by Debra Kent
I felt a stony lump in my chest. “This doesn’t feel right to me, Omar. As a therapist, I would never recommend against custody simply because someone was being treated for depression.”
“Valerie, you’d better check your high-minded ethics at the door,” Omar snapped, and it sucked the wind out of me. “Because you can bet your ex-husband and his lawyer will stop at nothing to get Pete— and get his money back too. Let’s talk again early next week.” Click.
’Til next time,
V
August 10
Michael called to tell me that his mother died. Although she’d been sick for some time, her death came suddenly and was not expected, at least not expected to happen last night. “At least she went in her sleep,” I told him, hoping to comfort.
“But I didn’t get the chance to say good-bye.”
Mom and I stopped by the house with flowers and a coffee cake. His parents (or I should say, his father) lived in a tidy high ranch with blue shutters and a cluster of brightly colored birdhouses on the front lawn. As we stepped across the threshold I could have sworn I saw Diana scramble into the kitchen. I heard the back door slam.
“Who was that?” I asked Michael.
“Who was who?” he asked, taking the flowers and cake from my arms. He looked tired but quite gorgeous in a periwinkle blue shirt and buttercream yellow tie.
“Who was the woman who just ran out the back door?” I said, peering around his shoulder.
Michael looked at me quietly. “I don’t know. Probably one of the neighbors. They’ve been coming by all morning.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Diana Pierce?”
He took a breath as if he was about to say something, then seemed to changed his mind and shrugged instead.
I went into the bathroom and called Diana on my cell phone. I got her machine. “It’s me and my machine,” she purred. “You know what to do.”
I hung up.
When I walked back into the living room, I saw a man who looked like an older, slightly shorter version of Michael. He had a thick head of hair and sweet, smiling blue eyes. “Dad, this is Valerie Ryan. Val, this is my father, Bud.”
I reached for a handshake but was pulled into a great bear hug. “So this is Valerie Ryan.” He held me at arm’s length and appraised me. “You told me she was pretty, but you lied. She’s beautiful.” He pulled me back into a hug. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said. He was louder than Michael, more gregarious.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Avila. It’s the least we could do.”
“Call me Bud, please. Better yet, how about Pop?”
I blushed. So did Michael. He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Dad, please.”
I introduced my mother. “Now I know where you get your good looks,” Bud said, bending over to kiss my mother’s hand. The gesture would have been disturbing—the man’s wife just died, after all—but I recognized it as the product of a unique kind of elation that seems to accompany the death of someone who has been dying for a long, long time.
As my mother and Bud chatted in the kitchen, I sequestered Michael in the hallway. I was sure I’d seen Diana slip out of his house and I was determined to find out, once and for all, if he knew her. And how.
“Just be honest with me, Michael,” I started. Apparently he was expecting this.
“Okay, Val. I know Diana. I’ve known Diana for a long time.” He spoke the words plainly but his face was darkened by a profound sadness. I would never have guessed what he was about to tell me, but I knew it would change our relationship forever.
I quickly reviewed the possibilities. None was especially appealing. Michael knows Diana because …
They met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
He arrested her for driving while intoxicated/shoplifting/cooking someone’s books.
They were married in a former life.
They are siblings in this life.
They are lovers.
“Maybe we’d better find someplace quiet to talk,” Michael said quietly. I followed him to the staircase, watched his muscular haunches move solidly up the steps and wondered whether I would ever know his body in any intimate way, ever see what he looks like without clothes, ever trace my fingers along his lean, hard lines or press my lips against his chest or kiss his eyelids, one and then the other.
