by Donnna Salli
I felt my arms being yanked in opposite directions.
“I can’t. You know I can’t. They could get rid of me tomorrow and have a hundred takers the following day. I’ve got to keep at it. I’ve got to make them want to keep me.”
My loyalties were a little misplaced, but Sam didn’t say it. He shrugged and snapped open the takeout. “Whatever you say.” We ate without talking. A couple of times, he took away the printout I was working on when I picked it up.
Later, as I stood at the hall window listening to Hank’s whistling, the squeaky wheels of his cart, I saw my error in a sickening rush. Outside, steam was curling out of the grates that lined the perimeter of the building, and as I watched the patterns it made, I didn’t even want to keep myself. I couldn’t get home to Sam fast enough. Before he changed his mind.
The next day I called in sick—called in well, is how Sam put it—and when I went back, things were different. I began to enjoy life. I started a job search, and we eventually moved here. It’s been a good move—small town, small college. It’s not the most diverse place, but even here people can surprise you. Sam and I surprised ourselves and got married, a couple years after the move. We set about cultivating a yellow-bungalow, picket-fence kind of relationship and came precariously close to traditional norms. We even almost got a dog, until I came to my senses.
The way I found out about his affair was a joke. We’d drifted into complacency. I’d known all about midlife crises, especially the notorious ones in men, but Sam had passed forty without a splash. By the time he hit forty-five, or it hit him, I wasn’t paying any attention at all.
He must have wanted to get caught. In April, he left a note from the egg-sucking weasel in the back pocket of his pants. Sam usually did the laundry. I pitched in, oh, I’ll be generous and say twice a month. It was on one of those occasions I found it. In my family, growing up, it was unforgivable to read something addressed to someone else. We just didn’t. But this situation was different—there was a judgment call to make. Was it something important, or something to toss? I unfolded the note, glanced it over, and then read it again and again. There was no way around it. It was what it was. The tone was so intimate, the text so riddled with inside jokes, I knew he was sleeping with her. I crumpled it, burst into tears, then smoothed it back out. I stared at it. What should I do? I’d been hit by a Mack truck, and my rational processes had ridden out of town splattered across its grille.
I’d like to say that when Sam got home we sat down and discussed it, calmly, but who’d believe that? I met him at the door with my overnight bag packed. I shook Exhibit A in his face. “I suppose you have an explanation?”
He saw what it was, and his whole body got quiet. “I love you,” he said, “only you.” He didn’t even attempt an explanation. The rat. “It just happened,” he said. I found out later it was someone from work. I walked out without another word.
I headed for Rena’s. Since she and Richard got together, we haven’t been the friends we were. She . . . she cut me out. Richard was the first guy she dated that I didn’t think a total butthole. I had a little crush on him myself, but . . . don’t take this wrong . . . I was in love with Rena, not physical, not sexual, but a deep attachment, and I think, until Richard, it was the same for her. I still love her. When Pastor Jack left, there was this tidal wave of grief. I knew Richard had the sort of heart that could step into a situation like that and turn it around, so I gave them a call. I guess I hoped things would be different between us. They weren’t. Still, Rena was the only one I was going to when I found out about Sam. Richard wasn’t home. He was doing hospital visits, and I was glad. I didn’t even make it through the door without crumbling. One look at Rena standing in it, and I burst into tears.
“What is it?” she said.
“Sam. What else?”
I don’t know what I was hoping for from her, but it wasn’t what I got. She sat me down. “Want some tea?”
“Yes, something soothing. I’ve had a day from the back forty of Hell.” I took a deep breath and spilled the godawful mess. The laundry, the pocket surprise, Sam’s strange, disconnected admission. When I was done, Rena just sat there, silent. She shifted in her chair, she seemed uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was she reacting to me, or the situation? I suppose it’s hard to hear of trouble in a friend’s marriage without feeling a little uncertain in your own. Even being married to a minister is no guarantee the course of true love will run smoothly. Rena’s reaction struck me as strange. When you really know her, you know quiet is not Rena’s strong point.
