Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just meant that I’m glad you’re dealing with the pain and all.”

  JoAnne shrugged. “It’s okay so far. We’ll see. I’m not making any promises. If it doesn’t work out ...”

  “I get it, I get it,” I said.

  “Anyway,” JoAnne said loftily, “I still say that telling people they can totally change is a lie perpetuated to keep the therapy profession flush. Change is possible but only within limits. The limits of character and personality and every little tiny thing that makes an individual who she is. For example, I will never decide to give up urban life and become a Sherpa. Maggie, on the other hand ...”

  I laughed. “I think she’d look cute in that mountaineering gear.”

  “Exactly. So, back to the important subject: What are you going to do about the Trident offer?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just—don’t know.”

  “I didn’t know you were feeling antsy at EastWind.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I love my work.”

  “So, what’s the lure? And if you say Dirk Spiral, I’ll smack you.”

  I shrugged. “Money, I guess. Change. The opportunity to learn something new.”

  “Blah, blah. That’s all fine if you’re bored where you are. But you’re not.”

  “No. I’m not. I like my clients, even the pain-in-the butt ones. I mean, individual people can be annoying, don’t get me started on Roy Blount from the Coalition for Informed Media, but how can I say I don’t respect the work of the Conservation Law Foundation or the Symphony or, I don’t know, any of my clients?”

  “You can’t. And you shouldn’t. So, have you talked to Dirk Spiral about your dilemma?”

  “A bit. I suppose we’ll talk more, now that Trident actually made the offer.”

  JoAnne patted my arm. “Well, honey just don’t lose your own opinion in the process, okay? I know how you are with this guy.”

  “How am I?” I said, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Honey, if Dirk Spiral asked you to jump off a bridge, you’d do it. I see it in your eyes.”

  “His name,” I said, hurt, “is Doug Spears.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Erin—celebrated my birthday with a two-day party! didn’t get your card and present—did I give you my new address? will be here for another week. Love, Mother

  Another girls’ night out, though I really wasn’t in the mood to talk, having forgotten—consciously?—to send a birthday card or gift to my mother and now suffering big pangs of guilt.

  But judging by JoAnne’s conversational opener, I was going to have to get into the mood.

  “So,” she asked me, “have you and Doug taken pictures of yourselves in the nude?”

  Abby’s mouth fell. “You mean, naked pictures?”

  “The pictures aren’t naked, Abby,” JoAnne said calmly, “the subjects are naked. Don’t look so shocked. Everybody does it.”

  “No, they don’t,” I said, kind of shocked. “I don’t. Haven’t. Yet. Doug hasn’t suggested it.”

  “Of course he hasn’t,” Maggie snapped. “Why would he want to have a hand in producing blackmail material?”

  “I would never blackmail him! That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “Well, I know you wouldn’t, but does he? How much trust can there really be in an illicit relationship? The possibility always exists for you to rat him out to his wife. The possibility always exists for him to dump you cold and ‘go back’ to his wife. Like he ever had the balls to be honest with her and actually leave in the first place.”

  A moment of brutal silence followed Maggie’s outburst.

  I had to say something, didn’t I?

  “God, I need a drink.”

  Maggie’s smile was wobbly. “You have one. But I’ll buy you another.”

  Peace was offered and received.

  “How are things going with Doug, really?” JoAnne said after some rambling talk about job stress and health insurance.

  “Well,” I said, “I do have a little problem. Doug’s birthday is next Sunday.”

  “And the problem is ... ?”

  “The problem is I can’t be with him on his birthday because it’s on the weekend. Weekend is family time. It’s sacrosanct. That means, no Erin. I can’t even call him. And I won’t be able to talk to him unless he can sneak a call to me. Which is unlikely, given the fact that his wife is throwing a big family party for him Saturday night, even though he’s told her time and again that he hates big family parties. Any parties, really.”

  “How selfish of her,” Maggie murmured.

  Abby shrugged. “Why can’t you and Doug celebrate on Friday? Like, at lunch or after work. Go have drinks somewhere.”

