by Debra Kent
She had fixed her crosshairs on one Hulk in particular, Kevin, the strongest, gruffest, most heavily tattooed of them all. “I don’t know,” she told me. It was like my endocrine system was activated in his presence. It’s a primitive thing, I think. Like my body somehow knew that he was built for sex.” She paused. “There was something else. He was so serious, almost mean. I can’t explain it. It turned me on.”
Claire pretended to know nothing about weight lifting, and the Hulk was polite enough to show her how to use some of the lighter free weights, assuming the role of unofficial personal trainer. She loved feeling the heat radiating off his thick arms, loved the sight of his black T-shirt stretched tight across his rock-hard chest. She took every opportunity to inch closer to him, wanted to fold herself into his arms. (Having felt precisely those impulses around Eddie, I knew just what she meant.)
It took her three weeks to rouse Kevin’s interest, longer than any other man she’s pulled into bed (or onto a conference table). She wasn’t his type, she found out later, and hadn’t even registered on his radar screen. He preferred leggy blonds, not plain accountant/mother types. “But he was still a man, and when I made my intentions clear, he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity.”
“How, exactly, did you make your intentions clear?” I asked her.
Her lips curled slyly. “Some of the guys were talking about Monica Lewinsky. At some point I mentioned that I thought pleasuring a man was an art form.”
“You didn’t.”
“I sure did. I mean, it’s true, isn’t it?” I said nothing, but secretly agreed. “Anyway, then I told him I felt I’d mastered that particular art form. And that’s when I hooked him. He just stared at me. I mean, really stared. Up and down. Wouldn’t take his eyes off me. And I could see he was breathing a little faster. And I knew I had him.”
Kevin hung drywall, and as luck would have it, he was working on a new and as yet unoccupied house across the cul-de-sac from Claire’s in her plush subdivision, The Pines. She gave him her number, and he would call from the new house and command her to present herself. “It was the hottest experience I’d ever had. I still get hot just thinking about it, even now. Even after everything that’s happened.”
Sometimes he’d tell her what to wear (short black skirt). And what not to wear (underwear). It was a thrilling game, and Claire became more daring with every episode. At first she visited only when she knew he was alone, or when her kids were in school. Then she showed up when other workers were in the house, or on weekends when the kids were home or playing in the street.
One day he called her and told her to stand by her bedroom window. She took the cordless phone to the window.
“Now raise the blinds.”
She did, and gazed out. He was standing in an upstairs room in the new house, facing her squarely, only a few yards away. She could see him clearly.
“Now lift up your top.”
Claire could hear her family downstairs, the TV, the clattering in the kitchen, her husband’s voice. She slowly pulled her blouse over her breasts, and watched him.
“Good. Now pull up the bra.”
Claire looked at me. “I thought I was going to die. It was so naughty, so risky. And I was so unbelievably horny.” I have to admit, as screwed-up as Claire was, her story was starting to turn me on. I tried to stay impassive. “So I pulled up my bra,” she continued. “Then he asked me to press myself against the window. I did. And that’s when I heard the doorknob turn.”
Just as alcohol slows the reflexes, so did the crazed, flaming lust that consumed Claire as she pushed her breasts against the huge picture window in her bedroom (recently Windexed, crystal clear). Otherwise she could have reacted, would have escaped.
“Do you like what you see?” she said into the phone, breathlessly.
“Mmm. Yes. Yes.” She was frozen against the glass, head lolling, one hand raised high, the other between her legs. It’s a kind of lunacy, really, that kind of heat, wild and mindless. And in the grip of this lunacy, Claire heard her husband open the door, heard the soft squeak of the knob as if it were a million miles away. She heard him say, “What the—” but even his voice was not enough to jar her into real time.
