Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  Another dead bird—this time a goldfinch in full yellow and black plumage on his front steps. Carter cradled the victim in his palm, its eyes closed and a speck of blood on its orange beak, no doubt from a fang puncture wound.

  “Damn cats!”

  Carter caressed the bird, the size of a computer mouse, and admired its sheen and elegance. Such a waste. He wondered if anyone had heard his outburst. He looked to his left and saw several people with dogs in the park—old folks with little dogs, mostly. One person caught his eye. She wore athletic tights, a tank top, and sandals, and walked at a decent clip. From the back she looked trim and athletic. Her hair was short, blondish, and her arms looked thin but firm.

  Perky tits, nice ass. At least the cats won’t ruin her.

  Carter always considered himself an assman, and these glutes were impressive. Nicer than Sophie’s. This woman was built like a dancer. She had what he thought of as a Goldie Hawn apple rump, lifted and round. Carter felt himself stir slightly thinking about how he had loved to pleasure Sophie when they first dated and how she always wanted to be taken from the back.

  Carter hadn’t been with a woman in months, and he was getting lonely. He looked at the dead goldfinch and stroked its feathers.

  “You deserve a dignified resting place. How ’bout under the sycamore?”

  ***

  “Howdy there, good lookin’.” The boisterous voice was unmistakably Hattie’s. “I was drivin’ by and saw you sittin’ out here.”

  “Just burying a bird. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, honey. I’m showin’ a house down the street in ten minutes. It needs some work, but they all do ’round here. What’s ya got there?”

  “Goldfinch. Cat got it.”

  “Those stinkin’ varmints. Town needs to do somethin’ ’bout that. Evil creatures. They kill for the fun of it. They piss all over everything. Worse smell in the world.”

  “Yeah, kinda like ex-wives.” Carter smirked. “Piss all over everything.”

  “Speakin’ of ex-wives, I hear your ex is a lesbian.”

  “Christ! Who told you that, Hattie? Oh, let me guess—Gil.”

  “Close. Jill. Saw her at church. I told ya, no secrets.”

  “Secrets in Cape Charles? An oxymoron.”

  “Yep, lots of morons ’round here, for sure, just like Gil says all the time. Gotta run, honey. Oh, for that cat problem, mix some vinegar and pepper and spread it around your bushes. That’ll help keep them stinkin’ vermin away. If that don’t work, I got some traps we can set. Cats make good bait for crab traps. See ya ’round, honey.”

  “Right. Good to see you, Hattie. I guess.”

  ***

  The day whizzed by just like the last month had, and Carter decided to venture out. He popped a couple of Advil, shaved, shampooed, and slipped on his fancy shorts, Keens, and a black Punch Brothers concert T-shirt, his favorite. He had been working out a lot with free weights, and it showed in his pectorals, biceps, and calves.

  “Hey, where you been, Sparky?” Gil called when Carter walked into the pub.

  “Stayin’ out of trouble, which means stayin’ away from you. Hear about Sophie?”

  “Of course I did. I’ve known for weeks.”

  “Yeah, and Jill’s already talking about it to the locals.” Carter shook his head. “I just moved here, and my reputation is already shot. Guy loses wife to another woman. Great!”

  “Quit whining. This is a good thing. Jill and I discussed it. We think that having been married to a lesbian improves your reputation. We did you a favor by spreading the news.”

  “Whatever, Gil. You’re a dick.”

  “Well, I have a reputation to protect too.”

  “Well, by the time I found out, it was already all over town. Hattie the real estate lady knows. Christ, Gil!”

  “Come on, Carter. You know Sophie doesn’t put on lipstick without calling Jill first to ask which color to wear. She’s been thinking about moving to New York since last summer. She and her old roommate have been diddling each other for years. How could you not know that?”

  “I didn’t, and thanks a lot for the heads-up. I thought guys were supposed to stick together. It’s the bro-code.”

  “Dude, I love ya, but my wife can be a ballbuster. She ordered me to keep my mouth shut. Said I’d be in deep shit if I told you. You know Jill, she’s a woman of her word. And, honestly, I don’t want to end up divorced and destitute like you.”

