by Sylvia True
“You are our glue.” Flavia’s eyes plead.
“One,” Hannah agrees.
“I suppose one wouldn’t hurt,” Gail adds.
As they say good night to Kathryn, Hannah thinks about glue, how she’s always been that for her family. But lately she’s curling at the edges, like cheap linoleum.
* * *
Hannah plans to have one drink before driving home, washing off her makeup, and getting into bed. With luck she’ll find some TV show that will distract her for an hour or so.
At the small bar around the corner from the Victorian house, they sit at a veneered table next to a large window framed with fairy lights. The room glows dim amber. Gail orders a glass of merlot. Lizzy, Hannah, and Flavia decide on appletinis. Bridget has water.
When their drinks arrive, Lizzy raises her glass. “To us,” she says.
Their glasses clink.
“To saner lives,” Bridget toasts.
The alcohol goes straight to Hannah’s head. The fairy lights blur, and she feels content for a moment. It’s a relief to be here, with women who know the truth about her life, or at least a piece of the truth.
“Think Kathryn has a boyfriend?” Bridget asks.
“I don’t think it’s really any of our business,” Gail answers.
Bridget laughs. “It’s a free country. I can ask.”
“And I can answer.” For once Gail’s smile is unguarded.
It’s funny how they thrive on disagreeing. Hannah was sure they’d be enemies—at best tolerate each other. But in an odd way, they make a happy pair.
“I am sure she has a nice man.” Flavia wipes a lipstick smudge from her glass. “She wouldn’t make the mistakes that we do.”
“Just because someone is a good therapist doesn’t necessarily mean they know how to run their own lives,” Gail says.
With half a drink in her, Hannah feels bold. “What kind of work do you do?” she asks Gail.
“I can’t really say.”
“Why?” Bridget asks.
“It’s just one of those things I’d rather keep private. When people find out, they tend to treat me differently.” She finishes her wine.
“Oh, you’re afraid I might be nice,” Bridget says.
Gail chuckles. “No, not really.” The waitress comes to check on their drinks. “Another round for the table,” Gail says.
Hannah is ready to protest, but she decides one more will be better than some stupid TV show.
“Does anyone think of divorce?” Flavia asks.
“How can we not think about it?” Hannah replies.
“I don’t,” Gail says.
“For real?” Bridget asks.
“You see, I was married before. To a nice man, but we didn’t love each other. There was no joy between us. So what I meant to say is that I know what it feels like to want to get divorced, and that’s not how I feel now. I love Jonah, and I’m willing to take this journey with him.”
“I say we talk about anything except our husbands,” Hannah suggests.
“I have something,” Lizzy says, her words a touch slurry. “After the second group, I was going to quit. I didn’t think I needed you guys. Not that I thought I was better than all of you, just that my problems weren’t as bad. But I don’t know what I would have done without you last week.” Her deep brown eyes shine.
“It’s no secret I didn’t want to come back,” Bridget says. “If it weren’t for Hannah, I wouldn’t have.”
Hannah feels embarrassed but smiles anyway. “I didn’t really do anything.”
“Give yourself more credit. You’re like the real therapist of our group,” Bridget says.
Hannah rubs at a spot on the table. Not only is she not a therapist, she’s a hypocrite. She tells these women to talk, to share, to be open, and there is no way she could really tell them the truth about herself.
“Change of topic,” Bridget announces. “How many men, not including our present nitwits—and yes, Gail, I know Jonah isn’t a nitwit—but really, how many men have you slept with?”
“Are we just counting having intercourse?” Flavia asks.
“Yeah.”
“And why are we talking about this?” Gail sips her wine.
“’Cause we’re out having drinks, and it’s fun.”
“I’m not sure I’d term it fun.”
“Can you just answer without any judgmental commentary?” Bridget replies, a playful grin spreading.
“Seven,” Gail says.
“You didn’t even have to think about that.”
“Why would I?”
“I dunno. I guess if I really sat down and counted, guys in college and before Michael, it would take a few minutes.”
“Then why ask?”
“Like I said. For fun. Anyway, my guess is that I’d be around fifteen.” Bridget looks around expectantly.
“I’m afraid mine is much higher,” Flavia admits.
“Four,” Lizzy announces. “Boring.”
“Well, you beat me,” Hannah says. “Three. Adam and I met in college, the summer of our junior year. We just hit it off.”
“I met Dema at the restaurant his brother used to own. But that went kaput.”
“What are you doing for work now?” Hannah asks.
“I am a hostess.” She traces her finger along the edge of her glass. “I even try to do the phone sex. I think it was easy money, but I only last two calls. The second man, he was telling me something so…” She shudders. “It was disgusting. He say he imagine me sitting in a bathtub, and him peeing on me.”
Hannah thinks of Alicia and her mood plummets. She’d like one hour, just one, in which she doesn’t think of Adam, or the effects of addiction, or bathroom stalls.
“You know what I think,” Flavia says. “Those men by the bar are looking at us.”
“At you, maybe,” Hannah tells her.
“No. The tall, dark one, he has his eye on you.”
