by Alisa Valdes
I stare out the window into the dark for a good half hour, without moving, watching people stroll down the broad median on Commonwealth Avenue in sweaters or button-down shirts, the winter coats packed away for a while. I am happy, almost deliriously so. Yet I feel so guilty I can’t stand it. I try to summarize the marriage in my mind. I create file folders in my brain, and outlines, and I organize the entire mess until it seems manageable. I could cry, of course, but I don’t see the point. It was like being weaned of Brad, these past few months, slowly getting used to being without him. His disappearance does not surprise me now, and I am not injured by it as much as concerned about how to explain it to my parents and how to arrange for an annulment so that I might one day be married again in the eyes of God.
I fold the note neatly and stash it in the top drawer of the oak desk in my study. I sit down in the leather desk chair and start to go over the bills, writing checks for everything. I seal the envelopes and take stamps out of the gold dispenser for each one. I leave them in a neat stack on the outgoing mail tray. I pick up the phone and consider calling my mother, but hang up. I’m not ready for her comments right now. She will probably think we can work it out. We cannot. I don’t want to hear her say it. I think the sucias would call each other or me to talk about what was happening to them, were they in my shoes. But I don’t feel comfortable talking to any of them about it right now. I don’t want the “I told you so” and so on. I imagine they’ll come up with suggestions that make no sense, such as going out for a drink. I’ll be better off just dealing with this on my own for a few days, sorting out my feelings by myself. Part of me wants to call Andre. He’s the only person I think might have a good suggestion for me. But I don’t think calling him would be appropriate. What would I say, anyway? Hi, Andre, I’m getting divorced. I think I love you?
I walk down the hall to the kitchen for a snack. It’s too small, a galley kitchen with hardly any counter space. I really hope my offer on the brownstone is accepted. I wash an apple in the kitchen sink, then stand at the counter and eat it with a graham cracker and a glass of water from the BRITA pitcher. My hands tremble, in part from hunger and in part from the shock—or is it the thrill?—of finally being alone. The apartment is so quiet without Brad’s incessant typing and nose blowing, without his philosophical rants to professors on the phone.
I’m not sure what to do next. I think I’ll go to the gym, then to the bookstore. When a personal crisis strikes, it is very important to continue with your routines to the best of your ability, to surround yourself with familiar rituals and activities. It is important to remain active, not to spend too much idle time thinking about your problems. Brad never understood that philosophy is like psychotherapy, as far as I can tell; it’s the domain of selfish people who are not willing to buckle down and do the hard work necessary to get on in life. It’s important to be smart, but it’s also important to be active with your intelligence. The more you sit around over-thinking things, the more trouble you get into. I’ll get some magazines, new ones I’ve never heard of, and look for good ideas in them. It’s important to keep abreast of the trends in the business and to see what’s out there. You wouldn’t believe how many new magazines pop up every week.
A MESSENGER DELIVERS the divorce papers before the week is up. Brad has not asked for a single penny of my money. He allows me to keep everything except the money from his trust fund. My magazine is estimated to be worth ten million dollars. He has not asked for any of that. He doesn’t want it. And why should he? His parents will be so thrilled we’re divorcing that they’ll probably reinstate his trust—at least until they hear about Juanita Gonzalez. It is none of my business anymore. I sign the papers without consulting a lawyer, put them in an envelope addressed to Brad’s family lawyer in Michigan, and attach postage.
It’s done.
I dial New Mexico first, reaching my mother at home. As I expected, she sounds disappointed.
“You aren’t getting a divorce, are you?” she asks with that teardrop in her voice. I hear opera playing in the background.
“Yes, Mom, I am. I have to.”
“God have mercy,” she says. “You know what this will do to your father.”
“My father?” I ask. “What about me?”
“God have mercy,” she repeats.
“Sometimes people make mistakes, Mom. I think God will understand.”
“If God understood this kind of mistake, He wouldn’t make it a sin to get divorced.”
“Maybe people made it a sin,” I say.
“Blasphemy!”
“Brad only married me because he thought it would upset his parents, Mom. Do you realize that? He thought I was some kind of exotic immigrant or something.”
“He was a good man, Rebecca. Marriage is never easy. You have to earn your marriage sometimes.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing all these years?”
I have never before stood up to my mother or disrespected her opinion.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Lord have mercy on your soul,” she says. “I suggest you pray on this one.”
“No, I’m not going to pray on this one,” I say. “And I’m not working it out. Brad and I are getting divorced. I signed the papers today. And you know what? I’m happy about it.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You stood there before Jesus Christ and made your vows. Do you think every day of my marriage to your father has been like a fairy tale? It hasn’t. But do you think I just gave up? I did not. We worked hard at this marriage, and this family.”
“I respect what you and Dad have, Mom. I do. But you don’t know Brad the way I do. He was so wrong for me, Mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I liked him.”
“You didn’t know him. I did. I made the right decision. I think God will be fine with that.”