  “We’re going to do that, but it’s not the same as being with someone on his actual birthday. I feel—deprived.”

  “When you date a married man, you take what you can get,” JoAnne said. “You’ve no right to complain, Erin. You knew what you were getting into.”

  “Did I? Sometimes, I’m not so sure.”

  “What are you getting Doug for his birthday, anyway?” Abby asked.

  “That’s another problem,” I said. “I can’t give him a normal gift—like a tie or a book or tickets to some event—because then he’d have to explain to his wife where it came from.”

  “Can’t he just say he bought it for himself?”

  “Maybe some men could but Doug never buys anything for himself. His wife would know something was up. And if he says the book or whatever was a gift from, say, Jack, at the office, then he runs the risk of his wife mentioning it to Jack ...”

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave ...” Maggie.

  “You could, you know, give him something—personal.”

  “Abby,” JoAnne asked, “by ‘personal’ do you mean to say, ‘a sexual favor’ ?”

  “Well, yes. I do think about sex, you know.”

  I knew. I wished I didn’t.

  JoAnne snorted. “Huh. What’s so special about a sexual favor? Their entire relationship is all about sex.”

  “That’s not true!” I protested. But there was something to what JoAnne had said. What did Doug and I do with our time together? Kiss. Grope. Have sex. There wasn’t much else we could do together so sex had taken on a whole lot of meanings it wouldn’t necessarily have if we could be in an open—real—relationship.

  “It’s just not fair,” I blurted. “How did I get into a position of constant secondary—tertiary, whatever—importance? When someone loves you you’re supposed to be number one. I’ve plopped myself right down in the number three spot, after wife and kids.”

  “Doug put you there and keeps you there as much as you did and do,” Maggie said. “Keep that in mind.”

  “No,” I protested. “No, he’s never promised anything and he’s never lied to me ...”

  “Whoa!” JoAnne put her hand over her heart. “How can you possibly know he’s never lied to you when he’s lying to his wife! The woman he’s supposed to cherish in sickness and in health, till death do they part.”

  “It’s ... it’s not like that with Doug. He doesn’t like cheating—having to cheat. He’d love to leave Carol ...”

  “Oh, please,” JoAnne cried. “Let me guess: She doesn’t understand him.”

  “Why is it that we don’t hold men to the same moral and ethical and behavioral standards as we hold other women?” Maggie said. “Does a penis give a man the right to be a shithead?”

  Abby nodded wisely. “Lots of men think so.”

  “But women shouldn’t.”

  “You could always leave him, Erin,” Abby said gently.

  Abby was right. I could. Boots were made for walking. I could wash that man right out of my hair. I will survive and he’s not welcome anymore, and all that.

  But the odd truth was that I didn’t want to leave Doug. Ever. So what if things weren’t perfect? Were they ever perfect, with any relationship? As my grandfather used
to say, I’d made my bed and now I was lying in it.

  At least it’s a hell of your own choosing, Reason added.

  “Anyone want another drink?” I asked.

  In the end I bought Doug a CD for his birthday, after scoping his office more closely and discovering he had an old but working CD player behind his desk. Once Doug had mentioned that he enjoyed madrigals so I bought a collection of seventeenth century Italian madrigals, attached a goopy note—which I knew he would tear to pieces and throw away before we left the restaurant, secrecy and vigilance being all—and apologized for not being able to treat him to something finer.

  Doug was distracted and checked his watch three times in the one hour we had to spend together Friday evening.

  It annoyed me.

  “Hot date later?” I quipped and then wanted to kill myself.

  “Sorry,” he said but it didn’t sound sincere. “I’ve got a parent-teacher meeting tonight.”

  “Why can’t Carol go?” I said. The annoyance was rapidly becoming anger.

  “She’s sick,” Doug said shortly.

  “Again?” I said.

  Doug swallowed the last of his drink and stood. “I’ve got to run.”

  I felt like crap.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I—I just hoped we could spend more time together for your birthday.”

  Doug smiled. Suddenly, he looked very, very tired.

