Other Women

by Lisa Alther

  “Because he’s a man. If he were a woman, I wouldn’t mind. I’d cheer you on.”

  “Like hell you would.”

  “I would. But I can’t bear to have you with a man under my very nose. You’d feel the same if I were doing it.”

  “I’ve paid half the mortgage on this place for five years, and I’ll do as I please here.”

  “All right, go ahead,” said Diana, standing up and gathering together her tangled clothing. “But don’t be surprised if one day you wake up to find me gone.”

  Caroline grabbed her Victorian camisole, ripped it in two, and hurled the pieces at Diana. “You’ve been gone for several months already. I wouldn’t even notice the difference.”

  Back downstairs, furiously pedaling her loom, and banging the beater against her shawl as though against Diana’s head, Caroline started thinking about murder—Amelia murdering chipmunks, Jason murdering Amelia, some sexual psychopath murdering Jason as he walked through the woods home from Hank’s tonight…

  Then she sat perfectly still, staring out to the melting lake and realizing what she was doing: shifting her anger at Diana to the world at large and working herself up into an anxiety state. Her hands fell to her sides and her shoulders slumped. You can’t control what happens, but you can control your response to it. Doggedly she began reviewing her session that afternoon with Hannah. But as she did so, the anxiety amplified. She was going to lose Hannah too. She told Diana she loved her, and Diana informed her she’d wake up to find her gone. You couldn’t go around telling people you cared about them. It scared them away. And she’d done that this afternoon with Hannah. Hannah would vanish like all the others. Like Jackson, David Michael, Arlene, Diana. No one was left.

  Desperately, she tried to locate the calming jungle scene in her head, but this time she couldn’t find the birds and flowers. Only the swamp remained, matted and putrid.

  • 2 •

  Hannah watched Chip struggle with his need to leave and his need to stay. He was poised above the couch, halfway between sitting and standing. She’d just suggested she was merely a habit, like smoking, that he’d miss their sessions but would soon fill the gap with other people and activities. He looked unconvinced, hovering there in close-fitting tan corduroys and a plaid sports shirt. He’d finally shed those overalls, which he’d been wearing unwashed since the Chicago Democratic Convention. He’d also shaved his full beard, and was about to open a Burger King on the highway near the mall. It was fascinating to watch clients’ appearances alter as their self-images altered. Computer programmers became slalom racers, and ski bums became judges. In her wildest fantasies she wouldn’t have pegged Chip to open a Burger King. But it wasn’t her job to judge the transformations, only to assist clients in achieving whatever bizarre goals they set.

  “I don’t know, Hannah. I know it’s time to stop. But I, like, can’t.” He sank back into the sofa.

  “Sure you can, Chip,” she said, fighting her own impatience. She felt like a counselor pushing a frightened camper off the diving board. Chip seemed startled by her enthusiasm for his attempts to leave. He was accustomed to females clinging to him when he wanted to sally forth in pursuit of the wild American hamburger, not grasping that her success as a therapist depended on doing herself out of a job.

  As Chip sat in deadlocked silence, stroking his beard-free chin, Hannah thought about what a muddle termination usually turned into. Such a decisive word for such a nebulous series of events. Some clients picked a fight so they could leave without missing her. Others dwindled away, skipping appointments and finally not showing up at all. Some expected her to orchestrate a grand finale, like the “Ode to Joy” in Beethoven’s Ninth. Others brought champagne and Tootsie Rolls. Some evaded the issue altogether by hanging on for years, using the sessions as a weekly pep rally for their status quo, until she got fed up and ushered them to the door. Some went away, only to come back again and again. A few really looked at their method of leave-taking, saw how it applied to other areas of their lives, and learned something.

  But whatever their style, the only way she could survive was through detachment. Any client could walk out forever at any moment. The couple of times her detachment failed her, she missed them and fretted about what she’d done to drive them away. Probably one reason she did this job was to stay in practice with the skills she’d developed to cope with the deaths of all her dear departeds. Her office was a speeded-up version of the world: people flowed through, and she had to resist entanglements with them or suffer the agony when they moved on, as they usually had to. Every day she felt their allures, and every day she renounced them.