She turned toward the door and saw him there, wearing—of all things—a striped apron that the kids had bought him for Father’s Day last year and a real chef’s toque he’d found in Quebec but never had the guts to wear. Then she heard her ten-year-old behind him, heard him say, “Get the camera, Mom! Dad’s wearing the hat. Take a picture!” All this in a half second, no time to pull away from the window, no time to yank down the blouse.
Her husband had enough sense to close the door between him and their son, and, through the thick oak, instruct the child to go back downstairs. It’s not clear whether Casey had seen his mother splayed across the window like one of those decals meant to deter birds from smashing into glass.
Claire backed away, said nothing, pulled her blouse down, feeling like a complete ass. What had seemed so sexy just moments ago now felt tawdry, shameful, disgusting. She felt the wetness between her legs and was sickened by it. The phone dropped from her hand. Calmly, her husband picked it up, moved toward the window, gazed out.
Kevin was still there. He must have witnessed the whole scene but was firmly rooted to the spot. Claire could see him actually smirking, still holding the phone. Then she heard him say, “Your wife’s hot.”
Her husband pulled down the blinds and returned the phone to its cradle. Claire watched him in the ridiculous hat and dowdy apron and thought, “It’s over.” She expected an explosion but there was none.
“The kids are waiting for us downstairs. They decorated the dining room. Pull yourself together.” He opened the door and turned around. “And do me a favor. Act surprised.”
Surprised? Why? Claire’s head ached, felt stuffed with goosefeathers. Then she remembered. It was their anniversary.
Later that night, after she had endured the farce of an anniversary party and smiled for the Polaroid pictures and opened the handmade presents her youngest (the sentimental one) had made, her husband told her he had known. “Maybe not everything or everyone. But I knew plenty. How could I not know? Don’t you realize you’re the town whore?”
The words stung like a slap. She recoiled. He switched on the reading lamp by the bed. “Don’t look away. You need to hear this. You need to hear about your kids, who’ve been hearing all about you from the other kids in school. They know about the painter you screwed in the new house down the street. The math teacher you jerked off in the teacher’s lounge, and God knows who else. And in case you’re wondering, they probably know about this guy, too.” He gestured toward the window. “Brandy Johnson is in Cara’s homeroom. Her father’s doing the electrical work on the house. So you can assume the whole middle school knows by now.”
Claire wanted him to stop, but knew he was entitled. What she couldn’t understand was his chilling lack of emotion. Why wasn’t he screaming? Why hadn’t he thrown something at her, or slammed his fist into the wall?
“You don’t think the kids know? You think you can live in a town this size and carry on the way you’ve been carrying on, and keep it a secret? Do you realize that there’s a rumor going around that Casey’s not even my son? Everyone says he’s the spitting image of Pastor Michaels. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you make it with the pastor, too?”
Claire shook her head slowly, too stunned to respond. All this time, he knew. He knew. And he never let on. “Why didn’t you say something?” she said feebly. “Why didn’t you just leave my clothes on the lawn and change the locks?” There was something in her voice then, a simmering blend of awe, confusion, and something else: anger. Claire had waited her whole marriage for her husband to show some signs of life, and even now, confronted with his wife’s raging infidelity, he remained calm. A model citizen. That’s what she’d thought the day she met him. A Boy Scout.
“I would never kick you ou
t,” he told her. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
Claire stared at him. “Get what?”
“I love you. I have always loved you. I just…”
“What?”
“I always thought of you as sick. And I prayed that you might get well someday. I never stopped praying.”
Even as Claire realized what a saint she had for a husband, she also knew it was more complicated than that. They’d made a tacit arrangement years ago: Where sex was concerned, her husband was off the hook. He wasn’t into it, and she wouldn’t demand it. How she satisfied herself was her own business. He didn’t want to know. She wanted to discuss it, this theory of hers. But she stopped herself. Her infidelities weren’t merely the dalliances of a frustrated wife and at last she knew it.
Sitting in my office, uncharacteristically unkempt and ashen, Claire finally admitted that she had a problem. (Progress!) “My husband’s right. I’m sick. I’ve been sick for a long time.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes, then delicately blew her nose. “The town whore. Can you believe it?”
