I looked straight in the bathroom mirror and spoke these words aloud: I broke my marriage vow. I did something wrong. But I believe, deep down, that I am a good person, a good person who has done a bad thing. I am not an aberration of nature, no matter what the Women of Divorce think.
I am not an aberration.
Chapter 12
Nell
Tip #348: Redirect the money you reserved for charity to your Personal Plastic Surgery Fund. Remember: As a middle-aged single woman in America, you are in much more need of help than orphaned plague victims.
—You Need All the Help You Can Get: Dating in Middle Age
“So, little lady, what will it be?”
I smiled tightly. I really wanted to leap from my seat at the white-clothed table and run, but I sat tight and smiled tighter.
“I think,” I said to the red-faced, overfed specimen across from me, “that I’ll have the broiled fish.”
I hoped my choice of entrée would put him off. I assumed he’d try to bully me into eating red meat, and that the more I refused the more he’d realize I was not the “little lady” for him.
I was wrong. I’d never been up against this particular breed of man before.
“Now that’s what I like to hear!” he boomed. “A lady taking care of her looks, watching her weight so her man can look across the room when she makes an entrance and know that every other man in that room is crazy with jealousy.”
What, I wondered, had Jane Roberts, someone I’d known for years, someone I thought sane, what had Jane been thinking fixing me up with this caricature?
Over the salad—which Mr. Longhorn barely touched—I was informed that a pretty little thing like me shouldn’t be all on her own in a big city like this. “I don’t know what that ex-husband of yours was thinking when he took off on you,” Mr. Longhorn said, shaking his head sadly. “That homosexuality, it’s a disease is what it is, a disease and a crime against God and man. And against all the little ladies like you.”
Have you ever been so shocked, so appalled by the words coming out of someone’s mouth you can’t even protest? You’re frozen, you can’t imagine where you would even begin to argue.
“Uuuh,” I said.
Over dessert and coffee—I made sure to order the double portion of cheesecake in a last-ditch effort to repulse him—Mr. Longhorn promised me my very own horse. I protested that I didn’t ride. He laughed loudly and assured me that if he had anything to do with it, I’d be sitting tall in the saddle before long.
The check arrived and Mr. Longhorn signed with a flourish. I began to rise but Mr. Longhorn reached for my hand and anchored me to my seat. He leaned in and his expression turned serious.
“Now, what you need,” he said, “is a real man to take proper care of you, a real man to give you all the nice things you deserve like pretty clothes and sparkly jewelry. Little lady, I am that man. Now, I’m also a gentleman; nobody will tell you otherwise. So I’m prepared to offer you my guesthouse, which, by the way, has a Jacuzzi and three bedrooms and a pool and all the other amenities, until you feel ready to move into the big house with me.”
Central casting. I was out with a character from central casting. Where was the director to yell “cut”?
I nodded weakly. “I’ll think about it,” I lied.
Mr. Longhorn released my hand and grinned. “Little lady, I’ll expect your answer in the morning.”
Later that night, safely at home, sitting by a window overlooking beautiful Marlborough Street, I wondered.
Suppose Richard wasn’t gay.
Would we have stayed married forever? Or would we have gotten divorced at some point along the way?
There was no way to know.
I suppose it hadn’t been realistic to think that Richard and I could, that we would stay together our entire lives, from the age of twenty, and be happy, fulfilled, challenged in our relationship.
I suppose it’s never realistic or even reasonable to think that a person can be really happy with one other person forever after.
How many married couples who stay married until one of them dies can honestly say that they weren’t terribly bored at times?
How many can honestly say that they never fell in love with someone else along the way, someone they didn’t pursue because they’d made a vow to stay with their spouse? How many would say they regretted that choice?
How many people married until the end of a life can honestly say that they were perfectly content?
Well, I thought, whoever is perfectly content? And who ever said anyone had the right to be perfectly content?
Life is hard. Life is lonely.
If I’m honest with myself, and I’m trying to be in this process of emotional recovery, I can admit to times during my marriage to Richard when I felt very lonely. Only now am I realizing—or am I inventing this?—that I would have liked more passion in our relationship. All those nights watching romantic movies on DVD, watching men sweep women into their arms and kiss them hungrily . . .
I had none of that, not since the very beginning with Richard, and even then, though there was intense love, there was never intense passion.
Maybe I was unhappy for a lot of my marriage but didn’t even realize it. Why? Because I had so many things, I still have so many things: beautiful furniture, stylish clothes, gorgeous jewelry. Lots of things. And I have a career of sorts, volunteer work but meaningful work. And I have Colin and Clara and a house to run and parties to give and friendships to maintain. She who is busy has no time to realize unhappiness.
Now I have to wonder: why was I so busy in the first place? To fill a void I suspected was there but was afraid to acknowledge? Maybe. I might not ever really figure out the past, my past before Richard and my past with Richard.
And what about the present? It feels tender and raw. The future? It feels dark; it feels frightening, not in the least bit promising. I hope that before too long that changes.
