Other Women

by Lisa Alther

  “Not really,” he said, his ego engorging.

  “Well, Brian, you have more finesse and more sang-froid than any other doctor I’ve ever worked with,” she said, using up her entire French vocabulary in one sentence.

  He tried not to smile. His eyes caressed hers with gratitude. “And what did you do today?”

  “Housework mostly. How do you keep this place so neat?” There was a distinct absence of the clutter that threatened to engulf the cabin—candy wrappers, comic books, moldy sweat shirts, crusted dishes.

  “A woman comes in two days a week. I keep thinking I should sell this place and move into a condominium at the tannery or something. But at first I thought Irene might change her mind.”

  “You’ve decided she’s not coming back?”

  “Right. And recently I haven’t even wanted her to.” He gave Caroline a meaningful look.

  Caroline looked into her beer. The wavering candlelight on the crystal made shifting patterns on the place mat. Roberta Flack was singing, “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” She realized the first time ever she saw Brian’s face, he was wearing a surgical mask, and was removing the broken stem of a wine glass from a woman’s abdomen, where her husband had shoved it. She looked up and across the candlelight into his sad dark eyes. He’d been so sweet to Jason. Maybe it would work.

  “Let’s sit by the fire,” she said.

  As she settled into the comfortable corduroy couch, he went to the fireplace and closed the glass doors. As she watched the flames dance behind the wall of glass, a fine chill crept over her. Shaking it off, she poured herself another beer, and tucked her feet under her.

  “Why did Irene leave? She must have been a real fool.” It was all coming back now, the back-scratching that got you asked out on a second date.

  “Irene? To tell you the truth, I don’t know. It was a total shock. I still don’t understand it. She just loaded the kids in the Country Squire and drove to Boston. She hasn’t been back since. She used to complain that I never listened to her. But that wasn’t true. The minute I’d walk in the door, she’d start talking—about the kids’ report cards, the sale on snow tires, the cracks in the bathroom ceiling, the price of avocados. God knows what. Sure, sometimes I’d be thinking about the thyroidectomy I’d just done or wondering what the Dow was doing. But mostly I just listened. Maybe I’d rather have been in the shower or watching the news. But instead I listened. I think I’m a pretty good listener.”

  He was looking at Caroline expectantly. He wanted something from her again, but she couldn’t say what. “I agree,” she finally replied.

  She told herself to pay attention and flog some romance from her heart. Brian was a lovely man. She could make this relationship work and guarantee herself a lifetime of companionship, security, and Waterford crystal. And she was tired of living hand-to-mouth sexually, never knowing where her next feel was coming from.

  As Roberta Flack sang “Killing Me Softly,” she unknotted Brian’s wool tie, then unbuttoned his tattersall shirt. He smiled. She ran her tongue around his ear. By the time she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his zipper, his smile had become more like a grimace. But he did have an erection, which she encouraged with her mouth.

  As she removed her underpants, he tried to sit up. “You’re not supposed to move,” she whispered, kneeling over him and settling down on his penis. Slowly she moved up and down. He gave an embarrassed laugh. She could feel him going soft.

  “You’ll have to excuse me a minute,” he said, rolling out from under her like a quarterback from under a rival tackier. She sank into the corner of the couch, chin on her knees, arms around her legs. Evidently he didn’t like his women butch. With Diana sometimes one of them ran the show, sometimes the other, sometimes both. She never knew what would go on. But if predictability was what she was looking for, apparently she’d come to the right place.

  Brian made a great display of running water and flushing the toilet. Upon his return, he took her hand and led her into his bedroom. In his king-sized bed he lay on top of her saying, “Let’s do it this way until we get used to each other.”

  “Whatever you like, Brian,” she said, absorbing his thrusts like cracked pavement a jackhammer.

  Stop it, she snapped at herself. This wasn’t sex with a woman, but it had its own thrills, such as the anxiety that Brian would lose his erection before she’d come.

  Just stop it! she ordered herself. Brian is a sweet man and a sensitive lover. Stop being such a jerk.