Hannah looks up. The man smiles. She glances away.
“I’m just happy to be away from Greg,” Lizzy says. “I know I shouldn’t want to punish him, but I hope he’s worried I’m out meeting someone else. I hope that makes him jealous.”
“He should be jealous,” Hannah says.
“Totally,” Bridget seconds.
Hannah slips out to go to the ladies’ room. She keeps her gaze lowered.
“Hey,” the dark-haired man says as she passes.
On her way back, she looks at him. Once again he smiles. He has dimples and kind eyes.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
She stops. “I’m already over my limit.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’ve had two.” She feels herself flirting, tilting her head, swishing back her hair.
“Three will do you good.” He touches her shoulder. She doesn’t back away.
“I’m with my friends.”
“How do you know each other?” he asks.
She chuckles. “Can’t really say.” She likes his baggy jeans and work boots. Mostly, she likes how easily he smiles.
“One of them just gave me a thumbs-up,” he says.
“Is she wearing a peach-colored dress?”
“Yep.”
“I should get back.”
“I think they want you here.”
“And why would you think that?” she asks, moving a little closer.
“Male intuition.” He places a hand on the bar and slides it, almost imperceptibly, toward her. She thinks of pawns inching their way forward on a chessboard.
“Like that exists,” she says.
“A man-hater, are you?” There’s no meanness in his question. His blue-green eyes watch her.
“A some men–hater,” she replies.
“Trouble?” he asks.
“I think I will have that third drink.” Hannah sits on a barstool.
“Jake,” he says, and shakes her hand, holding it for a few extra seconds.
Drink number
three arrives. “Hannah,” she tells him.
She sips her drink and glances at the front table. The lights are dancing, her friends are laughing, and she feels better than she’s felt in ages.
“You from around here?” he asks.
“Sort of.”
“Woman of mystery?”
“Naturally.”
Jake tells her that he makes cabinets, he has two yellow Labs, and he saves up his money so he can travel to historic battlefields. He’s a closet history addict. She flinches at the word addict, but lets it go as he keeps talking. She isn’t sure who looked at the back door first, him or her.
“If we smoked, I’d say let’s go out for a cigarette,” he tells her, brushing his hand along her forearm.
“Shame we’re so healthy these days,” she replies.
“We could pretend.” He touches her hair and nods toward the door.
She finishes her drink. They stand at the same time. He takes her hand, and they walk to the back of the bar. She wonders if Adam meets men this way.
Outside, they find a little alcove behind the building. His kisses taste like the ocean. Somewhere at the edges of her consciousness, under the alcohol, she knows she should stop.
He holds her face and looks at her. “You really are beautiful.”
She believes that he thinks that. She’s known him for less than half an hour, and she trusts him more than her own husband. He kisses her again. A breeze tickles her neck. She doesn’t want this to end.
A car door slams, and the noise jolts her out of the moment.
“What is it?” Jake asks, cupping her chin.
She rests her head on his chest, which smells faintly of sawdust. If she could just do this, feel another body next to hers, that would be enough.
“What?” he asks again, gathering her hair.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage because I pumped that third drink into you.”
“It’s not the drink. Although that helped.”
“What, then?”
“I’m married.”
He kisses the top of her head. “I sort of guessed that from the wedding ring.”
“You didn’t ask,” she says.
“I figured you have your reasons.”
She nods, keeping her head on his chest, wanting to be held for a few more seconds. There’s a faint smell of spring in the air. Everything feels oddly familiar and comforting.
“And you love him?” he asks.
“I do,” she says.
“Lucky guy.”
“He’s a sex addict,” she blurts.
“Oh.” He strokes her hair.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. I don’t know why I did. The drinks, I guess.”
“So he cheated on you?”
“Yes. But it’s not just that. He’s an addict.” She pauses. “And his drug of choice is other men.” The words seem to echo against the night sky.
He holds her tighter. She feels like crying, letting it all out, the way she should in group.
“We could have fun together,” he tells her. “It might be good for you.”
“I can’t.” She puts her hands on his chest and gently pushes herself away. It’s just not in her to cheat.
She turns to go back inside and sees Bridget waiting at the door.
“I was just coming to check on you,” Bridget says. “We were getting worried.”
Jake’s hand touches the small of Hannah’s back. His way of saying it’s okay.
“Just getting some fresh air,” Hannah says.
“You picked a good night.” Bridget gives a tight smile and leads the way in. They follow. Jake whispers, “Take care,” as he stops at the bar.
Hannah continues to the table. Lizzy’s cheeks are rosy; her eyes twinkle as she giggles. Gail has gone home.
“We’re talking about the first time we learned what sex was,” Lizzy says.
Flavia grins and pats the chair for Hannah to sit. Guilt bleeds from her chest outward as she thinks of Alicia propped on a stool, glaring at her, accusing her of dressing up to look for a boyfriend. An hour ago, going home to a sleeping family seemed tolerable. Not anymore. Now she feels as if she’s just a false reflection of all she pretends to be.