Our first day as roommates, she walked in and I was immediately put off. Not by her exactly, but her presentation. She bounced in, laughing and chattering, with holes in her jeans and a string of love beads around her neck. Everything about her said flower child, except she was the opposite of laid back. I could see she was used to being popular.
“I’m Rena Capshaw,” she said.
Even her name was perky. To makes things worse, she had blue eyes and hair that was straight, shiny and blonde. But I soon saw that beneath it all she was as vulnerable as I was, and it made me feel close to her. We studied together, watched guys together, talked late into the night over pizza and beer. The guys Rena saw didn’t interfere with us. She kept them apart. But then she met Richard. Not only did I have to share my best friend, but I had to sit there and watch her change. If I tried to talk to her about it, she got testy. “MYOB,” she’d say.
The irrepressible Ms. Capshaw slit the wrists of her deepest self to fit some idea of a pastor’s wife. Now, I think clergy and their families ought to get million-dollar salaries. Most of them labor away, under-appreciated, never measuring up in some quarter or other. But I’m talking about my friend. To this day, I don’t understand what Rena was thinking. She made herself into a woman the girl in love beads wouldn’t have liked. It felt like she left me twice, choosing Richard and walking away from the things in herself that I most loved. It hurt. When someone you love moves on, if someone you love backs away, it leaves a hole. I have some gaping ones, and I’ve done some sorry things to fill them.
Soon after Pete and I were through, Sam started pressing for a reconciliation. I didn’t regret the tryst, but I’d come out the other side seeing it for its emptiness. Trying again with Sam was looking good. But I was in a potholder mood and thought I’d have a little fun.
Sam hated I’d had the thing with Pete.
“A yoga instructor,” he sneered. We were on the phone, but I could see his expression. “You couldn’t do better? Do they let normal men be yoga instructors?”
“Sam,” I said. “Your insecurity is showing. Forget about Pete. How about dinner? Tomorrow. Come to the house and we’ll talk.” I did intend to talk, but I also had in mind to torment him a little. Future generations will never call me Saint Antonia. I’m not above using every weapon I have.
Sam came over the next evening, and after we’d eaten I moved us into the living room with Irish coffee. Sam suddenly, peevishly, said, “So what kind of kinky things did he have the two of you doing?”
We were standing in front of the fireplace, the scene of that first romp with Pete. I turned and looked him dead-on. “How do you know I didn’t do the initiating?”
That pierced, dead center. “Goddamn it, Toni.” He threw his mug onto the mantel and pulled me to him. My coffee splashed everywhere. I laughed out loud, which provoked him even more. He grabbed my mug and plunked it next to his. Then he kissed me, the sort of kiss we hadn’t ascended to in years. It was ferocious. I could hear our toes tingling. It was like discovering the Schwinn you rode as a kid stored in a corner of the garage. You hop onto the seat, and the full force of youth comes flooding back. Sam’s hands fumbled at my clothes. His lips moved through my hair. “Don’t tell me anything,” he said, groaned, really. “I’d deserve it—but I don’t want to know.”
It was weird. I felt more footloose than I’d ever felt with him. I thought, What the hell. He�
�s my husband. It wasn’t like we’d be breaking any laws. I reached down and started unbuttoning his jeans.
Well. He froze. He pulled away with this awful look on his face. I tried to pull him back. “What’s wrong?”
He turned away. “Maybe . . . this isn’t such a good idea.”
I spread my fingers lightly across the middle of his back. “Sam. Sam, please. What is it?”
“Oh, God. Toni.”
The strain in his voice scared me. I pressed my fingers harder into his back. “Tell me.” He shook his head, dropped his chin to his chest. I pressed my hands hard beneath his shoulder blades. “Sam. You can tell me.”
His shoulders heaved. “Right. You’re right—and you’ve got to know. It’s . . . it’s herpes,” he said. “I’ve got herpes.”
Herpes. The word reverberated in my ears and triggered a life review—of Sam’s and my life together. I’d never envisioned this. Here I’d been moving toward trying again, had thought, in fact, I’d agree to it this evening, and now he was telling me this. I recoiled. I pulled my hands away. My mind was reeling, my tongue fell stone dead. I finally managed one earth-shatteringly intelligent word. “What?” Neither of us said anything for at least a minute. Then I managed a little sarcasm. “You’ve never heard of condoms?” I couldn’t stop myself. To my knowledge, he hadn’t been seeing anyone. “Who,” I said, “were you sleeping with?”
