Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Believe it, Julie. Believe it, and run as fast as your yellow high-tops can carry you.”

  “Before you do,” Laura suggested dryly, “why don’t you grab that box off the coffee table?”

  “Wait a minute!” Julie protested. “I’m not running anywhere. Bobby Weiss is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m not going to break up with him because of some silly box.”

  “In that case,” Claire said bitterly, “I can give you an entire encyclopedia filled with despicable things the man did during the eight years we were married.”

  “Julie,” said Laura, “do you really want to date this man now that you know he’s Claire’s ex-husband?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I was in love with him before, and I knew perfectly well he was somebody’s ex-husband. What difference does it make that he’s turned out to be Claire’s?”

  Claire was pacing around the room, her hands clenched into fists. “I don’t believe this. Don’t you care that when he used to come in late, he’d come into the bedroom and turn on the light, even though I was asleep? Or that he had this annoying habit of walking into the bathroom and trimming his nose hairs while I was in the bathtub? Or that he hung on to the rattiest sport jacket in the entire universe just so he could make me mad by insisting on wearing it every time we went out?”

  “I’m a big girl,” Julie said crisply, “capable of making my own decisions. I don’t need—”

  “Julie, listen to me,” Claire interrupted. Her gaze was steely, but her voice faltered. “Don’t you care that we’re talking about a man who was unfaithful to his wife?”

  “I don’t care,” Julie insisted. Her expression was equally hard, her tone much more confident. “With me, he’s different.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Get on with your life,” muttered Laura.

  She paused outside the Y’s meeting room, where the Wednesday-night Divorce and Separation Support Group’s coffee hour had taken on the atmosphere of a happy hour. Despite the fact that January was long gone and even February was beginning to turn into old news, she hadn’t forgotten her resolutions.

  In the spirit of living up to the promises she’d made to herself on New Year’s Eve, she’d decided it was finally time to move out of Group One and into Group Two. While she wasn’t quite ready for life in the fast lane, she was at least willing to move off the entrance ramp and onto the highway.

  Heading toward the library and a collection of folks noticeably more animated than those left behind in Merry’s care, Laura felt a pang of nervousness. A different setting, a roomful of strangers ... the feeling that too many challenges were being thrown her way, made it a difficult step.

  She told herself it was good for her to push herself. That with each new experience, she became a little stronger. A little more independent. A little less the passenger on the roller coaster, holding on for dear life.

  She relaxed when she saw how upbeat the mood in the library was. Instead of what she’d grown accustomed to in Group One—dour expressions, heavy movements like a scene filmed in slow motion—here people talked and even laughed as they arranged chairs in a circle. Group Two was much larger as well. Making a quick count, Laura came up with thirty-three.

  “Let’s get started.” A woman’s voice, deep and tough with a thick New York accent, broke through the din. The effect was startling, like the bleep-bleep-bleep of a truck backing up. “Hello, evvybody. My name is Phyllis, and this is Group Two of the Divorce and Separation Support Group. If you’re looking for AA or NA or any other kind of A, you’re in the wrong place.”

  She paused as the group laughed. This woman’s working the room like a comedian in Vegas, Laura thought. In fact, she has some of the same glitziness.

  Phyllis’s makeup was theatrical, her fluffy hair a golden apricot color that picked up the fluorescent light like a reflector. Her fashion choices leaned toward loud colors and stretchy fabrics. Her long fingernails were lacquered blood-red, and her numerous pieces of jewelry seemed big enough to be considered lethal weapons.

  “Okay, so who wants to start tonight?” Phyllis looked around the circle, frowning when she got no response. “What, all of a sudden everybody’s shy? Nobody’s allowed to be shy in my group. Tell you what: I’ll start by telling a joke. What’s the difference between a penis that’s medium and one that’s rare?”

  Nervous chuckling followed, along with a few titters, but there was no response.

