Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

  Despite her bravado, she couldn’t keep her stomach from tightening as she noticed the clock’s hands edging toward midnight.

  “Hey, quiet down, everybody,” Jim Tiller urged at one minute before twelve. He leaned over to turn up the television’s volume. ‘The ball’s about to come down.”

  “Oh, no!” groaned Lynn. “Surely you’re not serious! That Times Square scene is so corny—”

  “Sh-h-h-h!” Claire insisted. ‘Ten, nine, eight ...”

  As the crowd on television exploded, a cacophony of cheering and whistling and noisemakers rising up as the ball of fire hit its mark, the other two couples cried, “Happy New Year!” and kissed. Laura stood next to Roger, her eyes cast downward as she traced the stem of her champagne glass. He stood stiffly, not looking at her, not moving.

  “Happy New Year,” she said in a soft voice.

  He turned away, heading toward the coffee table and grabbing a handful of chips.

  Laura didn’t use the dishes again for the next fourteen years. Instead, she took them out of the cabinet every few months, washed them carefully, checked to see that none of the pieces was cracked or chipped, then regretfully put them away again in a place where Roger wasn’t likely to encounter them.

  Now that he was gone, she delighted in using the fine china. She had her morning coffee in one of the delicate cups and her low-fat lunch on a dessert plate. She even served Evan his Frosted Flakes and his peanut-butter sandwiches on them.

  Her decision to treat herself better than she’d been treated in years was facilitated by one more change, something she hadn’t anticipated. For the first time since Evan’s birth, Roger was suddenly being forced to take his responsibilities as a father seriously. Now there were “Daddy days.” Every other weekend plus one evening a week, Roger and Evan spent long, uninterrupted hours together. Laura was convinced that the enthusiastic reports Evan gave upon his return, tales of ice-cream cones and PG-rated movies and baseball-card shows, only partly accounted for the way his eyes were lit up and his cheeks were flushed. He was excited to be with Roger, a rare thing in his life. As for her, her initial reaction of missing Evan quickly passed. Instead, she began enjoying the time she had for herself.

  Through all the changes, Laura was pleased about how well she was able to focus on her writing. Just as in Claire’s case, her work was proving to be a lifesaver. Sipping her coffee, Laura gloated over the new pages she’d turned out that day. Evan’s departure for an afternoon of video games at a friend’s house had provided her with an unexpected block of free time, which she’d put to excellent use.

  She was about to reach for the new pages of the manuscript, sitting on the kitchen table, waiting to be proofread, when the doorbell rang. She experienced a pang of resentment. She’d been luxuriating in the time alone, and having no distractions besides her glee over her literary coup and her Rosenthal cup of designer coffee. Figuring it was probably only the UPS man, she shuffled toward the front door.

  “Hi,” Roger said as casually as if his return to the marital residence were an everyday occurrence. “Can I come in?”

  He’d already breezed inside, making a beeline for the kitchen table, the traditional site of their negotiations.

  Automatically Laura braced herself for a tight. Instead, as she lowered herself into the chair opposite his, she saw the expression on his face was calm.

  “Laura, we have to talk.”

  “Okay.” The familiar wrenching feeling gripped her stomach. She pushed aside her coffee cup, thinking, So much for bliss.

  “Is Evan here?’

  Laura shook her head. “He’s at Matthew’s house.”

  “Good.” Roger took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll get right to the point. These past couple of months have been really tough on me. Getting divorced was your idea, not mine. Since the beginning, I’ve been hoping you’d change your mind. I only agreed to move out because I figured giving you some time to yourself would make you see what a mistake you were making.

  “But being forced out of the house, out of our marriage, has given me time to think. And I’ve come to the conclusion—

  The coffee burned in Laura’s stomach like lava.

  “—that getting a divorce really is the best thing. You were right, Laura. We have been miserable for a long time. I was simply afraid to admit it. But now that I’ve gotten out, I have a much better perspective. We’re bad for each other. Neither of us has been able to support the other. It’s sad, of course, and it’s going to hit Evan the hardest, but it’s the way it’s got to be.”