One thing I do know about the future. It is not going to include Mr. Longhorn.
Chapter 13
Laura
Ask yourself these tough questions and be sure to answer honestly: Isn’t it about time your lazy-assed ex-husband took some responsibility for the kids he helped create? Isn’t it about time you got every weekend and all holidays to yourself?
—What to Do with the Kids: Custody Advice from Professional Divorcées
“What is this?”
Jerry looked down at the stapled pages on the table in front of him.
A girl at work had set me up. Jerry Truman was her accountant, divorced with no children, thirty-six years old. He was balding, wore glasses, and was a teeny bit overweight. He looked like a nice man, the kind just made for bouncing a toddler on his knee.
Right then we were sitting at a table for two at a high-end restaurant Jerry had suggested. It was good to know he could afford to eat at expensive places. That meant he could afford to keep me and my baby in a nice house in a nice suburb.
“It’s just a little questionnaire I came up with,” I explained, “you know, to help me evaluate a man. The questions are mostly about your health, some stuff about family history, you know, all the basics. Do you need a pen? I have one if you do.”
Jerry shook his head. I don’t know why he seemed so shocked or baffled. Good health is important in a potential sperm donor. I mean, in a potential father.
“I’m not filling this out,” he said finally. “I don’t even know you. What right do you have to be asking me such personal questions? This is supposed to be a date, not a visit to the doctor.”
“I’ll give you another moment to think about it,” I said. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. And once there I began to wonder. Maybe Jerry had a point. Maybe the first date was too early to be asking such probing questions about a family history of mental illness. Jerry seemed like a nice guy; he came well recommended; maybe, I thought, I should let him wait until our second date to complete the questionnaire.
/> I leaned over the sink and looked at my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes were still bright; the whites were still white. My hair was still thick. My skin had retained its elasticity. But below the shoulders my biological clock was ticking wildly.
Why, I wondered, couldn’t men understand this? Jerry, I realized, was just like Duncan, just like all the rest. Men have all the time in the world to make a baby, but we women aren’t so lucky.
I washed my hands vigorously. Germs are everywhere.
Maybe, I thought, there’s another reason Jerry refused to fill out my questionnaire. Maybe he’s hiding something like a deadly infectious disease! Isn’t it illegal not to tell a potential sexual partner that you’re ill? If not actually illegal, it’s definitely unethical.
I dried my hands carefully and reapplied a little hand lotion from the bottle I always carry in my purse. Men like a woman with soft hands.
I walked back to our table. It was empty. I assumed Jerry had gone to the men’s room. I sat and waited and sipped my wine. I noticed that Jerry’s glass was full; he hadn’t taken even a sip. Maybe, I thought, he’s not a drinker. That was another good quality in a potential father.
Minutes passed.
“Miss?”
I looked up at our waiter. He held out a white letter-sized envelope. “The gentleman asked me to give you this.”
Inside the envelope was twenty-five dollars. It covered the two glasses of wine and a tip. The waiter melted away. I left the money and the envelope on the table and caught a cab home.
Later that night I picked up the most recent issue of Mommy magazine and tore out a subscription card. It helps to be prepared and, given the fact that I hadn’t been around babies since Colin and Clara were small, I felt I really needed some reeducation.
Plus, with the subscription you got a free sippy cup.
I met Larry in the produce section of Star Market. He was well dressed, well groomed, and filling a plastic container at the salad bar. I noticed that he avoided the high-fat choices like the avocado slices in favor of low-fat items like the sliced tomatoes.
Tomatoes and tomato-based products are very good for the prostate. This guy looked no older than thirty-eight or thirty-nine, too young to be actively worried about his prostate, but obviously he was mature enough to take preventative measures.
A strong candidate for fatherhood if I’d ever seen one!
I followed him to the peaches and admired the way his manicured hand gently squeezed the fruit for freshness.
“I just love peaches,” I said. I picked up a jumbo-sized peach and sniffed it.
The guy half smiled and turned to walk away.
“Could you help me pick a good one?”
The guy half turned.
“Were you talking to me?” he asked.
I smiled dazzlingly. “Yes. If you have a moment, that is. Would you help me pick a good peach?”
He hesitated. And then he said, “That one you have in your hand has a brown spot.”
I looked at the fat fruit. So it did.
I laughed tinklingly. “I’m so bad at choosing fruit!”
Well, I had him from there. He took a half step forward, stopped, then came right on over to me.
A few minutes later I left the store with a bag of peaches— which I don’t really like all that much—and Larry left the store with his heart-healthy lunch and my phone number.
We met a few nights later at Bar Europa. The questionnaire was in my purse. This time, before springing it on my date, I decided to address the issue right up front. As soon as we’d ordered a drink, I told Larry that I was getting a divorce from a man who wouldn’t give me a baby. I told him that I was looking for a husband and a father to that baby.
Most men like the direct approach.
Larry laughed. “I don’t know if I’m flattered or offended,” he said.
