A Changing Marriage

by Susan Kietzman

  Sarah helped her shop the day before the clinic started; Karen bought a tennis racket, two tennis skirts, three tops, sneakers, a nylon warm-up suit, and several pairs of short white socks. At the store, Karen again tried to talk Sarah into joining her. She, too, had played tennis as a child. But as an adult, Sarah wasn’t interested. She had signed up for an economics class that met twice a week and was considering a pottery class as well. Booking two mornings outside of what she had already scheduled would be too much. Plus, running around the court was no longer Sarah’s passion; her life was already hectic. She preferred yoga, which she practiced at home six mornings a week before her children awakened.

  Karen felt less confident about her decision the next morning on her way to the tennis center. She was mostly worried about her level of play, but a little anxious about the other women in the group. She wondered if they would be friendly, or if they would already know one another and have no interest in admitting Karen into their inner circle. Karen was finally at a point in her life when friendships would work again. A couple of her high school friends were still within driving distance, but they had infants and toddlers and, consequently, no free time. She had Sarah, of course, but she wanted more than one strong friendship, now that she had time to devote to people and activities outside of her family.

  Twelve women gathered around court number one. Four of them, Karen could immediately tell, had come together. They talked and giggled amongst themselves, admiring one another’s outfits and barely listening to Ken Doyle, their instructor. Of the other seven, Karen thought two women—Caroline and Ginny, according to their name tags, who were standing together and talking—looked the most accessible. When Ken asked them to divide into three groups of four, Karen approached them, as did Stephanie, a young wife who had played in high school. Caroline and Ginny, like Karen, were mothers of school-age children. Within five minutes, all three of them had used the word freedom and laughed about it.

  They remained a foursome for the morning and on Thursday morning as well. Karen, Caroline, and Ginny enjoyed swapping child-rearing stories, and Stephanie, married five years and waiting to have children, had no trouble joining the discussion. As the oldest of seven children, she knew almost as much about motherhood as they did. She fed, diapered, and cared for her younger siblings while she was still in elementary school, recalling details with enough clarity for Karen to understand why she was in no hurry to have her own. Stephanie told them she’d feel more like a grandmother than a mother. They had easy conversation as they sipped water on the sidelines between games and even on the court, because they all hit the ball competently. Stephanie, who said playing again was like riding a bike, could hit any ball that came close to her at the net.

  During the final court change, Caroline suggested lunch out. They could all get a bagel or something, nothing fancy, which would mean they could go in their warm-up suits right from the clinic, no showers needed. Ginny, Stephanie, and Karen readily agreed that a bagel and diet soda would hit the spot. At eleven thirty, they thanked Ken for his patience, which made him smile, and headed out to the parking lot. They got into their own cars—everyone had errands to run afterward—and met at World of Bagels near the mall. They chatted as they stood in line to place their orders, then sat at a table for four near the window overlooking an interior courtyard.

  It turned out that Ginny, the best tennis player of their foursome, was also an accomplished pianist. She had played the piano as a child and then returned to lessons when her first son was born. She played mostly for her own enjoyment, but also at her church as a fill-in for the aging organist. They paid her fifty dollars a Sunday, which was expected back as a donation to the church. Stephanie had recently quit her job as an accountant and was happy for the moment to have no schedule. She liked the idea of getting into decorating—all of her friends said she had a good eye for color—but had no formal training and was not sure about returning to the classroom to get some. Caroline suggested she could work for one of the three decorating services in the area and get on-the-job training, and Stephanie said she had considered it, but had so far made no inquiring phone calls. At this point, she said, she was more certain about what she didn’t want to do than what she did. Cleaning the house, for example, was high on her list of how not to spend her time. In fact, she had booked an interview with a cleaning service that afternoon, which she was hoping would lead to a twice-a-month contract.

  Karen thought about employing a cleaning service, but, so far, had been unable to justify it. She was home all day and could therefore dust, vacuum, and scrub the bathtub anytime. When Rebecca and Robert were younger and home with her, she had done her chores while they watched television. A half hour each morning is what she had devoted to cleaning over the years to keep the house presentable. When she had company, she cleaned more thoroughly. She didn’t despise cleaning like Stephanie; it was an accomplishment, an easy check mark on her list. And now, with both kids in school, she had more time than ever. But cleaning the house when she was home alone was a poor way to spend her free time. Karen asked Stephanie for the name of the service.

  Shine Time Cleaners’ representative Barb Ellison arrived the next afternoon. Carrying a clipboard and jotting down numbers, she walked through the house with Karen. At the end of the thirty-minute session, she handed Karen an estimate of eighty dollars per visit and said they could start the following week and come on alternate weeks, as Karen had requested. Karen called Bob that evening, and he okayed the expenditure, joking that one hundred and sixty dollars a month was a reasonable allotment for her happiness. When Shine Time came the following Thursday morning, Karen greeted them at the door in her warm-up suit. She and the girls went to the bagel shop afterward, so Karen didn’t get home until almost one. She walked in the back door and was welcomed by the scent of pine cleaner. Wanting to share her good mood, Karen called Sarah.

  “How does it feel to be a queen?” she asked.

