by Debra Kent
And then, at the bottom of the page, this postscript:
“I wish I could be in bed with you right now. I still fantasize about our night in Antigua. I love you.” I folded the letter up into a tiny square, shoved it into my underwear drawer, and tried not to think about the night in Antigua. It was right after Roger’s success with his first play, Basic Black. We’d burned musky incense, anointed ourselves with almond oil, and, by the light of forty flickering candles, my husband brought me to orgasm once, then again, and again. Just when I thought I was completely spent, Roger pulled a black velvet rope from a drawer. “Turn over,” he commanded. My inhibitions now fully evaporated thanks to the potent island moonshine we’d imbibed, I complied without reluctance, and he proceeded to bind my wrists to the bedposts. “I’m going to have my way with you,” he whispered in my ear. And he did.
I felt a pulsing between my legs as I recalled that night. Damn him for bringing it up. I felt manipulated.
As I’d vowed, I asked Ben out to coffee. We had been commiserating about the lack of good Chinese food in town, and it seemed natural to suggest that we continue the conversation over coffee. He was so thrilled and shocked that he nearly fell off the StairMaster.
“Yes, I’d love to, I mean, wow … really? I’d love to.”
I did it!
“But I can’t,” he said, a moment later. My heart sank. “I promised my son I’d go with him to check out a used truck he has his eye on.”
It was classic divorced dad behavior. If he’d been married, it would have been easy to reschedule the truck-hunting, but now that he’s divorced, he must continually prove his fatherly devotion. “I understand,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. I felt rejected and embarrassed.
“How about next week, same time, after we work out?” he suggested, smiling.
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “Next week, then.”
’Til next time,
February 5
My big “date” with Ben had finally arrived.
We’d done a half hour on the StairMaster, then left to shower. As I soaped up, I imagined what he looked like, naked and dripping, on the other side of the wall that divided the two locker rooms. I applied my makeup carefully, dried my hair, and dressed quickly (jeans, green chenille sweater, cowboy boots). I waited by the pay phone. From the corner of my eye, I saw him coming toward me, smiling, and I thought, God, please don’t let this be him.
What I saw was a man who looked like he’d been dressed by an overprotective, possibly lunatic mother. He wore a giant furry white hat with the ear flaps down, a coat that appeared two sizes too big, knee-high rubber boots, and baggy pants of some strange material—not Polarfleece, exactly, more like felt?
I considered backing out. I could cough phlegmatically in his direction, claim to have been suddenly overtaken by the flu. He looked shorter than he did in the gym, and older. I’d only seen him in wrinkled blue nylon shorts and a faded T-shirt; given the wide range of what’s considered acceptable clothing at the club, his rumpled getup was no cause for concern. The wrinkled shorts I attributed to life minus wife.
But this? My stomach churned. Yes, it was only coffee, but even so … this was the kid in second grade math who picked his nose and ate it. This wasn’t at all what I’d envisioned for my (okay, I’ll say it) lover. It was too late to run. He beamed at me. “As they say down South, you clean up real nice.”
“Thanks,” I managed.
“Why don’t we take one car?” he suggested. I wondered why he suggested this, had a quick vision of him throwing me into his trunk, and shivered.
“Any particular reason?”
“The parking lot at Starbucks is impossible. We’ll have an easier go of it in one car.”
He was right. Last time, I’d parked so far away I might as well have walked from my house. “Okay, then. Uh, let’s take my Jeep.”
“Dandy!”
As we walked to my car, I almost slipped on a patch of ice. He reflexively reached out with both hands, grasped my waist. “Whoa, there. I gotcha.” His grip was firm, his arm strong. I liked it.
“Thanks.”
We found an empty table in the back. Once Ben had peeled off his sixty-three layers of outerwear, and we were finally face-to-face, I could see he had:
1. A deep cleft above his upper lip (very nice)
2. Sparkly blue eyes rimmed by dark lashes (also nice)
3. A really great haircut
4. Lovely curly chest hair
He asked me about my work, and I found myself talking about Pete, how I’ve never loved another person as much as I love him, and how the intensity of that love made me feel vulnerable and, sometimes, frightened.
