by Debra Kent
Moseman passed me a full box of Kleenex and slowly I regained my composure. When I finally looked up again, spent and congested, I found Roger glaring at me.
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He smirked derisively. “Typical. So typical. Dr. Moseman’s question, as you would have known had you been paying attention, was to face me and tell me how you think I’d benefit if I were faithful to you. So what do you do instead? You go on and on about you.” Roger raised his arms and mimed playing a violin. “Poor little you. It’s always about you.” My husband slumped back into Moseman’s overstuffed couch and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Typical.”
I wanted to kill him! I still do! Moseman squinted at Roger, then pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few words. I hope one of them was “ASSHOLE.” My only consolation is that I’ve lost another two pounds. And still managed to eat sweets—I figured out that if I skip a few fruits and breads, I can double my dessert portions. This makes me very happy.
Tuesday
Without work to distract me, I find myself fixated on the stupidest things. Like the size of Julia Roberts’s mouth. It seems extraordinarily large and somewhat scary. I’m thinking about Jennifer Love Hewitt. She’s on every magazine cover, and yet I don’t believe I have ever seen her in anything, which is disorienting. Then there’s Clinton. I just saw him on CNN and all I could think about was fellatio. This man could announce that he has singlehandedly negotiated world peace, and I’d still be thinking: fellatio. And am I the only one who thinks Lauryn Hill looks exactly like a younger, thinner version of Oprah? Or that Leelee Sobieski is a young Helen Hunt? Or am I just going crazy from all the Soft Scrub fumes?
Thursday
I’m beginning to think that what I really need isn’t a marriage counselor but a private therapist, someone who can help me deal with the true issue: How can I ever trust Roger again? (Of course, he might ask the same question. Why should he trust me?)
My distrust of Roger runs like a contaminated brook under the foundation of our lives. I see betrayal, or the threat of betrayal, everywhere, in every interaction. He’s auditioning actors now, and I’m grateful that his new play has only two female parts, and they’re both very small, but every time he comes home from auditions I smell his clothes, searching for the telltale scent.
A few nights ago, I saw Roger chatting a little too long with the pizza delivery girl. I watched from the top of the stairs as she moved closer toward him and my heart froze. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew she was no stranger; she stood too close, they talked in quiet and familiar tones. I hurried down the steps and glared at them both through the screen door. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. She had a stud in her nose and a thin ring through her lower lip. Her long dyed red hair was parted in the middle and hung to her waist. She looked at me with huge green eyes. She wore no makeup. Her skimpy green nylon top clung to her small, braless breasts.
Roger greeted me brightly. “Isn’t this a coincidence? Look who came to deliver our pizza. This is Julia Gottleib, Ken’s daughter. Isn’t that something?” I watch my husband eye the girl’s nipples.
“Yeah, Roger. That’s really something.” Ken Gottleib was one of Roger’s racquetball partners. The girl hadn’t taken her eyes off my husband. I pulled the pizza box out of her arms.
“How much do we owe you?” I turned to Roger. “Do you have the checkbook?”
“It’s inside, hon.”
“Would you please get it?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He reluctantly left me alone on the porch with Julia. I stared at her, aware of the jealousy that curdled all rational thought. She wouldn’t look at me. She said nothing. Roger quickly returned with a check.
“There’s a little something in there for you,” he said.
As I watched my husband come alive in the presence of this young girl, I had to ask myself, How much longer can I live with this? Even if he never fondles or kisses or penetrates another woman, how can I live with myself? How can I live with the suspicion and rage that seems to stain every single day of my life with him?
Then I remembered the soggy tampons. I’d saved one just in case I might need it later for evidence. I asked Julia to wait for a moment, then ran inside and grabbed the Ziploc bag from under the sink. I was breathless by the time I got back to the porch.
“Just one more thing before you go,” I said, holding out the bag.
“Do you know anything about this?”
The girl peered at the bag. “What is that?”
“Just what it looks like. A tampon. With lipstick kisses,” I said, bringing the bag a bit closer to her face.
She started backing off the porch and shook her head. “Yuck.” Then she looked at me as if I might be deranged.
“Why would I know anything about that?”
“I don’t know.”
Roger pulled the bag out of my hands. His face was purple.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I suddenly felt hot with shame. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe Julia might know something about this.”
Roger grabbed the bag out of my hand. “Julia. Please. Go. My wife obviously isn’t feeling very well this evening. Please go.” He pulled some stray bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. She didn’t resist. “Here,” he insisted. “Take it. Please.”
As Julia backed her Blazer out of the driveway, Roger grabbed the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
“Would you tell me what’s going on with you?”
I tried to pull away but he held on and the fabric ripped along the shoulder seam. “Get your friggin’ hands off me,” I yelled. “Look what you did! God! Leave me alone!”
Naturally, our neighbor Roz Eberley just happened to be putting her trash out at precisely that moment. She stared scornfully at us. I ignored her.