  “This is one that’s medium.” Phyllis held her hands a few inches apart. Then she moved them much farther apart. “This is one that’s rare.”

  Good move, coming here, Laura thought, joining the others in their laughter. Much more therapeutic than Group One’s gloom.

  “Now that the ice has been broken,” Phyllis went on, “who wants to tell us what they’ve been up to? Anybody here dating? Elaine, how about you?”

  She’d zeroed in on a plump woman a few seats away. Glancing up, Elaine grimaced.

  “Are you kidding?” she snorted. “All men are pigs. Last week a friend of mine gives my number to some guy she knows from work, right? She tells me he’s going through a divorce, he’s really hot to meet women. . . . Anyway, he calls me up, what, last Thursday night. We end up talking on the phone for, like, two hours.

  “So I’m really startin’ to think we have somethin’ going, you know? And then he says why don’t we have dinner Saturday night, and I say fine....”

  “So what happened?” Phyllis asked calmly.

  “So he asks me where I live and I tell him Deer Park. Well, all of a sudden you’d think I’d told him I had leprosy. I can tell something’s wrong, but he won’t tell me what. Finally I get it outta him. Turns out he lives in Mineola, like fifteen miles away, and he doesn’t wanna drive so far.” She shook her head disgustedly. “I’m tellin’ ya, they’re all slime.”

  Carolyn, another émigré from Group One, raised her hand. “I had a bad dating experience this week, too.” Nervously she smoothed the skirt of her tweed business suit. “Saturday night I went out with a guy I’d met at a singles bar a couple of weeks ago. He seemed okay at first—”

  “They always do,” Elaine muttered.

  “We went out for dinner. That part went pretty smoothly. Then we went back to his apartment. He said he’d gotten one of those new coffeemakers for Christmas, and he wanted to make cappuccino.

  “Everything was fine—until I was ready to leave. That was when he asked me to spend the night. I said no. So he said, “Then do you mind if I masturbate in front of you?’ “

  Laura was considering checking into a convent when Elaine broke in. “Like I said. Men are pigs.”

  “Maybe we need to hear from some of the men in the group,” Phyllis suggested. “Let’s get another point of view.”

  “So both of you happened to meet up with a couple of creeps,” volunteered a man who identified himself as Ken, sitting directly across from Laura. He was tall and lanky, with a mustache and a thick head of hair. “But I’ll tell ya, there’s a lot of crazy women running around out there, too.”

  “That’s for sure,” a second man, shorter and considerably less hairy, chimed in. “And if they’re not crazy, all they’re interested in is the size of a man’s wallet. They don’t care diddly about what kind of person he really is.”

  “Sounds like something bad happened to you, Jake,” Phyllis prompted.

  “You could say that. A couple of weeks ago I went to a party. There were a few women there. But I felt like they were all giving me the third degree. They wanted to know what kind of job I have, what kind of car I drive—”

  “Ever get the question about whether or not you own your own home?” Ken was shaking his head. “Half the time, when 1 take a woman out to dinner, I feel like I’m on a job interview.”

  “Yeah, right,” snorted Jake. “Except no potential employer would dare ask these questions.”

  “Sounds like there’s a lot of mistrust between the se
xes,” Phyllis observed. “Getting a divorce can do that. It causes people a lot of pain, feelings of betrayal.... It makes them reluctant to put themselves on the line again.”

  My sentiments exactly, Laura was thinking.

  “I don’t think all men are slime.” A lone voice, soft and tentative, broke through the anger in the room. “As a matter of fact, I’ve started seeing somebody really nice.”

  A woman who hadn’t spoken before had raised her hand.

  “I think Dolores has something to share,” said Phyllis.

  “I met him in the supermarket, of all places. We were both in line at the deli counter. We were waiting for the longest tune, and, well, we got to talking. Right from the start he seemed really nice. He was funny, easy to get along with.... Anyway, he finally said, ‘I don’t usually pick up women in the supermarket, but would you like to have coffee?’

