by Debra Kent
I pulled Pete onto my lap and kissed him on his neck, in that warm soft spot I love best. “Well, sweetie, the judge said that you will live here with me, and your dad can visit with you every other Saturday. How does that sound?”
Pete shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he muttered. He picked at a scab on his knuckles.
“And on those Saturdays when Dad visits, I can be there too!” I added.
“You mean, we’ll be all together? Like a family?”
“Sort of,” I said. “What do you think of that?”
Pete nodded. “Good.”
At home there was a message waiting from my mother, and another from Bill Stropp. I didn’t feel like talking to my mother, but I needed Bill as surely as a stiff drink.
’Til next time,
V
August 26
I called Bill back last night and was grateful that he hadn’t asked about the custody hearing. He had only the sketchiest information about my life and I wanted to keep it that way. He knew I was divorced and he knew I had a child, and maybe he had a vague sense that I’d come into some money, but that was all. As far as I could tell, he knew nothing of Roger or his befouled reputation, and couldn’t care less about my former career as a therapist, or about my squandering of that career. We never talked about family or feelings, never probed the big existential questions or bothered to make small talk. And yet, our silent collusion created an intimacy deeper than any I’d ever known with any man. “I want to see you now,” he said, and the seriousness and restrained urgency in his voice took my breath away.
“I can’t,” I whispered, aware that Pete had reached the age of eavesdropping. “It’s not that I don’t want to. But I need to be home. I can’t leave my son tonight.”
“When does he go to sleep?”
“Nine, nine-thirty. Why do you ask?”
“Is he a sound sleeper?”
“Yes, usually,” I said.
“Then let me come to you. Later tonight.”
My heart hammered at my chest. I hadn’t had a lover in the house since Eddie had insisted on helping me search for Roger’s gold. There were advantages to meeting at Bill’s house. It sequestered the relationship safely away from Pete, and I never had to worry what the neighbors might think. “No one will see me,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “Don’t worry.” When I paused a moment longer, he growled, “I need you.”
“Okay,” I surrendered, wildly flattered to be the object of his desperate desire. “Make it later. Ten o’clock.”
The line went dead and I realized he’d hung up.
I spent the rest of the evening doting on Pete, as I slowly absorbed the full import of Judge Brand’s ruling. Pete was mine. I had sole physical and legal custody. I would raise him without Roger’s influence or interference. I would make all of the religious, medical, educational, and ideological decisions affecting Pete’s upbringing. I have every reason to celebrate but I can’t help feeling as if I’d failed my son. Bottom line: Thanks to me, he would be a little boy without a dad. According to some statistics, Pete was now more likely to abuse drugs, drop out of school, and kill himself. I was thrilled to have Roger out of my life, but I’m not sure I’ve done my son any big favors.
By nine-thirty Pete was sleeping soundly. I showered, pulled on a clean pair of stretch jeans and my favorite top, a pale blue ribbed tank top. I spritzed myself with the cologne I knew he liked, Victoria Secret’s Angel. I didn’t want to slather on a lot of makeup, but wasn’t quite ready to let Bill see me barefaced, so I dabbed on a bit of lip gloss.
By eleven o’clock, Bill still had not arrived. I called his house but no one answered. I figured he’d changed his mind, and I might have been insulted if I hadn’t felt so exhausted. By 11:40 I was in bed, watching a rerun of Taxi and feeling sorry for myself. I clicked off the TV at midnight and drifted off to sleep.
I dreamt I was floating on my back in calm waters on a blue, sweet and sunny day. I was naked and completely comfortable. After a bit, I swam to shore and lay on a towel in the sand, and I could feel each droplet evaporate under wide, warm rays of a red sun. A muscular German shepherd approached and I intuitively knew that there was no reason to be afraid. I lay motionless as the dog lapped at my face, my eyes, my lips, my neck. I could feel his weight across my chest and I shifted my position to make myself more comfortable.