  “That’s okay. I know it’s hard for you,” he said. “It’s hard for me, too.”

  Doug gave my hand a quick squeeze, gathered his briefcase, and left.

  “Happy Birthday,” I called out feebly.

  He didn’t turn back. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

  Gloomily, I ordered another drink and proceeded to torture myself. What had he meant by saying “it” was hard for him, too, I wondered. Did that bode ill for me, for us? Was I a terrible drain on Doug, was our relationship too much for him? Or was it Carol and the trappings of married life that were dragging him down? Panic took hold and I drank the next drink too quickly.

  It was a long and lonely night.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Saturday. A hot, horrible, sticky August Saturday. The day before Doug’s birthday. Ordinarily, I would have opted to stay at home in my air-conditioned apartment—especially since I was slightly hung over—but I hadn’t seen Damion for some time—what with my being busy with Doug—and when he’d asked if I wanted to drag along on a shopping expedition, I said yes. And wore the lightest clothes I own.

  We drove to the South Bay Shopping Center, not far from my apartment.

  “Do you want to stop at Marshall’s while we’re here?” Damion asked when we’d parked.

  “Ugh. I hate this Marshall’s. I’ll only go to the one on Boylston Street. It’s fabulous.”

  “What about Old Navy?”

  “Hmmm. Okay,” I agreed. “They’ve got good soundtracks. And there’s always a bargain on tops and sweaters.”

  “You know those groovy soundtracks are a marketing ploy to make you spend more money.”

  I gave Damion a look.

  “Really! Gee, I didn’t know that. I’ll work really hard to resist—unless, of course, it’s the eighties soundtrack. There are some excellent old songs on that.”

  “Fine,” Damion said. “First, we’ll spend all your money on cheap clothing. Then we need to go to Super 88 for ostrich steaks and Super Stop ’n Shop for—well, a bunch of things. I have a list.”

  “You’re really going all out,” I said as we walked across the parking lot toward Old Navy. “So—it’s serious with, what’s his name, Frank?”

  “Frederick. It could be. I want it to be.”

  “And the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “That’s one route, yes. Maybe not the most direct ...”

  By the time we got to Super Slop ’n Shop—my pet name for the massive supermarket—I was, indeed, slopping. Or was it schlepping? Anyway, I was tired of fighting my way through aisles of sweatshirts at Old Navy and frighteningly foreign produce at Super 88.

  “How much do you need here, Damion?” I asked, helping him wrench a mondo shopping cart from a lineup of mondo shopping carts.

  He took a neatly folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and considered. “Not much.”

  “Give me half of the list and we’ll meet up later. It’ll save time.”

  Damion eyed me. “Well ...”

  “I know the difference between sour cream and cottage cheese,” I drawled. “The cartons are labeled.”

  “Okay. But if you’re in doubt ...”

  “Right. I’ll let you handle it.”

  Damion carefully tore the list into two vastly uneven pieces and gave me the smaller section. It was labeled: “Misc.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. See you.”

  I wandered off to find the canned soup aisle—only Progresso, if you please—but got distracted by the aisle of discount books. After a quick perusal I discovered that discount meant best-selling but shoddily written crap so I took a left out of the aisle and ...

  It was her. It was Carol. It was Doug’s wife.

  For a moment I panicked, darted back to the books, then my senses returned and reminded me that Carol and I had never met. Unless she’d seen a photo of me, which was highly unlikely, she wouldn’t know who I was.

  The woman sleeping with her husband.

  I, of course, had seen a photo of Carol. Doug kept one on his desk, along with a photo of the kids. Something about keeping up appearances, I guess.

  I took a steadying breath and once again walked out of the discount book aisle and into the wide back aisle along which were arranged refrigerated cases of meats, dairy products, and fish.

  Carol was still there, now looking down into a section of roasting chickens.

  What was she doing at the South Bay Shopping Center? Why wasn’t she shopping in Newton, where she lived—where she belonged? I felt a surge of anger. I had so little and she had so much. She had Doug. I had to keep to my corner of the universe to protect her. Why couldn’t she keep to her corner to protect me?

