The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  “Bye, Sophia,” he called out, already marching away. “I’ll call you.”

  But of course, I knew the deal. He wasn’t going to call me. That was it. He’d met me halfway, first taking me out to a nice restaurant and then an art gallery. We’d spoken a few times on the phone, and then gone to a nice club. He wasn’t an asshole, and I seemed to like him, at least a little bit.

  And now, at the moment of ignition, I was blowing him off. My status was clearly being revised, hot young blonde being crossed out in favor of annoying, stuck up bitch.

  “Hey, Justin.” Without even thinking about it, I fully stepped back out into the hallway. Dressed in tight jeans and a nice blouse, I knew I looked good. “The night’s still young. Why don’t you come in for a few moments?”

  Turning about, he studied me for a few moments, making me stand there, displaying myself for him, extending the aura of invitation. Smiling, he then walked back over, putting an arm around my waist and guiding me into my apartment.

  I’ve thought about that exchange for a long time. Just out of college, I was strangely ungrounded. And maybe a little scared. If Justin just walked off, would anybody else ever walk back? What would I do in my apartment all night? The next day? Who would I talk with tomorrow? Somehow, that’s where I was.

  I don’t believe in regrets. Somehow inviting Justin in, and all that followed, was the right thing to do at that time. But I’ve never done anything like that again. And since then, when that little voice inside tells me no, I’ve always listened.

  So look, I’ll spare you all the details. Within a week Justin was coming over whenever he liked, dropping by during lunch or after work. Soon, he had his own key. On several nights he was waiting when I came home from my waitress shift.

  We went on walks, visited trendy clubs, museums, and attended the occasional movie. It all seemed normal enough.

  Justin had one of those first-generation, bulky cell phones he carried everywhere. “No rest for the wicked,” he’d sigh, answering the phone. Mouthing “the mayor” at me after saying hello, he’d often wander off, denying me even his end of the conversation.

  I never went to his place. Justin explained that, as a public official, it would be “inappropriate” to take me there.

  “Why?” I pressed, laying naked in bed with him one night in my apartment. “Isn’t the mayor’s chief-of-staff supposed to get laid?”

  “Under the right circumstances,” he said, kissing me.

  After several moments I pushed him away. “So what’s the problem? Do you live in a refrigerator box under a bridge or something?”

  “Hardly,” he sighed, sitting up. Justin looked like a male model, his chest hard and defined. “It’s just that ‘family values’ is a big thing these days.”

  “So? You don’t have a family.”

  “No, I don’t,” he agreed, fascinated by my body stretched out before him. “But the mayor’s unmarried chief of staff dallying with a young lass such as yourself might, uh…” Running a hand down my taunt stomach, Justin almost groaned in pleasure. Leaning in for another kiss, we didn’t speak again for quite a while.

  And so it went. Actually, I couldn’t understand why Justin didn’t want to be seen with me. Other men loved to squire me about, showing me off. But my lover preferred to take me out to the suburbs, or out of town entirely, whenever possible.

  We did some fun stuff, seeing Shakespeare productions up in Canada, staying for the weekend at some bed and breakfast near Niagara Falls. We even took a quick swing up to Toronto, rooting for the Blue Jays as lustily as any native. A drive through the Finger Lakes region in late summer. It was fun.

  But I never went to his place, or even met any of his friends. Hotel rooms on the weekend were the closest we came to intruding on his personal life. One day, after sex, I pressed the issue.

  “Look, Sophia,” he laughed. “The mayor is really old school. If you’re photographed coming out of my place, or I introduce you to someone who tells the press…”

  “Old school?” I repeated. “I thought old school meant banging every secretary in the office, then bragging about it over beers.”

  Justin laid there, breathing deeply. “The mayor doesn’t drink.”

  “I’m just a nice, single, college graduate you met in a restaurant.”

  “True,” he conceded, once more straddling me on the bed, hand running down my leg. “A very nice girl indeed.”