“You should be flattered,” I told him. “I’m very choosy.”
Larry drank down half of his scotch. Then he looked right at me like I was a piece of fruit he was assessing for potential sweetness. Then he shook his head.
“You’re too old to be having kids,” he said.
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?” I replied. I suddenly noticed that the light in the bar wasn’t the most flattering. Was there a weird grayish cast to my skin or something?
Larry laughed again. “Look, when I’m ready to get married, I’m going to pick a woman in her midtwenties. That’s when a woman should have kids, when she’s young enough to get pregnant without all those expensive medical procedures. I don’t want to have to pay a doctor to get my wife pregnant. Besides, young women get their figures back. Someone like you? Well, let’s just say I’m not interested and leave it at that.”
Do you know what? No one had ever said anything so horrible to me in my entire life. I really didn’t know what to say or to do. So I stated the obvious.
“I guess this date is over.”
Larry slipped off the barstool. “Yeah. But, you know, good luck with finding a guy who’ll go along with this whacky scheme. Hey. You don’t expect me to pay for the drinks, do you?”
“Of course not,” I replied, with as much dignity as I could, considering I felt absolutely awful, fat and old and stupid.
Why, I wondered, as Larry hurried off, had he ever gone out with me in the first place?
When I got home that night, I made myself a cup of tea and went online. After some searching I found what I was looking for—a chat room for Mothers of Advanced Maternal Age. Though I was still only thirty-four, I’d be thirty-five before long and then I’d officially qualify for this group.
I stayed in the chat room until almost midnight. The women were nice and very comforting. It didn’t matter what Larry had said. What did he know, anyway? I was not too old to have a child, maybe even two children. The members of this chat group knew the truth. They knew that a woman could have a baby well into her forties.
If she has enough money and isn’t afraid of needles.
Chapter 14
Grace
When the tedium of everyday life with your spouse becomes unbearable, file for divorce. You’ll be thrown into a whirlpool of acrimony, accusations, and anger, all of which will leave you anything but bored. And when the chaos has receded and the tedium of everyday domestic life lived all alone becomes unbearable, propose to the first man you meet!
—Serial Marriage: The Perfect Solution to Boredom
“Do you want me to answer?”
Alfonse nodded toward the phone. I’d seen the number flash on the screen. It was Simon’s cell phone.
“No,” I said. “Let the machine pick up.”
But I’d forgotten to turn the volume down. And there was Simon’s voice, filling my home, again.
“Gracie? Hey, are you there? Look, I know you didn’t forget my birthday; you never do. It’s next Wednesday and a bunch of us are getting together at Café Trash. I haven’t seen you in ages. Be there? Around ten.”
Alfonse touched my shoulder. “A friend?” he asked.
Was he jealous? I turned to look at my young lover. No, no dark emotions in his eyes.
“Not really,” I said. “He used to be.”
Alfonse smiled and grabbed his backpack from the floor by the door. “I can come by tonight?” he asked. “After work?”
I smiled back, distracted, thinking mostly of Simon. Simon never asked. Simon always took. “Sure,” I said. “I need to be up early tomorrow though.”
“Okay. We will go to bed early, then!” He winked and was gone, my boy toy.
The apartment seemed terribly quiet all of a sudden.
I turned on the radio. It was set to NPR. But after a few minutes of depressing news from a starving continent, I turned it off again.
I’m not proud of the fact that at that moment my personal problems felt more important than the problems of hungry children. But they did.
I looked at the door to the bathroom.
You could hardly see where I’d patched the hole Simon had kicked in it. Living with Simon had made me quite skilled in home repair.
Simon.
I could bring Alfonse to Simon’s little gathering, I thought. There was no reason I couldn’t. But even in the depths of that lonely moment I knew that the only reason I’d show up at Simon’s birthday party with Alfonse was to show him off, to make Simon jealous, which, I was pretty sure, would be a futile effort.
Simon is not the jealous type. He doesn’t care enough about anyone other than himself to be possessive.
Who knows, maybe that’s a good thing in the end, not caring.
I walked over to the phone. My finger hovered over the “erase all messages” button.
Besides, whether I went to the party alone or with Alfonse, I knew what would happen. One by one Simon’s friends would slip off into the night, say they were going outside for a cigarette and not return, and I would be left with the bill. It had happened too many times for me to doubt it would happen again.
I depressed the button. No more Simon.
The program was called Art for All. The Web site informed me that the program was new, privately funded, and free to all kids twelve and under. There would be two summer sessions. The staff was mostly volunteer. The director position hadn’t yet been filled. The duties included helping to design the mini-courses, handling administrative matters such as grant writing, and working directly with the kids. The salary was nominal.
It didn’t matter. If I’d wanted to make a lot of money, I wouldn’t have gone into teaching in the first place.
I applied for the job via the Web site.
Two days later I received a call from the Art for All founder, a Cambridge-based philanthropist. She asked me to come to her home in Porter Square for an interview.
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