The Affair

by Debra Kent

  I was steaming! I pulled myself together and said, “Cadence, it’s entirely appropriate for the person who made the proposal to be kept informed and—”

  She cut me off. “Look, I’ve got another call on hold. This conversation will have to wait.” And then she hung up on me. She hung up on me! I wanted to strangle her! I spent the rest of the afternoon fuming. I could barely concentrate on my clients. As they spoke, I doodled pictures of Cadence with horns, Cadence with spears poking through her chest, Cadence with a knife in her neck. I couldn’t wait to get home, couldn’t wait to tell Roger everything.

  I picked up Petey from day care after work and tried to listen while he talked about his day. The worst part about interpersonal conflicts at work is that they make it impossible for me to enjoy my family. No matter how cute Petey may be, no matter how charming his tale, I just can’t do it. All I can think about is Cadence, our conversation (if you can call it that) running through my brain like a tape loop.

  I told Roger everything. He was even angrier than I was (which pleased me). He urged me to confront Cadence. “Threaten her. Tell her she’s a liability. How will it look to the board of directors—not to mention the public—that the person most responsible for developing the Kirby partnership was kept totally in the dark? You must face her down on this. Don’t let her get away with it! Focus on protocol, not on your feelings. Don’t whine. Don’t tell her she’s a meanie. Tell her she behaved unprofessionally in a manner that will hurt the center.”

  “I’m so upset!” was all I could think to say in response.

  “This isn’t about feelings!” Roger exhorted, slapping the kitchen counter with his palm. “Cadence doesn’t care about your feelings! Stick to the facts. She understands facts!”

  “She should understand feelings, too. It’s her business!”

  “But you’re not her patient! You’re her underling. And for one reason or another, she has placed you on her shit list. Now pick up the phone and set up an appointment to talk to her. Be brave!” Roger put his hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me toward the phone. He whispered in my ear, “Call her. Now.” Reluctantly, I punched in her number. “Dr. Bradley here,” she said.

  “It’s Dr. Ryan.” (An affectation, I realized, but why not? Though I thought I heard her snicker.) Silence.

  “Are you there?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Man, she was cold.

  “I’d like to arrange an appointment to chat with you. Monday at eight AM., perhaps?”

  “My office.”

  “How about the coffee shop on the corner?”

  “No. That won’t do. My office, please.” What could I say?

  “Fine.” I said. She hung up without saying good-bye.

  So now I’ve got all weekend to prepare my script. There’s so much I want to tell her: Work with me. Be nice to me. Don’t undermine me. Don’t wreck the one place in which I feel secure and accomplished. But how do I say it? How deep and honest can I be?

  Whenever my clients are experiencing tremendous stress in one area of life, I always advise them to keep things stable in all other areas. For example, if you’re under fire at work, now is not the time to stir up trouble in your marriage. So I’m letting myself coast at home, not dwelling on problems with Roger. We’re having sex, he’s being nice, I haven’t found any diaphragms in his car lately… all is right with the world.

  There are problems, of course. One big one: Diana. Now I’m certain Roger’s right about her. I’ll find her staring at me (or, rather, my chest) from across the room. Or when she brushes past me, I’ll feel her hand fleetingly on my ass, though if this had been any other woman, I’m not sure I would even notice. She saw me rolling my head and suddenly began massaging my neck and shoulders. (I quickly sprang to my feet and told her something like, “I’m fine. That’s okay. You don’t have to do that.” I reluctantly had to admit the massage felt incredible.) So what can I say? These little moments are adding up, and I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable in my own home. I don’t want to be Diana’s object of affection. This is insane! She’s like a tick. I can’t seem to pull her out of my life!

  ’Til next time,

  June 4

  Sunday

  I’m dreading tomorrow’s meeting with Cadence. The only thing that’s made me feel better is a voodoo doll that Roger, my biggest fan and ally in all of this, bought me. He bought it at Borders. It came with instructions. I stuck a pin in the doll’s head, another in her ass, and one right in her heart. It gave me a guilty pleasure. I also typed up a script for the meeting, reduced it to a 6-point type, and glue-sticked it onto an index card that I can hold discreetly on my lap. I know how infantile this all sounds, and how ironic—a therapist who dreads communicating.

  Monday morning

  The meeting with Cadence was anticlimactic, to say the least. I bounded into her office, pumped up and prepared for battle. (Remembering her sensitivity to perfume, I had even made a point of giving myself a good spritz of Obsession on my way out of my bedroom.) I eased into her guest chair and searched her desk for some knickknack or photo to inspire small talk, but it was bare except for a small black clock, hardly a conversation piece. So I just started. “I need to talk about that Kirby article.” She deflected me swiftly, gracefully. “Yes, I understand your concerns,” she said, launching into the kind of sanitized neutral-speak you get from hotel concierges when you complain about the dead lightbulbs in your room. “From now on, any time there’s big news at the center, it will be communicated to all personnel. Immediately. Through interoffice e-mail. So now everyone can be kept in the loop.” The insincerity in her broad smile was deafening.

