by Debra Kent
5. Fear. I’m afraid to put myself back on the singles market. I don’t mind a light, sex-based relationship; but I’m terrified of making a commitment to a man. I’ve messed up one relationship, how can I be trusted with another? What if I never really loved Roger? Do I have the capacity to love? Blah, blah, blah.
The cons
1. What if Roger cheats on me again? What if he’s incapable of being faithful?
2. Can I trust him? Can we ever get back to where we used to be?
3. What if he’s not sexually attracted to me (again)?
4. What if there’s a wonderful man somewhere out there for me, but I won’t ever find him because I’m stuck with Roger? (I know how awful that sounds.)
Instead of obsessing about men, I should be focusing on me, my life, what I want. Can I help it if my vision of a life always includes a man? I love men, love sex, love companionship, love being in love.
Speaking of men, I hadn’t seen Ben in weeks and convinced myself that it was him on the radio, but Betsy said I was crazy. “He probably has the flu like everyone else in America,” she said. “Why don’t you call him to see how he’s doing?” (A part of me resented Betsy’s suggestion. I felt like she was egging me on from the comfort and security of her happy home. She’s got four kids, a good husband, a stable marriage. Maybe she gets some vicarious satisfaction from my suddenly single life.)
Yet I felt emboldened by her encouragement. I looked in the phone book and found Ben’s number. I felt giddy and flushed just looking at his name in print. I dialed. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Ben Murphy?”
“Yes?” His voice was warm, easy. I could see that cleft above his lip, the glittery eyes. “And this is … ?”
I told him my name. “You know, from the club? Star-bucks?” He didn’t say anything for a long while. Surely he didn’t have that many women to sort through.
“Ah, yes,” he said finally. “Of course I remember. How can I help you?”
God, I felt like such an idiot. How can I help you?! Was this the guy who’d kissed me in my car, or some salesman behind the counter at Radio Shack? I wished I’d never called. I wanted to hang up.
“Uh, is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all.” Silence, again.
“Have you been sick?”
“No. Why?”
Now I felt more than foolish. I felt ill. “Oh, just wondering. With the flu and all going around. You know.” I had to ask him if he’d called in to that radio show. Now. Just ask! But I couldn’t. I felt like such a gutless, spineless, wimped-out jackass! “Ooops. There goes my doorbell. Hope you feel better! Bye!” I slammed down the phone. Hope you feel better? How lame! He already said he wasn’t sick. I was such a wuss! Then, continuing my self torture, I sat by the phone and sent desperate brain waves, waiting for him to dial *69, get my number, and call me back.
He didn’t. But I saw him at the club this morning, and he seemed to gaze longingly at me. He wanted me. I just knew it.
My inner seventh-grader doesn’t want to give up. Here is Ben, being reasonable, mature, smart. Here’s me, wanting to seduce him into bed, all the more enticed by his desire to pull away. Now, tell me, how screwed up is that?
This time it was me who grabbed the StairMaster next to his, and though I didn’t say anything besides “hi,” I pulled off my tank top so that I was wearing only my sports bra, something I rarely do. I could see him watching me as I pulled off the top, then again as I wiped the sweat from my chest, letting the towel linger at my cleavage. I felt so manipulative, so raunchy! Why did I do that?
’Til next time,
March 26
I’m still in that odd and unfamiliar state of not knowing where I stand with my husband. Even the phrase “my husband” is beginning to feel like an ill-fitting jacket. He’s part of my life—I see him almost every day—but he’s more like a brother, a roommate, a friend. Can I remain married to him under those circumstances? Should we aim for an “arrangement,” in which we share a home but not our bed?
I’ve been checking up on my old friend Alyssa. Her lawsuit against Roger seems to be in a holding pattern while her lawyer rounds up more witnesses to depose. At the supermarket I ran into Letha Harris, an acquaintance of mine from Lamaze class who teaches first grade at Oak Hills Elementary, where Alyssa works. I asked about kindergarten teachers there, under the pretext of preparing Pete for starting school next year (as if I’d ever let him in Alyssa’s class—over my dead body!).