  Look, I wasn’t stupid. But I was at an age where you hope for the best from people, even when it’s fairly obvious you’re not getting it. And Justin was a man of moderate influence, familiar with both the area and my needs. Somehow, he made me feel safe.

  And maybe…maybe I liked the artificial barrier his attitude created. So many other guys wanted me to meet their parents after a week. After a few drinks, sometimes, other men would talk casually of marriage and children.

  But with Justin I could have fun, do cultural things, talk about future careers and interesting adult stuff…and there was no pressure for some life changing decision. We had sex two, three times a week, leaving plenty of time for me. There was no cling. It was a nice balance.

  In a way it was like getting to eat cake without having to count calories. For him too, I guess. But at least I wasn’t lying to the cake.

  So, for about two months I deliberately blocked out the obvious. It was a lesson learned.

  But finally, one Saturday morning in a Cleveland hotel room (after seeing a Metallica concert the night before), Justin’s phone went off at 7 a.m. He ignored it, but it rang again, and then again. Cursing the “mayor” as an early riser, Justin stumbled out the door into the hallway to take the call. By now used to such behavior, I simply went into the bathroom.

  However, in his desperately tired, hung over state, Justin simply collapsed down on the hallway floor right outside the bathroom in which I now sat, his voice amplified by some pipework. I could hear every word he uttered.

  “Yes, honey, I know Aaron’s party is on Sunday!” he snapped. “I told you I’d be home tomorrow morning.” Pause. “Yes, damn it, I know we have twenty other kids coming over, and we need time to set up the back yard. I told you I’d be there!” Another pause. “No, no, honey. Honey! I told you, we’re flying back tonight from the conference, and the mayor wants to have a strategy session first thing in the morning. His entire staff is staying over in a hotel. I’ll be home right after that!”

  Suddenly feeling very weak, I somehow resisted the urge to puke into the toilet. Like watching an awful car wreck, I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  “Stephanie, of course I’d rather be home this weekend. You don’t think I’d rather spend time with you and the kids instead of listening to boring speeches from regional planners in St. Louis?” Forgetting himself completely, Justin was nearly shouting outside our room. “I’ll be home by ten o’clock tomorrow morning! Yes, damn it, I promise! What time is the party? Three o’clock? We’ll have plenty of time to set up, don’t worry about it! Yes, yes, I’ll pick up Aaron’s presents on the way home. Bye.” Clicking off the call, Justin began angrily cursing the “bitch.”

  Stunned, I jumped in the shower, letting the pulsing water beat down on my face. Part of me was enraged, bursting with grief…the normal reactions of a young woman confronted by such outrageous deceit. Another side of me, however, was sighing in relief. The troubling contradictions had been assuaged, the muddy emotional waters cleared. In many ways the world made sense again.

  Two minutes later Justin pushed back the curtain, stepping into the shower. Completely naked, his hard, muscled body pressed against mine.

  “My, my,” he breathed, “aren’t we an early riser?”

  Shocked and confused, I tried to step back. “Uh, Justin…”

  “Now, now, Sophia, none of that.” Drawing me close, he began licking my ear.

  So I gave in. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. But even though I knew it was over, Justin wasn’t going back to his family until tomorrow.
And somehow his physical presence seemed more real, at least for the moment, than what I’d just heard out in the hall.

  Look, I don’t know what to say. Sometimes, in life, things are what they are.

  So we made wonderful love in our Cleveland motel room, packed up our stuff, and headed back to Buffalo. As was our custom we talked little in the car, each lost in our own thoughts. For once, however, I knew what his thoughts really were.

  He’d been planning on spending the night at my apartment, but claiming illness I pushed a very disappointed Justin out the door. I suppose he could always tell his wife the “strategy session” at the hotel had been canceled.

  Then I had a good cry, writing in my journal for awhile. Afterwards, laying there in bed, totally alone, a picture of Justin and myself on the night stand, I laid my plans for the morrow.

  As a public servant Justin had claimed he wasn’t in the phone book, but I did find a listing for “Justin and Stephanie Reynolds” in the north section of the city. At exactly three that afternoon I walked by his house, partially disguised in a big, ugly old lady hat.