  She awoke much later, Brian stirring by her side. He rolled over and took her nipple in his mouth. Cradling him in her arms, she rocked him and stroked his hair. Waves of desire washed over her. This man who saved lives needed her. He’d come home after a hard day of heroism, and she’d restore him to life and to warmth. Choices, Hannah kept saying, and Caroline was now choosing respectable heterosexuality just like Hannah’s. Maybe if she became half of a heterosexual couple again, Hannah would want to stay friends with her after therapy. She and Brian, Hannah and Arthur could play bridge on a winter evening. They could go on trips together in a motor home. While the guys were out golfing, the girls could take long naps. In the same bed…

  Resolutely she focused on Brian at her breast, who was sighing with contentment. He held her breast to his mouth with both hands. Nearly swooning with desire, Caroline reached out to his chest, searching with her hand for a smooth round breast. As it settled into a bleak expanse of coarse hair, her desire dispersed. Tears squeezed out from under her eyelids. With Diana, once one finished doing this, the other took her turn. She sniffled, then shook with a sob. Brian gave no sign of noticing or of stopping. She looked down at him, mouth attached to her breast, sucking her dry. Irritation seized her. Her limbs twitched. Still he sucked on. Eventually his mouth fell open, and her nipple slipped out. Like an infant, he had sated himself and was now sound asleep.

  Caroline rolled out of bed, went into the bathroom, and washed her face. Fuck it, she’d raised her brothers and her sons, she didn’t want a manchild, however rich, charming, and good-looking. Looking into the mirror, she saw an attractive woman with a graying Afro, puffy red eyes, and a perplexed frown. Mom, do you have to be a lezzie?

  She put on a large terry cloth robe that hung on the bathroom door, and wandered through the silent house, the moon through the birch trees casting shadows on the slate floor, which was icy to her bare feet. Bobby Orr posters on the walls in one deserted bedroom. Star Wars posters in another. A beautiful gold and brown Navaho rug hung above the fireplace, another example of Irene’s good taste. From the objects Irene surrounded herself with, Caroline felt sure she’d like her. Probably more than Brian. Caroline stood on the slate floor by the fireplace studying the rug above her head and wondering if she could weave something like it. She’d taken both the sunset shawl and the blue and gray one to Cheever’s in the mall. The buyer had been enthusiastic and urged her to weave more shawls, so she started a third in green and blue tones—spring on Lake Glass. But the temptation was strong to keep trying new forms, now that she’d been liberated from place mats.

  One thing about Brian’s house was now clear to her: He cohabited with ghosts. If they joined forces, he’d provide the cave, and she’d provide the firelight to keep the ghosts at bay. He’d protect, and she’d pretend to be protected, and all would be well. But was bridge with Hannah and Arthur worth it?

  Going into the kitchen, she switched on the light and searched the shelves for coffee. Other than a small jar of Nescafe, all she found was a battered box of Tuna Helper. She opened the refrigerator. No milk, only a single orange growing mold. Maybe it was an experiment on home-grown antibiotics. She carried her mug into the living room and sat on the corduroy couch. There were still coals from the fire. She opened the glass doors and added some kindling and a couple of small logs. Leaving the doors open, she sat back down and rubbed her eyes, yawning.

  She glanced around the dark room. It had been easy to fill it with light and warmth ton
ight. Why not have that as her job? She was good at it. When distraught families clustered around the ER waiting room, she could soothe and cheer them simply by her manner—by projecting at them like a lawn sprinkler her own confidence. In a patient’s room her competent caring presence could elicit smiles from haggard faces. Why not do this for Brian too? It was no credit to her. It was her primordial heritage as a female to create and sustain life. In contrast to males, who dealt in death and darkness, creating disasters and then cooperating in extraordinary feats of heroism to extract people from the destruction…