Friday
The Tampon Queen has visited again. This morning when I went out for the newspaper, I found a small padded envelope, the kind you might use to mail a book. It had no return address. I don’t know if it was meant for me or for Roger, because there was no name, either. I decided to open it outside. Roger and Pete were eating breakfast. Whatever was inside, I was pretty sure I didn’t want my son to see it.
The envelope was as light as air; I considered the possibility that it might be empty. I could feel my heart pulsing in my throat as I slipped a fingernail beneath the flap and loosened the adhesive.
The first thing I glimpsed was a bit of fabric, deep magenta, satin, elasticized. Something told me this wasn’t an early Christmas gift from Roger. I held my breath, tugged gingerly. I pulled it out. It was a pair of panties. A thong, to be precise, Victoria’s Secret, size small. I let out an involuntary shriek; in retrospect, a bizarre reaction—it’s not as if I’d pulled out a severed finger. On closer inspection (and breathing through my mouth), I discovered that these panties weren’t new and in fact were definitely not laundered. Ugh! I shook the mailer out, hoping for a note. Nothing. This time I decided not to tell Roger.
At least not yet.
’Til next time,
November 12
Saturday
Well, I guess I won’t be talking to Shannon Herring-shaw again, all because of a stupid Pokémon pencil box. We were at the annual silent auction at the church today. I didn’t see anything worth bidding on and was getting ready to leave, when Petey drags me over to the kids’ table. He wants this little plastic pencil box in the shape of one of those bland little Pokémon characters. I put down a bid of $2.
Next thing I know, Shannon’s there with her nine-year-old daughter Talisha. She doubled my bid! So I doubled her bid while Shannon and her daughter looked on in horror. This went on until the frigging box was up to sixteen bucks and Chrissy Miller announced that all bidding on the kids’ table had officially ended; my bid had been the last one, so I won. I felt triumphant, but also totally
crappy. As I walked into the parking lot, Shannon pulled up beside me and lowered the window of her sparkling silver Lexus. “Was that really necessary?” she asked me. Her eyes were rimmed in red. Her daughter was sitting in the back seat scowling. I wanted to say, “Get used to it, kid.” I didn’t know how to respond to Shannon’s question, so I just shrugged and said, “What can I say? Your daughter wanted it, so did my son. At least we made money for the church, huh?”
She shook her head sadly and drove on. Petey tugged my hand. “You could have let Talisha have it, Mom,” he said. “I didn’t want it that much anyway.”
Monday
Got a phone call from Reverend Lee. He said he was hoping to continue our prayer sessions, but I told him I wasn’t in the mood to make contact with my higher power these days.
“That’s exactly the time to do it,” he urged.
“Why don’t you stop by this week?” I said I’d think about it. I wonder if everything’s right between the Reverend and his wife. He seemed awfully insistent. I really don’t feel like praying with him, especially not this week. I think I must be getting ready to ovulate, because even my fat old dentist looked good to me this afternoon when I went for a cleaning. Who knows what I might do to a really attractive man like the good pastor.
I took the bag with the tampon and the panties from the Halloween attack on our house to the police station. I asked to speak with one of the detectives, female, preferably, but she was out sick so I got stuck with Mike Lundgren, who happens to be my father’s best friend from high school. I’d totally forgotten he was a detective. As I watched Mike saunter toward me, I panicked. I hadn’t told my parents any of this. I didn’t want to worry my father, who hasn’t been feeling especially well lately.
“What have you got there?” Mike asked me, tugging the bag from my hands. He grimaced when he saw the tampon. I knew I’d made a huge mistake. This was the kind of guy who calls female anatomy “plumbing.” I wasn’t about to show him the panties. “Oh, I think it’s probably just a Halloween prank,” I told him, quickly shifting gears. “I just wanted to show it to you, you know, in case you had other complaints and needed, I don’t know, some sort of evidence.”
Mike rubbed his bald head furiously, as if enough rubbing might produce some information. “Beats me,” he said finally. “Tell your pop I said hey, okay?”
Tuesday
I volunteered in Pete’s class today. It was fun but draining. The big news is that Alyssa no longer teaches there. All I could get out of Nancy, the normally talkative office administrator, was that there was an “incident” involving Alyssa and the janitor, the vaguely sinister Mr. Reilly. I tried to get Pete’s teacher to fill me in on the details, but didn’t push it. She’s nice enough, but I didn’t want to do or say anything that could affect the way she treats Pete.
On my way out, the principal asked if I’d be interested in subbing. I was surprised that he knew I was available. “Word has it you may have some extra time on your hands,” he said, smiling solicitously. Damn these small towns! God only knows what else people know about my untimely departure from the center.
But I was intrigued by the offer. I wouldn’t mind working at the school while trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I told him I’d think about it.