He whirled around. “You’re not exactly knitting potholders yourself, these days.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe someone should have knit one for your dick.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched. “This isn’t what I need from you.”
“I’m not the one running home knocked up.”
“You think that’s what this is? Christ. I’ve wanted to come home long before this. You’re the one who’s been dragging ass about it. I just got the damn virus.”
“Great, Sam. You just got it. You haven’t answered the question.”
“A friend, of a friend. She said she was on the Pill. It was what she didn’t say that got me. I’m not like you. I don’t analyze every phrase and pick apart every situation.”
I didn’t say anything. I stared at the carpet.
He shook his head. “I feel—” Tears welled into his eyes. “Dirty.” He started to cry. It was awful and harsh, like he didn’t know how. “I thought about not telling you, about just . . . dropping out of sight. . . . But I didn’t want to do that to you. I . . . I owe you better.” His chest shuddered as he drew in a breath. “I don’t know how to explain it. She was nice. I thought it was safe.”
The famous last word . . .
What I knew about herpes might have filled a thimble. Once I got over the shock, I got analytical. My exposure to the subject had been limited to bad jokes. At work, we’d just put summer school to bed and were gearing up for fall. But for Sam’s sake I couldn’t go around discussing what he’d told me. Besides, herpes isn’t the usual conversational fare in the faculty lounge:
“Morning, Toni. What’s up?”
“Not much. Tried to jump Sam’s ass last night, but he told me he’s got the herp.” A broad smile. “It nipped things right in the bud. What’s new with you?”
No, this was something I needed to investigate on my own. Late in the day, I headed for the library. I found some articles, a medical encyclopedia, and a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Just holding Bodies made me feel better. It was substantial and comforting. Rena had a copy when we were roommates, and we used to consult it like an oracle. I felt self-conscious, like the whole world knew what I was doing. I didn’t go so far as to wear a scarf and dark glasses, but I came close. I sat discreetly in a corner of the stacks. The stats were that one in four adults has herpes. It blew me away. I’d never look at a crowd the same way. I started thinking about everyone I knew. Whose were the faces behind those clinical numbers?
I found out a couple needed to avoid sex during breakouts. But there was more bad news—there was a time before an actual lesion appeared when the virus could be passed. There was no way to know. The bottom line was, any woman in Sam’s life would be at risk. The words of one infected woman were etched into my brain. “Herpes won’t kill you, but it does a number on your sex life. And your head.”
So. There was more to fear than fear itself.
I backed off from overtures toward Sam and got into the thing with Warren. But Sam wasn’t deterred. After he’d come out of the closet, so to speak, he had nothing to lose. He stepped up his overtures toward me. “You haven’t told me no yet. Have you?”
I lied. Well, a case of omission. There was a third night that changed my life. I was still rooming with Rena. She’d left on Friday for a shower and was coming back Sunday. The dorm was a morgue. The whole floor was gone—the only other person was a girl studying library science who was even sadder than me. I hung around the room all day Saturday, pretending to work. Walking back after dinner, I was filled suddenly with existential longing. I needed something, which I translated to someone. The thought went through my head, I could do it, I could go out and find him. I’d go somewhere and dance, have a couple screwdrivers and dance my tail off. I started running, like someone in love or gone nuts in a movie. At the room, I went helter-skelter through my clothes. I decided on my new hip-huggers and a midriff-baring top. It was the best I could do. I tried them on and thought, I’m screwed. I don’t even have good undies. I looked at Rena’s dresser. She had panties and bras that would kill. I didn’t think, I didn’t wonder if I should. I knew which drawer, and I opened it and pulled out the sweetest hot pink bra and matching bikini brief. I put them on, they even almost fit. I pulled the rest of my clothes back on and did final touches— hair in loose, sassy braids, dark green shadow on my eyes.
