by Debra Kent
“It’s over.” He hugged me. “It’s over.”
Friday
True to his word, Roger ended Diana’s stint as his research assistant today. When I pulled into the garage she was loading a cardboard box into her trunk. She straightened up and stuck out a hand.
“No hard feelings, babe,” she said. I didn’t know how to respond. What, exactly, had Roger told her about the circumstances surrounding her dismissal? I shook her hand. She held on a little too long. “Let’s stay in touch, okay?”
No, not okay, I thought. “Yeah,” I said.
“Maybe lunch sometime soon?”
“Maybe.”
Diana hopped into her car and backed out of the driveway. She grinned and winked as she drove away. I’m relieved to see her go but have a nagging feeling that I’m not done with her. Or perhaps I should say, she’s not done with me.
’Til next time,
July 9
I have just endured the most unpleasant dinner party of my life. It was at Evan and Lucy Child’s magnificent house in the hills. (Evan was one of the producers of Roger’s play, Lucy is a landscape architect). I wore the black fake-silk outfit I bought at Ann Taylor Loft, the silver jewelry Roger gave me on Mother’s Day, and a pair of sexy strappy black sandals. Thanks to low humidity and jumbo Velcro rollers, my hair behaved. I looked really good, if I may say so myself. Among the guests was a famous actor who I will refer to as T. (I can’t bring myself to use his full name; I’m convinced the guy’s unstable, and if this story ever got out, I’d fully expect him to come after me with either a lawyer or a semiautomatic weapon. So I’m not taking any chances.) I’d seen most of T’s movies and, frankly, was thrilled to find myself seated across from him. Since he tends to play good guys in his movies, I naively assumed he was one.
For the first half hour, T simply watched me. I pretended to listen to Lucy talk but really I was focused on T, feeling his eyes on me, wondering what he was thinking. I found it flattering at first, here’s this famous actor staring at little me, a non-celebrity who (well-behaved hair notwithstanding) pales in comparison to his magnificent wife, a dancer and choreographer.
All of a sudden he says, loudly, “Are those your real tits, or what?” Everyone stops talking. T’s wife looks embarrassed, but says nothing. I pretend I haven’t heard him but inside I am dying. When I don’t respond, T says it again, but more loudly this time: “ARE THOSE YOUR REAL TITS??” I should have ignored him but couldn’t.
“Yes, they’re all mine,” I tell him. “Why do you ask?”
“And how ’bout your hair. You dye it?”
I feel my throat tighten. “Yeah, to cover the gray.” Why did I feel compelled to respond to this jackass? If he’d been an ordinary guy, I would have rolled my eyes and told him to mind his own business. And everyone at the table would have told him to shut up. But because he was a movie star, we indulged him. My husband laughed nervously, our hostess looked the other way, and nobody tried to change the subject. “So,” he persisted. “how old are you, anyway?”
Was this a trick question? I cleared my throat. “I’m thirty-five.”
“Damn, you look good.” There was nothing about his tone or expression that indicated he meant to praise my looks. If anything, he sounded jealous. And, actually, it made sense. He was at least forty, and I imagine he’s lost more than a few good roles to younger actors. His face had the grooved, baggy look that comes with years of cigarettes and hard liquor.
I thanked him for the compliment, but he wasn’t done with me. “Of course, your hands give you away. You’ve got old lady hands.” He peeked under the table. “And old lady feet. All hard and veiny.” I felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on my head. I was shocked, stunned. I suppressed a gasp. I wanted to curse him, but how could I? He was a celebrity, and I was a guest. I didn’t want to make a scene. I looked at Roger at the other end of the table. He watched me helplessly. I wanted him to jump in, to defend me. But he was as dumbstruck as I was. I looked down at my hands. My “old lady” hands. Why hadn’t I used moisturizer before I left the house? Why did I even care what this jerk thought about my hands? Why was I still sitting there like a boob instead of walking away, or responding with something witty? The rest of the evening proceeded uneventfully, if awkwardly. I picked at my food. T did not say another word to me. We left early.
Roger tried to console me on the ride home. “What an asshole,” he said. “I wouldn’t see one of his movies now if you paid me.”
“Yeah.”
Roger looked over at me. “What is it?”
“What do you think it is, Roger? I was just publicly humiliated by a movie star while my husband sat there!” I snapped at him.
“Hey, you’re a big girl. You’re perfectly capable of handling yourself. Don’t lay this on me.”
He was right, of course. My anger had nothing to do with Roger, and everything to do with the fact that T had, wittingly or not, zeroed in on all my vulnerabilities. I haven’t fully accepted the damage done to my body by age, pregnancy, and breast-feeding. I don’t like the fact that every four weeks I cover encroaching gray with semi-permanent hair color.
“Don’t let it get to you, hon.” Roger pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. He put his hand on mine. “That man thinks his fame allows him to behave boorishly and with impunity. He needed a target. You were handy. Forget it ever happened.”
If only it were that easy.
