by Debra Kent
So now I knew. It didn’t make me feel any better, though.
The most frustrating thing about being fired is knowing I can’t reach my old clients. I don’t have any of their files, and even if I did, I’m contractually prohibited from contacting any of them. There’s no way they can reach me because my home number is unlisted.
I did run into Claire—at Oooh La La, the lingerie shop in the mall. She approached me as I pawed through a stack of gray cotton briefs, probably the least attractive undergarments in the entire store. She seemed happy to see me. “What do you think?” she said, holding up a hot pink, fur-trimmed teddy.
“It’s you,” I told her, wondering whose husband she planned to seduce this week. As it turns out, it would be her own. Claire told me that after the picture window scene on her anniversary, her husband unleashed his inner satyr. “He’s an animal,” she whispered. “I can’t keep up with him.
“I’ve meant to send you a note,” she continued. “I know I sort of dropped off the edge of the earth. It wasn’t you. I just needed some time to process everything, to get centered. I just wanted to thank you for helping me turn my life around.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t think our sessions had made a difference. I found it hard to believe she credited me with saving her marriage, let alone her life. “You’re welcome,” I said, and then moved toward the cash register.
“Hey,” she said, tugging my sleeve. “Give your husband my regards.”
Huh?
’Til next time,
November 23
The stalker is back and wants Roger. A package was left in the big pot of dying geraniums on the porch. Inside was one of those little books they sell by the counter at Barnes & Noble. The Tiny Book of Big Sex. On every page a full-color photograph of a couple in a different position. There was a yellow Post-it note tucked inside the first page. My heart pumped wildly as I read the message, written in a distinctly feminine hand. Saturday. 2 P.M. Room 219. Econolodge. At the bottom of the note, another of those tacky lipstick kisses.
The only thing I’ve told Roger is that I’ll need him to watch Petey Saturday afternoon. I said I needed to visit a former client at Meadowfield. I’m going to the Econolodge myself to find out, once and for all, who is pursuing my husband.
’Til next time,
November 26
Friday night
Mom just called. Dad’s blood tests came back from the lab. It doesn’t look good. Dr. Bendel suspects the cancer has spread, possibly to the liver. He scheduled a biopsy for next Thursday. Ever the stoic, Dad’s telling Mom he’s going to be fine. “You’re stuck with me, kiddo,” he keeps saying. “I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time.” His optimism, feigned or not, is something I find heartbreaking. He is the consummate Good Provider. He knows Mom would be helpless without him.
In the meantime, Mom is convinced that she caused Dad’s cancer. Apparently she read somewhere that men who have lots of sex and eat lots of tomatoes have a lower incidence of prostate cancer. “I should have cooked more Italian food … and … we haven’t been, you know, as active since I went through, you know,” she whispered on the phone. It must have taken all her courage to share that. I know that impotence and incontinence are common after prostate surgery. It was hard to imagine my father wearing Depends, harder still to imagine how my parents got along without the sex. But now I knew that perhaps it wasn’t so difficult for my mother, given what she’d just told me.
I’m having a harder time dealing with the really important issue: the possibility that Dad might not make it, and what that means not merely for Mom, but for me. I’ve secretly believed that among his three daughters, I was his favorite. Why else would he take me alone to skip stones and watch the sunset by Lake Jerome? Why did he teach me and not the others to throw a football, to play his old bass clarinet, to make a campfire? He’d joke that Mom and my sisters were too prissy, that I was the real trooper in the family. From a man who didn’t readily dole out praise to any of his daughters, these words were like gold nuggets. I gathered them and preserve them to this day. I think of how Roger and I lavish praise on Petey, often when it’s not especially deserved, and I realize how meaningless that praise has surely become to a boy who hears it almost as often as he hears his own name.
So it’s hard for me now to imagine my father dying. Instead I’ll distract myself by thinking about my husband, and the slattern who will be waiting for him in room 219 tomorrow afternoon. And I’ll set up an appointment with Reverend Lee. I suspect I’ll want some spiritual guidance after tomorrow.