  I ran my fingers over the edges of the index card in my lap. I could almost hear Roger whispering in my ear, “Say it! Her conduct was unprofessional and potentially damaging to the center. Don’t let her push you around! You’re better than that!” Cadence sat there in her lime green suit and Gucci scarf. She drummed her fingertips on the table. She glanced at her watch. Clearly she had a busy day ahead. “Will there be anything else?” Again, Roger’s voice in my ear: Say it! Now! But instead of following his advice, I fell back on the touchy-feelies. “Cadence, I came here prepared to talk about professional protocol but …” My heart hammered in my chest. “… what I really want to say is, I am sorry we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. And if there’s anything I can do to change your feelings about me, I hope you’ll let me know.” I gulped, took a deep breath, and waited.

  Cadence leaned forward. For a minute I stupidly thought she was going to smile and apologize. Instead she said, “Let’s get something straight. I’m not your little playmate. I was hired to do a job. Pussyfooting around you and your feelings is not in my job description. If you’ve got a problem with me, take it up with personnel.”

  I could feel the stinging of mascara and saltwater in my eyes. I told myself, Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Whatever you do, do not cry. I stood up, nodded, gesticulated psychotically, and left the room. I knew if I tried to utter even a single word I would have started bawling. Roger called, as planned. “Well?” he asked.

  “I blew it,” I told him.

  “Oh, no. Honey. What did you say?”

  “Don’t ask. I said it all wrong. Everything you told me not to say, I said.”

  Surprisingly, Roger did not respond with “I told you so,” or any variation on that theme. Instead he encouraged me to come home early, promised to make me feel better. I plan to take him up on his offer.

  Monday night

  Roger is sound asleep—snoring like a St. Bernard—and I am wide awake. We just got through a marathon screwing session. Now why didn’t I say an hour of tender lovemaking? Frankly, because it was not an hour of tender lovemaking. I felt like I was drilled by a jack-hammer for forty-five minutes. What was he trying to prove? Now that he’s hurtling toward the big four-oh, does he think he has to demonstrate his stamina and endurance? Does he think I actually like that?

  It just went on and
on and on. I tried to position myself in a way that might actually bring pleasure to my lower region, to no avail. I begged silently, “Will you just come already?” Each time I thought he was nearing climax, I felt such joy and relief … but then he slowed his rhythm and I knew he wouldn’t let go. Occasionally he would whisper into my ear, “Am I hurting you?” Or, “Shall I stop?” I could have told him the truth, but then he would have wanted me to go down on him (I know his pattern all too well). I was too exhausted and not feeling particularly generous. So I let him hammer away until he mercifully exploded, rolled over, and fell asleep.

  I once read a book by a radical feminist who believes that most women, if forced to answer truthfully, would admit that they don’t enjoy intercourse. I wouldn’t go that far. I like it for the first forty seconds. Then I stop liking it.

  ’Til next time,

  June 8

  What should have been the proudest day of my life has turned out to be the most embarrassing. I was awarded a “CAPPY” for one of my journal articles on childhood depression and family systems—not a huge deal, but a nice honor. Most of the center’s upper management, therapists, and secretaries came to see me receive the award—including Cadence. The luncheon, hosted by the local chapter of the American Association of Clinical Psychologists, was quite an elegant affair at the Hilton.

  I ate my lunch at the dais, onstage, with other award recipients. Emilio Arpetta, president of the local chapter, introduced me. I searched the audience for Cadence’s face as Emilio read the highlights from my CV. It would have given me tremendous pleasure to watch her as my achievements were publicly announced and celebrated. She may think I’m dryer lint, but to the AACP I’m a star. I finally found her at a table in the back, whispering behind her hand to another managing partner. She shut up when my name was announced, and even clapped along with everyone else. I stood up and smiled, aiming for a humble yet happy expression.

  Then I heard a loud crash.

  Apparently, thinking the edge of the tablecloth was my napkin, I’d inadvertently tucked it firmly into the waistband of my skirt. When I stood up to receive my award, I dragged the entire tablecloth with me, toppling the water goblets. Half the plates fell on the floor. It actually took me a few moments to realize that I was responsible for that horrible, clattering noise. There was an awful collective gasp from the audience and then a smattering of laughter.

  I looked helplessly at the wreckage I’d caused, watched as one of the other honorees frantically dabbed at the salad dressing on her cream-colored suit. I pulled the tablecloth out from under my belt. I could see Cadence shaking her head, rolling her eyes.

  I gripped the sides of the podium to stop myself from shaking. “I was told it’s always nice to start a speech with a joke, but I thought I’d try something entirely different this time.” Amazingly, everyone laughed. I felt a lot of empathy and appreciation from the group. And soon into my comments, I knew they were listening to my talk, not thinking about the tablecloth fiasco. All’s well that ends well, I suppose. But I don’t think I’ll ever get Cadence’s expression out of my mind.

  Friday

  What a pleasant surprise! Reverend Lee just called. He wanted to know how I was doing, whether I’m finding time for daily prayer. He also wondered whether I might like to come in for more pastoral counseling. I agreed to meet with him again next Tuesday at noon. I’m looking forward to it!

