The Affair

by Debra Kent

  Our first session went too quickly. I wished I’d booked a double appointment. We touched on Roger’s affair but not mine since Roger doesn’t know all the details, and I wasn’t ready to open that Pandora’s box. I felt like I blathered too much and Roger didn’t say enough, but Charles scribbled furiously in a battered loose-leaf notebook. He asked only a few questions, but each one was unexpected, surprising, almost profound. He asked Roger why he was afraid to be nurtured by me. He asked me whether I felt I could handle being in a relationship with a faithful, loving husband (suggesting that I’ve got exactly the type of marriage I set out to get). The rest of that session is a blur. I left feeling completely drained and desperate for a nap, but Pete would have his first Tiger Cub meeting in an hour so I had a large cup of coffee instead. Roger isn’t sure Charles is any good, but he’s willing to give it a few more sessions.

  Monday

  It’s over. I’m out. Under the pretext of an annual evaluation (which normally doesn’t happen until November), Sharon Harris-Jackson, director of human resources, has informed me that I had violated item number three in the center’s code of ethics.

  She pulled out a document from a manila file—my file—and showed me my signature. “Do you remember reading this when you were promoted to senior partner in wellness?”

  I nodded dully.

  Sharon was an inoffensive woman, colorless but benign. She had returned to the workforce at fifty after her husband died. She’d started as Bert Wiley’s secretary. I knew this wasn’t easy for her.

  Sharon cleared her throat and proceeded to read aloud. “‘I understand that as senior partner at the Center for Mental Wellness I am responsible for conducting myself in a professional manner at all times, and behaving in a way that demonstrates respect toward supervisors and support for coworkers.’ “

  She flipped to the last page. “A violation of any of these terms may lead to suspension or immediate dismissal.” She returned the document to the folder. “Valerie,” she said, her cheeks flushing, “I think you can understand how calling Cadence Bradley ‘one butt-ugly woman’ qualifies as a violation.”

  I guess she was waiting for me to resign, but I wasn’t biting. She waited. I waited. Finally, Sharon cleared her throat and said, “It’s Bert Wiley’s recommendation that you consider filing your resignation.” She said it was in my best interest to do so, because my record would remain “unblemished” by termination. What she didn’t mention, however, is that if I resigned the center wouldn’t have to pay me unemployment benefits.

  I told her I had no plans to resign. So she mentioned Alice, the young client who walked in front of a bus the day I canceled out on her to be with Eddie. She said, “We have reason to believe you were out with a friend that afternoon.” Sharon arched her eyebrows ever so slightly, a signal that she could go on and provide more details if need be.

  I stopped breathing. I wanted to get out of there. “Fine, then. You’ll have my resignation this afternoon.”

  “Very good.” She stood up but didn’t extend a hand. “I know how difficult this must be for you,” she said.

  “Right.” With stinging eyes and a constricted throat, I staggered out. By the time I got to my office, the files were gone, as Dale had predicted they would be. The only thing left was a manila folder of Christmas crafts I had begun collecting last year. I picked up my phone, half expecting it to be disconnected. I got a dial tone. I watched my fingers punch in numbers, as if they were commanded by an outside force. For reasons I still can’t explain, I dialed Eddie at work. He picked up on the second ring. I asked him to meet me tomorrow at noon. He agreed without hesitation. I went home. I still haven’t told Roger. I have no idea what I’m going to do next.

  ’Til next time,

  September 17

  Wednesday

  Tonight I told Roger about Cadence’s obviously vindictive decision to cancel the Open Mind conference. Then I told him I resigned from the center. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” I said. “I really felt I had no choice but to leave. It became a matter of pride.”

  “What’s that?” Roger retorted. “A matter of pride?” The vein on his forehead was starting to throb. It was going to be a long night. Roger didn’t just mute Nash Bridges. He turned the television off completely. For once, I had his undivided attention. Except now I didn’t want it.

