The Affair

by Debra Kent

  ’Til next time,

  June 19

  When I got to my desk this morning, I found this quotation, generated by my screen saver, scrolling across the computer screen: “Revenge is a luscious fruit which you must leave to ripen.”

  By the time my appointment with Dick Popavitchi rolled around, I had no misgivings about busting Diana. My PMS had subsided and, with it, so had my neurotic fear that she would murder me or take Pete hostage.

  As I studied the photocopies of her dummy accounts and fabricated AIDS patients one last time before my appointment with Dick, I remembered everything she’d said and done to torment and humiliate me, going as far as to call Eddie’s house and send Mrs. DeLuca after me. (Eddie told me later that when Mrs. DeLuca answered the phone, Diana began prattling at once, unaware that she was talking to the mother, not the daughter. Mrs. DeLuca set her straight, told her she had no intention of sharing Diana’s suspicions with Patty, but planned to “discuss” the issue with me directly. Later that evening, Mrs. DeLuca confronted Eddie privately, and he promptly denied everything. To this day, Patty still knows nothing about Diana’s call or her mother’s visit to my office.)

  The truth is that when Diana first started teasing me about Eddie, shortly before I’d seriously considered sleeping with him, I thought divine providence had sent her my way. I stupidly imagined that Diana, like Jiminy Cricket, would give voice to my higher self, keep me on the straight path, remind me of my moral obligation to remain faithful to my husband.

  I soon came to realize that there was nothing divine or moral about Diana. God hadn’t sent her, the devil had. Like a grade school bully, Diana’s only goal—her mission—was to make my life miserable. But by 2 P.M. on Tuesday, her reign of terror had finally come to an end. And no Melrose Place writer could have scripted it more beautifully.

  A half hour before I was scheduled to meet with Dick, Diana strolled by my office and, seeing I had no client, walked right in. She asked me something like, “How’s your boy?” For a moment I thought she was talking about Petey, but then she said, “You know, GardenBoy.” She plopped down on my desk (actually put her fat ass on the file I compiled against her!) and told me that she was planning to cancel the Center’s contract with Eddie’s company. She said she was sick of seeing him around the office. “Surely you can find some other place to meet your loverboy.”

  Then, in a moment so perfectly timed it felt like someone else’s life, I looked into Diana’s eyes, straight through to her rotten core, and said, “It’s over.” I even managed a genuine chuckle, the purest indication that, at last, I had the advantage.

  “I know about the grant you’ve been draining, the fake AIDS patients, the dummy account at First Liberty.” Diana suddenly had the panicked, wild-eyed look of a trapped animal. It was a beautiful sight. She insisted I couldn’t prove a thing. I didn’t tell her about the photocopied bank statements and fabricated client files—I was afraid she’d disappear before I had the pleasure of seeing her escorted from the building.

  Which is exactly what happened, at 3 P.M. the following day, in front of the entire staff.

  I plucked the fruit of revenge. It was, as promised, luscious.

  ’Til next time,

  June 21

  I got my period this morning. I stared in disbelief at the dark stain in my underwear. I canceled my first appointment. I’ll be fine if I can just stop crying.

  ’Til next time,

  June 26

  A horrible week. Petey has regressed so much that I’m considering putting him in Pull-Ups (the only thing stopping me is knowing how humiliated he would be to go back to diapers). The preschool teacher, who seemed so patient and understanding only two weeks ago, is obviously at the end of her rope. When I stopped by to bring yet another set of dry clothes, Linda reminded me of the school’s policy of admitting only toilet-trained children, and told me that if things didn’t change we might have to find another preschool for Petey. I cried all the way back to the office.

  Eddie sent me an e-mail today that read: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Noticed a beauty mark on your inner thigh. Would like to see it again sometime soon. Roundtree next week?”

  As lousy as I’d felt when I got to the office, the message sent a flare through my body. Eddie’s attention is like a drug. I am an addict. I know it’s destroying my family but I cannot seem to turn away. I wrote back, “Mmmmmm. Yes.”