Saturday morning
I’m too nervous to relax, to eat, to breathe. Have to remind myself: inhale. When I manage to sleep a few hours, my dreams are filled with images of tampons strewn on the front path. Dirty panties in the mail. I keep thinking of that phrase: Be careful of what you wish for. I’ve been bored out of my skull since I lost my job at the center. I wanted a little drama. I never expected this.
Despite Moseman’s most heroic attempts to steer us toward healing, it’s clear that my husband is a chronic cheat. I feel nothing for him but anger, but this worries me: rage and lust are twin emotions—both are passionate, both can be barometers of attachment. I won’t be ready to walk away until I feel detached disgust, disdain, more like a spectator than a participant in this car wreck of a marriage. Thank God Roger’s taken Pete to visit his parents. I think I’d rip his eyeballs out if he were here now. Which reminds me: I called the sheriff’s department last week, after Roger had claimed he was delayed that night because of a terrible accident on the 246 bypass. It was Betsy’s idea to call. They put me through to a female deputy, the one who keeps track of highway “incidents.” “Nope, it was a quiet night,” she said in a flat, nasal voice. After a pause, she said something so unbelievably unprofessional, I’d have reported her if she hadn’t been so eerily accurate: “Husband’s been cattin’ around, huh?”
“Excuse me?” I don’t know why I felt it necessary to sound so indignant, when she happened to be right.
“We get this all the time,” she said, sounding sincerely sympathetic. “Let me guess. Your old man was real late getting home. And he told you he was held up because of an accident, right?”
“Right.” I felt completely defeated. This stranger knew more about my marriage than I did. I had to ask again. “Are you sure there wasn’t anything? Could you just check one more time?”
I heard a loud sigh, and a shuffling of papers I’m certain was for my benefit alone. “I’m sure,” she finally said. “You open to a little unsolicited advice?”
“Sure,” I told her, correctly sensing what would come next.
“Dump the jerk,” she told me. Then, “If I could do it, believe me, anyone can.”
I was filled with awe and admiration for this tough woman. I pictured her sitting at her desk in her navy blue sheriff’s uniform, single but strong. I imagined her gun and wondered whether she’d brandished it as she kicked her own jerk’s ass out of the house. I’m going to hold that image in my head as I drive to the Econolodge.
I’ve spent an hour dressing, putting on makeup. I figure, if I’m about to confront Roger’s lover, I’d better look good. I ran back in the house, found my camera, and popped in a fresh roll of film. I impulsively grabbed a steak knife on the way out and slipped it in my bag. Just my luck, I’ll probably stab myself while rooting around for my car keys. Before I go, I feel impelled to send a quick prayer: God, please give me the courage to handle whatever I happen to find in that room. Amen.
Saturday night
I am feeling what can only be described as shock, the kind of stunned numbness that you see in people with post-traumatic stress syndrome. My impulse is to get drunk and pass out in bed, but if I don’t write about this now I’m only going to feel worse tomorrow.
I drove to the motel with the female deputy’s words ringing in my ears. I had decided that I would tell this new whore, whoever she was, that she could have Roger.
I’d make a joke of it, like someone giving up an unwanted mutt, because that’s what Roger was to me now, a mangy dog I’d sooner dump on the highway than allow back into my house. I found a spot around the back and scoped out the room. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see a thing.
I grabbed my bag and walked up the steps to the second floor. I stared at the dingy door, then knocked hard, like a man might (but quickly realized that a philandering man wouldn’t pound, he’d tap quietly, discreetly). I heard a woman’s voice. There was no answer. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. The door creaked open. The room was dark. I felt something at my feet. At first I assumed it was one of those moist towelettes I always carry in my bag in case Pete needs a quick cleanup. But when I bent down to pick it up, I realized it was a condom. Tied around it, the same ribbon that held the feather to the can of Kama Sutra powder I found in my Jeep. This woman obviously knew my husband wasn’t keen on rubbers; she’d brought her own.