Well, yes, of course I can believe it, I thought. I looked at the clock. It was time to end the session. “Now you’re ready to make real progress,” I told her. “I know it feels like your world is caving in, but believe it or not, you’re going to get through this.”
I picked up Petey from school and listened to his amiable chatter and thought, this is my life, and my life isn’t so bad after all. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I literally craved my husband. I decided to put my petty complaints about peanut butter aside and just love him. I imagined walking into the house and kissing him long and hard.
What I hadn’t imagined, though, is that he had company. As I opened the door from the garage, I heard him say, “She’s home.” And then I heard a woman say, “Do we tell her now or later?” And then Roger: “I’m not sure. Why don’t we play it by ear?”
’Til next time,
April 16
I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Diana sitting in my rocker (my rocker) in the living room, a club soda in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She was wearing khaki slacks and a periwinkle knit top with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves that revealed toned, strong biceps. Her hair, now shoulder-length and glossy black, was swept into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her face had a few more crow’s feet, but her olive skin was clear, her lips plump (collagen injections? hmmmm …) and her teeth brilliant white (bleached?). Jeez, I thought to myself. Maybe I should get myself arrested too. She looked incredible for a woman fresh out of prison.
She stood as I entered, set her glass down on the side table, called out, “Darling! Darling!” and extended her arms to hug me. I let her. She pressed her lips to the side of my face, then whispered, “Don’t fret, darling. Everything’s kosher.”
“They let you out?” I couldn’t help myself.
Diana let the comment bounce off her like a Nerf ball. “Oh, darling, don’t put it that way,” she said, laughing. “I’m out. Free and clear.” She lifted her pants cuffs to show me her unencumbered ankles. Tan legs, white Hilfiger crew socks. “See?”
I looked at Roger and waited for an explanation. I could see the sweat on his upper lip. “Sit, sweetheart. Can I get you a drink? You look like you need it!” He giggled nervously. I hated that giggle. And all these terms of endearment—sweetheart, darling—were making me sick.
“I’m fine,” I heard myself say tightly. I wanted to appear casual but couldn’t. I was hurtling headlong into major PMS and knew I’d sound as pissed off as I felt. Here was my nemesis sitting in my living room, apparently cooking up some scheme with my husband while I’m at work. I know she thinks prison and that twelve-step program of hers transformed her life, but she’ll always be a bitch as far as I’m concerned. I looked at Diana, then back at Roger. “So, what’s going on?”
Roger rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath. “I’ve decided …” Uh-oh. Anytime he starts a sentence with “I’ve decided,” I know there’s trouble ahead. It’s a kind of preemptive strike, as if to say, “I know you’re going to hate this idea, but this is my business, not yours, so shut up and listen because you have no say in the matter.”
“… to hire Diana as my new research assistant.” He raised his glass of wine. “I think this calls for a toast.” I couldn’t believe my ears. As if the week hadn’t been bad enough, now this. Welcome to my world. “Really,” I managed weakly as they clinked their glasses together. “So, how did this all, uh, happen?” I glanced over at Diana. She was literally beaming. I took deep cleansing breaths. I counted to ten in my head. I tried to remind myself that Roger and I were on firmer footing, that there was nothing to fear.
“It was serendipitous, really,” Diana started. “I was picking up some clothes at the dry cleaners, thinking that I really needed a fresh start, a new career, no more number crunching.” She fiddled with the unlit cigarette, stared at it, ran it across her lower lip. “Then I’m thinking, but who would hire me? How would I explain the, uh, gap in my employment? So do you know what I did next?”
“No, Diana, I can’t say that I do.”
“I prayed, of course. Right there in the dry cleaners. I said, God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” She smiled brightly. “It’s the Serenity Prayer.”