  “Whatever. Truth is, I don’t give a shit. I’m glad Sophie’s moving back to the city. She should have never left. She hated Virginia Beach, and she resents me for moving there. So, good riddance.”

  “Well, she was one sweet piece of ass, you gotta give her that much.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gil, that’s your sister-in-law—my ex-wife.”

  “I know, good damn thing she’s a lesbo too. If she wasn’t, I’d divorce Jill.”

  “Gil, you’re an animal.”

  “Yes, I am, and you should be more of one too, you wuss. Now is the perfect time to strike. Act smitten and hurt, and maybe you’ll get sympathy sex from some stranger. I’m telling you, seize the opportunity here. Get your head screwed on straight.”

  ***

  Until moving to Cape Charles, Carter had felt pathetically predictable. He suffered the same symptoms as so many unfulfilled middle-agers. His feelings were stupidly American: self-absorbed, impatient, never satisfied. Boredom—not cheating or abuse—was why half of all marriages failed, he figured. At least that’s what he’d read during his Internet research on the topic. His ruptured wedlock was no doubt a casualty of the condition taedium vitae.

  At the tail end of his time at Hogan and Wynn, Carter had been depressed. His unhappiness had been apparent to just about everyone at work, including Sidney Hogan. Then Sidney sold the firm, which sent Carter into a steeper mental tailspin. Technically, Carter hadn’t been a partner, but old Sidney treated him like one. The day after the sale, he handed Carter a check for $165,000 and another $75,000 for six months’ pay. Since Carter and Sophie had already divorced, the bonus and pay were all his, enough to buy a cheap house and to modestly live on for a while. Carter knew that at some point he’d have to find work again. But the severance would give him about a year to reboot.

  The day Carter was cleaning out his office, old Sidney walked in and handed him a business card.

  “Carter, this is my niece. She’s a therapist, first-rate. She’s helped lots of friends. Go see her.”

  “Therapist? Like physical therapist? I’m not hurt.”

  “Yes you are, my boy. Between your ears. Go see her.”

  About two months later, Carter dialed the number handwritten on the back of the business card. The shrink picked up on the third ring. She told him to come by her office Saturday morning, which Carter thought odd.

  The parking lot in the two-story office building was empty, except for a green convertible Jaguar parked near the entrance. The Virginia license plate read UVA91. The only name on the building entrance was Freemason Associates. The door was open, and the lights were on in the reception room. An electronic bell dinged when Carter entered.

  A woman came bounding from a hallway behind the reception area. “You must be Carter Rossi. Hi, I’m Kate Lee-Capps.”

  Carter reached for her hand, and they shook. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm.

  “Come on back to my office. My uncle said lots of nice things about you.”

  “He seems to like you too,” Carter said. “I appreciate your time— I think.”

  Kate’s waist was thin, her butt lifted and round, her hair thick but supple. Carter stared at her ass as he followed. Damn near perfect. Her age? Maybe thirty-eight. Her office was sparsely decorated and desk uncluttered. No couch, just three cushioned leather chairs in a circle with a round coffee table in the middle. Copies of Southern Living, Psychology Today, and Sports Illustrated were spread like a peacock’s tail feathers on the tabletop.

  “H
ave a seat, Carter, and let’s jump right in.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a dead ringer for—”

  “Kate Hudson. I know,” Kate finished. “I hear it all the time.”

  “No, I was thinking more of Teri Garr.”

  “Don’t get on my bad side.” Kate laughed. “I’ll give you rotten advice that will ruin your life.”

  “Don’t worry. Someone has already beat you to it.” Carter smiled.

  He was glad to be seeing a woman therapist—especially a hot, sassy one that would give him shit. That’s one reason he showed up for the appointment. He wanted a harsh female perspective, not the sympathetic ear of another guy allaying the guilt he felt for sleeping with hookers and wrecking his marriage. Carter wanted to be bitch-slapped, or at the very least spanked like a misbehaving child. He needed a sobering bucket of ice dumped over his shoulder. Otherwise, his guilt would flourish.