I gripped the ribbon as it snaked into the room. I flipped on the light. Both beds were empty. The room was empty! But the ribbon didn’t stop there. It led me to the doors that adjoined room 219 to 221. I knew there was someone on the other end of that ribbon, because as I approached the adjoining doors, I felt a distinct tug. With one hand on the doorknob and the other grasping the steak knife in my bag, I pushed open the door. And there in bed, lolling like a sultan amidst a pile of pillows and wearing nothing but her Cheshire cat grin, lay Diana.
“Right on time.” Her eyes glittered and she tossed her head back.
“Right on time.”
’Til next time,
December 3
“What do you mean, right on time?” I asked Diana, my blood pounding in my ears. The brain is an incredible organ, it really is. How’s this for multitasking: as one part was registering total mortification, the other was taking in every inch of Diana’s naked body.
I saw firm, round breasts that hadn’t been flattened and sagged by nursing, and a flat belly that never had to expand to accommodate a growing baby. Her hips were narrow, boyish. (Of coure, those panties had belonged to her, I suddenly realized.) And Diana’s skin was smooth and unblemished, like a young girl’s. No stretch marks, no shrivels, no varicose veins. Her shiny black hair was longer now, and curled around one rosy nipple. A bull’s-eye.
Diana snuggled back into the pillows. She giggled. “Oh, baby. Do you have to analyze every single thing I say?” She twirled her hair around a finger. The nails were short, squared, buffed to a soft shine. “Right on time means right on time.”
“You mean, you were expecting me?” I noticed she’d lit some incense. Something musky. I recognized it. They sold it at that funky gift shop in the Castle Creek mall. It was Roger’s favorite. He said it made him horny.
“Expecting you?” Diana’s eyes widened. “Of course I was expecting you. I’ve never known you to pass up adventure.”
I noticed the bottle of Merlot on the chipped laminate side table. There were two glasses. So much for AA, I thought.
“Did you enjoy my little—gifts?”
“Those tampons. That was you?”
“You betcha!” Diana beamed like a flashlight. “The kisses were a nice touch, don’t you think?” She puckered her lips and blew a salacious kiss. I could almost see it sliming its way toward me.
“No, I thought the whole thing was disgusting.”
“Disgusting? Ouch!” Diana pouted, feigning insult. “Don’t tell me you forgot!”
I stared at her. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“You remember. Prince Charles? Camilla?”
Oh yes. It was all coming back to me. It had been one of those exceedingly rare moments of harmony between Diana and me. A staff luncheon at Bellamy’s. Hot topic of the week: Prince Charles’s secret desire to be a Kotex in Camilla Parker Bowles’s love canal. Most everyone agreed that Charles was a royal pig, but I argued that it was a private comment between lovers and wasn’t meant to be publicly aired or judged. Diana vociferously agreed, then winked at me in a way I suppose I should have noticed. She caught up with me later, said she believed that anything is permissible between consenting adults.
I looked down at the condom in my hands. I figured it was only a matter of time before my husband would arrive. And when he did, I planned to tell him our marriage was officially and finally over. It seemed totally appropriate that I’d end my misery in some motel room with its stain-flecked walls, chipped laminate furniture, and forlorn drapes. I was actually looking forward to it.
I reached into my bag and felt for the camera. It was still there. “I can’t wait to see the look on Roger’s face when he walks in and finds me standing here with his whore.”
“Roger?” Diana grinned impishly and shook her head. “Oh, baby, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not that kind of girl. I mean, that’s not my or-i-en-ta-tion.”
With every syllable of the word she tugged sharply on the ribbon, reeling me in toward the bed. I lost my balance and flopped beside her. I could smell the incense in her hair.
“I’ve never been interested in Roger. Don’t you know that?”
I pried her fingers off me and turned to face her. I was sure she was bullshitting me. “Cut the crap, Diana. How many times have you told me you should have grabbed him when you had the chance? You were married once. And how about all your boyfriends? Roger told me you had a new guy up to your dorm every week.”