He led me to a small bedroom at the end of the hallway, the kind of room one furnishes with old furniture too worn to show to company, too good to throw away. There was a small upholstered chair in mustard yellow, its seat flattened like a ruined soufflé. There was a small brown Formica desk and a dented beige metal filing cabinet. A dusty laminated bookcase held dusty artifacts of another era, a plastic rocket from the 1964 World’s Fair, books like The Naked Ape by Desmond Morris, and a complete set of plastic Beatles statuettes with wobbly heads. The only other seating was the daybed, covered with a brownish comforter, which smelled like mothballs. I chose the ruined soufflé chair while Michael arranged himself uneasily on the edge of the daybed. He clasped his large hands in front of him and brought them to his lips, as if in prayer.
“Diana and I used to travel in the same circles, so to speak,” he began. His face was already crimson and he was beginning to sweat. It was hard for me to watch him struggle through his words.
“What kind of circles?” I asked, though I was certain he’d say he knew Diana from AA.
He shifted uncomfortably and loosened his tie. “Homosexual circles, Valerie.” He was watching my reaction. What was I supposed to say, that I’d always suspected no heterosexual man would know how to make a gorgeous combination of a buttercream yellow tie and periwinkle shirt?
“So, you’re gay, then?” I asked. The room seemed smaller, hotter.
He sighed. “I’ve never had sex with a man. But I’ve never had sex with a woman, either, not since high school, though I think that was just to prove something to myself, to my friends, to the girl. My parents were religious. Our church was very clear about homosexuality. I decided that I couldn’t be a homosexual. And I just took the entire subject and put it up on a high shelf and left it there. I decided that homosexuality was a choice, and it was a choice I refused to make. My deadbeat brother had already given my parents enough grief. I wanted to be a regular person. I wanted a family and a house and a cat. I just wanted a normal American life.”
A house and a cat? A golden retriever, maybe. A black lab, an Irish setter, a German shepherd. I could even see a Jack Russell terrier. But a cat? I said nothing. I waited for him to continue.
“The thing is, gay men were attracted to me. They seemed to know something I refused to acknowledge. A few years back another cop invited me to a party. I didn’t realize it was a gay party. Or maybe I knew it but didn’t want to admit it. So I could pretend I’d been duped into going, like I was there against my will. That’s where I met Diana. She was Diana Pierce back then, before she switched to her mother’s maiden name. Diana and I stayed in touch, mostly by e-mail. She knew I was struggling. She was supportive. Diana was one of the few people I could talk to.”
“So where are you now with all this?” I asked, though the answer didn’t matter at that point. Something inside me had drained away. As if a switch had been flipped, I felt my sexual interest in Michael stream out of my body through the soles of my feet. I suddenly saw him not as a future lover, but as a dear friend—a big, beautiful friend who would never share my bed. I wasn’t angry, I didn’t feel betrayed or confused; I felt none of the emotions one reads about in true-confession pieces about women who discover their husbands’ true sexual identity after twenty-five years of marriage. Actually, I felt somewhat relieved—I finally understood why he hadn’t made any moves, and it had nothing to do with my fat thighs. I could have looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones and it wouldn’t have mattered. Michael Avila was gay. I felt him—the dream of a relationship with him—slip through my arms like mist.
“I’m determined to live a heterosexual lifestyle,” Michael said, so
unding as if he was trying to convince himself as much as convince me. “I’m trying to get some help through GARTH.”
“Garth?” I wanted to appear interested but at this point I only wanted to go home and go to sleep. “Who’s he?”
“It’s not a he, it’s an organization. Global Association of Reparative Therapists,” Michael explained. “They help people like me.”
“Uh-huh.” Yes, I had heard of those people. They’ve got some rather credible psychiatrists and psychologists on their board. And they claim spectacular “change rates” of converting homosexuals “back” into heterosexuality. I paid no attention to their work. I never believed that sexual orientation was a choice. I thought that conversion therapy was pathetic, illusory, a waste of time.
I didn’t tell that to Michael, though. He seemed so hopeful. It was sad, really. I left as politely as I could, assuring Michael we would stay in touch but skirting the issue of dating again. I respect his quest, even if I’m dubious, but would rather not be involved in this particular experiment.