  “So, Carter, I hear you’ve been through rough stuff,” Kate began. “Uncle Sid told me you’re a newly minted divorcé. Welcome to the club. I’m a veteran. Tell me why you think your marriage failed.”

  ***

  As her name suggested, Kate Lee-Capps was Southern, hailing from a long lineage of Richmonders. She was attractive and had a hint of the aristocracy in her voice. She was relaxed, dressed casually in jeans and a white V-neck shirt. Her mouth curled up on the ends, making it seem like she always smiled. She even had a dimple in her left cheek.

  A doctorate diploma from the University of Virginia hung on her office wall, with a field hockey stick painted UVA blue beside it.

  “You were a jock, I see,” Carter said.

  “Was, kinda. Played softball and field hockey. Ran cross-country too.”

  “I can tell. You’re in great shape.”

  Kate grinned. “You look fit too. Work out?”

  “Yeah, gym rat, and run, mostly.”

  Carter had Googled Kate before the appointment and learned that she had been a marriage counselor while pursuing a PhD. With credentials in hand, she now specialized in treating teens and young adults with self-esteem disorders.

  “Running helps with stress and boredom. Running is so boring it makes everything else seem exciting,” Carter said. “I get bored easily. Always have. Even as a kid, I’d get excited about buying some toy, and after having it a few days, I wanted something new. Same thing with cars when I got older. I get hyped up, buy something, and I’m ready for something else. Six months seems to be my threshold for just about everything.”

  “Women too?”

  “Well, now that I think of it, probably. The longest I dated before marrying Sophie was about eight months. It was like that all through high school and college. A different date for every dance.”

  “So, you were excited about getting married to Sophie, but then the magic disappeared. Classic. You were married a long time. I’m guessing at least ten years.”

  “Pretty close.”

  “Why do you think it lasted?”

  “I guess I thought it’s what I was supposed to do,” Carter said. He felt his neck stiffen. “You know, all of your buddies get married. You get tired of showing up at Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. I guess I just settled in and focused on my career.”

  “Honestly, Carter, this is all pretty cliché. There’s been about a million B movies made around this theme, entire sitcoms even. So, you were feeling guilt for not being a grownup and you went and got yourself a wife. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe. She wanted kids. It didn’t happen, and the magic died.”

  “Did you want kids?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I would have liked being a dad, but, honestly, I was pretty happy just being me.”

  “Tragic, selfish, sophomoric, but pretty normal, Carter. Indifference is one of the curses of the human condition. Dispassion makes us feel inadequate. It’s that conflict between what we should want versus what truly makes us happy. Look, not everybody is emotionally wired to be a parent or a spouse. If you don’t like applesauce, eating more of it isn’t going to make it taste better. You get what I’m saying?”

  “Not what I expected to hear, Kate, but I’m following you. I thought you’d prosecute me for being a narcissistic slob.”

  “No. I’m saving that rage for our next president,” Kate said. “Donald Trump significantly raised the bar for narcissism.”

  “What a legacy, and not even in office yet,” Carter said.

  “Look, Carter. Human beings are fairly simple creatures. We always seem to want what we don’t have, right? So, when we don’t get what we want, the spoiled brat in us comes roaring to the surface. We get spiteful and petulant when forced to do things that we don’t like. It’s all the same web of emotion. Very primal.”

  “I’d say that sums me up pretty concisely. Guess that makes me an ape.”

  “Sort of. Human beings really aren’t all that complicated. We don’t like being told what to do, and most of us always want more, unless you’re a Zen Buddhist. And I’ll bet they even fake it. People who learn to want what they have seem a lot happier. Unfortunately, there is only one person to achieve that: the Dalai Lama.”

  “Thanks, I feel better now. I’m in good company. We’re all greedy slobs, I guess.”

  “That’s harsh, but probably not too far from the truth. But I think the real issue is that you’re getting monotony confused with something else.”

  “With what, doc? Don’t keep me guessing here.”

  “It seems to me, Carter, that you’ve spent most of your professional life trying to make others happy. My uncle Sid, your former wife, your parents. Am I right?”