  Sure enough the block was full of young children and their mothers, burdened with presents, streaming into Justin’s home. The woman I took to be Stephanie stood on the porch, greeting them.

  I suppose I should pause here and describe what it’s like to first see your boyfriend’s wife. Oddly enough, she was about what I expected. Like myself she was tall and blonde, though about a decade and a half older. She took pretty good care of herself, though in a kind of reserved, mommy-type way. Not very flashy at all. And even though it was a kids party, I somehow suspected this was her preferred style.

  Actually, it all kind of fit. Stephanie was the kind of good girl, stay-at-home type men were very attracted to when setting up their lives, but after the kids it all became a big bore. That, of course, is where I came in.

  But I don’t mean this in a negative way. To be honest, Stephanie was the kind of woman I’d often been curious about, the stereotypical late-thirties mom. Secure and stable, but…are they happy? My own mother certainly wasn’t, though blessed with all the trappings (house, husband, kids) of a successful suburban wife. For a moment I experienced a burning desire to sit down with Stephanie over a glass of wine and truly get into things. Was there really something to my own mother’s vision of life, or was it as shallow and unrewarding as a recently freed, wild 22-year-old would imagine?

  But the fantasy dissipated just as quickly. Stephanie and I would never meet face to face. That I couldn’t handle. And even though she deserved to know the truth about her lying, cheating fuck of a husband, it couldn’t come from me. That would be too cruel.

  So I left. That evening I came back, though, sneaking through some nearby woods to peer in Justin’s back window.

  The couch was situated perfectly, allowing me to see Justin sitting with his family, watching television. With one arm around Stephanie, the other around two daughters, he was the very picture of the contented family man. The boy I took to be Aaron came running up, showing off some new toy. Justin tousled him on the head, clearly telling Aaron what a lucky boy he was. Stephanie smiled, staring up at Justin in womanly wonder.

  Now I did throw up, crouching behind a tree. How close I came to shattering this woman’s world, to driving this touching family apart! Sure, I was an innocent victim myself…well, mostly innocent…but to think of what I might have done, had things with Justin continued…well, it shook my very soul.

  Nearly blind with fury, I stalked back to my car. Once back in my apartment I screamed and raged for a solid hour, utterly shredding every picture of Justin I had, destroying the three CD’s he’d given me as presents, even burning the program from the Shakespeare production we’d attended the previous week. It only stopped when the girl across the hall tentatively knocked on the door, asking if I was all right. Fine, I assured her. From now on it would all be fine.

  I had the locks changed on my apartment. For two weeks I let the machine pick up the phone, ignoring Justin’s fervent messages, throwing out the unread notes left on my door. Finally, two Sundays hence, I picked up the phone, knowing who it was.

  “Hello,” I pleasantly said. “May I help you?”

  “Sophia!” he nearly yelled. “Thank God! Where have you been? What…why haven’t you gotten back to me? I’ve been worried sick! They said you quit at the restaurant…”

  “I did. To avoid you, actually.”

  “But Sophia…” Letting my name trail off, he gasped. “My love, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, Justin, is that you’re a lying, cheating, married son-of-a-bitch.” Pausing, I let it sink in. “That is what’s going on.”

  “Listen, Sophia, I can explain…”

  “Justin, there’s nothing to explain. Never call me again.”

  “No, wait! Sophia…”

  And on it went, Justin alternately crying and raging. I finally hung up the phone. Another week went by, Justin’s unanswered calls gradually trailing off.

  Then, just when the whole sorry affair was beginning to fade from the present into the past, I opened the door to find Stephanie outside my apartment.

  “Sophia. Hi. My name is Stephanie Reynolds.” Hesitating, my lover’s wife just stood in the hallway. As before, at the children’s party, she was attired in established suburban-mommy clothes. “May I come in?”

  Stunned, I let out a slow breath. I’d imagined a thousand different conversations with this woman over the past three weeks. Sometimes she ranted and cried, flinging pictures of her children in my face, darkly branding me the scourge of the married woman, the young, home-wrecking tramp. In other fantasies she laughingly offered me coffee and a croissant, thanking me for showing her what an asshole Justin really was. There were many variations in between.