  “Come by and I’ll give you a free Whopper,” said Chip, finally standing up and walking to the door.

  “I might do that.” Hannah stood up.

  Chip paused at the door, not looking at her. “Thanks, Hannah. You saved my life.”

  “No. You saved your life.”

  Chip smiled and shrugged. As he walked out, Hannah closed the door firmly behind him, thinking if she could save lives, she’d have saved Mona and Nigel first.

  She ran into clients all over town. Some greeted her warmly. Others nodded and moved away fast. Others spoke of her as their “friend.” But she hardly ever saw them that way, and felt sad for them if therapy was what they called friendship—a one-way conversation with the focus on themselves.

  “Amuse me,” Hannah requested of Harriet Sullivan over seafood salads at Dooley’s.

  “You look as though you need it. What’s wrong?”

  Harriet in her silver Marie Antoinette hairdo was wearing color-coordinated everything. Hannah, who wore whatever was on top of the stack of laundry each morning, felt like a slob. “I had an emergency in the middle of the night, and I’m an ogre today. I let Arthur have it at breakfast.”

  “Allen likes it at breakfast too,” said Harriet, holding her fork daintily between fingers with long mauve nails. “And at lunch and at dinner. Ever since he retired, he likes it whenever he can get it. It’s exhausting. I keep telling him to take up a hobby.”

  Hannah smiled. “Sounds like you’re it, my dear.”

  “So what happened with Arthur?” Harriet patted her mauve lips with her napkin.

  “He went out and bought a golf cart. To transport your husband and himself around the course in style. But we owe that money for taxes. He’s so impractical sometimes I could scream.”

  “Not here, darling.”

  “I’ve screamed enough for one day.”

  “Poor thing. But somehow I can’t picture you screaming.”

  “I didn’t actually scream. I complained loudly. The fucker just sat there with that sweet, long-suffering look. So of course now I’m feeling guilty. I wish just once he’d shout back.” Hannah put down her fork, pushed back her peacock chair, and lit a brown cigarette.

  “They do seem to feel themselves superior to all those messy female emotions. But you can imagine the impact if Arthur did shout back after all these years?”

  Hannah held her lighter to Harriet’s Virginia Slim, wondering how Harriet managed to lift her hand to her mouth with so many large rings on her fingers. “I’d probably fall to pieces.”

  “Write it off to spring,” said Harriet, turning her head to exhale smoke away from Hannah.

  “You’re probably right. My clients are bouncing off the walls. Everyone’s either fighting or falling in love like a sheep in heat.”

  “As for me,” said Harriet, “I’m about to buy an expensive new suit.” She placed her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and sipped her coffee.

  “You ought to get together with Arthur. You could ride around in his expensive new golf cart, wearing your expensive new suit.”

  “Beats paying taxes.”

  “But does it beat going to jail? I’ve never understood why buying something cheers you people up. To me it’s just one more thing to maintain.”

  “Face it, Hannah darling, you’re not a consumer.”

 
Exhaling, Hannah realized it was true. Today all she wanted of this world was out.

  At Cheever’s in the mall Hannah sat in a green velvet armchair and waited for Harriet to change into a handsome gray-green silk suit. Looking around at all the items she didn’t want to buy, Hannah noticed a triangular woolen shawl hanging on the wall above a rack of blouses. Strips of reds, oranges, and purples faded into each other like winter sunsets on Lake Glass. She glanced around the shop. A second shawl in shades of white, gray, and blue hung on the opposite wall. Studying it, she thought of cold winter mornings on the lake. Looking back and forth between the two shawls, she considered buying one to hang on her office wall over the couch. Or to wear in winter when a shawl was all she needed to supplement her hot flashes. Maybe there was something to Harriet’s Shopping Therapy after all?

  She walked over to the sunset shawl, took the corner in her fingers and rubbed it with her thumb. She knew nothing about weaving, but it looked good to her. Glancing at the label, she read, “Handwoven on the loom of Caroline Kelley.” Hannah let the corner fall back against the wall.