  Carter nodded like a contrite Catholic fourth-grade student scolded by a nun for looking up a girl’s skirt.

  “You worked hard, made some money, and treated others well. You remained loyal and in a rotten marriage for a long time because you thought that was the responsible thing to do, correct?”

  “Well, no affairs, if that constitutes being responsible.”

  “But you cheated?”

  “A couple times, yes, when I was traveling. And maybe a couple more times.”

  “That it?” Kate asked indignantly.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I am, sort of. Cute guy, no kids, cold marriage. Come on, Carter, fess up. No affairs?”

  “I’ve said enough already. I plead the fifth.”

  Kate laughed. “You want me to cuff you?”

  “Jeez, what kind of doctor are you? You gonna throttle me with your field hockey stick?”

  “Maybe, if you ask nicely.”

  “Sid didn’t tell me I’d have to be your submissive.”

  “For now, I am just a friend. Look, Carter, from what I gather you’re a decent guy; you’ve been loyal to my uncle Sid, to your ex-wife, to family members. You work for charities and raise money for the arts. Sounds to me like you’ve checked all of the boxes. And it sounds like maybe you haven’t been selfish enough.”

  “What about the hookers?”

  “I don’t advocate paying for sex, Carter. It’s sleazy and probably not safe. Plus, it’s illegal. But it’s temporary. Seems to me that a full-blown affair with emotional commitment is much more incendiary and, frankly, deceitful.”

  Carter’s head snapped back as if being slapped. “You have my attention.”

  “Look, Carter, you’ve compromised and sacrificed. You’ve subordinated and even repressed what makes you happy. Having kids didn’t happen, and that’s not your fault. You’re getting boredom and guilt confused with a loss of freedom to pursue what makes you happy. Willing subjugation manifests as boredom, and over time that turns into resentment. An unfulfilling job, or marriage, or environment can feel like simple boredom, but it’s really about resentment.”

  “What about the responsibility of making a relationship work? I did take vows, you know.”

  “Carter, I have been doing this a long time, and I can tell
you with a large degree of certainty that the best predictor of the future is the past. People do not fundamentally change their behavior; feelings do not radically shift. Your wife didn’t get her way, and she shut you down. The magic was gone after that. Once it vanishes, it is very difficult to resurrect. Taking a romantic cruise to rekindle the spark is a waste of money.”

  “That sounds like a pretty cynical view of people and relationships, doc. You’re basically saying people don’t change, at least not enough to matter. You’re saying mistakes can’t be fixed or circumstances can’t be improved. Wow! I wouldn’t put that on a billboard if I was in your profession.”

  “Neither would I if I were a marriage counselor. But I’m not—at least not technically. But I do like to think I have a pretty good bead on human behavior.”

  “I wonder what you would have told me if I’d said you look like Kate Hudson.”

  Dr. Kate Lee-Capps laughed. “I warned you.”

  “So, seriously, you’re saying that my relationship with my ex was pretty much doomed and the breakup inevitable.”

  “That’s close. What I am saying is that when it comes to troubled relationships and feelings, there is a high rate of recidivism—both good and bad. Happy relationships tend to stay happy. Sad ones, unfortunately, get stuck in the mud and sink. Spouse beaters tend to remain abusive. Victims tend to stay victims. If you’re not happy with someone now, you won’t be happy in the future. That’s my point. You may learn to accept a poor relationship, which is a form of capitulation. Or you may gut it out to protect the kids or out of guilt. Better to cut the cord. There’s no glory in being a martyr. Life is too damn short, Carter.”

  “Wow. I really expected to be guilt-tripped. Instead, I almost feel good about myself. I thought I needed at least a couple more sessions before feeling emancipated. Kinda disappointing that you’re letting me off the hook.”

  “No, Carter. You need to let yourself off the hook. Stop being a wuss.”

  “Wuss! Is that an official medical term? That’s what my ex-brother-in-law calls me. Christ!”

  “Maybe you should listen to him . . . and to me. The only one beating up on you is yourself.”