Saturday
With the Alyssa episode behind us, Roger and I decided we deserved a little vacation. We dropped Pete off at my parents and drove to Chicago for the weekend. We spent most of the morning at the Art Institute, which was wonderful until I noticed Roger eyeing a drop-dead gorgeous girl in a red micromini. My heart sank. I still hadn’t recovered from the incident with T. I felt old and fat and ugly. I drifted over to a Renoir. Roger was close behind. “God, I love it here,” he whispered, gazing at the painting. “Art appreciation was one of my favorite courses in college, you know.”
I felt the jealousy well up in my stomach like acid. “Really, Roger?” I stared straight ahead. “Are you sure you don’t mean, ‘hot young women appreciation’?”
He kneaded my neck. “Oh, no,” he answered, instantly catching my meaning. “I’m quite sure I mean art appreciation.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “As for young women … you’re my only major.” He said it with affection. I responded with anger: “Get your hands off me.” I wanted to cry. I wanted to slap him. Our little vacation was quickly curdling.
Roger reached out for my hand. “Come on, sweets,” he said in a singsong voice. “Hey. We’re here. In Chicago. Just the two of us.” He launched into a dopey rendition of “Just the Two of Us,” and raised a pinky to his lips à la Dr. Evil. I tried not to laugh. “Come on, honey. Snap out of it.” He pulled me toward him and kissed my neck. He was right. I was being a baby. I managed a smile and kissed him back.
But as we navigated the rest of the museum, I watched for Miss Miniskirt, and worked hard to ensure our paths would not collide with hers again. That night, when Roger and I made love in our hotel room, I never fully surrendered myself to the pleasure and intimacy. I was still in the museum, still on the lookout for the young woman in the red miniskirt. And I was in Lucy and Evan’s dining room, staring down at my old lady hands.
Wednesday
I’m convinced that everyone is purer than me. At a church picnic last weekend I became fixated on the idea that I might be the only one who (a) used a vibrator, (b) had an extramarital affair, (c) enjoys the occasional porn flick with her husband, (d) thinks about the Reverend’s sex life. All the other women looked so pure, so sanitized, so Junior League. There they are in their pastels and nautical motifs, creaseless and clean. And here I am in black capri stretch pants, giant platform sandals, deep spandex T-shirt, and Wonderbra. I thought I caught the good Reverend gazing at my ass but I probably imagined it.
Thursday
When I picked Petey
up from camp he announced that he has a girlfriend. “Do you mean a friend who’s a girl?” I asked him.
“No, I mean a girlfriend. We’re going to get married.” I watched him through the rearview mirror. He was picking his nose.
“Well, you probably ought to quit that before you march down the aisle, huh?”
He looked confused. “What aisle?”
“You know, the aisle in church you march down when you’re going to get married.”
“We get to march? Aw right!”
“So who is this girlfriend, anyway?” I asked him. He was still picking. I couldn’t watch. “Hey. You need a tissue?”
“Nope. I’m doing okay just with my finger.”
“Let me put it this way. Use a tissue or quit doing it. Picking your nose is gross!”
“Kelly picks her nose.”
“Who’s Kelly?” I asked, sensing I already knew the answer.
“My girlfriend! Except she eats it.”
Yuck.
Friday
I’m so angry I could spit blood. Guess who took over as the center’s liaison to Wilton Clinic? Yes, Cadence. Now the clinic I started—the clinic I got the grant money for six years ago, the clinic I served on the board of until the Alyssa lawsuit took up too much of my time and energy—is in her hands!! And just like that, she’s totally squeezed me out of the loop. This morning I ran into one of Wilton’s original benefactors at the health club. She asked me how the clinic’s new child care center was going. I was thinking, What child care center?!? No one had told me. I was furious! I sped to the center and marched into Cadence’s office, slamming the door behind me. She looked stunned.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about the child care center at the Wilton?” I demanded.
“You would have found out at the next board meeting, along with all the other board members.”
“But I’m not just another board member! I started that clinic!”
She smiled. “But you left the staff. That was your choice. Sorry, but I guess that puts you out of the loop.” She flipped her mouse over and began scraping the lint out with a fingernail. If that wasn’t a blatant act of hostility, I don’t know what is.
“Cadence, I’ve got to stay informed. People still ask me about the clinic. They assume I’m on top of things. I need to know what’s going on.”
“Go to board meetings.”
“The board meets three times a year. That’s not good enough. I’m going to start sitting in on staff meetings.”
She glared at me. “No, you’re not.”
“Why not?”
“You chose to leave the staff. You can’t now suddenly decide to pop in on staff meetings. People will resent you. They’ll think you’re checking up on them.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” she said, as if she’d never heard the word before.
“You heard me. Bullshit. The only one at that table who will resent me is you. And that’s your problem, not mine.”
“You’re not welcome there.” She dared me to defy her.
“You can expect to see me at the next meeting.” As I walked out of Cadence’s office I heard her say, “Not if I have anything to do with it.” I couldn’t let her get away with this. I turned back around to face her. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, or why you’ve decided to make me your enemy, but I started that clinic and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you stop me from staying involved. And until you get a restraining order against me, I’m going to be at those staff meetings!”
She looked at me with a cold stare and said, “I’ll do better than that.”