I opened my eyes. Bill Stropp was straddling me, gently peeling my tank top up over my breasts. He paid homage to one, then the other, and I thought I might still be dreaming, until he said, “You really should find another place to hide your key.” I arched my back and let him lavish me with hot kisses. I was half asleep but fully aroused. Then I froze—what if Pete walked in? Again, Bill seemed to read my mind. “I locked the door.” I wrapped my legs around his waist and took him in. He felt solid and strong and wild, and I felt the bed—no, the whole room—rock with the rhythm of our desire. Suddenly I could hear the robins in the linden trees at the side of the house and I realized we’d fallen asleep. The sun was rising. I opened my eyes to find him propped on an elbow, staring at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I stopped myself from asking, Who, me? “I’d better leave before your little one wakes up.” The man really is a mind reader.
“Thanks,” I said. I reached out and let my palm rest against his hard, flat belly. Immediately there was a stirring below. I withdrew my hand.
“Maybe we can go to the animal shelter later this week,” he said.
“Huh?”
“To find you a dog.”
“Then how will you slip into my house in the middle of the night?”
Bill smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
I lay back on the pillow and watched him pull his sweatpants over his strong legs. “I’ll think about it. I don’t know if I’m ready for another dependent.” It was almost six o’clock. I almost offered to make him breakfast but changed my mind. Keep it clean and uncomplicated, I told myself.
Damn. It’s almost midnight and I just remembered that Pete has a Tiger Club meeting after camp tomorrow and I still haven’t sewn those badges to his shirt. I wonder if I can glue them on.
’Til next time,
V
August 27
Pete came home from his Tiger Cub meeting with a flier for the Dad n’ Me camping trip. “Can Daddy take me?” Pete asked. “Can he?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said.
“Why not?” I could tell he was poised for a melt-down.
“Wait a minute, Pete. I didn’t say no. I said, I don’t know. There’s a difference.” I wanted Pete to go camping, but I didn’t want him alone with Roger. I’d have to find a surrogate to supervise him.
But who? My own father was dead, and I wasn’t about to enlist my ex-father-in-law. “Pete, hon, I know you want an answer now but I can’t give you one. I need to figure some stuff out.”
“I knew it,” he cried. “I’m going to be the only one there without a dad. It’s not fair!” He grabbed a tile trivet off the kitchen counter, the one he’d painted himself at Hunter’s birthday party, and smashed it to the floor.
I could feel the beginning of a migraine thundering at my temples. I bent down to pick up the pieces. “Help me with this,” I asked. “Get me a paper bag from the cabinet.”
“Get it yourself!” Pete screamed.
I was horrified. This was a side of Pete I’d rarely glimpsed. I knew the breakup had been hard on him— it would be hard on any child. But I never imagined this transformation of character. I suppose I should be grateful that he’s finally expressing his anger about the divorce. He’s not sucking his thumb anymore, he’s screaming at me and smashing trivets. I chased him upstairs and tried to talk to him but he’d locked himself into his room—another first. When he finally came downstairs he was calm and happy. I told him that divorce wasn’t easy, and tried reassuring him that Dad and I both loved him, and that would never change. He nodded compliantly throughout my little m
onologue. I doubted he absorbed a single word.
I still need to find a surrogate for the camping trip. I’m completely stumped!
’Til next time,
V
August 28
I’m anxious to return to some semblance of a professional life. I don’t need the money, obviously, but I find it painfully boring sitting at home while Pete is in school. Originally I thought it would be easy to fill the time. I’d work out at the club (or with the personal trainer I have yet to hire). I’d whip up delicious meals for Pete (who currently eats only four things: peanut butter, tortellini without sauce, toast with strawberry jelly, and dry cereal). I’d play all day with my friends (Donna Gold is busy renovating her house, Lynette cleans all day, and I still don’t feel entirely at ease with Diana).