“Blasphemy.”
“I’m going now, Mother.”
“What’s next, Rebecca? Next thing we know, you’ll come home with a Jew or a colored boy.” Colored boy?
“Good-bye, Mom.”
Click.
I decide to wait until the next meeting of my college friends to tell any of them. And I realize, sadly, that I don’t have many close friends other than the sucias that I want to bother with the details of my personal life.
I dial Andre’s home number, but hang up before the line starts to ring. I will wait until next week.
MONDAY PASSES, AND I resist the urge to call Andre. I don’t want to do anything stupid. There is plenty of time. I want to make sure I know what I’m feeling before I make any more mistakes. On Tuesday, my assistant interrupts my call with a writer who’s pitching me some new ideas, to tell me that Andre is on the other line. I wrap up the call quickly and take a breath.
“Hello, Andre,” I say after I press the button. “How are you today?”
“Hello, Rebecca. Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Fine.”
“I’m just calling to check in with you.”
“Thank you.”
“Actually, I’m mostly calling to apologize for the way I behaved at the function last month. I shouldn’t have tried to take the relationship to another level. It was quite disrespectful. I hope it doesn’t impinge upon our working relationship.”
“Everything is fine, Andre. Don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”
“You weren’t?”
I smile. “No. I wasn’t. I appreciated your honesty.”
“You appreciated my honesty. That’s good. That’s interesting.”
“And … I wasn’t entirely honest with you in return.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.”
“How so?”
“Well, do you remember when you asked me if I was happily married?”
“Of course. How could I forget? I suspected you were dishonest about that.”
“I was. I mean, I am not happily married. Not anymore. I’m not su
re I ever was.”
“I know you won’t believe this, Rebecca, not after the way I behaved with you, but I am genuinely sorry to hear that. For your sake.”
“I do believe it. You’re a good person, Andre.”
“Thank you. So are you. You deserve to be happy.”
“I know. I’m working on that now.” And then, just like that, I spit it out. The truth. “Brad left me last week, and he already filed for divorce. It’s over. I signed the papers.”
A long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. It was coming for a long time.”
“Rebecca, I’m honored that you feel I’m a good enough friend to tell me this.”
“I’m sorry to dump all of my troubles on you, Andre.”
“You’re not dumping. Trust me, I am happier today than I have been in a long time.”
“You know, in a strange way, so am I.”
“What does your calendar look like for dinner tonight?” Tonight?
“Tonight, Andre?”
He laughs softly. “Just dinner, and a couple of friends talking. I thought you might need someone to talk to.”
“I don’t. I have plans. I’m filling out paperwork for my new house.”
“Oh, congratulations. That’s great.”
“Thank you.”
“Where is it?”
“In the South End, a brownstone. It’s really spectacular.”
“Terrific. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.”
“You deserve it.”
“It’s just what I was looking for.”
“I know the feeling. Listen, if you can’t make dinner tonight, how about tomorrow?”
I should say no, shouldn’t I? “That would be fine.”
“Shall we meet in the South End, then? In honor of your new home?”
“That’s a lovely idea, Andre.”
“How about Hamersley’s Bistro, on Tremont?”
“Hamersley’s Bistro is fine. How is seven-thirty?”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you then. Keep your chin up.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t worry. I’m not as upset as you might think,” I say.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “I suspected your husband was a bit of an anorak.”
“A what?”
“Anorak. It’s British. You might say loser here.”
“He’s a good person, I think. Just not for me.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Andre. Good-bye.”
“Until then.”
I continue working at a good clip until the time comes to drive to Carol’s Columbus Avenue office to finish up the paperwork on the house. I find a meter directly in front of the office. I don’t mean to be superstitious, but I’ve noticed that when things are going well in my life, when I am making the right decisions and doing the things that God intends for me to be doing, everything falls into place, even parking spaces, or the types of conversations I overhear in public. I told the sucias about this once, and Amber told me it was called “synchronicity.” Once you are truly on the proper path for your life, she said, the universe drops hints so you know you are doing the right thing. These kinds of things have been happening to me all day.
The seller has accepted my offering amount, Carol tells me, but has counteroffered with a request for a longer escrow period, almost two months. We counteroffer back with an offer to extend the original month-long escrow period by only one week. We fax the offer to the seller’s agent, and within minutes get the phone call saying the seller has accepted our terms.
The house is mine.
I stop at the florist and buy a large, tasteful arrangement to be delivered to Carol tomorrow as a thank you, and then return to the apartment and begin to organize myself for the move. I tag the things I will keep, and those I will throw away. I decide that anything that reminds me of my marriage, Brad, or my former life will go to charity. I will get new furniture to go with my new life.
I take a bath infused with ten drops of marjoram extract—a scent my herbalist assures me clears your mind—and look over some new magazines. When I finally settle into the warmth of my thick flannel sheets, scented with just a touch of grapefruit extract (battles apathy, even sexual) I feel good. Really good. And really tired. I sleep soundly and better than I have in years, and dream of Andre.