  I have no idea whether Roger is still seeing Alyssa. Someone called the house on Sunday during dinner and hung up when I answered. The Caller ID read, “anonymous call,” so whoever it was knew how to circumvent the system. I immediately suspected it was Alyssa and impulsively said, “Your girlfriend, no doubt.” Petey said, “You have a girlfriend, Daddy?” He knew the word—Roger’s father is always teasing him about the cute girls in his class—and now looked confused. Somewhere in his four-year-old brain he knew that a daddy can’t have a girlfriend when he already has a wife. His question made me sick to my stomach.

  Roger said something like, “Of course Daddy doesn’t have a girlfriend, silly boy.” Then he went on babbling about how you can have girls who are friends but that doesn’t make them girlfriends, and that girlfriends were different. I was hoping Petey would lose interest in the subject but he pressed on. Next he asked, “Is Mommy your girlfriend?” I started clearing the plates. I was afraid to hear what might come next. “No, Mommy’s my wife. She used to be my girlfriend, though.”

  I looked at Roger across the kitchen and his eyes met mine. His eyebrows were raised and there was the slightest hint of a smile. Was that a wistful look flickering across his face? Did I detect a trace of love? It was hard to know. But just then I remembered that yes, I was his girlfriend once. And we were deeply in love.

  After getting Roger’s reluctant consent, I called Bonita Loeb and arranged an appointment. Bonita specializes in what she calls “triage therapy,” counseling couples on the brink of divorce. Her success rate is about 60 percent—although she has told me that she considers it equally successful when couples realize they cannot remain happily married. I wonder which kind of “success” is in store for Roger and me.

  That’s all for now.

  ’Til next time,

  July 2

  Roger and I had our first appointment with Bonita Loeb yesterday. It did not go well. At first, Roger sat slumped in his chair like a sullen teenager, arms across his chest. I wasn’t surprised. Seeing a therapist was my idea, not his. And even though he’s married to one, he has never held the profession in particularly high regard. He says psychology is not a science but an ideology based purely on theory.

  Bonita started with the standard question: “Why are you here today?” I waited to see whether Roger would offer an explanation, but he stared intently at the floor, as if he were watching a parade of ants move across the tile. I’ve seen him do this before; he once admitted that he counts floor tiles when he’s in uncomfortable situations. Finally, I said, “We’re here because our marriage is deteriorating and we have a little boy who seems to be …” I stopped myself. Maybe it was too soon to draw conclusions about Petey. The truth is, I felt so deeply remorseful about the possibility that I’ve caused Petey’s bed-wetting that I simply couldn’t bring myself to articulate the situation. I wasn’t ready. Bonita asked Roger whether he thought the marriage was deteriorating. He shrugged.

  So there we were, in Bonita’s lavishly decorated, sunlit office, and Roger wasn’t talking. I’ve confronted this situation in my own practice. Men can be notoriously recalcitrant, especially if they suspect that the therapist and wife are in cahoots. I have gone to great lengths to engage the husband, which is probably what Bonita was attempting to do when she playfully nudged Roger’s leg with the tip of her high-heeled shoe and, later, tugged at his shirt sleeve. (“Talk to me, Roger,” she said, laughing. “This is your dime. Make the most of it.”)

  And it sure did work. Roger sat taller in his chair and turned to face her as he spoke. He became
animated as he described his career as a playwright and the success of his first play. Bonita looked fascinated (although I suspect she wanted him to describe his feelings, not his résumé). Suddenly the two of them were talking and laughing like old friends, and though the playful repartee was strategic on her part, I was beginning to feel left out. Soon I was convinced she was flirting with my husband. And by the end of the session, I decided she reminded me too much of Diana. I can’t go back to her.

  I did, however, make a minuscule step toward repairing my marriage by starting a gratitude journal. I know it sounds New Agey, but I’ve heard it can work miracles, so I gave it a try. I forced myself to think of one thing about Roger for which I’m grateful. This is what I came up with:

  1. I am grateful that Roger does not beat me.

  Eddie and I never did make it to the Roundtree this week. He has a pinched nerve and is flat on his back at home. It kills me to imagine Patty tending him. Somehow he manages to find time to send daily e-mails from his laptop. Today’s message:

  “Can’t believe I’m stuck here in bed. Would rather be with you (in bed). Are you wearing the black bra today?”

