by Kaira Rouda
“What’s the name of the movie, Mia?” I ask. We’re at another stoplight. The red glow fills the car as I turn to face her. She looks frightened, or maybe it’s just the crimson glow.
“Super Dog,” she says. “It’s new. The boys are super excited. We can call them tomorrow morning. They’ll be in bed before our dinner is finished, no doubt.”
“Let’s call them now. Maybe the movie hasn’t started yet.”
If I expected an argument, I’d have been mistaken. “Sure,” she says. “Call from your phone so it will go over Bluetooth. We can both talk that way.”
I pull out my phone and push Claudia’s number. The light turns green as the phone continues to ring and then goes to her voice mail. “This is Claudia. Leave a message.” Her voice-mail recording sounds as devoid of energy as the actual person. Definitely a druggie.
“Claudia, Paul Strom, and Mia, calling to say goodnight to the boys. If you aren’t at the movies, please give us a call back. Hope all is well. Thanks,” I say into the air. I never did put the money on the credit card. She must be paying for the popcorn and pizza out of her own account. Fortunately, Mia already took care of the tickets. If that is where they are, I remind myself. But really, where else would they be? My wife doesn’t lie to me. I relax my shoulders and put a smile on my face.
“Oh, well, I guess you were right,” I say. I glance in her direction.
Mia nods next to me. I turn on the blinker and we ease into the parking lot of the restaurant. We are here.
“This looks nice, Paul,” she says as we stop in front of the valet. Not many restaurants at the lake have valet parking. I’m glad she is impressed, as am I. The young man opens Mia’s door and I watch his face as he checks her out. Not bad, his face registers.
“Welcome to Ciao Bella,” says a second boy who is opening my door.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the ticket from him and hurrying to my wife’s side. I slide my arm around Mia’s waist and look down at my wife, feel her in my grip. She’s so sweet and kind. Why does my mind imagine her doing anything devious? We walk up the steps of the restaurant and into a sanctuary of dim lighting, attentive service and dark paneling. I’m instantly pleased with my selection, my fine taste.
“This is lovely, Paul,” Mia says. A hostess escorts us to the promised window table, a corner table with views of the lake. I need to slip this young lady some money. All I have left in my wallet is a ten-dollar bill. I hope that suffices. As I hand it to her, she nods and smiles. Suddenly, I wonder if my wife has brought her credit card. I watch as she hangs her purse on the back of her chair, and I feel relieved.
“Welcome,” says a man who appears to be about my age and also appears to be our waiter. He has white hair and frosty blue eyes and a complexion almost as pale as the white linen tablecloth. He wears a black tuxedo jacket, black pants. Quite formal. I like it. “I understand this is a special evening. May I ask: anniversary, birthday?”
“No, just the best day ever,” I say. Mia laughs with me. I like that sound.
“Well, that calls for some champagne, I’d say,” the waiter says.
I look at Mia. It is polite to allow your date to answer.
“Sure, that sounds good,” she says. “Is that okay with you, Paul, or would you like a cocktail?”
My wife also is so polite, so lovely.
“I’d love to drink some champagne with you, honey,” I say.
“Wonderful,” the waiter says and scurries away.
We both stare out the window. I notice a lighthouse perched on the rocks at the end of my line of sight, its bright spotlight warning boaters of the dangers there. As the spotlight turns, it leaves a darker blackness in its wake.
8:00 p.m.
13
“So how was your afternoon, Mia?” I ask. I feel as if I haven’t really talked to my wife since our drive up. It is time to be polite and friendly, to enjoy a lovely dinner sitting at our special lakefront table.
“Wonderful, really,” she says. The waiter appears, goes through the usual champagne ritual of popping and all. Once our glasses are finally evenly filled, he departs. Mia raises her glass. “Cheers.”
“Yes, cheers, honey,” I say. “And, listen. I’m sorry about lunch today. I feel like it left us unsettled. The notion of you working for John is causing so much stress between us. Let’s get past that, okay?”
“Sure.” Mia smiles, looks around the room at our fellow diners. “Pretty swanky place for up here. I’m glad I dressed up.”
“You look gorgeous, almost as young as the first time I saw you in the conference room of Thompson Payne.”
“Must be the lighting. Good old Thompson Payne. I can’t even believe you brought that place up.” Mia is still smiling but her eyes aren’t.