  “That’s lovely, isn’t it?” said the lurking saleslady. Hannah nodded. “Caroline Kelley is quite talented,” added the woman, who wore green-tinted nylons. “We’ve carried her work for years. It’s very popular. These shawls are new for her. She usually does place mats and tablecloths. Would you like to see some?”

  Good lord, thought Hannah as she examined a stack of place mats. Caroline was gifted. What else could she do that Hannah knew nothing about? How had she developed such problems with self-esteem? How had she managed never to mention her weaving during all these months of therapy?

  Shaking her head, Hannah sat down and resumed her study of the sunset shawl. The gray and brown mats were handsome, but this shawl was dazzling. She might have bought it if Caroline hadn’t made it. Should she buy it anyway? Whether she did or not, should she speak to Caroline of her reaction? Now or later? What would it mean for Caroline’s therapy? What did it mean that she’d switched from mats to shawls in recent months?

  Hannah didn’t attend the shows of clients who were painters and sculptors, didn’t read the writers’ books, didn’t attend the actors’ and dancers’ performances because it muddled her clarity. She wanted them to speak to her directly, not via their productions. In any case, they usually wanted to be recognized for themselves, and not for their work. Was this why Caroline never mentioned her weaving? But now that she’d seen the shawls, Hannah couldn’t pretend she hadn’t. And Caroline was her first appointment after lunch.

  She rested her elbow on the chair arm, forehead in her hand. Life was simply too much for her today. Harriet emerged in the green silk suit. “Buy it,” said Hannah with a dismissive wave. She felt a hot flash coming on. Her throat began to constrict.

  “Are you okay?” asked Harriet, pausing in her posturing before the full-length mirror. “You looked flushed.”

  “A hot flash,” muttered Hannah. The walls were starting to close in.

  “Come over here by the window.” Harriet took her arm.

  “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll wait for you in the car. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. It’s only my twelfth for the week.”

  As she leaned against the side of her Mercury, awash in a sea of cars, and waited for the hot flash to subside, Hannah was grimly amused. This body and its requirements had dominated so much of her life. But its behavior during menopause had forced her to realize that she and it weren’t identical. It was a pillar of flesh with its own schedules and cycles, plodding along toward dissolution. She herself was something else altogether. What, she wasn’t sure.

  Caroline sat down on the couch, gratified to find Hannah still there, smoking away in her chair, bare feet propped up on the rush stool. She’d evidently not moved away or gone out of business at hearing she was important to Caroline. Caroline would make a point of not letting an admission like that slip out again. She couldn’t afford to scare Hannah away. Hannah was all she had left.

  Hannah studied Caroline, who was sitting as still as a praying mantis trying to pass for a twig. Now what, she wondered, unable to recall what had gone on last week. At times like this she suspected she was making a mistake not taking notes. She closed her eyes and tried to remember their last session. Her memory was going. Early senility. If she could get her talking, Caroline might give some clues.

  “How was your week?” asked Hannah.

  “Fine, thanks. How was yours?”

  “Okay, thanks.” Caroline’s “Fine, thanks” could mean anything. Apparentiy she wasn’t giving any hints. “What shall we talk about?”

  “I don’t care,” said Caroline. It was better not to talk at all. That way no harmful words could pop out. It was especially important not to tell Hannah about the fight with Diana. If Hannah knew Caroline had no one but Hannah herself, she’d feel burdened and withdraw.

  If you don’t care, I certainly don’t, thought Hannah. She was disgusted with herself for wasting one minute being unpleasant to Arthur. You thought you had all the time in the world with someone, and the next moment they were gone for good. Like Nigel and Mona. She and Arthur had another decade together if they were lucky, and here she called him thoughtless, selfish, a spendthrift. God knows what all, once she got going. Yet he was the most generous person she’d ever known: He’d given up his entire previous life to be with her.

  Caroline was glancing at her uneasily. Damn it, thought Hannah, why do I always have to be calm and together for these people? They expected her to play the Rock of Gibraltar so they could be the Dismal Swamp. Let them fucking well take care of themselves. Who takes care of me? Even Saint Arthur ran up debts she had to pay off.