  I blushed and quickly turned off my monitor. How can I ever hope to work on my marriage with Eddie constantly enticing me like this?

  ’Til next time,

  July 9

  Last month the senior partners at the center voted to establish a phone tree so staff could be quickly notified in the event of an emergency. Today the tree was informally put to the test: At 7:30 I got a call from Filomena Perez: Diana Pierce was sentenced to nine months in a minimum security women’s prison.

  ’Til next time,

  July 10

  Eddie’s back is still bothering him and he’s considering surgery. I don’t want to think of him as frail, vulnerable. That’s not a lover, that’s a husband. I like having him back in the office, but knowing that he’s within fifty feet of my desk makes it impossible to concentrate. I find myself daydreaming about him while I’m in session with clients and they’re beginning to notice. Today my client Louis interrupted my reverie by telling me I seemed “distracted.” And now I feel guilty, because instead of apologizing and admitting he was right, I turned it into a therapeutic moment and asked, detachedly, “Why do you feel that way?”

  Petey has had a few dry days. The day care center isn’t going to eject him—at least not this week.

  Decided to give Bonita Loeb a second chance. I can see why people call her work “guerrilla marriage counseling.” Some of her ideas are so unorthodox I wonder if they’re even ethical. She said she sometimes has couples invite their lovers to therapy. Can you imagine? Me, Roger, Alyssa, and Eddie in group therapy? Another technique: Roger and I are supposed to treat each other as if we’re happily married, even though our relationship is on the verge of collapse. “Imagine you’re actors!” she exhorted. “Go for an Academy Award! Make it a winning performance!” Roger slumped a little lower in his chair. I felt myself stiffen. Can’t imagine what she’ll come up with next week. Maybe she’ll have us dress in costume. Or bring boxing gloves. God only knows.

  Saw an article in the paper last week about infidelity. Very amusing. These experts claim to understand why men have affairs—it’s all evolutionary, they say. Males are programmed to ensure the survival of the species by mating with as many females as possible. But the social straitjacket of monogamy stops them from dispersing their seed hither and yon. Those married men who get a little on the side are simply obeying a deeply rooted biological mandate. Or so the theory goes.

  Now here’s what has the pundits stumped: Women who stray. It just doesn’t make sense, evolutionarily speaking. Mothers are naturally inclined to seek the stability of pairing with one male. Female infidelity goes against the evolutionary logic.

  Give me a break. These (male) researchers should spend less time in the stacks and more time talking with real women. They got one thing right, though. It’s all about survival. I’d tell them how it feels to be brought back from the dead by another man’s touch, gaze, mouth. I’d tell them what it’s like to have him trace his finger along my neck and ignite every cell in my body. A man who listens without arguing or judging. This isn’t about evolution, it’s about attention.

  Last night I lay in bed beside Roger as he relentlessly clicked through the channels, his face pasty and pale in the blue glare from the Zenith. He’d start with the Christian network on 3, make his way to the shopping channel on 46, then back to 3 again. Again and again and again until I thought I would scream. I rolled over, closed my eyes, and remembered Eddie’s reaction when I’d told him about Roger’s TV fixation. “If I had you in my bed, I wouldn’t have time to watch television.” He was sitting on the edge of my desk, legs splayed. He pulled me against him, and I could feel his arousal. He smiled and pulled me even closer. I knew he wanted to have me there, in my office, on the desk. We could have. It was late. Even the cleaning ladies had gone for the night. I wanted to. But then I recalled something Bonita Loeb had said: “Screwing around while you’re in marriage counseling is like smoking during heart surgery.”

  Oops, almost forgot about my gratitude list.