  “Is that so weird?” I asked him. “That I’d want a job where I’m actually respected? Where my ideas are valued? Roger, you have no idea how miserable I was there!”

  “Apparently I don’t.” He was frowning; I searched his face for some signs of empathy but found none. “So, what, she cancels your conference and you just walk out? Just like that?”

  Roger couldn’t understand why I’d give up my job just because Cadence canceled Open Mind. And he’d be right—if that was the real reason I resigned. But I couldn’t tell him that I was forced to resign. I didn’t mention that I’d called Cadence “butt-ugly,” or that the center had linked Alice’s suicide attempt to my rendezvous with Eddie.

  There was a time when I could be completely honest with my husband, a time when I knew he’d offer solace and support and compassion. All I can expect now is shaming denigration and incredulity, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  “So now what?” he asked, his voice brittle with exasperation.

  “I don’t know.” And, truth is, I really don’t. I feel so unmoored right now. I’m literally dragging my body through the day. I can’t even contemplate finding another job.

  Every time I think about my upcoming meeting with Eddie, I get nauseated. I should take this as a sign, and yet I feel compelled to go through with it. He’s a friend.

  Monday

  Eddie called me to say he’d rather meet at his office. When I got there he was talking to one of his employees. He poked his head out of the door, told me he needed a few more minutes, and winked. He looked tanned and relaxed and a bit older, but also sexier. His mouth—that overbite!—was just as delicious as I remembered it.

  I felt disappointed and a little insulted that he left me waiting in the reception area, like I was one of his customers. I expected an entirely different reunion. I wondered whether I should get up and leave.

  But something kept me rooted to my seat. I wanted to see him. Eddie’s office was nicer than I’d imagined. Of course the place was full of robust, glossy plants and trees, including a ficus that looked a lot like the one that first brought us together. The furniture was surprisingly sleek. There were stark black-and-white photographs on the walls, and a small stone fountain in the corner.

  I decided to use the bathroom to freshen up. I stared at myself in the mirror, angled my face so I couldn’t see the second chin. I scrutinized my hair: Did long hair make me look sexy or like a hag? Should I keep it loose or put it up in a ponytail? I had every hair accessory known to womankind stuffed in my bag and I tried them all, frantically. I finally settled on leaving it loose. Eddie always liked long hair. He had this amusing theory about men who insisted their girlfriends cut their hair off. “Repressed gays,” he called them, so sure of himself. “Same for guys who like flat-chested girls.” Eddie could be such a dope, but I laughed anyway. I suspected the same thing, but would never have the guts to say something so un-PC out loud.

  By the time I came out of the bathroom, Eddie was waiting for me on the leather couch. “Nice place,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m impressed.”

  “Hi,” he said in return. He was staring at me. “You look fantastic.”

  “Hi, yourself,” I said, suddenly shy. He stood up and led me to his office. I spotted a pin-up calendar taped to the filing cabinet. He is such a guy. I was dying to kiss him.

  I told him everything and when I was through, he had two words: “That bitch.” I suddenly had a flashback to grade school. Reggie was an enormous, strong, sweet boy who had a crush on me. I didn’t want to date him, but Reggie wasn’t easily deterred; he asked if he could be my bodyguard. One day I
got a death threat from Lydia, a bully who had decided I had to die because I wouldn’t share my Fritos with her. I told Reggie. The next day Lydia didn’t just leave me alone, she left a bag of potato chips on my desk in homeroom. The rest of that school year, I was untouchable because Reggie was my bodyguard and everyone in school knew it. I loved it. I realized now that I wanted to see Eddie in the same way. He’d already helped me with Diana. Now I wanted him to help me with Cadence. But how could he?

  There’s lots more to say about Eddie (suffice it to say, my lips are still swollen) but if I don’t leave right now I’m going to be late picking up Petey.

  ’Til next time,

  September 24

  Tuesday

  Back to Eddie. The abridged version of the story is this: He told me he has thought about me every single day since he moved back in with his wife, and, yes, even when he’s having sex with her. (He says, “Otherwise it’s just not bearable.”) He said he’d thought of me while his wife was literally pushing out the new baby. I found this last comment too gross to be flattering, but didn’t say anything.