Letha’s take on lovely Ms. Elkins: What she lacks in experience, she makes up in energy and creativity. The kids love her, parents are divided (fathers like her, moms are wary), and colleagues have yet to accept her into the fold (“My guess is she’s too damn sexy for them,” Letha observed). As for the principal, “She’s got him under her thumb. She managed to get a $1,000 grant to establish a saltwater aquarium when everyone else is still struggling just to get Lego tables.”
I hadn’t heard from my client Claire in about two months and had written her off until this week, when she called to say that she was in “big trouble.” Claire is usually unflappable, and it was weird to hear her sound so shaken. I’ve arranged to meet with her first thing Monday morning. I wonder what’s up?
’Til next time,
March 19
“What, precisely, are we?”
The question took me by surprise, but shouldn’t have. I’d been wondering the same thing myself. It was Friday night, and Roger and I were stretched out before a fierce and magnificent fire, probably the last until next fall. He’d brought a bucket of chicken, and I’d made his favorite salad: wild greens, toasted walnuts, Gorgonzola cheese, and mandarin oranges. He refilled my wineglass, slipped off my clogs, and rubbed my feet with more care and skill than he’d ever demonstrated even in our happiest years. I lolled my head back and felt the fire’s dry heat against my face. He pulled my little toe. “So? What are we?”
I knew we needed to have this sorting-out discussion, but with my full belly and warm feet, I was too content to get into it. Pete was finally asleep, the workweek was behind me, and except for the fact that my marriage was in limbo and my romantic life confused, it was a truly perfect moment. But I owed him an answer, if only an abridged one. “Well … we’re Pete’s parents, and we’re …” He watched me, hopefully. “… figuring things out.”
“I guess I can accept that for now.”
“Good. Now keep rubbing,” I commanded, flicking his nose with the tip of my sock, hoping a playful tone would derail a serious discussion.
He bit his lower lip, an expression I always took as a vestige of childhood—his signal that he was gearing up to ask a favor. “Now that you’re putty in my hands,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, “it’s probably a good time to ask you something.” He topped off my glass again.
Uh-oh. I wasn’t prepared for sex, mentally or physically. Now that I was in hot pursuit of Ben, I didn’t want to muddy things by falling into bed with—horrors!—my own husband. Besides, the Merlot he had brought had made me too drowsy. I half considered pulling a cushion off the sofa and falling asleep by the fire.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, certain of what he’d say next. But he surprised me.
“I want to move back in.”
I sat straight up. He stopped rubbing my feet.
“I thought I’d camp out in the guest room, at least for now.”
I looked at him, absorbing his sweet and somber face. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the foot massage, or maybe I’ve lost my mind, but there seemed to be only one right answer. “Yes, of course. Petey will be thrilled.” At that moment, I had no reservations. I was ready.
“Thank you.” Roger crawled toward me, brushed the hair away from my face, lifted my chin with his finger, and put his lips on mine. He smelled of wine and soap and, well, a uniquely Roger scent that hasn’t changed since the day I met him. I let him kiss me, then kissed him back. The on
ly sound I could hear was the dull groan of the fire, my breath as it escaped my parted lips, the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the dining room. He kissed me harder, and I arched my back to fill the space between our bodies. He slipped a hand beneath my sweater and began trying to unhook my bra, until he realized it was the kind that fastened in the front. Before his fingers could change direction, I’d already changed my mind.
“No,” I whispered, pulling his hand away like a chaste schoolgirl. “Let’s not.”
He persisted.
“We can’t do this,” I tried again. His lips were still on mine, muffling my protests. He tasted as sweet as berries. His tongue explored my mouth as if for the first time. My body responded. I could feel him reach down to unbuckle his belt. “Roger,” I said, “not now. Really.”