  Laura just nodded. She expected to feel released, or in some way triumphant. Instead, a wave of sadness washed over her, so strong that even her caffeine-induced high couldn’t combat it.

  Chapter Nine

  “That positively smacks of another woman,” announced Claire, kicking off her shoes and tucking her long legs, squeezed into turquoise skintight stretch pants, underneath her. “I’m telling you, Laura. There could only be one thing behind good old Roger’s change of heart. I’d bet anything he’s found himself somebody new to keep his feet warm at night.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so?”

  “No question. Look, all along Roger’s been fighting the idea of getting divorced. Now, suddenly, he decides it’s— what was that phrase?—‘for the best.’ ” Claire pushed up the sleeves of her baggy turtleneck sweater, a blinding shade of yellow. “What else could be responsible for his one-hundred-eighty-degree turnaround?”

  It was early evening, and Julie, Claire, and Laura were at the small house on the edge of Clover Hollow that Julie shared with George. Laura had been desperate for female companionship. Her conversation with Roger and his conclusion that her decision to end their marriage really was for the best had left her reeling.

  Of course, he was right. And she knew, intellectually, at least, that she truly wanted to hear him say the words he’d finally spoken. Yet it was one more step in letting go. One more of those moments in which she was forced to face the fact that this was really happening.

  The antidote was friendship. At Claire and Julie’s insistence, she’d recited the conversation she and Roger had had as accurately as she could. And as she’d expected, they’d been eager to dissect every word.

  “Maybe Roger’s finally come to recognize his role in all this.” Julie, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, pulled her nubby oatmeal-colored cardigan around her more tightly. It was an odd complement to the rest of her outfit: a flowered cotton skirt, a faded blue work shirt, and canary yellow high-tops. Tonight she was wearing her long red hair pulled back into a loose braid. “Maybe he’s finally taking a good, hard look at himself. Getting in touch with his inner child, owning some of the ways he was responsible for your marriage not working out ... Maybe he’s actually learned from all this.”

  Claire shook her head. “In your dreams. Trust me; some female is sniffing around our boy Roger. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Claire,” Laura protested, “I really can’t believe that. I know Roger. If he were seeing somebody else, I’d know.”

  “We’ll see.” Claire cast her a meaningful look.

  Laura sipped her coffee, thinking about Claire’s prediction and looking around. Julie’s house was as different from Claire’s sleek apartment as the two women were from each other. While Laura was pleased that she was able to feel at home in a stark, modern place like Claire’s, she often thought that no one could help but feel comfortable and loved in Julie’s cozy cottage.

  She was convinced that the house had originally been built for elves. In the first place, it was nestled in the woods. Though not too far back from the road, it seemed more isolated because of the dense growth of trees, mosses, ferns, and other elements of the forest primeval that surrounded it. Then there was the architecture, the sort usually reserved for buildings constructed of gingerbread and sugar wafers.

  Tonight it provided the perfect setting for warding off the ch
ill December evening. The three women were gathered around the fire burning in the gray stone fireplace, nursing steaming mugs of Julie’s special coffee, perked up with just a touch of cinnamon. A large plate offered an assortment of cookies and breads, fresh from Julie’s oven.

  “And what about you, Laura?” Claire asked suddenly.

  Laura glanced at her, surprised. “What do you mean, what about me?’

  “When are you going to start dating?”

  “Me?” The word came out like a croak.

  “Sure,” said Julie. “You remember dating, don’t you? Flowers, candy, candlelit dinners at romantic restaurants—”

  “Long, hot nights,” Claire interrupted, “entire weekends in bed, whispering sweet nothings, sucking each other’s toes—”

  “Worrying about sexually transmitted diseases,” Laura countered, “waiting for the phone to ring, fighting off macho morons who can’t take no for an answer—”

  Julie closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s such a wonderful experience, meeting someone you’re crazy about and falling madly in love. You can’t eat, you can’t sleep ... all you want is to be with him.”

