by Debra Kent
“Yeah, Roger. A separation. For now, let’s just call it that.”
I watched him slouch his way back to the van, looking for all the world like a panhandler. He turned and waved. I realized he wasn’t waving to me, but to Petey, who must have been watching from his window upstairs. Roger heaved himself into the van, slumped over the wheel, and appeared to be crying.
I raced upstairs to Petey, who was now curled in the fetal position on bed, sucking his thumb. “Is Dad coming back?” he mumbled. I felt I had to be honest with him. “Not for a while, sweetie.” His little body curled more tightly. I hate myself and I hate Roger for what we’re putting this child through.
Other news: I obsessed all week about pregnant Patty, then finally decided to confront Eddie. I e-mailed him today at [email protected].
Eddie:
Had a cancellation. My Monday is now totally open. How would you feel about me coming by to check out your new place? Are you free?
Val
Literally forty seconds later, I got this reply:
Val:
Are you senous? If so, you are most welcome to check out my new place. How about if I get some carrot soup and fresh bread from Water Lily? (Is carrot soup still your favorite?) Write back to confirm, please.
Eddie
I felt guilty when I read that. He was already gearing up for a cozy afternoon of soup-slurping and sex, while I was planning my attack. He even remembered that I love carrot soup. In just this brief e-mail I could sense his urgency. God, what am I doing? What, exactly, do I want from this man? Why stir things up when it would be far more responsible, ethical, moral, and mature to just leave him alone? Then I remembered Patty, bulging with child number four, and I felt my chest tighten. I e-mailed back:
Eddie:
Yes, I’m serious. But let’s skip the food. I have to talk to you.
Val
And again, seconds later, I received this:
Val:
Okay. Whatever you want. But now Ym in suspense. I can’t wait to see you.
Eddie
Today I started a high-protein, low- (make that no-) carbohydrate diet. I think I already lost a pound, if that’s possible. I am determined to lose weight! I wonder if it’s possible to lose eleven pounds by Monday.
’Til next time,
December 4
The bad news is that on Monday I discovered that, not only had I failed to lose eleven pounds, but I had actually gained three. I couldn’t face Eddie. I e-mailed him to let him know something had come up (it’s called flubber, I believe). He e-mailed me back right away: “Damn.”
The good news is that another Thanksgiving has come and gone and we’ve all apparently survived. I’d planned to host, but my sister Teresa knew I’d kicked Roger out and mercifully invited everyone to Milwaukee for Thanksgiving at her house.
I suppose it doesn’t matter where we gather because every Thanksgiving replicates itself year after year. Some of us are a little grayer, some a little fatter. There’s Mom lounging on the sofa, gorgeous as always in a sleek cat suit and blazer, halfheartedly offering to help in the kitchen. Normally we’d insist she relax (everyone knows Mom is no worker bee), but this time Teresa calls her bluff and actually asks her to monitor and baste the turkey. Mom becomes so flustered, and approaches the task so spastically, that my sister finally grabs the baster and snaps, “Oh, just forget it!” Mom feigns indignation, but we all know she is relieved to be off the job.
Over there on the couch is my brother-in-law, alone and scowling at nothing and everything. In the middle of the dessert, Ted stands up and declares that it’s time to put up the Christmas lights. We don’t see him again for the rest of the evening until we’re backing out of the driveway and notice him teetering on a ladder outside.
And here, scuttling between the kitchen and dining room, is my other sister, Julia, skinny, earnest, dutiful. Julia and her husband, Luke, drove in this morning from Connecticut. Both are fussing over the seven-year-old twins, Michael and David, who won’t touch any of the ninety-seven offerings on the table. Julia whips up peanut butter sandwiches, pasta, and hot dogs in rapid succession, none of which they eat. (They finally settle on tomato Cup-A-Soup.)
My father looks remarkably hardy for someone with cancer. As one would expect, given my family’s natural aversion to open communication, no one mentions his illness or the upcoming surgery. I talk to him privately in the basement. I ask him if he is scared. He smiles bravely and says, “Princess, your old dad is prepared for anything.” I hug him, and he whispers, “Sorry about Roger. I always suspected the guy was a loser, and this just confirms it.” At that point my mother materializes (predictably), Dad quickly extricates himself from our hug, and the conversation comes to an end.