  He pulled me onto his lap. We made out. His mouth tasted exactly the way I remembered it, like lollipops and beer. He tried to unhook my bra. I wriggled out of his grip. I couldn’t go on. Roger and I had started with Moseman. I wasn’t about to break the cardinal rule of marriage counseling: no screwing around.

  But I realized I’d gotten what I’d really come for. Proof that I was important to at least one human being in this great big rotting world. Maybe Roger didn’t want me, and Cadence didn’t want me, but this man with massive arms and a delectable mouth did. And right at that moment, that’s all I needed to know.

  There wasn’t a thing Eddie could do about Cadence, of course. What was I thinking? That this blue-collar tough guy would have some underworld connections? That he’d offer to whack the Amazon for me? This wasn’t The Sopranos. This was my real, relatively boring Midwestern life, and there would be no adventure, no intrigue, no great acts of revenge.

  “Look. Cadence is a bitch and you got screwed. That’s life, sweetheart.” He pulled me close and said the five words I expected and dreaded.

  “Can I see you again?”

  I shook my head, told him that would be a mistake. We were both stuck in crappy marriages and neither of us had any intention of bailing. He held me tighter. I felt his little finger slipping beneath the waistband of my panties as he buried his face in my hair. “Change your mind,” he whispered.

  I pulled away. “No.”

  When I got back to the house there was a message on my machine from someone I hadn’t seen since high school: Sunny Rose (her real name, believe it or not). I’d worked for Sunny the summer of my junior year. She’d accused me of flirting with her husband, Barry. (I knew he was hot for me but he was so old he didn’t even register a little blip on my radar. He was probably thirty-five.) She fired me during one of her bizarre jealous rages, and I cried all the way home. I never heard from her again until tonight. She’d gotten my number through my mother. She said she was calling to apologize, to set things right before Rosh Hashanah. “I’ve felt just awful all these years,” she told me. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Of course. Please. It’s ancient history.” I was dying to know what had brought her around. I mean, there have been lots of new years since high school, lots of opportunities to make amends. Why apologize now?

  “You came to me in a dream,” she said. “And I put tremendous stock in my dreams. I’ve got ESP, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I do. I dreamed the whole Kennedy thing. Not the assassination, I mean Junior’s plane going down.”

  “I hope you didn’t dream about me dying or anything,” I said, trying to sound jokey. This was getting creepy.

  “No, no, nothing like that! I dreamed you were me. I mean, you were all grown up and you had hired a mother’s helper just like I’d hired you. She was gorgeous, just like you were. And you were yelling at her because you were so jealous. You thought she was flirting with your husband. And even though she was a great sitter, you had to have her out of your house. Your face was all twisted with anger and jealousy. Just like mine must have been. So I figure it was a sign. I’m not sure what it means, but I knew I had to call. To say I’m sorry. And even though you’re not Jewish, I wanted to wish you a sweet New Year … Hello?”

  “I’m still here.” I gulped. “Listen, all is forgiven, Sunny. Ancient history. By the way”—I had to ask this—“how’s Barry?”

  “Barry is Barry, what can I say? We split in ’89. He screwed anything that moved. I remarried in ’95, and I’ve never been happier. It’s true what they say—it really is better the second time around.” She giggled girlishly. “So, how about you? Your mother tells me you’re happily married? To a big-shot writer? And you’ve got an adorable little one of your own?”

  “All true.”

  “And, you’re happy?”

  “Very.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. That’s just wonderful!”

  I’m still stunned. I thought of that sitter—Heather? Amber? What was her name? I remember how overcome I was with the purest jealousy. I hated everything about her: the high tits, the tight little ass, the way she fawned over my husband. I blasted her like a cruise missile. What did Sunny’s dream mean for me? Am I now supposed to call Amber and apologize?