  Stop it, she told herself. Focus on the positive, as Hannah had taught her. She pictured Jackie and Jason, each in his own bedroom down the hall, a nursery for the baby daughter she and Brian would have. The cleaning lady twice a week. Brian would come home from saving lives, and she’d serve pina coladas by the swimming pool she’d have built next to the swing set. She’d learn to cook boeuf en daube for dinner parties with Peugeot dealers. Learn to prune hybrid roses. Read Silhouette Romances all afternoon with a box of Godiva chocolates by her side. Perfect her backhand. Attend medical conferences on cruise ships to Guadeloupe. Dance in a sun dress on the deck under Caribbean stars with native drums throbbing on the shore. Brian would fox-trot her into their first-class stateroom, sweep her into his arms, place her on the bed…

  She pictured him nursing at her breast, oblivious to her, and was swept with irritation. Brian was attentive now, but once he had her safely installed in his house, he’d work all hours, coming home exhausted and needing succor, if he came home at all. She’d done this tired old trip twice already, with Jackson and David Michael. Her life was merely a poor imitation of “General Hospital,” a new doctor being written into the script every few years. She was about to do it again, and in less time than it takes to say “cadaver,” she’d be alone and lonely in an echoing house and an empty bed.

  She pictured Hannah raising her eyebrows. Why would you? What did you grow up with? And it fell into place. She remembered her father returning exhausted from the office, and herself scurrying around running his bath, shining his shoes, rubbing his temples. But when she needed his attendance at her Brownie Flying Up ceremony, he was posting bail for the underprivileged youth of South Boston. When she needed his presence during her infancy, he was in the South Pacific making the world safe for democracy.

  There can be more to us than that. Once you knew you were a gerbil on a wheel, you could refuse to run, or climb down. She’d tell Brian in the morning it wouldn’t work.

  She began crying, her shoulders shaking and heaving. She’d been entertaining higher hopes for this relationship than she’d known. To give up a present illusion to avoid future pain possibly required more strength of character than she possessed. She lay among the sofa cushions and wept, mourning the unwelcome loss of her comfortable neurosis.

  Then she realized Brian wasn’t her father. He wasn’t Jackson, or David Michael. Maybe it could be different with him now that she was aware of the pitfalls. Whatever, she’d have to decide soon because her hormones were revving up. Soon she’d be sucking his cock and begging to bear his babies. If that wasn’t what she wanted, she had to act fast.

  When she awoke, shivering among the cushions, it was light outside. A wind was blowing through the birch trees, and the ice-filled swing seats swayed in the yard. She went into the bathroom, washed her tear-stained face, and combed her tousled Afro. Sorting out her jeans and wrinkled silk shirt from the pile beside the sofa, she put them on. Then she made another cup of coffee and sat at the dining table awaiting Brian, uncertain what to do.

  “Where’d you go?” he asked when he eventually emerged, in a singlet and boxer shorts with hearts on them.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I got up.”

  “I missed you.” He kissed her neck.

  Liar, she thought. You didn’t even notice I was gone until you woke up with a hard-on.

  “Come back to bed.” He kneaded her shoulders.

  “I have to go home,” she heard herself say.

  “I thought we had all day.”

  “Afraid not.” They could have had all day since Diana was tending the boys, but she’d just discovered she wasn’t spending it with Brian.

  Surely he was picking up that she was upset? Diana could read her mood from a single sentence over the phone.

  He got himself some coffee and sat down. “I don’t know how to say this, Caroline…”

  Oh good, she thought. He’s going to call it off so I don’t have to. A gentleman to the end.

  “…but we’re so good together.”

  She looked at him.

  “Look, I know we’re both lonely, and looking for someone to share our lives with. We both want someone who’s kind and considerate, sensitive, gentle, generous. Someone who can listen. Someone to laugh with. We both want someone who can make the sparks fly in bed and the wheels turn out of bed…” He became embarrassed by his fervor. “Well, you know what I’m saying, Caroline. What do you think?”

  She studied his kind face, begging her mouth not to say the words she heard it emitting: “You’re right, Brian: We both want women.”

  His lips pressed together tightly. Caroline was filled with remorse. “Brian, you’re a lovely man. I’m very fond of you. And I’ve tried. I swear to you I’ve genuinely tried to make this work. But I guess I’m just a hopeless lesbian. Please forgive me for hurting you. If I could choose, I’d choose to be with you in a minute.”