Finally, we have Grandma Anna (ninety-seven and still ticking), propped up at the table, clicking her dentures. She stops every so often to ask, “Where’s Elizabeth? Where’s Elizabeth?” (Elizabeth is her sister, dead since 1977.) Toward the end of the night she shifts her query to “Where’s Roger? Where’s Roger?” I heard my mother whisper something, to which my grandmother responded with a low, “Oh. I see.” When she came back to the table she leaned over, winked, and squeezed my hand approvingly.
Everyone else is careful not to mention Roger, which makes his absence as palpable as if he were in the room, behaving as he normally does when he’s among my family, bored and indifferent. At one point I was almost tempted to set a place for him, the way Jews set out a cup of wine for the prophet Elijah during Passover. I kept expecting Roger to show up at the door, reeking and forlorn.
Spoke to Betsy last night. She insists on driving out here next weekend from Iowa for a “girls’ night out.” She’s got it all planned: a day of beauty and relaxation at the Bella! day spa and a night of debauchery at Swingfellows, where guys do the lap dancing (how’s that for a switch?). I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Or maybe I am.
’Til next time,
December 11
As promised, Betsy came down this weekend, determined to minister to her newly separated best friend. Tabitha sat for Petey (under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask my in-laws to watch him), and Betsy and I tore out of the driveway like a couple of teenagers. First stop was Bella!, where I treated myself to an incredible massage (she spent fifteen minutes just on my hands—sublime!), a haircut, and a manicure (silk wrap and French tips—looks amazing).
Then we stopped at Starbucks for a cup of coffee. No sooner had we perched at the counter when Eddie appeared. He leaned close enough for me to feel his breath on my face and cocked his head toward Betsy. “Who’s this?” He appraised her quickly in that hot testosterone way of his, and Betsy must have felt it, judging from the sudden crimson in her cheeks.
“This is Betsy, my good friend and old college roommate,” I said. “And Betsy, this is Eddie, my …”
“Whatever,” Eddie cut in, grinning. He clasped his hands behind his head and gave us a perfect view of his flexed biceps. I wanted to bury my face in his chest hair. I could feel my face flush with pleasure at the sight of him.
“I gotta run,” he said. “You ladies have a nice time.” He pointed a finger at me. “And I’ll see you later.” As he sauntered off, Betsy grabbed my arm and pulled me toward her.
“Oh my God, Valerie. You’ve got to be kidding.” She shook her head incredulously. “He’s tough, he’s coarse, he obviously spends more time in the weight room than in the library.” Betsy grinned. “He’s perfect.”
“I know! I know!” I was squealing like a seventh-grader. “Isn’t he gorgeous? Isn’t he just delicious?”
“Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Betsy squealed back, squeezing my arm. She was wild-eyed and giddy. “Oh, please, you’ve got to get this guy back into bed, Valerie. Please, promise me you will, promise!”
“Okay, okay,” I said, giggling. “I promise.”
The next stop was Nordstrom, where I bought three new silver rings for my elegant new fingers.
Then I got myself a—drumroll, please—Wonderbra! I’m laughing as I write this, because (a) I remember my scornful reaction when the Wonderbra debuted, and (b) I absolutely love this bra!
The minute I put it on I knew my life would never be the same. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But not too much. The cleavage! The lift! I haven’t looked like this since high school (of course, that was without assistance, but after one pregnancy and eleven months of breast-feeding, I’ll take all the help I can get). All of a sudden, men are looking at me, truly staring—something that would have bothered me ten years ago, but now feels like a gift from God.
Swingfellows was our next stop and it was absolutely unreal—magnificent men, ice-cold beer, grinding music, and a hundred sixty horny surburban wives stuffing dollar bills into magnificent men’s G-strings. Even the waiters were part of the scene, each one dressed in some macho fantasy getup: construction workers in nothing but boots and tool belts, shirtless cowboys in leather chaps, cops and firemen in various stages of undress.