  Claire was wearing a similarly dreamy expression. “The sex at the beginning is always fantastic. Not the first time, of course. That’s always awful. But once you start learning the rhythm of someone else’s body . . .”

  “Frankly, I don’t think there’s any way I’d ever be willing to go through all that again.” The mere thought made Laura shudder. “Putting yourself on the line, taking risks, making sure your hair is clean all the time ... It’s more than any human being should ever have to endure.”

  “Now, Laura,” Julie scolded, “you have to change your attitude.”

  “I do? Why?”

  “Sex, for one thing,” Claire replied. “Don’t you miss great sex?”

  “I’ve been missing great sex ever since I got married.”

  “We have to find you somebody,” said Julie. “You know what they say. When you fall off a horse, it’s important to get right back into the saddle.”

  “I’d rather take my car, thanks.” Laura sighed. “Look, I know you’re both just trying to be helpful. But the way I feel about getting into a relationship is like working in a chemical plant, getting cancer, going through torturous treatments and finally being cured ... and then saying, ‘Gee, think I’ll stop over at the nuclear power plant and see if they have any job openings.’ ”

  “Poor Laura,” Julie cooed, shaking her head slowly. “Have you really become so disillusioned?”

  “Try self-protective.”

  “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone, do you?” asked Julie.

  Laura was almost embarrassed to admit that that was exactly what she wanted. She had a favorite fantasy she played in her mind several times a day with precisely that theme. Living with Evan in a tiny cottage, not unlike Julie’s. There’d be a white picket fence, rose bushes, and a larder full of her favorite cookies. She’d stay up all night watching reruns of classic sitcoms on cable. She’d eat Klondike bars for dinner. She’d luxuriate in a queen-sized bed outfitted with soft flannel sheets ... blissfully alone.

  Such freedom! How glorious it sounded. To be in total control of one’s destiny, one’s schedule, one’s dietary habits ...

  “What’s wrong with living alone?” Laura demanded.

  “Nothing,” said Claire. “Personally, I love living alone.”

  “You know, Claire,” Julie said, her eyes fixed on the edge of her coffee mug, “I’ve always wondered why you never married again. Or got into another committed relationship.”

  “Because I’m smart enough to learn from my mistakes.”

  “Is that really it?” asked Laura. “Or is it that you never found yourself another Mr. Right?”

  “Oh, I’ve come across some contenders. I just ...” Claire bit her lip. “Never again will I put myself in a position where a man can cause me as much pain as the first ‘Mr. Right.’ ”

  There was a long silence before Laura said in a soft voice, “Claire’s got a point. Living alone is fine, if that’s the choice a woman makes.”

  “Is that what you really want?” Julie asked.

  “It certainly sounds safe,” Laura said.

  “Maybe,” mused Julie, “but is ‘safe’ enough to make you happy?”

  “Right now safe sounds more important than happy.” Laura sighed. “What about you, Julie? Are you happy, being with George’?”

  “I love George,” Julie said a little too quickly. “Being with him is ... comfortable.”

  “Comfortable?” Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “There’s something to be said for comfortable.” Julie toyed with the ends of her braid. “We’re good for each other. We ... we fit.”

  “Sounds like an underwear ad,” Claire muttered.

  “Oh, it’s not perfect,” Julie went on. “George and I have our ups and downs. But every couple does. It’s part of life.”

  “ ‘Every couple has its ups and downs,’ “ Laura mimicked. “I hate that line. It’s right out of the Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  “It happens to be true,” Julie insisted.

  “Well, the ups are fine. It’s the downs I can live without.”

  “Look,” Claire said tiredly, “if you don’t want to date, that’s fine. Frankly, I couldn’t blame you for resisting the advances of the swinging bus driver at the Robin Hood Inn. But at least try meeting some new people. Get out of the house, have a little fun—”

  “Join a club!” Julie suggested brightly.