  “That was about a month ago. Since then, we’ve been seeing each other every chance we get.” Dolores sighed, twirling a strand of long brown hair around one finger. Her eyes were shining. “I feel sixteen again. It’s so wonderful, falling in love all over again. I—I never thought it would happen. Not a second time. And it’s even better than when I met my husband. I’m older, more sure of myself ... more certain of what I’m looking for.

  “Anyway, it’s still a little soon to tell, but . . .” She looked around the circle, her cheeks reddening. “I think I’ve found myself a good man this time.”

  Laura’s heart fluttered. There it was again, that same haunting image that had forced its way into her brain on New Year’s Eve. She saw herself flitting through a field of wildflowers with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Or maybe he was short and blond. Or medium with brown hair and a distinctive bald spot and a face that wasn’t exactly handsome but lit up nicely when he smiled...

  The details didn’t matter. What did matter was that once again, when she’d dared let her guard down, that distinctive longing for some other person with whom to travel through flower-covered fields had crept up on her.

  Again Laura attempted to push it out of her mind, calling upon her list of logical reasons why that image was dangerous. And again her attempts failed. Something that defied all reason caused a yearning to well up inside her.

  Later that night, as she sat alone in her silent house, Laura found herself staring at the phone. The voices of the other group members echoed through her head like the special effects in a grade-B movie.

  Men are slime.... It’s so wonderful, falling in love all over again. . . . There’s a lot of mistrust between the sexes. . . . I feel sixteen. . . . I think I’ve found myself a good man this time....

  Do it, a voice inside her head urged.

  What are you, nuts? a second voice countered.

  And then she took a deep breath. Rifling through her pocketbook, she found the “Eat, Drink, and Be Sorry” napkin. Her hands trembling, she picked up the phone and punched the numbers Richie had written.

  Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer....

  “Hello, Richie? Oh, hi.” Nervously she cleared her throat. “This is Laura Briggs. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at—oh, you do? I was? You have?”

  Oh, boy.

  * * * *

  “May I offer you more champagne?” the near-stranger purrs, bending the bottle of Moet & Chandon over Laura’s tulip glass, made of the finest crystal.

  “Why, yes,” she replies. For a moment she gazes at him, overwhelmed by how handsome he is. Even features, a roguish mustache, sparkling dark eyes that fix upon hers with such intensity she feels as if he can see straight into her very heart and soul.

  Then she looks past his shoulder—an unusually broad, muscular shoulder, covered in dark blue silky fabric that shimmers with every moment. Not far beyond she can see the sea, a luminescent shade of turquoise. The bright Caribbean sun glints off the gentle waves, rhythmically lapping against the pink beach that lies between the water and the veranda on which they sit, head to head.

  “Laura,” he murmurs in a thick but exotic European accent, “did you know your eyes are the color of the sea?” He gestures toward the panorama behind him.

  “You make me blush,” she coos.

  He moves closer. She can feel the heat from his body. “Did you know your ears are as lovely as the most delicate seashell?”

  “I— I don’t know what to say.”

  Underneath the table, she can feel the hard muscles of his thigh, pushing urgently against hers. He reaches for her hand, gently bringing it to his lips.

  “Did you know there’s a booger hanging from your nose?”

  * * * *

  “Evan!” Laura screeched, turning from the bathroom mirror, mascara wand poised in midair. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to watch you put that slop all over your face.” He was scowling, and slamming his Softball into his catcher’s mitt over and over.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing something more worthwhile than playing Peeping Tom? Reading a good book? Memorizing the multiplication tables?” She turned back to the mirror. “Working in a factory?”

  “Aw, you don’t really have a booger in your nose.”

  “I know.”

  Laura had been staring at her reflection for a good fifteen minutes, pawing through the cosmetics piled up in a Rubbermaid storage bin. She only hoped the Clarion computer knew as much as it claimed about matching synthetic makeup shades to nature’s own skin tones.