And, yes, I did indulge in a lap dance. I was completely swept up in the Swingfellows subculture, and the men were so damn good-looking and friendly, I simply could not resist. At first I giggled self-consciously, then managed to relax and genuinely enjoy it. When he was done, though, I had nowhere to go with all that desire; I felt what must be the female version of blue balls. I literally ached. That was the sad part.
This weekend I felt like I did when I was a child, after I had my tonsils removed: for three days, nothing but ice cream, toys, and treats, and what a sense of entitlement! If I feel guilty about anything right now, it’s that I don’t feel guilty enough.
As for the rest of my week, I have so much to say but so little time: I’ve discovered something absolutely scandalous about Alyssa. Details to follow.
’Til next time,
December 18
I am out to lunch with Dale Miller, a social worker from the office, when Alyssa walks into the restaurant. The minute we see her, Dale and I both say, out loud and simultaneously, “Oh my God.”
He looks at me. “You know her?” he says.
“Unfortunately, I do. My husband was … involved with her. She’s one of the big reasons we’re separated now.” Dale knew that Roger and I were having problems.
He gives my arm a squeeze. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Then he shoots Alyssa daggers. “Bitch.” Dale can be a real sweetheart.
“And how do you know her?” I know it couldn’t have been through a sexual liaison; Dale’s gay. He grabs my arm and whispers, “You’ll never believe this.” He wipes his mouth with the napkin and leans in closer. “About two years ago, I was at a CD release party for one of Eric’s clients.” Eric, Dale’s partner, is an entertainment lawyer. “This girl is there with Leroy Michaels from accounting, a real toad, total nerd. She was hanging all over him. I’m telling you, Leroy couldn’t get a date with Godzilla, let alone a cutie pie like that.” He covers his mouth with a hand. “Sorry.” We both look at Alyssa, who is alone at a small table reading a paperback, apparently unaware of us.
“So?”
“So … it turns out she was an escort.” Dale puts his fingers up to indicate quotation marks around escort. “You know, a professional.”
I almost choke on my linguine. “Dale, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, dear heart, that the girl is a hooker. A couple of guys in Eric’s office had … uh … partaken of her services.”
It didn’t seem possible. “Are you sure she’s the same girl? Can you be absolutely sure?”
Dale looked at her again. “Positive. Her name’s Melissa something.”
“Alyssa?” I offered, the linguine still caught in my esophagus.
Dale wiped his mouth and considered it for a moment. “Alyssa, Marissa, Melissa, something like that. All I remember is she said she was getting her degree in elementary education and she was doing the escort gig to pay her way through school.”
I still had my doubts until Dale remembered one last detail. “She wasn’t thrilled about going into teaching, though. Admitted that she didn’t really like little kids all that much. She said her big dream was to write a screenplay.”
“Incredible,” I whispered. “Absolutely incredible.”
I don’t know what, exactly, to do with this tantalizing bit of information. But I know I’ve got to do something.
’Til next time,
December 23
On Wednesday, I’m grinding away on the StairMaster at the club, grooving to the Deep Forest Comparsa CD, when a man gets on the machine next to mine. He’s looking at me, and his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him because I’ve got the volume cranked up to eight. I pull my earphones out. He’s fumbling with the buttons, asking me how to get the machine started, and I oblige. He’s truly befuddled. He calls himself a techno-spaz, says that he’s intimidated by gadgets. He says he doesn’t even know how to turn the machine on.
I help him get started and figure he’s finished talking to me. I put the earphones back in. I see his mouth moving again. I pull out the earplugs. Now he wants to know how fast he should go. He is engagingly self-deprecating. Tells me that he feels like such a spaz around heavy machinery like treadmills and Stairmasters. He’s about forty-three, graying, and though his legs are strong, I can see that he’s on the tender cusp between youth and decrepitude. He is reading a chemistry journal.
“Looks like fascinating reading,” I say teasingly. “Bet that keeps you motivated.”