“I hate to tell you this, but it doesn’t get any easier as they get older,” he said. “Even now, just as I’m drifting off to sleep, I’ll sometimes get these horrible images in my head. My son running his car off a bridge, trapped, drowning.” He stopped, then forced himself to brighten. “What’s your diagnosis, Doctor? Crazy, huh?”
“Not at all,” I said quietly. “I’ve had those same awful visions about my son. When my brain’s in overdrive and I can’t sleep. I hate that. So I’ll go in to check and make sure he’s okay.”
“Yeah, and sometimes they’re not okay.” Ben told me about another son, Matthew, who had died of leukemia when he was almost five. Petey’s age. “Pure hell. Burying your own kid. It was fifteen years ago, and I still have nightmares. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and just cry like a baby.” He left to get a refill. When he returned, he had a piece of baklava on a plate. “Share this with me,” he said. Then, “I see you’re married.” He eyed my wedding band.
“Separated, actually.”
“Ohhhhhh,” he said, a tiny smile flickering across his mouth. “I see.”
“And you?” I ventured, feeling guilty since I already knew more about his life than he would have ever imagined.
“Divorced,” he said, wiggling his bandless ring finger. “Since June. It was mutual. Things fell apart years ago, but we’d agreed to stay together until the youngest was in high school. And now he is.” Ben sipped his coffee. “Going through Matthew’s illness, and then his death … well … it’s just not good for a marriage. Especially when your marriage is on shaky ground to begin with.”
He gestured as if to put the whole topic aside, then asked, “I know this is a horribly rude question, and you don’t have to answer it, and please, by all means, tell me if I’m out of line here, but I’m just wondering …”
My mind raced with possibilities: How much money do you make? Do you like oral sex? Can I feel your boobs?
“What?”
“Why did you and your husband separate?”
Is that all? Whew! “We both made some mistakes,” I said, surprised by my self-restraint, which didn’t last long, though. “Actually, he’d been messing around. You know. With other women.” (I wasn’t going to tell him about Eddie. Apparently I knew him well enough to let him know that my husband was a philanderer, but not so well that I could tell him about my own misdeeds.)
“I must say, in my humble opinion”—Ben touched his hand to his heart—”the man must be a fool.” I resisted the urge to say, “Damn right,” and shrugged. “Things happen.”
As we said good night, he asked, “May I kiss you?” I found the question charmingly old-fashioned, though it was difficult to find him appealing in his bizarre winterwear.
“Yes, you may.” I turned my head and let him move toward me.
Holy mother of God. The man could kiss. I felt my whole body respond, and wanted more, but decided that this kiss would have to be enough. For now.
He kept his face very close to mine. “Thank you. That was very, very nice. May I kiss you again?” he asked, and my heart did a little flip-flop. This time he reached out to gently draw my face toward his. Suddenly I heard a boing, a springy sound that reverberated through my head. Ben yelped. I pulled back and saw him rubbing an angry red mark on his ch
eek. “What the heck was that?” he asked, looking bewildered.
“I don’t know,” I said, wondering if perhaps I’d bitten him without knowing it. Then I felt something hanging at the side of my face and realized that it was my Elasta-lift. I’d assaulted him with my nonsurgical face-lift. Ben didn’t seem to notice the black elastic strap dangling from my head, and for this small blessing I am grateful!
’Til next time,
February 14
I don’t care what the poet says: February is the cruelest month. Sunless, joyless, and there, in the midst of all the dirty snow and gloom, comes, incongruously, a celebration of love contrived by confectioners and as dreaded by lonely hearts as New Year’s Eve.
I actually had plans for Valentine’s Day, but under the circumstances, didn’t think they were substantial enough to exempt me from the lonely hearts club. Roger had called earlier today. “I know it’s short notice but I want you to find a sitter,” he said in a low voice. “I’m taking you out on a date.”
“Roger, we’re separated. Remember?”
