidden assets. I still can’t believe the court would swallow this reasoning, but Omar’s confidence is unshakable. “This is my job, love,” he said, and I felt my cheeks flush. “You relax and let me do the work.”
“Okay, fine. You do the work. Just wake me up when it’s all over, okay?”
’Til next time,
V
March 9
I’ve been fantasizing about leaving town, finding some place way on the other side of the world where Pete and I can make a new life, and not just so I can escape Roger and his current blastocyst. There are so many things about this place that I find increasingly intolerable. I offer four examples:
1. The Mushroomheads—by which I mean the Junior Leaguers, the ones who pop up everywhere in their white Ford Excursions or whatever those gigantic new SUVs are called. (I’ve decided, by the way, that my next vehicle will have to be a semi, because I’m sick of being dwarfed on the road, and no one could possibly top an eighteen-wheeler.) Three Mushroomheads walk the track at the gym every day. They always walk three-across (flagrantly disregarding the two-across limit), with their three identically highlighted blond heads coifed in identical mushroom-shaped hairdos, three tiny behinds, three pert noses, three walnut-size diamonds on their French-manicured fingers. (I had my fake nails removed, by the way; I noticed a tremor in my left pinkie and decided, in an intensely neurotic moment, that the acrylic was seeping into my blood and would eventually cause Parkinson’s disease. I realized only after I’d had them removed that the tremor was from using the weed whacker for ninety relentless minutes, a feat I accomplished only by imagining that the pigweed was Roger’s genitalia.)
2. The claustrophobia—by which I mean I feel like I can’t go anywhere without banging into someone I know. At a four-way stop last week, I realized I knew the drivers at the other three stop signs. There’d been an accident at the intersection of Ridge and 16th streets, and I knew both drivers. I was at Pak-Mail and happened to glance down into the trash can, where I noticed a manila envelope addressed to Leanne Swanson. I know Leanne Swanson. She was in my Lamaze class when I was pregnant with Pete. Roger liked to flirt with her. Then one day she farted when we were practicing pushing—not just a meek little toot but a thick, juicy, cheese-cutter. Roger didn’t flirt with Leanne Swanson after that.
3. The Stonehenge Syndrome—by which I mean the bizarre compulsion townsfolk have to display small versions of Stonehenge (or similarly stark configurations of roughhewn stone columns) on front lawns. I do not understand this. In other places, people seem to do just fine with statues of saints, or concrete ducks, or those flat wooden things that are meant to look like a little fat person in bloomers bent over picking strawberries.
4. The dearth of good Chinese restaurants—by which I mean that what passes for Chinese food here would make most people recoil in horror. Our Chinese restaurants serve white bread. Enough said.
But just when I am sure I can’t possibly tolerate another day here, I realize I have nowhere else to go. My parents are here. My grandparents and great-grandparents are buried here. I went to a church potluck last week and felt affection for everyone, even the people who annoy me, like crotchety Pearlie Wilson, who never smiles and who sneaks leftovers into her straw bag when she thinks no one’s looking. Or Mel Ruckbaker, who’s always trying to sucker someone into one of his get-rich-quick schemes. There’s Chad Weaver, all peach fuzz and acne, trying to catch a glimpse of Tiffany Campbell’s breasts as she leans over the punch bowl. I see Reverend Lee offer a welcoming handshake to that young couple who just moved here from New York City, and I hear him assure them that we may not be as exciting as the Big Apple, but this is a heck of a great place to raise kids. They smile politely, but they have no idea what he means, and they won’t until they start raising kids here—and then they’ll know exactly what the Reverend meant, and eventually they’ll wonder why everyone makes such a big deal about New York—until someone serves them white bread in a Chinese restaurant.
’Til next time,
V
March 10
Had lunch with Dale today. The big news about Roger’s young protegée is this: She’s writing a tell-all book about her escapades as a coed hooker. And there’s going to be a fat chapter on Roger, who, rumor has it, is described as a “saggy, sour-assed, washed-up hack writer.”
I’ve slowly started telling people about my divorce. The reaction has been generally supportive. It’s an amazing experience, actually—all these people I barely know confessing that they never liked Roger in the first place. The widow who lives at the end of the cul-de-sac approached me as I was pulling the trash cans to the curb. I froze in fear when I saw her. I thought she was going to yell at me about my trash cans, loitering at the curb like a couple of grungy hobos long after everyone else on the block has stowed theirs neatly and out of sight. “I just want you to know that I’m pulling for you. I never liked him, you know.” She squeezed my arm and smiled benevolently. “You’re better off without him, dear.”
I wanted to say, You have lived here for seven years and I don’t even know your name. “Thanks,” I said.
I ran into Ben Murphy at the bank. He casually asked how I’d been.
“I’m divorced!” I blurted out. How did I expect him to react? Twirl me around and sing out in joyful gratitude? Actually, yes.
Instead he smiled (I like to think it was a wry, knowing, eager smile) and said, “Is that so?”
I returned the smile. “Yes, that’s so.”
“Well, then.”
I waited but he didn’t say anything else.
’Til next time,
V
March 10, continued
Roger won’t leave me alone. He called three times today. As soon as I see his name on Caller ID, I let the machine pick up. But the last time he called he used a pay phone, and I answered, damn it.
He says he has one final offer for me, and he’s “absolutely convinced” that I’ll be interested. I didn’t have the strength to argue with him. I told him he could stop by tomorrow morning. For ten minutes. And that’s it.
’Til next time,
V
March 11
When Roger showed up at the door this morning he looked far too hopeful for a man bound for divorce and, in all probability, jail. He carried a storage box, much like the one in which Tippy nursed her kittens. I glanced out the back window. Mary was sunning herself on a blanket in the yard while Pete darted in and out of the sprinkler.
“What have you got there, Roger?”
He smiled. “P
atience, my dear.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “May I?”
I stepped aside and let him through. “Go ahead.”
He hefted the box onto the table and pushed it toward me. “Okay, kiddo, here’s the deal.”
“Whatever you’re selling, kiddo, I’m not buying, so don’t bother,” I told him.
“I’m not selling a thing, wifey. I’m giving it away.” He gestured toward the box with a flourish. “Go ahead. Open it.”
“Don’t call me wifey.”
“I know you thought you could claim this as your own, and that’s fine. I ask no questions, make no accusations. It’s yours. Spend it however you’d like.” He lifted the lid. “On one condition.”
It was the strongbox. So it was Roger who’d ripped my parents’ home apart, not Eddie.
“Condition, Roger?”
“Please abandon this silly divorce business and let us be a family again. I’m begging you.”
He had to be kidding. Then again, he was just being Roger, a man whose capacity to lie to his wife was outweighed only by his capacity to lie to himself. Roger didn’t realize that I knew he was worth far more than the contents of that box.
“You can’t buy me back, Roger. Please take your lousy gold and go home.” I tried to move him toward the door. He was rooted to the floor. He asked if he could see Pete. I blocked his view of the back window and told him that Pete was at Hunter’s house. “Next time you need to contact me, call my attorney. I’m serious.”
He winced. “Did Mary get rid of the baby as I’d suggested?”
“Get out of here, Roger.” I wish I could expunge him from my life completely, but I know that as long as we have a child between us, I will have to deal with Roger, at some level, for another fifteen years or so, and I find this fact unbelievably depressing. I’d like to think I’d get full custody and he’d be denied visitation rights, but Omar has warned me that custody rulings in this state have been increasingly favorable toward men, even those with checkered histories. Some guy was granted visitation rights even though the child he was visiting was the product of acquaintance rape—he was the rapist.