Walking in, the music was so loud I could feel it in my chest. It felt weird to take a table by myself, so I sat at the bar. I had a screwdriver. It was cool and it was good. Being in Rena’s lingerie, I didn’t feel like me. I liked it. I had another screwdriver, and then a guy asked me to dance—I did—and he bought me another one. I danced a few more dances and was back at my seat, on my fourth drink, when “Shame, Shame, Shame” ripped out of the speakers. By then, I didn’t need an invitation. I twirled onto the floor. I didn’t think my tail could do what my tail was doing. I was singing, and moving, and laughing—I felt so good. I closed my eyes, so I could watch the circles of light spinning in my head, and when I opened them, there was Richard. His eyes were inches from mine, and he was grinning. “Toni, Toni. What’s got into you?”
“Screwdrivers.”
We stood there. It could go either way.
Then and there, I decided I was going to have him, if I could. I started to dance, backing away, then forward, away, forward, and he mirrored me. We were on that floor the rest of the night, and then he walked me back to the dorm, and then to the room, and when I opened the door, he followed me in. I lit a candle—I don’t know how, I was wobbly—but I managed to light it, and then . . . I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t click for him that I was in Rena’s underthings. When he reached around, one-handed, and unsnapped the bra, I felt like I was with her and him and my head spun.
I don’t know why he did it. Cold feet, maybe—the wedding was weeks away. He was drunk. He thought I was cute. Maybe he was taking pity, though I don’t think so. On Monday, both of us cold sober, we met out on one of the walking paths on Picnic Point and did our mea culpas. We swore to go to the grave with it. We were still friends, only different. Richard and I love each other, but after that night, we knew, not like that. I was lucky not to get left with an unintended bonus.
I try to figure out why I did it. There were the screwdrivers. I was sweet on him—which he knew—and looking to poor mortals for something none could give. Hardest to admit, I was jealous of the two of them and hurt at the way she’d abandoned me. Having that night with him was, I suppose, a kind of payback. I felt wretched the next morning when Rena came back early and found me in bed, sick, sick. Sh
e took care of me all day, and the guilt nearly killed me.
I buy season tickets every year at Larkspur Theatre. Tonight, their new show opened. Sam showed up just as I was getting into my car to leave for the theatre and instigated another go-round. It wasn’t a good time for it. I wasn’t ready to see him. We ended up standing in the driveway, arguing. It was dark and it was cold. The wind was getting nasty. Finally, I snapped at him, “Friggin’ get off my back.”
“All right,” he said. “You called it.”
He sounded like maybe he meant it. I stepped into my car and threw it in reverse. Sam had gotten left leaning against his hood, and as I drove away, I could feel his eyes boring holes into my taillights. Fortunately, I knew the ushers, and they let me in even though the show had started. The play they’re doing now is confusing by design to keep the audience off-balance. I was glad I’d read it before I’d come. Otherwise, I couldn’t possibly have figured out what was afoot, and the humor would have been lost on me.
Claire Collier was in the cast. She goes to Pelican. Her performances are always strong, but tonight she was meteoric. She burned and burned and never gave out, she projected this unworldly energy. Hers wasn’t a major role, but I found my eyes following her.
Claire married a colleague of mine, let’s see, when she was about ten. Sounds catty, but it’s not that much of an exaggeration. Paul Collier is one of my more likable colleagues. He’s sharp but doesn’t need to be the most brilliant voice in the room. He went through a bad divorce my first year here. He’d been married to the first Mrs. Collier about six months, when he discovered his new wife’s car parked overnight in another man’s driveway. Unfortunately, the man was his department chair, who at midyear accepted a job at a research institute and took along Paul’s wife.
The rumor raged across campus like an inferno. The phones were so hot, every department on campus smelled of smoke. We hadn’t had something that sizzling to receive and pass on since the first week of the semester, when word broke that the dean of humanities had taken up with the new mayor. The dean had just observed her twenty-fifth anniversary, replete with white tent and orchestra. After the debacle of his wife’s conduct, Paul disappeared from public view for a while but eventually resurfaced, not obviously the worse for wear. Everyone was glad to see it. But when he got involved with Claire, it was awkward. She was so young, not to mention in some of our classes.