I retrieved Mom and drove her home. She was enchanted by Bud. I decided not to tell her about Michael.
’Til next time,
V
August 14
Omar called. The hearing has been postponed. Judge Brand has pneumonia and is in the hospital. Omar is happy to have the extra time but I’m exasperated. I’m anxious to get this over with. In the meantime, I’ve decided to call Roger. Omar will kill me for approaching him on my own, but I have to find out about these pictures.
’Til next time,
V
August 15
I called Roger this morning. “Tell me about those pictures, Roger.”
His response, believe it or not, was: “Talk to the hand ’cause the face ain’t listening.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, talk to the hand, Valerie.”
I took a deep breath, “Roger, I’m so happy to see that the new zygote in your life has instructed you in the lingo of her generation, but that expression only works when you’re talking to someone in person. Furthermore, nobody even says that anymore. Nobody except forty-two-year-old geeks who are desperately hoping to recapture their youth by dating little girls.”
Roger sighed heavily. “Are you quite finished now?”
“I want to know about those pictures, Roger. You know I’m not a lesbian!”
“Well, my darling ex-wife, say what you want about your sexual inclinations, but these pictures are hard to refute. There’s you and my old friend Diana. One of you is naked. And you’re both in bed. What’s more to say?”
I thought back to the motel room fiasco. “I can’t believe you had a private investigator follow me!”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Valerie. I wouldn’t waste that kind of money on a dolt like you. Actually, these pictures came to me quite by accident. Over-the-transom, as it were.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, someone sent them to me. Unsolicited. You might say, in fact, that these pictures are like a gift from God.”
I turned Roger’s words over and over. The pictures, he said, were a gift from God. Roger has never been spiritual or religious and only invokes God in such exclamatory remarks as, “God, did you see that three-point shot?” Or, “God, you’re not going to wear that awful dress, are you?” Or, “Oh God, I’m coming.”
Then I realized: Diana must have been behind those pictures. Ever since she joined Alcoholics Anonymous it’s been God this, God that. Diana had to have been behind this. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. I wanted to kick myself for spending even more than a moment in that motel room with her. I tried to remember whether I’d put myself in any incriminating poses. I remember that she was naked—who could forget that body?— and at one point she’d yanked me off balance and I’d tumbled next to her. Did she touch me? Did I touch her? I think she tried to give me a massage at one point, so they probably have pictures of that. Diana is the touchy-feely type, so it’s likely she rubbed my leg or squeezed my arm, and maybe they’ve got pictures of that, too. My head hurt just thinking about it. I was going to lose custody of Pete. I knew it.
“Okay, Roger,” I said. “I figured out your little mystery. You got the pictures from Diana, right? Fine. I should have known.”
Roger let out a snicker. “Diana? Good guess, but a wrong guess. No, my sweet, Diana is clearly on your side now. And after looking at those pictures, I can certainly see why.” He lowered his voice. “Ooooh. You little temptress, you.”
“So it wasn’t Diana, then?”
“I’m sorry, didn’t you hear me the first time? Oh my, Valerie, I do believe it may be time for you to get yourself a hearing aid. Don’t be vain, my sweet. If you need one, buy one. You clearly have the money. At least you do now.” I heard Surfer Girl’s hysterical giggling in the background. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some business of my own to attend to.”
I heard the girl laughing again and then a muffled squeaking of bedsprings. “Not now, sweetheart,” Roger said. “Not now!” I was definitely not in the mood for this. I was expecting my period any day. I was homicidal.
“Come on, Rog,” I heard her say. “Hang up the phone.” She must have wrested the receiver from him. “Mrs. Tisdale—oops, I mean, Ms. Ryan, I forgot you were a feminist, Roger told me all about how you wouldn’t take his name and all. Hey, want to guess what I’m doing to your ex-husband? Here. Just listen.” There was a slurping noise, humming, and a low groan. And then a click. I knew I should have hung up first.