  But this actual confrontation wasn’t something I was ready for. “What do you want, Mrs. Reynolds?” I coldly replied. Somehow, saying her name out loud made it all seem more real.

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About?” I felt sorry for Stephanie, but I wasn’t going to take any shit from her either.

  “Please, Sophia.” Sighing, she gave a tense smile. “I’m not here to attack you, or blame you for anything. I…I just want to talk, that’s all.”

  Something in this other woman’s manner cut through my tough, living free and easy modern-chick exterior. Hesitating another moment, I slowly pushed the door fully open, inviting her in.

  Once inside I motioned to my one small sofa, Stephanie daintily taking a seat. In confusion, I then excused myself to put on some clothes.

  Having been unprepared for visitors, I’d greeted Stephanie in a thin t-shirt, without any bra. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I realized Justin’s wife had gotten quite a show. Groaning, I quickly pulled on a bra, blouse, and jeans, pulling my hair back into a pony tail. Then, gathering myself once more, I went back out into the living room.

  Still sitting on the couch, Stephanie was looking around my apartment. Trying to imagine, no doubt, her husband cavorting around here evening after evening, naked with me, while she rotted at home with the kids.

  She again smiled, nervously. Nodding in reply, I sat in a hard wooden chair opposite her.

  “Can I get you anything?” I coolly asked. “A glass of orange juice, perhaps?” Mom would have been very pleased, being all polite and ladylike to my lover’s wife.

  “No,” she quickly answered, smoothing her long skirt. “No, Sophia, I’m fine.”

  Another moment went by, Stephanie staring at me with an intense curiosity, like I was some exotic animal in a zoo. Suddenly I became angry. “Listen, I don’t know why you’re here. But let’s just understand…”

  “No, no, Sophia, please. It’s not like that.” Leaning forward, she almost blushed. “It’s just that, you’re even more beautiful than I imagined. I can understand why Justin is so taken with you.”

  Taken with me? As if I’d intende
d all this? Drawing myself up, I deliberately met Stephanie’s eye. “First of all, Mrs. Reynolds…”

  “No, no. Call me Stephanie, please.”

  “Stephanie, then. I want you to know I had no idea Justin was married. He lied to me from the very beginning. As soon as I found out…”

  “I know, Sophia. You’re not to blame here. Not at all. I understand that.”

  Wow. Somehow, I didn’t want to be let off the hook that easily. “I’ve felt very bad about all this,” I blundered on, my nerves evaporating. “You have such a wonderful family. I never meant to interfere…”

  “Sophia. Please, relax.” Smiling once more, she now put her purse down beside the couch. “I’m not angry at you. If anything, I’m pleased Justin chose such an attractive, smart young woman to spend time with.”

  Bang! I felt like a certain cartoon coyote, utterly confused by the latest anvil dropped on my head, erstwhile prey speeding off in glee. “What? Mrs. Reynolds…I mean, Stephanie…you do know that Justin and I…”

  “Yes, dear, I know. Believe me, I know.” Pausing, Stephanie gathered herself. “Look, Sophia, I’ll come to the point here. Justin told me you’re Catholic. Is that right?”

  This is exactly how my mother would have swung onto the attack. Overcome by a wave of fury, I clenched my fist on the hard arm rest. “Let me stop you right there…”

  “No! Sophia, you still don’t understand what I’m saying,” she said. “I’m Catholic too. So is Justin. I’m sure he told you that.”

  Actually, we hadn’t gotten into religion much. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Plenty.” Blushing, Stephanie looked away. “When I look at you, Sophia, I’m very jealous. You have your faith, but you’ve also been true to yourself.” Stephanie now glanced up at a large wooden cross over the door, then back at me. “But I never was. At your age, I was getting married to Justin. I never went off to college, never lived on my own. Actually, I moved right from my old bedroom at home into an apartment with my husband. I certainly never…well, I never became myself, the way you have.”