  As long as I’m home, I figured I might as well clean. I decided to make it a research project. I went on-line and searched “housecleaning tips.” It turned up 3,080 sites. After two and a half hours I was ready to clean. I did seven loads of laundry and ironed a basket of Roger’s shirts, picked up Pete’s room and packed away his out-of-season clothes, reorganized the front hall closet, cleaned the bathroom grout with a toothbrush, wiped the windows and mirrors with newspaper and Windex, cleaned the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, tile by tile. I put potpourri sachets in the sock drawers, refilled all the liquid soap dispensers, replaced all the dead lightbulbs, wiped all the baseboards, and vacuumed the dust from all the air conditioning registers. I wiped the grime off the phones, cleaned the bread machine, and reorganized the medicine cabinets.

  Now I sit in my clean and shiny reorganized home and wonder, what’s next? Part of me wants to rededicate myself to my career. Another part wants to chuck it all, stay home, and be the wife and mother Roger and Peter need me to be. But the part with the loudest voice right now simply wants to climb into bed and pull the quilt over my head.

  Saturday

  This morning when I went out to get the paper, I found a trail of tampons leading from the front door to the sidewalk, wrapped but soggy from last night’s rain. I ran inside, grabbed a rubber glove from the cabinet under the kitchen sink, pulled it over my hand, and went back to gather the tampons. There were nine. I picked up the first and examined it closely. At first I thought it was smeared with blood, but quickly realized it was lipstick. The imprint of a kiss. In fact, every single tampon had been marked with a kiss.

  I felt like a crime victim, shaky and scared. Who could have done this? And why? I knew that some of the neighborhood houses and trees are occasionally festooned with toilet paper, but this was different. The only clue I had was that the tampons were slim, the kind worn by younger women and girls. I ran upstairs and woke up Roger. He rolled over and looked at me with half-closed eyes.

  “Do you know anything about this?” I asked him, holding up one tampon in my gloved hand. Roger fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on.

  He squinted. “A tampon?”

  “A tampon. Size slim. Someone went to the trouble of kissing nine tampons and throwing them in front of our house.”

  Roger shook his head as if to clear it. He probably thought he was dreaming this conversation. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Until that point I had assumed it was one of his past or present lovers, but it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this was the work of a disgruntled
client of mine. It was possible. “What should we do?” I asked, not so cocky anymore.

  Roger flopped back into bed, pulled the quilt up to his chin, and rolled onto his side. “Forget it. Crazy kids. Halloween. They probably got the wrong house anyway.”

  I suppose Roger might be right. But I can’t shake this feeling that whoever left the tampon is someone who knows Roger, or me. And I’m certain we’re going to be hearing from her again.

  ’Til next time,

  November 5

  Monday

  We just got back from the therapist. I am so mad at Roger! Moseman asked me to describe the experience of feeling rejected (familiar terrain), but just as I was about to answer, he changed his instructions. “Wait. Do this instead. I want you to face your husband and tell him how he might benefit if he were faithful to you. What’s in it for him?”

  The thing is, I was still caught up with his first question. Suddenly I was sobbing convulsively. I couldn’t stop. I cried to the point of nausea. Aware that Roger and Moseman were staring at me, I shook my head and tried to apologize through the sobs, but the therapist encouraged me to keep crying.

  “Don’t shake your head! That blocks the feelings. Nod your head. Let it come. Let it out. Please.”

  I’d never heard that before—that shaking the head blocks feeling—but it made sense. As soon as I stopped shaking and started nodding, the sobs grew louder and stronger.

  I described the experience of trying to climb on my mother’s lap while she and my dad were locked in an embrace. I remembered her casually elbowing me off, and I remembered trying again to climb on her lap. I could see my father scowling and telling me, “Not now. Mommy and Daddy need time alone. Go watch TV upstairs.” And I remember stumbling to the archway between the family room and kitchen, and watching them kiss. My father gave me one last menacing look over my mother’s shoulder and I slouched out of the room.