Diana snorted, “Boyfriends, shmoyfriends. Listen. You’re a therapist. You’re supposed to know this stuff.” She grabbed a pillow and playfully bopped me over the head. What did she think this was, a slumber party? “Sexuality is a continuum, babe. I used to be on this end of the continuum”—she lightly traced a line from one end of my lips to the other—“and now I’m on this side.”
“Give me a break,” I told her. “How stupid do you think I am? What about this?” I waved the condom at her. Diana licked her lips.
“Oh, sweetcakes, that’s not for Roger.” She leaned forward to brush the hair away from my face. It was a gentle, affectionate gesture. It made me shudder.
“But let’s not rush it, okay?”
“But the book, the body powder—that wasn’t for Roger?”
Diana was radiant now. “Oh, this is too perfect. Just perfect!” she said.
At this point I didn’t know what to think. I was sitting in a cheesy motel room, with my nemesis, who just happened to be naked. To complicate matters, I was aware of an intensifying heat spreading like a rash over my body.
“So, were you planning on wearing that thing?” I pointed toward the condom.
Diana giggled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have the right equipment.” She shifted her legs provocatively, watching me watching her.
“You are delectable, you know that? Delicious. And Roger doesn’t deserve you, that rat.”
She reached for me again but I stood up and glanced perfunctorily at my watch, as if the time even mattered at that point. The truth is, I felt suspended in time, as if I’d stepped outside myself and now watched this entire sordid scene unfold from a corner of the room.
“Look,” I heard myself say, “it’s been real. But I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, no! You can’t!” Diana grabbed my hand and held fast. “Please. Not yet. You’ll miss the best part!” Just then I heard the door in the next room open.
“Yes!” Diana whispered. “Finally.”
I held my breath and waited.
’Til next time,
December 10
It’s I A.M. The locksmith has finally left and Roger’s clothes are now sitting on the curb in Hefty bags that also happen to be filled with broken eggs, coffee grounds, old tuna fish, yogurt, and everything else in the kitchen trash can. I took special care to dump the slop on his favorite Armani suit, then emptied Pete’s acrylic paints into the bag with the Tommy Bahama trousers and silk ties. I poured bleach over everything else. I would have puked into his $160 shoes if I thought I had anything left i
n my stomach, but I’d already heaved up dinner into the toilet. With any luck the raccoons will tear into the bags and drag his crap all over the street.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
As soon as the door creaked open in the next room, Diana slinked out of bed and started moving toward the bathroom.
“Just where the hell are you going?” I whispered, instinctively reaching for the steak knife.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” she muttered.
I watched her scuttle into the bathroom and close the door behind her. And then I knew.
“Hello?” I heard him call from the adjoining room.
“Hel-lo?” The voice was playful, but a little tentative.
A faint rustling of tissue paper. He came bearing flowers. Red gerbera daisies and tiny yellow roses. Eddie’s smile was as big as the bulge in his pants. He offered the flowers. Reflexively, I brought them to my face and inhaled deeply. He grinned at me. “You naughty, naughty girl.”
“What?”
“What? What?” he mimicked. “Don’t give me that innocent routine.” He unzipped his leather jacket and tossed it on the wobbly Formica table. He wore a crisp shirt, azure blue. I wondered if he’d asked his wife to iron it this morning. He looked beautiful.
“You’re something else, you know that?” He pulled me toward him with authority and entitlement. “First, the panties. Then that little sex book. And the Kama Sutra powder?” He suddenly looked stricken. “Damn! I left it in the car! I could run out and get it. Wouldn’t take more than a minute.” He pulled me closer and put his mouth against my ear.
“On second thought, let’s forget the powder. We really don’t need props, do we?”
“Wait, Eddie, you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand just fine.” He put his hands beneath my blouse and fiddled with my bra. “What I don’t get is why you picked this place? We could have met at the Roundtree. For old time’s sake.” He gently lifted my chin with his hands and ran his tongue lightly across my lips. “God. I’ve missed you.” He tried to lower me to the bed.