  Because, you idiot, Reason said, she doesn’t know about you. She belongs wherever she wants to belong. She’s the one with the ring and the title. She’s not the one skulking in the aisle, pretending to be interested in frozen tripe and Jimmy Dean sausages.

  Carefully, I glanced toward Carol, who still stood examining the roasters. We were no more than ten feet away from each other. I noticed a small dark mole on her right cheek.

  Objectively—as if I could truly be objective—Carol was not a striking woman. She was of average height and average build, a bit wide in the hips, but maybe that was from the two pregnancies. Her hair was medium brown and in need of a touch-up; grayish roots were visible even from a distance. She wore no makeup—at least none that translated beyond a few feet. I looked for a wedding band and caught a tiny sparkle—I guessed a thin band set with diamonds. I could see no other jewelry.

  Carol looked like any other overworked, fortyish woman doing the grocery shopping on a Saturday morning, stocking up for her husband’s birthday party, hyperactive kids somewhere in tow, probably raiding the candy displays. But Carol wasn’t just any woman. I felt a surge of disgust. This woman was my rival. And this woman was a mess. How could Doug ever have found her attractive? No wonder he didn’t find her attractive now. No wonder he’d turned to another woman. How in God’s name did Carol expect to keep the interest of a man as charismatic and handsome as Doug while appearing in public in baggy jeans and a gray sweat jacket?

  As quickly and as violently as the surge of disgust had overtaken me, it receded and was replaced by deep shame.

  I’m so sorry, I thought toward Carol. I ...

  Reason was angry. Are you so screamingly insecure you have to trash a hardworking mother of two small children, a woman who’s never deliberately done anything to hurt you, a woman whose husband is cheating on her, for wearing il
l-fitting jeans and a sweat jacket while grocery shopping? Erin, you have sunk to a new low. I suggest therapy is in order.

  And maybe a prescription for anxiety.

  Oh, God, what if Doug is here, too? I thought wildly. What ... If I saw him without Carol—what would I do? Greet him, of course, but with restraint. We’d be in public. His wife could come around the corner at any moment.

  What if Doug suddenly strolled up to Carol—and then saw me? What then? Would he greet me, introduce me as a colleague? Would he ignore me? The possibility made me nauseous.

  As much as it pains me to admit this, I followed Carol when she moved away from the meat and dairy cases and into the chip and snack aisle. Damion’s shopping list was forgotten. In fact, it was no longer in my hand. I didn’t know where it had gone.

  A woman joined Carol then. A baby sat in the seat of her cart. Two children, about four and six, were helping her steer. Taylor and Courtney. Had to be.

  “Have they been behaving?” Carol said to the woman. Her friend, I guessed. Or sister.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Mommy! Look what I got!” Courtney cried. She was jumping with excitement, clutching what looked like a bag of chips.

  “Let me see.” Carol peered at the bag as if she might need glasses for close reading.

  “Daddy’s favorite!” Courtney’s pride in her choice was palpable.

  “That’s very nice of you, honey. Put it in the cart, okay?”

  Courtney did.

  Daddy’s favorite. B-B-Cue flavored potato chips.

  I didn’t know Doug the father at all. Or Doug the husband. Or Doug the birthday boy. Did I really even know Doug the man?

  I turned away. I felt like I needed to sit down but short of collapsing on top of slabs of pork, sitting wasn’t an option. I set off, a bit wobbly, to find Damion.

  As I wobbled, I wondered. Would I tell Doug I’d seen Carol and the children? The urge to make a scene came over me and I envisioned myself the scorned woman, gloriously nasty and yet, somehow, heartbreakingly sad.

  Thankfully, the urge was quickly replaced by a feeling of defeat. Defeat is better than anger? Sometimes. So, I’d say nothing. What would it change for the better if I told him? I’d keep the uneasiness within myself. I’d save him the split second of panic the news might cause—a split second within which he’d wonder if I’d confronted Carol, done something horrible.