But I was swept along by a force as strong as an undertow, I was woozy and slow, incapable of resisting. Now he was on top of me, and I could feel his tumescence against my belly. “Remember this?” he said with a low chuckle. “We’ve missed you.” He pulled my flannel skirt above my waist and now was inside me. My hips met his urgent thrusts as I was enveloped in his heat. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “We’re still married,” he grunted. “This isn’t a sin.”
He came. I did not. I could not. Just as I felt ready to climax, my brain snapped the shades wide open and the cold glare of reality came flooding in. I hadn’t asked for this.
Roger pulled out of me, then flopped on the blanket beside me, gasping. “Oh. God. That was incredible.”
In the meantime, I felt stricken. I lay beside him, silent and motionless, my heart trembling. Roger moves in tomorrow.
’Til next time,
March 26
I woke up the next day—almost noon—head throbbing, eyes aching, tongue furry. I rolled off the sofa and found my underwear on the floor, then remembered. I stuffed the panties into my skirt pocket and slurped water out of the faucet, convinced that pulling a clean glass from the dishwasher would create an unbearable clatter. I staggered to Pete’s room and pulled the covers off his bed, thinking, stupidly, that he had also overslept. He was not in bed. I looked in his closet, under his bed, in the bathroom, my anxiety intensifying as it became clear that he was nowhere upstairs.
“Come on out, you rascal,” I called, and the words sounded strangled. I checked the basement, the garage, even the kitchen cabinets. Pete wasn’t exactly skilled at hide-and-seek; he always revealed himself giddily before I finished counting. Now the fear rose to my throat like an express elevator, and I felt ready to throw up. I ran out the front door and found a handful of broken colored chalk on the driveway, and the words, “Love you, Mommy,” scrawled on the blacktop, every letter a different hue. I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. Whom would I call? What would I say?
Then my eye caught the hot pink Post-it note on the cabinet above the phone. “Took Petey out for breakfast to celebrate Daddy’s homecoming. Don’t eat. Will bring back fresh bagels. Love you.”
“P.S. You were great last night.” Relief washed over me as I felt my terror ebb and my pulse slow. I put the phone back in its cradle and reread the note. “You were great last night.”
Was I? Great as in, a masterful lover? Or great as in, too drunk to stop him? I remembered his tongue pressing into my mouth as I tried to speak. The sound of a belt unbuckling. The fingers unhooking my bra. I remembered how he felt slipping inside me. He did not have to push. My body was not dry and unwelcoming but ready and supple, even as my mind and mouth tried to stop him. I remembered, too, how quickly the wine had taken effect, hastened by the antihistamines I’d swallowed only moments earlier to quell a sudden eruption of hives.
The house shook gently as the garage door rumbled open. I splashed some water on my face, gulped down a couple of aspirin, and waited. Petey burst through the side door first, his whole body joyful as a puppy’s.
“Happy days are here again, Mom!” he yelled.
“Where did you get that, you little nut?” I let him climb on my lap even as my skull pounded.
“Got it from Daddy. He was singing it the whole way in the van.” Pete slid off my lap and ran to the door to wait for Roger. “Dad, Dad, Daddy, Dad, Dad. Hurry up. Tell Mom what you told me before.” I could hear Roger call back from the garage. “She already knows, punkin. She’s in on the whole thing.”
I watched Roger pop off his sneakers and slip into the moccasins he’d apparently repositioned by the side door. He was holding a big bag of steaming bagels. I could smell them from the kitchen, and I felt nauseated. I waited for Pete to switch on the TV in the family room, then said, “I think we need to talk.”
Roger busied himself with the bagels. He sliced a salt bagel, smeared it with cream cheese, put it on the porcelain dish I’d saved since childhood, and set it before me. “Madame? Your bagel.” The fake French accent. The hidden rose, pulled from his sleeve and now placed beside the plate. I didn’t say anything. “What? You no like?”
“No. I mean, yes. It’s very nice. But, Roger …” Part of me wondered, should I say anything about last night?
“Oui?”