  ’Til next time,

  June 12

  Tuesday

  Today I had my session with Reverend Lee. I actually found myself staring into my closet this morning wondering what I was going to wear for it, as if I were going on a date instead of getting spiritual counseling from a man of the cloth.

  I told Reverend Lee about my conversation with Cadence last week, how I tried to connect with her and she snapped back, “I’m not your plaything. Take it up with personnel.” I even told him about the voodoo doll Roger bought me. I expected the Reverend to frown or remind me that the church abhors witchcraft, but he only laughed and asked me where he could get one for himself. “There are a few people I wouldn’t mind vexing with a pin or two,” he said. That comment alone ratcheted up my opinion of him. Did I mention that his whole face crinkles when he smiles? Or that his eyes, which can only be described as merry, are the most amazing hazel? Or that he has a ponytail? It suits him.

  We started with a quote. Not from the Bible, but from Hermann Hesse. “If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.” Reverend Lee asked me what part of Cadence I hate in myself. It was a wonderful question. It was, in fact, the sort of question I pose to clients who, like me, are marinating in resentment. I tried to piece together a coherent response. What I hated most about Cadence was her self-confidence, her arrogance, her superciliousness. I am not consciously aware that I embody any of those traits—if anything, I’m too self-deprecating.

  “Oh well. Perhaps something will come to you later. Or maybe it doesn’t apply at all. Don’t force it.” He smiled that giant, face-crinkling smile of his and I felt instantly at ease. We ended the session by joining hands and praying for Cadence. The Reverend is a big believer in praying for one’s enemies. His hand was big like a bear’s paw, and warm. I didn’t want to let go.

  We made an appointment to meet again next week.

  Wednesday

  I wish the serenity I felt in Reverend Lee’s study would sustain me at work. But the minute I walk into the center, my stomach starts churning again. I used to love my job. Now I can’t stand this office. I know this sounds paranoid, but I just feel so … alienated. I want to work in a place where people greet me when I walk in, where coworkers and supervisors are genuinely glad to have me on board. That’s definitely not the vibe I’m getting these days.

  Friday

  Oh God, I can’t believe what I’ve done. I came into work early today—6 AM. Even The Bitch doesn’t get here until 7:45 A.M. But instead of catching up on paperwork (the explanation I’d given Roger), I went straight into Cadence’s office. Fueled by equal measures of paranoia and self-righteousness, I decided to read her e-mail. That’s right, I have finally hit rock bottom. I still can’t believe I did it.

  I switched her computer on and double-clicked on the Eudora icon. It asked for a password. I took a wild-ass guess. Though I know almost nothing about Cadence’s personal life, I remembered someone mentioning that she and her husband, Barry, had two beloved Rottweiler show dogs. I held my breath as I typed in R-O-T-T-W-E-I-L-E-R. In an instant I saw the “Checking Mail” box in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. Oh God. I did it. I broke into her account! (I must admit that even in my crazed state, a small part of me was proud of this accomplishment.)

  I was dismayed to find that her in-box was totally empty, until I realized she transferred all her messages into separate folders (how characteristically anal of her). I scrolled through the folders. Barry. Conference. Eating Disorders. Grants. Then I found one with my name on it. My name! I was about to click it open when I thought I heard the elevator. I panicked and quickly shut down the computer.

  Obviously I feel guilty. And so hypocritical—what would Reverend Lee say if he knew? But I am completely fixated on that folder with my name on it. What was inside? And do I dare break in again?

  ’Til next time,

  June 18

  Monday

  It’s official: I have a crush on Reverend Lee. And I guess that’s okay, as long as I can somehow limit those feelings. That’s always been my problem, keeping it contained. Over the years I’ve sought to understand that impulse: Why am I not satisfied with a simple crush? Why, always, is there the drive to expand it to something larger, more consequential, more damaging, more real?

  I don’t think it’s about lust. In fact, I suspect it’s not even related to romance, necessarily, but ownership. I can’t simply enjoy gazing from afar. I must possess. It’s why I’ve never been inclined to lease a car or rent an apartm
ent or use the public library.

  Now I find myself fantasizing about Reverend Lee’s wife, Michelle, running off to the Bahamas with Roger. Then Reverend Lee invites me for a prayer session which turns to—oh, this is gross. What am I thinking? This is a man of the cloth! I’ve got to stop this.

  Tuesday

  Well, temptation strikes in more ways than one. This morning, I got to work at 6 A.M. and, finding myself all alone in the office, couldn’t resist trying to get back into Cadence’s computer. But when I typed in “Rottweiler,” I got a “Bad Log-In” message! She changed her password! I immediately became flushed and felt as if my heart had wedged itself in my throat. Could she have known someone broke into her account? Does she suspect it’s me? She hasn’t behaved any differently toward me—she has been her usual dismissive, remote self.

  I feel myself spiraling downward. What once gave me joy at work—brainstorming at staff meetings, working with Dale on the new clinic—are closed off to me now. My ideas are no longer welcome. The staff seems to have sided with Cadence, and now I’m on the outs, the unpopular girl rejected by the clique. Cadence has chipped away at my responsibilities so that my involvement in the eating disorders clinic is all but symbolic; Dale reports directly to Cadence. I am miserable.