“Yes, of course I remember. How could I possibly forget?” He sounded playful and light, as if the separation were a folly that he was willing to indulge, like my sudden interest in breeding canaries, my insistence on learning to play the tuba. He played along bemusedly, assuming that this interest, like the others, would eventually run its course. “What harm would there be in having dinner with me at our favorite restaurant? What do you say? Bellamy’s at eight o’clock?”
“Fine,” I agreed with a sigh. “Bellamy’s at eight.” I smiled as I hung up the phone, secretly pleased to have Roger wooing me but also skeptical. I couldn’t believe he’d changed that dramatically in three months, while I feel as if I’ve been transmogrified. It couldn’t possibly work.
He arrived at 5, before the sitter, so he could give Pete a bath and ready him for bed. I noticed that Roger wore the jeans he knew I favored most, because of the way they hung low on his hips. He caught me looking and asked, “How about we make this a conjugal visit?” I folded my arms across my chest and shook my head. He flicked the bath water at me. “Well,” he said, “maybe next time.” He tucked Pete in and straightened the kitchen (insisting above my protestations), and told me about his new play, about a group of fraternity brothers who reunite after twenty years. It sounded intriguing.
We drove to Bellamy’s in my Jeep. He looked natural behind the wheel again, but there was something unnatural about his magnanimity. He asked me to choose the music (he normally seizes control over the CD player, claiming it’s “driver’s prerogative”). When we arrived at the restaurant, he trotted around the Jeep and opened my door with a flourish. The old Roger was too stingy to splurge on an appetizer, but this one insisted on two: tapenade with fresh baguette and a plate of chèvre tarts. The old Roger would have steered me toward the least expensive entree, but this one encouraged me to order the pheasant with leek and pecan stuffing, one of the priciest items on the menu.
He laughed and motioned for the sommelier. “A bottle of your tête de cuvé, please.” I thought I was hallucinating. My Roger? Ordering champagne?
I stared at him. “Hey. Who are you … and what have you done to Roger Tisdale?”
He sipped his water and smiled serenely. “I’m not entirely beyond rehabilitation, you know.”
We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about the early years of our marriage, our upstairs apartment in a house owned by a quirky sculptor and her husband. “What was her name again?” Roger asked.
“Lola something,” I said, trying to recall her last name. “Jacobson. Lola Jacobson.”
“Right!” Roger slapped the table. “What a nut!”
Lola was a bit odd, but I loved that apartment. It had wide-plank wood floors and sunny rooms, and an attic that always smelled of warmed cedar. When we returned to the house, Roger kissed me lightly on the lips but didn’t push his luck. I watched him pull away from the house, and for the first time in months, I felt hopeful.
’Til next time,
February 19
I woke up with a messy cold and my period. I called Roger’s lawyer to get a progress report on Alyssa’s lawsuit (I’m anxious to get this resolved one way or the other) and learned that the case is still in discovery. It could be months before it even goes to trial. I can’t imagine that there are that many people worth questioning.
I was pulling into the lot at work, listening to a talk show on AM radio, when this divorced guy phoned in. He started talking about how he met this fantastic woman—the only problem is that she’s still legally married.
The psychologist said, “Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble. Run to the nearest exit!”
“But she’s separated,” he protested.
“I don’t care if her husband lives in Timbuktu,” the radio doc shot back. “If she’s married, she’s off-limits. Do yourself a favor and forget her. You sound like a nice guy. You don’t need this kind of nonsense.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess you’re right.”
“Sure I am,” she cackled. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Listen, hon. If she gets divorced, give her at least a year—hear me? a year!—and if you’re still sweet on her, then ask her out. But promise me that you’ll wait a year from her divorce. Got it?”
“You have my word,” he said.
As he was talking, I was thinking … jeez, that voice sounds awfully familiar! Oh God, could it be … Ben? It’s a nationally broadcast show. Of the hundreds of calls that this woman gets, what were the chances that she picked one from this little town? What were the chances that Ben Murphy had called a radio pop psychologist for advice? What were the chances that I’d be listening at the precise moment that the man I kissed two weeks ago called in to talk about me? It just didn’t seem possible! On the other hand, Ben did not show up at the club this morning.