’Til next time,
July 23
Monday
It feels like Roger and I are heading into another cold war. I have never understood this cycle of ours, affectionate and companionable one week, distant and edgy the next. It has been days since he smiled, made eye contact, greeted me with enthusiasm, extended the crook of his arm for cuddling in bed. I’ve tried to understand what role I’ve played in this withdrawal of his. Was it something I said or didn’t say? Something I did or didn’t do? After dinner, I finally decided to ask him, but realize now that I’d approached him the wrong way. I asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No. Why?” He was wiping the kitchen counter and watching Xena on the small TV near the sink.
“I don’t know. You’re acting sort of weird.”
He groaned. “Please don’t start with me. There’s nothing wrong.” He threw the sponge in the sink and went upstairs. When he came downstairs for dinner I apologized. “I’m sorry, Roger. I went about that the wrong way. What I should have said was, ‘I’ve been feeling some distance from you and wonder whether there’s something wrong.’ “
He looked at me blankly. “I said, there is nothing wrong.”
I already knew how this conversation would play out, should I choose to pursue it. I’d insist that he was being disingenuous. He’d say I was too sensitive. He’d say I was inventing problems. He’d complain that I could never leave well enough alone. His face would darken and he’d leave the room, muttering, “Satisfied now? You got what you’d wanted. I’m withdrawing.”
Before Alyssa, I could attribute his emotional leave-taking to his depression, or his frustration with work, or his concern that I’d spent too much on new bath towels. Now I worry that he’s cheating again. Maybe there’s someone else he is smiling at, making eye contact with, greeting with enthusiasm, tucking into the crook of his arm.
Tuesday
The next Wilton Clinic staff meeting is tomorrow at noon. I’m going to get there at 11:45 to get a strategic seat, to the right of the director, Marlena Swede. I helped recruit Marlena when she was an administrator with an outpatient program at Northwestern. She nominated me for a Women in Well-Being leadership award last year; I didn’t win, but I’ve always been grateful for her support.
I can’t stop ruminating about the meeting. The whiny victim in me wants to hole myself up in my office, collapsed under the weight of Cadence’s decision to push me out of staff meetings. But my inner bitch made an appearance in Cadence’s office last week, and I sense that she’s here to stay. Throughout my life I’ve operated from a position of approval-seeking and submission. This new persona is scary. And exhilarating. I don’t know where it will take me, but it’s got to be a hell of an improvement over the pathetic little cave I’ve inhabited with my chastised inner child. I shared this revelation at lunch with Dale. He said he wants to throw a party for my inner bitch. What a guy.
Wednesday
I showed up at the meeting at 11:45—early as planned. Everyone was already there. I didn’t understand at first—how could everyone be early? Cadence, sitting at Marlena’s right, glanced at her watch and announced, “I guess that covers everything on the agenda, unless there’s new business.” Suddenly it dawned on me: Cadence had changed the time and notified everyone—but me. I whispered to Wey, “What did I miss?” She patted my arm.
“Everything, I’m afraid. We started an hour ago. You’re late, girl.” I looked at Cadence. She was shuffling her papers, ignoring me. I demanded, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Why didn’t you tell me you rescheduled the meeting?” Everyone froze. These were, after all, mental health professionals; they know a good interpersonal dysfunction when they see it. They waited for Cadence’s reaction. She wouldn’t answer me. Instead, she asked Louis, “So you’ll get back to me on that proposal?”
Louis looked at me apologetically. “Yeah. Some time next week, okay?” “That would be fine.” Cadence strode out before I could say anything. Where was my inner bitch when I needed her?
’Til next time,
July 30
Saturday
Today at Barnes & Noble, I told Petey I’d buy him a book—a little paperback based on the new Tarzan movie. When Roger came over to us, I handed him the book and asked him to go pay for it. He looked at it and frowned. “Do we really want our son reading this kind of tripe?” h
e asked. Petey, who was sitting on the chair next to mine, was already bracing himself for an argument. “But Mom said she’d buy it for me,” he protested, voice wavering. Roger sighed one of his big theatrical sighs. “I think we need to discuss this.”
“Now?”
“Now is as good a time as any,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t abide this kind of reading material.” He folded his arms like a schoolmarm, a disapproving old biddy. “Now that Pete’s taken a real interest in reading, he needs quality. Not stupid books based on stupid movies.”
Pete looked at me hopefully. I reached for the book and tucked it under my arm. “Sorry, Roger, but I already told him he could have it.”
“Fine. Then you pay for it. I’ll be waiting in the car.” Exit stage left. I offered to read the book to Petey at bedtime but he said he didn’t want to hear it. “Maybe some other time,” he said, looking sad. Roger didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. Welcome to my marriage.
Sunday
The Tarzan episode continues. This morning I woke early to buy Roger breakfast—a scrambled egg and cheese on an onion bagel, his favorite—and he barely thanked me. “What is it with you?” I asked him. “Would you please talk to me?”
He put down the newspaper and stared at me. “I’m tired of you dismissing me in front of our son.”
“What do you mean, dismissing you?” I said.