  She stopped herself, realizing she was being ridiculous. This was her job. She made her living from it. She was good at it, and she usually enjoyed it. But when she was exhausted, she sometimes lapsed into martyrdom.

  She tried a couple more openers, to which Caroline didn’t respond. This felt like one of those sessions that was going nowhere, like the Ancient Mariner’s death ship. Should she mention the shawls? She hadn’t been able to decide, could scarcely decide where in the lot to park her car after lunch. Her judgment was shot to hell today. It was probably better not to try anything fancy. “If there’s nothing urgent, Caroline, do you suppose we could end early today? I was up all night, and I’m not in very good shape.” It was good for Caroline to discover the laws of nature applied to her authority figures too. She’d cancel this afternoon’s appointments and go home. She was useless in this state anyway.

  Caroline looked at her and said nothing, her face a mask.

  Shit, thought Hannah, yearning to apologize to Arthur, drink a martini by the fire, and drag him off to bed. But Caroline was resorting to her tired old jump-seat trick of numb withdrawal.

  “Sure. Fine.” Caroline felt the globe totter beneath her boots. Her assessment had been correct: You couldn’t go around telling people you cared for them. It scared them away.

  “It doesn’t look fine with you at all,” sighed Hannah. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Brian was gone. Diana was gone. Hannah was gone. No one was left.

  Hannah studied her, struggling to set aside her own exhaustion and irritation. “What’s going on, Caroline? Your face has gone blank. Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not a mindreader. I can’t know if you won’t tell me.”

  Caroline felt her blank expression crumple into anxiety like a bashed fender. None of the old tricks worked with Hannah. “I feel as though you’re kicking me out.” Shut up, she snapped at herself. Don’t make demands or complaints. Be still and quiet and good. Then she’ll let you stick around.

  “I swear to you that wasn’t my intention, Caroline.” Each child had gone through this phase, wailing that she didn’t love them. She’d gone through it with Arthur and Maggie. Once she yelled at Nigel, “For God’s sake, you little brat, what do you want from me? I only devote my entire life to you!” He j
ust stood there, staring at her and sucking his battered pink bottle. One of the moments she was least proud of, and now there was no way to make it up to him. She probably should have bought that shawl, hung it on the wall. Then Caroline would know Hannah regarded her highly—except on days like today when she regarded no one highly, least of all herself.

  “Why in the world do you think I’d kick you out?” asked Hannah, attempting a smile.

  Caroline drew a shaky breath. She might as well tell her. The worst had already happened. In a trembling voice she said, “I told you last week you were important to me, and this week you aren’t even really here. And now you kick me out. I guess I’ve scared you off.” She shifted her eyes from Hannah’s to the abstract photo over the bookcase. Squinting, she tried to locate the Virgin Mary. All she could see were meaningless blobs of black and white.

  Hannah heaved a sigh of relief finally to understand what was going on. She’d forgotten about that exchange last week. “Please believe me that I’m not kicking you out, Caroline. You’re entirely accurate when you say I’m not all here this afternoon. I’ve had an exhausting week, lots of emergencies. This morning Arthur and I had an argument. I’ve been having hot flashes all morning. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  Caroline studied her, wanting to believe this. Hannah did have dark circles under her eyes.

  “Does it occur to you that I felt you weren’t all here? You didn’t seem to want to talk. And you’re sitting as still and stiff as a statue. Why are you sitting like that?”

  Caroline was surprised to hear herself say, “I’m waiting for the ax to fall.”

  Hannah gave a startled laugh. “What color is the ax?”

  Caroline’s doomed expression broke up into confusion as she addressed the issue of whether axes come in different colors.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Caroline. You’ll have to leave this time. That’s what I am here for—to be left.” It occurred to her this was what life was all about—learning to leave it. My, what dreary thoughts spring brings, she mused, glancing out the window to the melting ice on Lake Glass and feeling exhausted at the idea of witnessing another tedious round of new life.