  “Where are you going tonight, anyway? Are you giving a speech?”

  “No.”

  “Doing an autographing? Going to a writers’ meeting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Evan was silent, still slamming the ball into his glove. Suddenly he sniffed the air and grimaced. “Hey, what’s that smell?”

  “Perfume. Beautiful, to be exact. Look, Evan, I’m not going to a writers’ meeting or giving a speech or doing anything like that. Tonight I’m going out to dinner with a friend.”

  “Who, Julie?”

  “Not, not Julie.”

  “Claire?”

  “It’s somebody new.” She could see her son’s face reflected in the bathroom mirror. “Somebody you don’t know.”

  “Oh.” He looked her up and down. “Gee, you must be going someplace pretty fancy. You’re wearing a dress and everything!”

  “Actually, I’m not sure where I’m go—”

  “Can I go watch Rugrats?”

  “Sure. Annie’s baby-sitting tonight. She should be here any minute.”

  “ ‘Kay.” He turned away, his interest in Laura’s social activities having already waned.

  “Hey, Ev?” Laura called after him.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  ‘The person I’m going out with tonight—”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a man. He’s just a friend,” she added quickly. “I met him in a ... a club I joined.”

  Evan was silent for a long time. Finally, in a odd voice, he asked, “Is this, like, a date?”

  “Not really. Well, maybe in a way ... He’s just a nice man who I enjoyed talking to, so I thought it might be fun to have dinner with him.” She turned around and looked at Evan, hoping to see some understanding there. Instead, his face was expressionless.

  “I’m gonna go turn on Rugrats.” He scampered away.

  Just as she had done for her first date back in junior high school, Laura had placed the things she’d need in strategic spots around the room in anticipation of Richie’s arrival. She desperately wanted everything to go smoothly. And so she’d slung her jacket across the back of a chair to avoid a wrestling match with a hanger. On a table near the front door she’d placed her purse, her version of a portable disaster kit. In it she’d packed tissues in case the rest room was out of toilet paper. Dental floss, in case spinach was on the menu. A small mirror because of the ever-present possibility of some alien substance coming between her eye and her contact lens. And of course, she’d tucked a
way enough cash to get herself home in a taxi if her date got drunk, abandoned her, or turned out to be a sex maniac, felon, or insurance salesman.

  When she heard the doorbell ring, Laura forced a smile and, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach, flung open the front door. Richie was standing on her doorstep, clutching a bouquet of flowers. It would have been a sweet moment if she hadn’t been so nervous.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello, Laura. You look really pretty. Here, I brought you these flowers. Maybe you’d better get them in some water. They’re already starting to look a little dry.”

  Ah. Richie was good at this. He’d done this dating thing before—at least more recently than she had. Laura relaxed.

  At least one of us knows what he’s doing, she thought. Maybe I can get by simply following his lead.

  “Thanks, Richie. Here, I’ll take these into the kitchen.” Leading him into the living room, she nearly tripped over her son, sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV. “Evan, this is Richie. Richie, my son, Evan.”

  Evan never took his eyes off the screen. “One of his favorite shows,” she said apologetically. “I’ll, uh, put these in a vase.”

  In the kitchen, Laura took her time arranging the cheerful bouquet in a crystal vase that had been a wedding present. Meanwhile she kept an ear cocked toward the living room. She was anxious to hear how the two males were getting along. So far, so good. At least no violence had erupted. Instead, the usual banalities were being exchanged, with Richie predictably doing most of the work.

  “So, Evan, what are you watching?”

  “Rugrats.”

  “Oh, yeah. I think I heard of that. That’s supposed to be a pretty good show.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence; then: “What grade are you in?”

  “Third.”

  “You like school?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Another silence. Laura was about to carry the vase into the dining room when she heard Evan say, “My mom’s forty, you know.”

  “Evan!” Laura cried, rushing into the living room.