I really want to work again. I can afford to open any store I’d like, but I’m not the retail type. It would be hard to go back to a staff job, dealing with the structure and pecking order, and all the duplicity and backbiting that comes with an office job. I decided to call Dale. Maybe we could go into practice together. The more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea.
“Hmmmmm,” Dale mused. He paused. “Wait! I have a better idea! Oh my God, Val, you’re going to love this!”
“What? What?” I asked.
“Buy the Center!”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, buy the Center! You have the money. I hear they’re having some financial problems and they’re shopping around for someone to take over operations. The hospital was considering it. But I heard the deal fell through.”
I stopped breathing. Me? Buy the Center?
“Can you imagine the look on Cadence Bradley’s face when they announce the new owner … and it’s you?”
The idea was outrageous, deliciously wild. And very tempting.
’Til next time,
V
August 29
I’m too excited to sleep. The prospect of taking over the Center is too tantalizing to allow even a moment’s rest. My brain starts buzzing every time I close my eyes so I’ve decided to abandon the notion of sleep, for now, and write instead.
Am I ready to reconnect with the Center? I’m not sure. There was a time when I believed that my sanity and dignity depended on making a clean break, starting fresh in a new career, or in no career, but never to rekindle my relationship with the Center. Now I’m considering the possibility that the best thing I can do for my sanity and dignity is to come full circle, to return to the place where my career flourished and eventually failed, to work peaceably with the woman who could hobble me with a frosty glare. Cadence Bradley, aka Amazon-dot-bitch, who could send me to the edge of despair with so little effort, an arched eyebrow, a flaring of the nostrils, a dismissive wave of her elegantly manicured hand. Her favorite and most transparently hostile technique was her silence. I’d walk into the room and she wouldn’t even look up from her papers, let alone greet me. But as soon as anyone else arrived, she’d welcome him or her with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, as if to say, “Now here’s someone worth greeting!”
There were more overt actions, of course. I’d show up at staff meetings and discover—judging from the half-eaten platter of bagels and empty coffee cups— that everyone else had shown up a good half hour before I did. It seems that Cadence had a habit of holding a “meeting before the meeting,” during which all the critical decisions were discussed and resolved. By the time I’d arrived she had worked her way to the bottom of the agenda, and there was little left to discuss. Cadence had all kinds of excuses for excluding me, of course. Sometimes she’d say, “I knew you’d be busy with clients all morning.” Or, “I tried to e-mail you with the time change but it bounced back.” Or, “I didn’t think the agenda would interest you.” As our relationship deteriorated, she stopped bothering to concoct excuses. She simply froze me out.
Cadence had the territorial instincts of an unneutered dog; she wasn’t shy about marking her territory. But her power plays were subtle, and if you didn’t know her, you might assume she was just trying to be helpful. Once she appointed a psych major from the university to serve as my intern; I hadn’t asked for an intern and, in fact, didn’t want a college kid shadowing me all day. I asked Cadence to transfer the girl to one of the social workers, and she eventually did, but not without a lot of huffing and eye rolling. Another time, Cadence sent my secretary to a three-day computer-training seminar, presumably to update her spreadsheet skills. Unfortunately, Cadence never mentioned the seminar to me, and she never hired a temp.
And I will never forget the time she suddenly canceled the Open Mind Fair—my brainchild—without warning me. I’d invested three years of my life developing Open Mind, a public forum designed to demystify mental illness. The fair had won two state awards and even a presidential distinction, yet none of that mattered to Cadence Bradley. In a matter of minutes, she had shut down Open Mind forever. She said she had no choice. Open Mind was unprofitable, and a drain on the Center’s human resources. I knew the real reason: Cadence Bradley despised me.
I wasn’t in a position to complain, though. Cadence may have had the social skills of a hyena, but there was no denying that the Center thrived under Cadence’s fastidious leadership. She helped extend its reach to the north and south, cultivated strong relationships with the nine major regional hospitals, developed a decent Web site, and transformed the Center from a basically loosey-goosey operation to a serious, structured environment.