  Karen laughed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before now.”

  “You had kids at home. You had all day long to clean your house.”

  “I still could have had someone cleaning this place.”

  “True.”

  “What have you been up to today?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do want to know.”

  “Okay,” said Sarah, cradling the phone on her shoulder while she washed floor cleaner from her hands. “While you were having your house cleaned, I was cleaning mine.”

  “No.”

  “A most definite yes.”

  “Hold on a second, and I’ll get you the Shine Time phone number. They’re very reasonable.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind, really. I’m pretty picky about how my house is cleaned.”

  “That’s because you’re pretty picky about everything.”

  “Way too picky if you ask Vincent.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” asked Karen. “Do you want to go shopping?”

  “I can’t. I’m going on a field trip with Britney’s class.”

  “You are a saint.”

  “You have no idea. We’re going to the nature center to identify trees.”

  “All day?”

  “Eleven to three, with lunch under the giant oak.”

  “Next week then,” said Karen.

  But Sarah was busy the next week. She had to study for a test on supply-side economics. Plus, Vincent was going out of town, which meant single parenting. “It always exhausts me,” Sarah had said on the phone. “I need a lot of downtime when he’s away.”

  Saying she understood when she really didn’t, Karen decided to go shopping anyway. She called her new friend Caroline Miller from tennis, who told her she was in the market for a pair of smart black pants and would love to go.

  Karen followed Caroline’s directions to the newest subdivision in town. She drove the van into the driveway of Caroline’s four-thousand-square foot neocolonial brick house just
before nine and instantly felt a twinge of jealousy in her abdomen. How, Karen wondered on her walk along the pristine white cement walkway from the asphalt driveway to the front door, could they afford this? Caroline was Karen’s age; was her husband, Rick, older? Karen walked up the three slate steps to the portico, then another five steps to the front door, and rang the bell. Caroline greeted her barefoot, dressed in tight jeans, a tight-fitting white top, and a wide, black leather belt. “Hey, girl,” said Caroline. “Come on in. I’m just about ready to go.” Karen stepped into the entranceway, bright with sunshine streaming through three large windows several feet above the front door. “You need sunglasses in here today,” said Caroline. “We wanted a lot of light throughout the house, and the builder gave us some excellent ideas, but on some days—like today—it’s a bit much.”

  “I love the light.” Karen felt like she was in the house of an older, established person, someone her parents’ age.

  “Have a look around if you’d like.” Caroline jogged up the carpeted stairs. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  A few more steps, and Karen was in the great room, with its cathedral ceiling that must have been twenty-five feet high. A white marble fireplace sat in the middle of the far wall, below a giant flat-screened TV and between floor-to-ceiling windows. The two white leather couches that lined up with the cream walls faced each other, and were separated by a heavy-looking glass and steel coffee table. It was the perfect setting for a cold weather get-together. Karen could picture snow falling outside, a roaring fire inside, and guests mingling with mugs of spicy chili and frothy beer in their hands. Standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed over her chest, Karen saw herself as the hostess. Like Caroline, she would be wearing form-fitting jeans and cashmere, casual and hip. “We live in this room,” said Caroline, descending the stairs. “The girls do their homework at the kitchen table where we can keep an eye on them, while Rick and I lounge in here.”

  “This is such a beautiful space.”

  “I wish I could take credit for it.” Caroline slipped her pedicured feet into black patent-leather loafers. “I have an awesome decorator.”

  “Yes,” said Karen, wondering whether leather would work in her living room.

  Caroline grabbed a lime green denim jacket from her wrought iron coat rack and led Karen out the door. “Indian summer,” she said. “Perfect.”

  They passed the forty minutes to the Oak Run mall easily with conversation about Caroline’s house. It had taken a year for her and Rick to agree on the blueprints and another year to build. The list of delays and change orders had caused Caroline many tearful nights. But finally May first, the last in a series of promised completion dates, arrived, and the house was theirs. They were moved in and settled by Memorial Day, after buying six rooms of new furniture. Their open house, on August first, attracted more than a hundred friends, neighbors, and staff members of the hospital, where Rick, the most-sought-after orthopedic surgeon in a large practice, performed what many referred to as miracles.

  “No wonder everything looks so clean and fresh. It’s all brand new.”

  “Mostly, yes,” said Caroline, reapplying lipstick as Karen parked the car. “Our old stuff was dismal. We’d had it since before we got married.”

  Karen and Bob had a mishmash of furniture. They had several pieces from their families—Karen’s grandmother’s dining room table and chairs, two bureaus, and a mahogany desk, and Bob’s great-uncle’s sofa table, occasional chairs, and love seat—but needed more when they moved into their house. They bought beds, bureaus, and bookcases for the kids’ rooms a few years ago, but badly needed a new kitchen table. Plus, Karen’s taste was changing; she was especially unhappy with the couch and wing chairs in the living room. However, Bob disliked replacing things that were “perfectly serviceable,” and that included the living room furniture.