Gail
Gail adjusts the wire in the skin-toned bra that she’s wearing underneath her flowing ivory negligee. There had been a time she’d considered getting a breast reduction, but she didn’t want to take the chance of losing sensation in her nipples. She stares at her open book, The Four Loves, a gift from Jonah. But the words are just black scrawls clustered in random formations. All she can think about is the letter and how she’s going to tell Jonah.
He was supposed to be home by ten, before her, but he works late sometimes, much more infrequently than in the past. He’s likely grading papers or getting lost in the latest research. At one time she would have worried; now she’s just anxious to get this letter ordeal behind them.
The front door opens. She smooths out the cover and props herself up a little more. Looking down at her chest, she makes sure her nightgown hides any signs that she’s wearing a bra. She would hardly consider herself vain, but she also doesn’t want him to see the extent of gravity’s influence. Modesty and decorum are very different from dishonesty, she tells herself.
“I’m awake,” she calls.
He doesn’t reply. Probably didn’t hear her, although she can hear him. He’s puttering around, opening the fridge, turning on the tap, running the garbage disposal. She’s never understood his need to switch on the disposal. It’s something to do with cleansing, similar to his habit of clipping his nails every morning.
The door is ajar. He pushes it open and stands at the foot of the bed. “Didn’t think you’d be up,” he says. It’s ten past eleven. She normally reads until eleven-thirty.
She holds her book for him to see. “I’m really enjoying this.” It’s a white lie, not the kind that counts. She wants to show him she appreciates his thoughtful gestures.
“It’s been a long day.” He sits on the edge of the bed, bends to untie his shoes, and sighs slowly.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes, just long,” he replies.
“Are you coming to bed?”
He stands and unbuttons his light green shirt. “In a while.” He glances into his closet. “I still have some reading to do.” His hands knot behind his back as if he’s silently debating some philosophical dilemma. Maybe one of Kierkegaard’s.
She’d like him to lie next to her so she can hold his hand, inhale his scent. He always laughs when she says that there is something chocolaty about the way he smells. He’s told her that’s not exactly manly. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I meant to tell you the other day,” she says in the most cavalier tone she can muster. Her voice falters slightly, betraying her, although he doesn’t seem to notice. He hangs up his shirt, then unbuckles his belt. “I got another letter from April,” she says quietly.
He pulls the belt through the belt loops and puts it on a hook on the closet door. If there was anything to be worried about, he would never be acting so serene.
“What did it say?” He drops his pants and steps out of them.
“The same—how you are in love with her, but you are afraid to tell me.” She has full control of her voice now.
“What did you do with it?” he asks.
“I was going to shred it, but I think at this point, I might need to take some action. A harassment order.”
He gives his pants a good shake, then slides them on a hanger. She looks at his slender white legs and feels self-conscious about her thighs.
“You think that’s necessary?” he asks coolly. Although her back is sweating, she likes that he’s unfazed by this.
“I’m not sure. But I do think that she should be sent a message to stop.” She pauses. “As usual, there was no address
or last name.”
“Hmmm.” He takes off his underwear, tosses it in the laundry basket, and puts on his pajamas. He has no problem undressing in front of her. Something she still can’t do.
“Do you know where she’s living now?” she asks. The wire in her bra digs into her chest.
“Actually, I believe she’s back at Harvard.”
The muscles around her heart clench. “Really?”
“Yes. I believe Lilly said something.”
She imagines Lilly, the department secretary, gossiping, trying to get a rise out of Jonah.
“How would Lilly know?” she asks as if the subject is mundane.
“She just seems to hear about those sorts of things.” He buttons his pajama shirt all the way up.
She remains expressionless. “Were you surprised when you learned of it?”
His eyes are direct, honest. “I didn’t feel much. Just hoped that she was doing well.”
“And is she?”
He puts on his slippers. “I really have no idea. I didn’t ask.”
His responses settle her. “So you haven’t seen her?”
“No.” He shakes his head and shrugs as if he didn’t have to think twice about it.
“Perhaps if you tell me her last name, I can find her address and have a letter sent. Something to let her know she should stop.”
“You think that’s really necessary?” He just asked that question. She knows he’s hoping for a different response.
Her nightgown, which has slipped between her legs, clings to her thighs. “I think it would be wise.”
“It’s been a long time since she sent that last letter, hasn’t it?”
Is he defending April’s behavior? “A few months.”
“Maybe we should just let it be. No response sometimes sends a more powerful message.” He stands in the open doorway. Not as if he’s trying to flee, but rather get back to his studies.
She nods. “Yes, sometimes. But in this case I think a letter, something that looks official, might be best.”
“If that’s what you want,” he says.
“If you just tell me her last name, I’ll have Barbara find her address. She’s a wonder at things like that. You don’t have to get that for me.”
He nods. “That would be better.”
More proof that he’s sober. He knows to stay away. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she tells him. She wishes the group could have witnessed this interchange and seen that there isn’t always a need to respond with anger and fear. Bridget especially might be able to learn something, and although they have their moments of discord, Gail envisions herself as a sort of mentor for the younger woman.