“Enough with the French waiter routine. Please. It’s just that… well… what we did last night…”
Roger put a finger to my lips. “Shhhhh. Don’t ruin it with words. Just let it be.”
I pushed his finger away. “No. I can’t ‘just let it be.’ You see, I don’t actually recall giving you permission to have sex with me.”
“Excuse me? Per-mission?”
“It’s just that I remember asking you to stop,” I went on, ignoring his tone, trying to keep things conversational. “I mean, that’s just how I remember it. But I know I’d had a lot to drink.”
Roger pulled back and stared at me. “As I recall, dearest, you were extremely receptive. In every way.”
I was now more confused. Yes, I received him. I could have clamped shut my legs, rolled aside, pulled myself out from under him. Instead, at some point my hips met his, my rhythm matched his. I felt myself retrenching, felt my indignation fuzz and blur.
“Furthermore, dearest,” Roger continued, “I seem to recall this coy game of cat and mouse being a standard act in our repertoire. That’s what made it so much”—he lifted a finger to trace my nipple through the blouse—“fun.”
I felt myself harden against his touch. I didn’t know what to believe. I had cotton-head and a parched throat and the Rug Rats theme song from the TV in the other room was somehow resonating in my sinuses. Roger pulled a chair up to mine, and I winced as it scraped across the tile. “Love. Don’t ruin things. I’m back, and we’re together. Pete’s happy, I’m happy and … can’t you try to be happy too?”
I wanted to pull away, clear the dishes, ignore his question. But that was too much like the way it used to be, the sullen dysfunctional kitchen scene. Talk about a standard act in our repertoire. I looked out the kitchen window to the backyard and could see the crocuses pushing through the hard earth, the pale green buds on the linden trees. Now is the time for new beginnings. Couldn’t I, now, make a new beginning here in my own kitchen?
“What do you say?” Roger was asking me, drawing an imaginary smile across my face with his finger.
I stared ahead. I asked him to be patient with me. I said I would try to be happy with our new arrangement, but he had to be patient. He puts his hands up, palms toward me, an expression of his willingness to back off. “I can wait.”
Having my work is a real blessing now, if only because some of my clients are dealing with a lot worse problems than I am. Claire, for instance. Someone had written on her daughter’s locker in middle school, “Your mother’s a slut.” The girl has been shut out by friends, haunted by gossip and graffiti. This happened the same week that Claire’s current plaything—a thug from the health club—had started calling on her at home in the evening, when her husband was in the house!!! Now she’s piling lie upon lie to keep her husband in the dark, but how long can her ruse poss
ibly last?
I’ve got to run. More later.
’Til next time,
April 2
Roger finally moved the last of his things into the house, and I’m aware of how cramped and put-upon I suddenly feel. I had gotten used to having things a certain way (my way) and now I have to share, compromise, discuss, negotiate almost everything again. I have to contort my body to get out of the Jeep now that his van is back in the garage. Meals are now planned by committee, as are Pete’s playdates and new shoe purchases. Roger has reorganized the pantry, and once again the peanut butter is in the fridge, even though I’ve told him that it belongs in the cabinet. He has also tried to sneak into bed with me—I woke up to find his hand stroking my butt—but I told him I wasn’t ready (for sex or a permanent bed partner), and he reluctantly retreated to the guest room. The only consolation is seeing the joy in Petey’s face when he wakes up in the morning to find Roger at his bedside.
Today’s session with Claire was riveting, devastating, draining.
Her story starts three months ago at the health club (where everything seems to start these days). She was there in the middle of the day, a time when the club draws the oddest assortment of people. There are sub-urban housewives, college professors, real estate agents, therapists, and everyone else with pliable schedules. And there are the Hulks, brawny men with questionable work histories and enormous, tattooed arms, men who never run the track or use the Cybex machines, swim in the pool, or take classes, but restrict themselves to the weight room, a dimly lit place that is silent except for the grunting and occasional cry as great barbells are lifted. The one essential truth about this room is its maleness. And it is here that Claire wanted most to be.