  The mall was populated by women in designer jeans, carrying large shopping bags as they walked briskly from store to store. Caroline fit right in with the other shoppers, as if they all shared the same moving sidewalk at the metropolitan airport. This was not a leisurely pursuit, like Karen’s trips to the local mall with Sarah and their daughters. Caroline was on a mission, moving with the speed and determination of a New York City pedestrian. Smart black pants were harder to find than Karen guessed. She peeled off and found two sweaters and a skirt, while Caroline monopolized the sales associates. There was no time for lunch, a cup of coffee, or conversation that strayed from the main topic of where to find the pants. After three hours, Caroline’s quest was over, fulfilled in a teeny-bopper shop with gum-chewing associates who looked like they should have been in high school algebra class instead of behind the counter with their chipped lacquered nails. Caroline suggested salads to go; Karen balanced hers on her lap as they drove at seventy-five miles per hour along the expressway. After Karen dropped Caroline at her house, she rushed to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner. The rest of her list would have to wait.

  When she got home, she had just ten minutes before the bus came. She considered calling Jamie for the afternoon, but resisted. Bob told her she didn’t really need Jamie anymore, and he was right. What couldn’t she get done in the seven hours her kids were gone? Still, she felt restless. Her day had been more stress-inducing than relaxing, and Karen wanted to chat with Sarah over a cup of tea. She had her hand on the phone when she remembered Sarah was volunteering that afternoon. She would be driving home with her kids, mostly likely making plans in the car. Karen turned from the phone and filled the kettle with water; a cup of Earl Grey at home would have to suffice. Plus, since Bob was coming home early that night, she would have to start dinner preparations.

  When Bob walked in at five thirty, the kids had done their homework and were watching television, and dinner was prepared and could be served whenever Bob desired. After he hugged Rebecca, ruffled Robert’s hair, and kissed Karen, he poured himself a beer and Karen a glass of wine and suggested they sit on the porch. Karen watched her husband take his first sip. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, slightly damp from perspiration. His face was flushed like it always was after airline travel, but it gave him the appearance of good health. His brown hair was beginning ever so slowly to recede at his temples, but not enough for comment or lengthy study in the bathroom mirror. At thirty-four, Bob had lost the extra fat in his cheeks and chin, giving him a rugged, successful businessman’s countenance. He had honest eyes. His Roman nose fit his face, as did his moderately sized ears. Karen sipped her wine. She had seen hair growing out of her father’s ears and wondered when Bob’s first sprigs would sprout. Would he notice one morning while shaving, or would Karen have to tell him? Would he trim them, or would that be her job? “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Crazy thoughts. Thoughts about getting old.”

  Bob scrunched up his face. “Sounds like dismal thoughts to me. I’m not getting old.”

  “What’s your secret?”

  “I’m going to work myself to death by the time I’m fifty.”

  “Ah,” said Karen, taking a sip of wine. “Tough week?”

  “Exhausting.” He took a long pull from his beer glass. “When I’m visiting customers, I need to be available to them all the time. Our meetings start early in the morning, often with pastries and strong coffee as breakfast, and continue well into the afternoon, with sandwiches brought in for lunch. Sometimes I get a couple of hours off to catch up on e-mail or get in a run and a hot shower before dinner. And while the dinner conversation can start with where a son or daughter is going to college, or which football or hockey or baseball team is going all the way this season, it always circles back to business. I can have a beer, but that’s generally all I have. Business entertaining is very different from regular entertaining; I have to be on all the time because the pressure is constant.”

  “You’re good at it, though, aren’t you?”

  “I am good at it,” said Bob, as if her
compliment were obvious. “But that doesn’t mean it sometimes doesn’t wear me out.”

  “You need more downtime.”

  “I do need more downtime, but I don’t know where I’m going to get it. I’m traveling more than ever. And when I’m home, Karen, I just need to relax. I know you need help around here sometimes, but it’s hard for me to find—or even want to find—that energy when I’m flat-out all the time.”

  “It’s better now.” With two kids in school all day, how could it be otherwise? “I have time to myself, which makes me a better mother. I’m less resentful of your ability to walk in and out of the house whenever you choose because I’ve found some time for myself. It sounds like you need to do the same.”

  Bob took two swallows of beer. “I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. A lot of my clients play golf, for business as well as recreation. Instead of meeting in windowless conference rooms, they meet at the first tee. Maybe it’s time I learned the game.”

  “The only place to play golf around here is the River Club.”

  “Yes.”

  The River Club sat on the banks of the Joseph River, which ran through town on its journey through three states. The club boasted one of the state’s best golf courses, as well as eight clay outdoor tennis courts (a nice complement to the dozen indoor courts at the tennis center), an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and an opulent dining room that splendidly blended the charm of an earlier era with the updated look appropriate for the new century. She and Bob had been there just once, for a wedding reception a couple years ago, and joked about joining. And before Bob’s most recent promotion, it had been a joke. The initiation fee and annual dues, Bob had pointed out, would be like another mortgage.

  “You think we can afford it?” Karen asked, her eyebrows raised in speculation.

  “Because of my new position, I think I can get Forester to take care of the initiation and dues. My boss has a membership there and has encouraged me a number of times to think about it. A couple of weeks ago he intimated that the company would sponsor me.”