  “Sounds like advice from a high school guidance counselor,” Laura grumbled.

  The wheels in Claire’s brain were clearly turning. “Let’s see.... How about a sailing club?”

  Laura shook her head. “I had enough of the open seas with Roger.” She held up her left hand, warding off the idea.

  “How about golf?”

  “I look awful in kelly green.”

  “You could always go skiing again.”

  “Going down the mountain was fine. It was standing around the bar, feeling like a seventh grader at her first school dance, I can do without.”

  Claire sighed. “How about you, Julie? Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Hmmm?” She blinked hard, dragging her gaze away from the fire. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about something else.”

  “Clearly.” Claire eyed her carefully, a strange look on her face. “You have that unmistakable glow in your cheeks, that glint in your eyes. . . . Fantasizing about George?”

  Instantly Julie turned a deep shade of crimson. “Uh, no. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about the new patient of mine. You know. Bob.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Claire. “The man with the stiff pectineus. What about him?”

  Julie hesitated, casting a furtive look to the right and then to the left as if someone might be eavesdropping. In a hoarse whisper she said, “You’re not going to believe this—in fact, I wasn’t even going to say anything—but he asked me to have coffee with him.”

  “Coffee?” Claire repeated, her eyebrows rising. “Is that all?”

  “Of course that’s all!” Julie’s tone was indignant, but the color of her cheeks had deepened into a nice shade of red. “We’re just ... friends, that’s all.”

  “And what did you say?” asked Laura.

  “Knowing Julie,” Claire said, waving her hand in the air, “she slapped his naughty little face.”

  “Actually ...” Julie cleared her throat. “I said yes.”

  “You said what!” Laura cried.

  “Way to go, Julie!” Claire sounded impressed. “Good girl. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to say yes, it’s just that it was so sudden. And I wasn’t sure what he meant, and I didn’t want to be rude....”

  Laura and Claire stared at her expectantly.

  “I was working
out a knot in his adductor longus—

  “Oh, it’s his adductor longus now,” Claire interrupted.

  Julie didn’t even glance in her direction. “I was chattering away about the trip George and I took to Aruba last winter. Bobby had said—”

  “Bobby?” Claire interrupted.

  Julie bit her lip. “He said that’s what all his friends call him.”

  “Ah,” said Laura. “So he’s progressed from a client to a friend.”

  Squirming in her seat, Julie said, “When you’re working on somebody day after day, week after week, you develop a kind of ... intimacy.”

  “Especially if that somebody has his shirt off,” said Claire. “Probably his pants, too, if you’ve got your fingers wrapped around his longus.”

  “It’s not like that at all,” Julie insisted. “Anyway, Bobby had been saying he was thinking about a trip to the Caribbean, and I was telling him how much I’d enjoyed Aruba. He asked me if I remembered the name of the travel agent who’d booked the tour, and I said yes. Then he asked me if I still had the brochure, and I said yes. Then he asked me—”

  “I can’t wait to hear this one,” Claire interjected.

  “He asked me if I had any photographs from the vacation, and I said yes.” Julie paused to take a deep breath. “And then he asked me if I’d meet him for coffee so I could show him.”

  “Show him what?” Laura demanded.

  “The pictures! And the brochures.” With a shrug Julie said, “So of course, I said yes. It all seemed so innocent. Everything flowed so naturally. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized how the whole thing sounded.”

  “You didn’t tell George, did you?” Claire was making a statement more than asking a question. “He with whom you ‘fit’ as well as a pair of Fruit of the Looms?”

  “I would have,” Julie insisted, her voice strangely high-pitched, “but I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

  Claire leaned forward, folding her arms across her chest. “This is delicious. You are going to tell us every single sordid detail, aren’t you?”

  “You know, Julie,” said Laura, “you could cancel. Just call up this Bob—”