  She could see tears gathering in his eyes. “But I don’t understand, Caroline. We’re so good together. And here’s this house, ready for you to move in. I’d be a good father to your boys.”

  “I know you would, Brian. And I appreciate that more than I can say.”

  “What’s the problem then?”

  She was at a loss for words. “It’s just not me, Brian.” She was beginning to have some idea who “me” was.

  Caroline could see he was getting annoyed. Maybe self-denigrating humor would help. “I’m a pervert, Brian. Respectability suffocates perverts. It’s like putting a lobster in fresh water.”

  He shook his head, dazed. “Well, you were candid from the start, Caroline. I have to say that for you.”

  Caroline looked him in the eye, feeling increasingly certain this was the right thing to do. “Thank you for letting me try, Brian. And I did try. Harder than you might imagine.”

  He shook his head again. “I never knew a woman who’d turn her back on all this so easily.” He gestured vaguely around his house.

  “Who said it was easy?”

  As Brian dressed to drive her home, Caroline sat with her elbows on the table, head in her hands, feeling terror and loss so acutely that she realized it had very little to do with Brian, whom she scarcely knew. To dispel it, she summoned the image of Hannah. But when it arrived, the head was turned away, no longer looking at her, no longer telling her she was a fine person. She was picking a different course from Hannah’s. No bridge, no motor homes, no Caribbean cruises. Hannah would kick her out.

  Her hand trembled as she raised her mug to her lips. Resolutely she dismissed Hannah and thought instead about a jungle full of garish birds and gorgeous flowers. Brian, his face a mask, walked out of his bedroom with his car keys, a padre escorting a death row inmate down that long last corridor.

  Caroline strode into Hannah’s office, glancing around to make sure the furniture hadn’t been rearranged. Hannah, holding a mug of coffee, looked up from her chair. “My, but you look purposeful today.”

  “Do I?” Caroline perched on the couch in her white uniform. “I guess I am. I’ve been making decisions left and right.”

  “Oh yes? Like what?” Hanah sipped her coffee.

  “Like that I want a new job. I’m sick of the emergency room.”

  “Oh yes?” said Hannah with sudden interest. She set her mug on the desk and swiveled around to face Caroline. “What kind of job?”

  “Still in nursing. But a different specialty. I don
’t know what. I just decided today.” She’d been standing by the operating table assisting as a knife wound was sutured, neatly tucking yellow fat globules under jagged flaps of skin, when it suddenly occurred to her: I don’t have to be here.

  “Want some coffee?” asked Hannah.

  “No, thanks. Caffeine would probably send me right over the top.”

  “So what else have you been deciding?”

  Caroline studied Hannah, suddenly afraid. “I broke things off with Brian Stone this weekend.”

  “Oh yes? How come?”

  “Well,” she said, studying her hands, “I guess I realized Mr. Right was Mr. Wrong.” She’d just bumped into Brian in the hall outside the lab at the hospital. He’d been aloof and efficient. She hoped once he got over hating her, some of the initial friendship would be left. She’d be happy to resume hearing tales of woe about Irene. But she wasn’t holding her breath. Meanwhile, it was like Chinese water torture knowing someone wanted something from her that she had to deny.

  “What was wrong about him?”

  Hannah didn’t look or sound particularly disappointed. In fact she was the picture of indifference, sitting there glancing out the window to Caroline’s old view of Lake Glass. Did she really not care that Caroline was abnormal? “It occurred to me in the middle of the night that he’s very similar to Jackson and David Michael and my father, and that life with him would probably be just a rerun. I felt like Cinderella’s stepsister trying to wedge her foot into the glass slipper.”

  Hannah smiled and stopped herself from applauding. It actually worked sometimes, what she spent her days doing. Then she reminded herself not to get carried away. Caroline would probably backslide. What people said and what they were able to carry out were usually two different matters. “What do you think it would have been like, this life you’ve decided not to live?”