Later…
I guess I never really noticed how awful this neighborhood was until I stopped working. All these big fancy facades and no signs of life! People drive straight into their garages, close the automatic doors behind them, and that’s it for neighborly conversation. One block over, all the neighbors arrange activities. One year when the creek flooded, they had a bullfrog race. They have a little parade on the Fourth of July, block parties on Labor Day, and caroling on Christmas. But they’re all so damn precious that I can’t stand them either.
Wednesday
It’s 1:00 A.M. and Roger still hasn’t come back from auditions. Naturally, tonight was the final audition for the two female parts. Knowing Roger, he’s probably doing just that: auditioning female parts.
I’ve got to stop thinking like this. I have no reason to believe Roger is still cheating on me, other than the fact that he has a history of cheating, which certainly traumatized the marriage but in itself does not support any suspicions I might have. There haven’t been any of the telltale signs (I don’t think leering at the pizza girl’s chest counts), and the tampon/panty incident proves nothing—so far.
Thursday
Roger ended up stumbling in at 2:00 AM., reeking of gin. I woke up but kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to talk to him. I could hear him stripping off his clothes, throwing them on the rocker, peeing, gargling. He banged his foot on the NordicTrack, suppressed a profanity, then flopped into bed. Two minutes later his arms were wrapped around my waist and he was pulling me against him. He was completely hard.
“Where were you?” I mumbled, trying to sound more asleep than I really was.
“Mmmmm,” he said back. “Quiet. Just let me do this.” He started working himself into me from behind. I wanted to be angry, but the truth was, I was wildly aroused. So I pressed back toward him, and it felt incredible. But when I woke up in the morning and saw him lying there naked and hung over (in more ways than one), I wanted to kill him. I threw my towel on his face and demanded to know why he was so late. He insisted that the auditions ran late.
Afterwards, one of the male actors insisted on buying him a drink. He wanted to discuss his role. That was at 10. Before they knew it, three hours had gone by. He would have been home a bit earlier, but he ran into traffic on the road. “A big accident,” he said. “Tied up the highway in both directions for miles.” Roger raised a hand to his heart. “I swear.”
Friday
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I just got into my Jeep. Right there on the driver’s seat was a small tin. I’ve got it in my hand right now. It says Kama Sutra Edible Body Powder. It’s tied with a black velvet ribbon, and slipped between the ribbon and the tin is a black feather. At first I thought it was a gift from Roger—a sexy follow-up to last night—but when I thanked him he honestly had no idea what I was thanking him for! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. What is going on?
As I reached for the tin, my car phone rang. When I picked it up, I heard a long silence, faint breathing, then a quiet click. Whoever left that in my Jeep must have known I’d find it at precisely that moment. Or maybe they were actually watching me. I ran in the house and quickly pulled all the drapes closed. Roger was gone. It’s just me now, and I’m scared shitless.
’Til next time,
November 19
No more gifts from Tampon Queen. At first I thought they were meant for Roger, but after I found the Kama Sutra powder in my Jeep, and after the call came in on my cell phone, I’m not so sure. But who could possibly want to torment me like this? Alyssa is absolutely twisted enough to pull a stunt like this, just to make me crazy. Among my former patients, the only possibility is Maria, the volleyball player, who once confessed to having vivid erotic dreams about me and gave me a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Unless it’s Eddie, and those panties were mine, from my pre-blubber days. They did look familiar—could I have left them somewhere?
The truth is, I find it more than a little arousing that these gifts might be meant for me. I’m the object of someone’s horny fantasy! If I thought it was a stranger, I’d be terrified. But I’m certain it’s someone I already know. But who?
’Til next time,
November 21
Still trying to adjust to being home. I’m lonely. I thought it would be hard being home with Roger here all day, but it turns out he’s rarely home. They’re starting rehearsals now. I’ve hinted that I might like to stop by the theater to watch, but he’s distinctly unenthusiastic. That hurts. I know he thinks I cramp his style. It would be like having his mother there. I might just stop by anyway.
I wish I could stop thinking about Cadence. She had spurned me since the day she started at the Center, and I h
ad to know why. I finally decided to deploy my only true ally, Dale Miller. I called him this morning and suggested he engage the Amazon in casual conversation about my sudden departure. He agreed without hesitation.
He called me during his lunch hour from the pay phone in the lobby.
“Well, I got her to talk,” he whispered into the phone, “and it wasn’t pretty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Dale sighed. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Just tell me,” I told him, bracing myself. “I can handle it.”
“Fine.” He took a deep breath. “She said you had some good ideas, but your image was all wrong. She thought you dressed inappropriately. In other words, too sexy. She hated those black spandex pants, by the way, as if she could fit her amazonian ass into a pair of spandex pants. And she said she knew you were out with Eddie the day your client tried to kill herself.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“I’m not done. Should I go on?”
“Yes.”
“She saw you dancing in a Greek restaurant. Like a wild woman, she said. With Eddie. That’s before she took the job here, before she even knew your name. Then when she started at the Center, she recognized you. And hated you right away.” Dale paused, then added: “Jealous bitch.”