How stupid of me to assume that my problems with Roger were over the day I divorced him. The divorce was only the beginning of the torment. If he wins custody of Pete … I can’t let myself contemplate it. Roger may be impoverished, but he’s in a relationship with someone who adores him and he’s having hot sex while I’m dating a guy who couldn’t have sex with me if I paid him.
It’s been so long since I had sex I’m beginning to play weird little mind games. I stay up at night watching CNN and wonder whether Dick Cheney is a good lover. Or I indulge in the masochistic game I love to hate, my own perverse variation of the Dating Game. I’ll be sitting in some waiting room across from three motley-looking men and ask myself this question: If I absolutely had to sleep with one to save myself from the electric chair, who would I choose? The redneck with the stringy hair and dirty bandana and missing teeth? The chubby guy with the comb-over? Or the monkey man with the hairy neck and knuckles?
I know there are other ways of releasing all this steam, but the last time I used my electric boyfriend I think it gave me carpal tunnel syndrome and I just don’t have the physical energy to go unplugged. I need something fast, clean, mindless.
’Til next time,
V
August 16
I’ve been a very naughty girl.
I’d finally gotten an estimate from a tree-relocation company. These people come and dig up your old tree and replant it somewhere else. It would cost me twelve thousand dollars to move the sycamores three feet onto my property. At this point, I didn’t care how much it would cost. I wanted to save those trees, and I wanted Bill Stropp to shut the hell up already. I sent him an e-mail:
The trees will be moved, at a cost of $12,000, incidentally. I hope this resolves the issue, once and for all. Valerie Ryan
I got this message back:
I want your assurance that you will also take care of the holes those trees leave behind. I want them filled and reseeded, on the same day of removal. I don’t want you leaving behind any gaping holes on my property. Understood?
Bill Stropp
Aarrrggghhh! He was impossible! I e-mailed him:
The area will be filled and seeded at my expense. I would never leave any holes behind. Understood? [I couldn’t resist adding that].
Valerie Ryan
Within moments, I received this e-mail from him:
Just make sure you fill the holes with topsoil, and seed with turfgrass. None of this rye c
rap.
Bill Stropp
That did it! I’d had enough of Bill Stropp. I hopped in my Jeep and drove around the block to Cheshire Lane. I strode up the path to his door. I had no idea what I would say, I only wanted to scream at him, to beat my fists against his chest, to tell him he had a lot of nerve, ordering me around like a servant. I rapped on the door and waited. He swung open the door and smiled as if he’d been expecting me.
“What is your goddamn problem?” I yelled.
“I don’t have a problem,” he said calmly, still smiling.
“Oh no?” I yelled. He must have been working out; there was a sheen of sweat sparkled across his shoulders and arms. He was wearing a black ribbed tank top and gray sweatpants, socks and Nike slides. He stepped toward me so we were inches apart, and I noticed he smelled clean and sweet.
“Uh-uh,” he said, slowly shaking his head. His eyes slowly appraised me. “It’s hot out. You maybe want to discuss this inside?”
So I stepped inside. And when he closed the door behind me, I don’t know what got into me, but I grabbed Bill Stropp’s face and kissed him full on the mouth, and he kissed me back, and before I knew it, we were against the wall, and my hand was down his sweatpants and he felt hot and hard and wonderful. We had sex against that wall, and again on the floor, and once more somewhere else, I can’t remember where, and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since I left his house six and a half hours ago and I can’t believe how good I feel.
’Til next time,
V
August 17
It was about noon when the doorbell rang. I assumed it was Lynette; she said she wanted to drop off a loaf of Friendship bread and starter. (I have a theory about Friendship bread, by the way. Since it’s more like cake than bread, you wind up eating the whole loaf in one sitting. What kind of friend would give you a loaf of bread, knowing full well that you’ll eat it all yourself in one sitting? The kind of friend who doesn’t want to see you release the thin person within, I say.)