THE NEXT DAY, I wake up early and go to my aerobics class. I run the usual errands at the dry cleaners and the florist. Then I return home and call a reliable moving company and schedule a move for the day after closing on the new house. I shower and dress in a black pantsuit with a red sweater underneath, something that I think will transfer nicely from office to evening. I remind myself not to get too excited. This will not be an evening in the date sense of the word, not exactly. I will not allow for such a thing until the divorce is finalized. It will be a casual evening out with a friend, something I have not done in a long time, and I want to be comfortable.
I arrive at Hamersley’s right on time, as does Andre. In fact, we both pull up to the valet at the same time, and almost crash into each other. Andre, always a gentleman, allows me to go first. He is wearing a suit, but manages to look young and energetic in it, rather than stuffy. He is a classy man. That is all there is to say about it. Classy and smart and handsome and, yes, wealthy. With good manners. I don’t see what’s wrong with him, even if he is black. I don’t care what my mother thinks. She is no better than Brad’s parents.
Then, together, with Andre holding the door for me, we enter the restaurant. In a move that makes us both laugh, we instinctively take out our cell phones and set them to “vibrate”—the proper etiquette for dining in public. “It’s like looking in a mirror, almost,” he jokes. “It’s a little scary.” I smile.
Hamersley’s Bistro is the perfect choice, considering the circumstances. This is not a date. But not entirely innocent, either. I know it, and Andre knows it. It shows in the way he puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me along, and it shows in the way my cheeks flame with emotion, in spite of my efforts to control how I feel.
Hamersley’s is elegant, but not pretentious; it is endearing, but not overly romantic, a bright, open, tasteful restaurant high on the list of any stylish Bostonian. Andre has made reservations. The staff knows him by name. We are seated in a corner booth, with a nice view of the open kitchen where the head chef prepares his magic wearing a baseball cap.
We order drinks—he a bottle of red wine, and I sparkling water with a twist of lime. He orders a goat cheese tart appetizer and an oyster appetizer. He gives a toast to my new life, and I clink his glass so hard his wine sloshes onto the table. We both laugh. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Nonsense,” he says. “It’s the first of many moves I hope to see you make with power and joy.”
The food is exquisite, and in spite of myself, I eat. This does not slip Andre’s notice. He seems pleased.
“Brilliant!” He grins broadly. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you eat more than a spoonful of broth or a sprig of salad.”
Even though I tell him I don’t drink, Andre has a glass of wine poured for me. “A little bit won’t kill you,” he says. “In fact, I read in Ella, that wonderful magazine, that a little bit of red wine is good for the heart. I don’t suppose you saw that article? Here, just taste it. This is some of the best. Live a little, Rebecca Baca. It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”
I taste it, and he is right. In spite of myself, I sip at the glass until it is empty.
I order the salmon, Andre orders the duck confit, and we begin to talk. He does not ask about the marriage, and I don’t offer to talk about it. There’s nothing to say. Rather, we get to know each other. He tells me about his parents, Nigerian immigrants who moved to England and found success in the tailoring business.
“That explains your impeccable grooming,” I say.
“You could say it runs in the family,” he s
ays. “My father always looks put together. Mum too.”
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask. I’m surprised I’ve known him this long and don’t actually know the answer to that question already.
“Yes,” he says with a fond smile. “I have six brothers and sisters. I am the oldest.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, wow. And you?”
“No, none,” I say. “I’m the only one. That’s why they’re so disappointed in me.”
“I can’t honestly believe anyone would be disappointed in you, Rebecca. You’ve accomplished so much.”
“My mom is Catholic. She thinks I should stay married. She’s sure I am on my way to roasting in hell for eternity now.”
“Ah,” he says. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Terrible.”
“Yes, I can understand that. Do you believe you’re on your way to hell?”
“No.”
“I don’t think so, either. God has been good to you. You’re a good person.”
“Yes,” I say. “I think so. Thank you.”
“Certainly. You know, parents say things they don’t mean at times. Most would bite their arms off for their kids. They almost always come around in the end. That’s what parents do.”
“I know. I’ll get over it. I have to live my life for me now.”
“That sounds like a healthy attitude.”
He tells me of his upbringing in London. His family sounds stable, easygoing and supportive. I tell him of my family, of New Mexico and my love for the desert, of my family’s business successes and of my mother’s prejudices.
“Like my being here with you,” I say. “My mother would not approve.”
“And why is that?” He bristles slightly, as if preparing for a blow he has received before.
“Because you’re black.”
He laughs long and hard but winces a little. “Yes, well I suppose I am. And how do you feel about that?”
“Me?” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I did not expect him to ask such a direct question.
“Yes, you.” He clears his throat and grins to himself.
“Me? I don’t care. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I mean, I was raised a certain way, and all of that crosses my mind, but I believe what Martin Luther King said about men being judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin.”