  2. I’m grateful that Roger isn’t a crack addict.

  ’Til next time,

  July 17

  I’m afraid Roger and I did not fulfill Bonita’s homework assignment. For one week we were to behave as if we were happily married. That meant engaging in respectful conversation, behaving cooperatively, touching affectionately, going out together. “Does it also mean we’re supposed to have sex?” Roger had asked suspiciously.

  “Sure!” Bonita exclaimed, silver hair bobbing, oblivious to the fact that Roger hoped to avoid sex, not invite it. “If the spirit moves you, why not? Remember, you’re pretending to be happy. And happy couples have sex.”

  Who remembers? It’s been so long since Roger and I could be classified as a happily married couple, I can’t recall the last time our lovemaking was prompted by genuine happiness or mutual attraction. Our motivations were more utilitarian: procreation, duty. Sometimes we would do it after we’d had too much wine. Or after he’d surfed the porn sites on the Web. Or after he’d read some survey on the statistical frequency of sex among married couples (Roger hates to feel as if he’s not keeping apace with the norm).

  More often than not, sex would happen after he had exhausted all the TV channels. It never began with a kiss or a stroke, or even sexy words. He would reluctantly switch off the set, stare at the ceiling, and mumble, “I guess we should have sex. It’s been a while, huh?”

  And I would say, “Yeah. Guess so.” Ten minutes later it was over. Roger would check the TV one more time, just in case there was something worth watching on ESPN.

  So when Bonita Loeb encouraged us to act as if we were happily married, I’m not sure either of us knew what to do. At one point I greeted Roger at the door with a kiss and a cold beer (always the teacher-pleaser, I felt compelled to do as told). Roger reached for the beer and kissed me quickly, then headed for Petey’s bedroom. I called after him, “That’s it? Aren’t you going to ask about my day? Remember our assignment? We’re supposed to be happy!” I know I sounded shrill, whiney. He came back into the hallway and harshly whispered: “The assignment’s bullshit. I’m no friggin’ actor, and neither are you.”

  Damn him. I felt like an ass, having stood there with the beer, ready to kiss his cold lips. But I couldn’t just blow off the assignment. Why couldn’t he have at least tried? But maybe Bonita’s strategies can’t work for a marriage that’s already dead. It’s like the time I told a depressed patient to force herself to smile three times a day. The advice was based on a study that showed that the act of smiling actually tricks the brain into thinking it’s happy. Maybe that’s all it takes for someone who’s a little grumpy now and then, but my patient was clinically depressed, suicidal. She needed medication, not some silly trick.

  Silly tricks won’t help our marriage, either. Bonita, however, was un
deterred. “Try again. Give it another week.” She grasped our hands in hers. “You two can do this.”

  Then she went into a little spiel I’m sure she’s recited a thousand times. She walked over to her door and opened it with a flourish. “Imagine you’re on a rocket ship. You’re about to take off. Everybody’s buckled in, the engines are rumbling. Now comes the countdown, and the rocket is launched.” Bonita slammed the door dramatically. “No exit. You’re stuck on this rocket and you’re not going anywhere. No matter how bad it gets, you’re staying.”

  She sat down with us again. “I want you to think of your marriage like that. You’ve decided that you must stay together, if only for Petey’s sake. There are no exits. So let’s work through this mess and maybe you’ll discover that your journey together ain’t half bad.”

  Inspiring? Sure. But rockets also explode in midflight sometimes.

  As for my gratitude list, I think I’ll have to pass this week.

  ’Til next time,

  July 24

  I told Eddie that Roger and I had started marriage counseling. He responded with something like, “Good for you. You should try to make it work, I mean, with Petey and all.”

  But he looked stricken. Wednesday morning, over coffee at McDonald’s, he wanted to know more about the counseling. “So how’s it going? You know. The therapy.” He seemed anxious, bordering on needy. I’d never seen him that way. It was pathetic. I wanted to tell him the truth and say: “Counseling is a farce. We’re supposed to do all these dumb homework assignments as if that’s all it takes to put this mess of a marriage back together. I’m trying, but Roger’s acting like a jackass, and I’d rather jump out of the rocket now and spend the rest of my life orbiting Pluto than stay stuck in a burning marriage with no exits.”