“Talking to you is a lot more motivating,” he says. “Why don’t I just put my journal away, and you stay here.”
I realize with a jolt that he is flirting with me. He’s trying hard to keep me on the machine, even though my time has expired. Like a magician pulling an endless variety of objects from his sleeve—a bouquet! a rabbit! a dove!—he swiftly moves from one conversational topic to another, each one fertile and enticing.
What this man does not realize is that I know his wife. Her name is Leslie, and she was in my stained-glass-making class years ago, and though we’re not friends (I don’t even know her last name), we always exchange greetings and pleasantries when we run into each other. Leslie is tall and slender, with aquamarine blue eyes and long, honey blond hair she wears in a single, thick braid. I recall the times I’ve seen him with Leslie, and he was like any other husband: cold and sullen, tense, or half asleep. A blob. If only he knew that I’ve already seen him as he really is, a husband! And if poor Leslie could only see her blob-husband now, so witty and animated.
He wants to keep talking, but I’ve got to get to work. I feel as if I’m extricating myself from a bear hug. He seems genuinely unwilling to let me go. I tell him to enjoy his workout, grab my water bottle, and walk away.
Was he my type? No. And the last thing I needed was another married man in my life. So why did I feel so … well, happy? Because he showed an interest in me, and we’d made a connection, and it felt wonderful.
In the meantime, Roger has come by to see Petey twice this week, which is fine with me. Pete needs his father, even if I don’t. Last week, I invited him to help us decorate the tree and spend Christmas Eve with us. He’s already given me a gift: a picture of the two of us in Hilton Head on the beach at dawn, circa 1991. He’d rigged the self-timer on the camera, then raced back to my side and posed like a muscle man. I’d cracked up, the camera clicked, and the moment was preserved. Roger has also asked for an “appointment” with me, presumably to talk about his “involvements” with those other women. I’m caught in the push-pull of wanting and not wanting to know. He says that the sexual harassment suit is forging ahead, and things look bleak for him. I didn’t tell him what I’d learned about Alyssa, although I realize that sharing this information could be the best Christmas gift he’ll ever get.
The strange thing is, in the little time we’ve been separated, I’ve seen him changing. He is, in a word, kinder. Almost courtly. I don’t know what to make of all this. I don’t want t
o be sucked in again. I’m not ready. I may never be ready.
’Til next time,
December 31
I met with Roger Tuesday after work to discuss his “involvements.” He told me that he had given several casual neck rubs to a tense secretary at the Learning Attic. (Assuming he’s not lying, I don’t have a problem with that. I have given and received neck rubs from colleagues and male friends and, while finding them pleasurable, didn’t consider them particularly sexual.) He also mentioned that he’d kissed someone at a Christmas party many years ago but couldn’t remember her name. They were both somewhat drunk. Yes, on the lips. No, tongues were not involved. I listened and just shrugged. It’s amazing what a little separation can do for the spirit. I was in a forgiving mood. Besides, now that I’ve had some male attention of my own, I feel more grounded, more tolerant.
Once again, techno-spaz hopped onto the stepper next to mine at the gym and, once again, charmed me into pulling my earplugs out (bye-bye Los Van Van, hello blabbermouth). As he fumbled with the most basic controls (“How do I turn this darn thing on?”), it occurred to me that he might actually be faking ignorance. His hapless, helpless routine seemed implausible; he was a chemistry professor, after all, surely capable of switching on a StairMaster.
I indulged him again, walked him through the protocol until his speed matched my own. I must admit, I enjoyed his company. My time on the machine—which normally drags interminably—went swiftly as we covered great expanses of conversational terrain, from the estrogenic effects of pesticides on the environment, to the tragedy of puppy mills, to the comic genius of Abbot and Costello.
He asked for my name, and in return I asked for his, though I already knew it: Ben Murphy. This time I noticed the absence of a wedding band, which confirmed what I’d suspected. He and Leslie are either divorced or separated. I had seen her earlier in the week at a neighborhood party and had made a point of examining her lovely, slender fingers. (“What gorgeous nails!” I exclaimed, grasping her hands in mine.) No rings, not one.