That seriousness and structure came at a cost. Until Cadence was hired, the Center was a lively, collegial workplace in which I felt generally respected and appreciated. When I spoke up at meetings, other therapists paid attention and my ideas (the Open Mind Fair, for instance) were often implemented. Cadence’s arrival had a kind of dampening effect. When I raised new ideas, people reflexively looked to Cadence for her reaction first, and her reaction was either negative or nonexistent. Staff brainstorming stopped. Now Cadence devised the projects; the staff existed simply to execute her ideas. Consensus was no longer a goal. It didn’t matter whether anyone agreed with Cadence. She had the power to unilaterally establish policies or abolish them, to initiate projects or terminate them.
And now I had the power to terminate Cadence Bradley … assuming I decide to buy the Center. And now, I’ve got to get some sleep or I’ll be useless tomorrow.
’Til next time,
V
August 30
Diana called this morning to ask if I’d consider taking karate class with her. “It’s a fabulous workout,” she cooed, and I bristled at the suggestion that I needed to work out, even though I do. I hate it when other people imply what I already know for myself: I’m a blob.
“I don’t know, Diana. Karate isn’t exactly my style. I mean, I’m more the nonviolent type.”
“Sure you are,” she said with a chuckle.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I know you like to think of yourself as a Ghandi type, but you know as well as I do that you’d pop Roger’s balls with a knitting needle if you knew you could get away with it. And God only knows what you’d do to his little girlfriend.”
She was right, of course. In fact, Roger isn’t the only target of my roiling antipathy. I’d nurtured more than a few violent fantasies about Cadence and Alyssa.
“Besides, it’s not about hurting people, it’s about empowering yourself!” Diana urged.
“Yuck. I hate the word ‘empowering’. It’s so nineties.”
“Fine. Then think of karate as strength training for the spirit. It’s confidence building. You’ll feel like a million bucks.”
“I already feel like a million bucks. Millions and millions of bucks, in fact.”
“Let me put it this way, then. The teacher is really cute and nice … and single.”
“I’ve already got a nice guy in my life,” I countered.
“No, Valerie, you’ve got a hard dick in your life. There’s a difference.”
Diana was right again. Bill Stropp was great in bed, but he wasn’t exactly the marrying type. “Let me guess. He’s single, and he’s gay. Or he’s single, and his ex-wife is a lunatic. Or they’re both lunatics. Right?”
“Wrong. He’s single and his wife’s dead. And he never had kids because his late wife, may she rest in peace, had fertility problems. Okay?”
Now I felt guilty, yet oddly happy, which made me feel even more guilty.
“Oh, come on, Val. It’ll be fun. Classes are at noon. Pete will be in school. You won’t even need to hire a sitter. Come on. Please? Pretty pleeeeeze?”
She wore me down. I agreed to try a few classes, as long as I had the option of quitting if I really hated it. Actually, it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little self-defense. And if I could lose a few pounds in the process, even better.
’Til next time,
V
August 31
So I’m at the bagel place with Pete this morning, eating my usual (scrambled egg and Swiss cheese on a nicely browned every-seed bagel) and I’m feeling really sorry for myself because Bill Stropp is thinking about moving to Arizona. If he does, God only knows when I’ll have sex again. I must have looked miserable, because Pete looked up from his King Arthur picture book and asked, “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you thinking about Daddy?”
My son clings to the illusion that he might get to live with both parents someday, that Mom and Dad really love each other after all, that our divorce was just one big dumb mistake. I smiled and said, “I’m not really thinking about much of anything, sweetie.”
As I picked the last of the seeds and salt off my plate and resolved to stay away from men for a while, I heard a loud “Ouch!” and turned to find a tall and rather adorable guy standing by the coffee counter, sucking his pinky. He saw me watching and pointed at the big pump. “That’s hot coffee. Careful you don’t burn yourself.” His accent surprised me. He was British, or maybe South African, and his voice was warm and deep.