Hmmm…
So now I’m wondering, should I ask Ben if that was him on the radio?
’Til next time,
February 26
What a week. Roger came for dinner Tuesday night, bearing the Blue’s Clues dog in one hand, a bouquet of pink tulips in the other. Petey raced through the living room, then slid through the hallway across the wood floor like Derek Jeter. He grabbed the stuffed animal from Roger’s hand.
I frowned at Petey. “Is that how we behave when someone has a gift for us?” I had a queer feeling in my stomach as my words echoed back to me. My formality was meant to dig a moat between my son and his father. I felt as if I’d just appointed myself the One True Parent, and Roger was simply a visitor bearing gifts. In the old days I wouldn’t have thought twice about Pete’s grabbing it—he’s a kid, kids grab.
Roger quickly shot me a hard look. “Is that who I am, now? Just another someone?” He dropped to the floor and tickled Pete on the belly, sending him into instant hysteria. “If you want to grab something out of my hands, boy, go right ahead.” He kept tickling Pete, who was now doubled over. “Of course, it’s terribly ill mannered to grab”—tickle, tickle—“and I’ll have to think twice”—more tickling—“about letting you join me for tea with the queen.” Then he put his hand over his mouth and, in a stage whisper, said, “Don’t mind the old lady, kid. She’s just a tight-ass.” I expected a wink, but Roger wasn’t even looking at me. The two boys had shut me out, and I stood there above them feeling gangly and unwelcome.
I knew I deserved it—I’d started the whole thing by treating Roger like a guest in his own home. But this! Countermanding my instructions! Telling my son I’m a tight-ass! Screw you! I screamed to myself. I felt my jaw lock. I was amazed at how quickly he ignited my rage. He’d been here only moments, and already I was cursing him.
Roger stood up and brushed off his pants. He remembered the tulips and shoved them at me. Looking away, he mumbled, “Got these for you.” I wanted to throw them at him. They flopped to one side in the wrapping paper. Pink tulips always remind me of ballerinas. I was too angry to appreciate their ex
quisite beauty. I took the flowers and snipped off the bottoms, in the open air, not under water. Even as I cut through the smooth, green stems I knew I was destroying them; the air would block the water and they’d be wilted within an hour. I hadn’t given them half a chance.
I noticed that Roger had dressed in just-cleaned chinos and a faded-to-perfection blue workshirt and smelled of my all-time favorite cologne. Now I felt terrible. He clearly had expected a nice dinner—and who knows what else—but I’d ruined it. I served up the salad and spooned carrot soup into two ceramic bowls.
I’d lost my appetite.
“Not eating?” Roger asked. He wouldn’t look at me.
“I don’t think so,” I told him, trying to sound conciliatory. “I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on. Why don’t you two just have a nice meal without me.” It came off as spiteful.
Petey twisted around in his chair, soup dripping down his chin. “Eat with us, Mommy. Please?”
Roger kept his eyes on the soup bowl. I ached to be with Pete, but said, “No, sweetie. You guys have a boys’ night, okay? I’ll be up to help tuck you in bed later.”
I know I need to decide whether I should stay with Roger. Let me sort it out:
The pros
1. It’s better for Pete if Roger and I can work it out and stay together.
2. Roger is a great dad.
3. We have years invested in the marriage—can I really just throw it all away?
4. Financial stability. I’d be dishonest if I didn’t list this as a factor. Before my marriage started to fall apart, I never really understood women (including some of my clients) who refused to leave lousy husbands just because they paid the bills. Now I understand. I don’t want to have to work full-time. I don’t want to rent a crappy little apartment on the south side of town. I don’t want to have to choose between dry cleaning and eating out. Yes, I know I sound like a spoiled little brat, but I’ve grown accustomed to the creature comforts of a dual income, and I don’t want to give it up. There, I’ve said it.