I wanted to choke her scrawny neck, but immediately I felt guilty. Many of my patients have literally been saved by twelve-step programs. I just couldn’t believe she was serious. “Then my higher power answered my prayers,” Diana continued. “Precisely—I mean, precisely—at the moment I finished praying—”
“—in I walk,” Roger interjected. “And I have my own worries. As I’m driving to the dry cleaners, I’m thinking, I’m getting deeper into the new play, and it’s time to start adding the sort of detail that will make my characters come alive. Even though I invented them, I know so little about what they do. What I really needed—”
“—was a researcher.” Now, wasn’t this special, the two of them finishing off each other’s sentences like an old married couple. I wanted to scream. “Roger needs someone to investigate his characters’ careers, and present a kind of executive summary, you might say,” Diana continued. “I’d do the legwork while he concentrates on his … craft.” Diana shot a dazzling smile at my husband. He grinned back appreciatively. I continued my deep cleansing breaths.
“Isn’t that… I don’t know … kind of cheating?” I asked. The two looked at each other.
“What do you mean, exactly?” Roger finally replied.
“Well, I mean, isn’t research part of the creative process? Is that something you can just farm out to someone else?”
“Sure, of course, it’s done all the time,” he said, a bit of defensiveness registering in his tone. Then, “Diana, can I freshen your club soda?” I noticed he didn’t bother to ask if I wanted anything.
“That would be lovely.” She offered him her empty glass. I watched my husband saunter out of the room and imagined how satisfying it would feel to kick his ass.
Diana jumped up from the rocker to the sofa and now sat inches away, her tight thigh almost touching my not-so-tight thigh. I started to move away but she restrained me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t. Please. Sit.”
I don’t know why, but I flopped back into the couch. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.
“I know how you must feel. I really do.”
“Really? And how’s that?”
“Let’s see … you thought you’d gotten rid of me, and now I’m back to haunt you. You ruined my life by turning me in, and now you’re terrified that I’ll take revenge, that all this twelve-step talk is just an act, that I’m really the same crazy bitch that made your life a living hell. Oh, and you’re convinced I’m going to get Roger into bed … Am I getting warm?”
She was flaming. But I refused to give her the satis
faction of a response. “Oh, you poor darling. Of course you’d feel that way,” she went on. “And why shouldn’t you? And I suppose there’s nothing I could say or do today to prove that your fears are all unfounded. You’ll just have to wait. And see.” She reached over and gave my hand a little squeeze. “You’ll see.”
Now the question is, do I just let Roger go through with this? Do I have the right to ask him not to hire Diana? Has she really changed? Am I right to be afraid? Or is this some kind of opportunity for spiritual and emotional growth? I honestly don’t know what to do next.
’Til next time,
April 23
I’m depressed. It’s almost the end of April, and where’s our spring? It’s rainy, icky, windy, and cold. I had an entirely unfulfilling day at work: two cancellations and a double session with Rita, my biggest failure, a thirty-eight-year-old speech pathologist who’s been stuck in a dead-end relationship for nearly seven years. I wanted to throttle her, to tell her to shut up and quit whining. I have no patience for people who won’t even do the minimal legwork necessary to change. Maybe I need a new career. On the drive home I had to listen to this radio talk show host vilify mothers who put their kids in day care. (Of course, I could have switched stations, but instead I masochistically forced myself to listen to every word.)
Also, I’m pissed at Roger. And not just because of the Diana thing, which I’ll get to later. When he was at the writer’s retreat, I hired Red Ripley to build an entertainment center for the family room. Real cherry cabinets, glass doors, storage space for Pete’s games and puzzles, plenty of room for the TV, stereo, etc. Red came highly recommended, and it’s almost impossible to get on his schedule. I signed a contract and gave him 25 percent down. Yes, it was pricey, but Roger and I had talked about doing this ever since we moved into the house, and I felt we could afford it. I also felt flush: I’ve picked up twelve new clients since January and an outpatient consulting gig with the hospital.