My heart thuds in my chest. “Why wouldn’t I bring up the agency? It’s been a part of our lives since we’ve been together.”
“Oh, Paul. I know you must be embarrassed, but isn’t it time you told me?” Mia asks. What is she referring to?
“What are you talking about, Mia?” I ask. I take a sip of my champagne. I don’t really enjoy champagne, I remember now, but the alcohol is welcome. “Are you not feeling well? Is something wrong?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Then no, of course nothing’s wrong. And I’m never embarrassed, honey.”
“Ha. Well, I guess that will make this conversation easier. Do you want to know what I’m talking about, Paul?” she says. “Okay, then. For starters, when were you going to tell me you don’t have a job?”
Boom. There it is. I wonder how long she has known. I suspect John told her, but it doesn’t matter. I have been ready for this. “It’s a temporary situation, easily fixed. I didn’t want to worry you for no reason. I’ve been interviewing and expect an offer any day,” I say. See, easy question, perfect answer.
“That’s not the point. You didn’t even tell me you’d been fired,” Mia says. She dropped her voice at the word fired, thankfully. Such lies.
“For your information, honey, I wasn’t fired, I left,” I say. I focus on exuding an air of superiority. No one would fire me.
“They let you resign, but they fired you. I know all about it, Paul. And about your real issue with Caroline.”
The waiter appears and hands a menu to my wife before offering me one. He refills our champagne flutes, both somehow empty in such a short amount of time. They must hold hardly anything. The menu is impressive, heavy, perhaps the weight of a hammer in my hand. He bows and leaves the table. I take a long sip of my champagne.
“What issue might that be?” I say. She is stirring up things she shouldn’t. Mia is not part of Thompson Payne anymore, hasn’t been for almost a decade. Mia doesn’t know what did or didn’t happen with Caroline or anything else. Whatever she’s heard, it’s gossip. I hate gossip. Mia was just a lowly copywriter assigned to technical manuals. She knows nothing about the advertising world anymore. Nothing.
“Paul, you’re going to make your wife discuss your obsession with a young woman at work? Really? Maybe we should just go,” Mia says. She closes her menu and puts it on the table.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. No matter what Mia has heard, Caroline is not an obsession. Not at all. She’s a problem, was a problem, but now everything is fine.
“This romantic dinner is part of our best day ever. Of course we aren’t leaving. I’ll overlook the fact that you, for some reason, have automatically taken the side of someone you’ve never met over your husband? And you believe what John says, someone who’s jealous of me and my success, over what I’m telling you? I see where I stand,” I say. I am exuding righteous indignation as I take another big sip of champagne.
I stare at Mia and she meets my gaze, our eyes locked across the table. Who will blink f
irst? My menu is flat on the table now, too. I feel my hands become fists on top of the menu. “This is ridiculous. I will not sit here while my wife spews out baseless accusations. There is nothing further to discuss about my situation. Let’s talk about John, his big mouth and his ridiculous job offer that you will not be taking!”
Mia’s eyes flash at me, defiant. I look away, turning my head to scan the restaurant. I see the waiter hovering, watching, his pale blue eyes accusing me of being a jerk. And so I am. I flick my hand and shoo him away. He disappears.
“This isn’t about John. He’s not even the one who told me. You know who did? Doris, Doris Boone, of all people,” she says. Her hands are folded together now on top of the menu, as if in prayer.
Doris Boone? How did Doris know anything about my life? And if she knows, who else does? My mind flashes to Doris hiding behind the plant in the mall; I see Doris gossiping on her Lakeside front porch, I see her coming to my house to talk to Mia after I’ve left for work. Doris Boone was in my brother Tommy’s class growing up. She knows the Strom family, it seems. She’s always been a problem. Fortunately I excel at solving problems.
“They say the wife is always the last to know about these things,” Mia adds. She says this quietly, without anger. I watch as a tear slides down her cheek. That single tear softens my heart, douses the flame. I’m not a monster. She wipes the droplet away with her fingertips and takes a drink of her champagne.
Poor girl. “Oh, honey, Caroline was obsessed with me and it got out of hand. It was embarrassing for everyone involved, especially me. If anything, I was the victim here. She needs help. And as for the job, it was time to go. I’d been there forever. I didn’t tell you because I was just trying to protect you and the boys until I made my next move. It will be a great job, better than anything at old Thompson Payne. Probably one of the greatest jobs in Columbus, actually. And I promise, I’m about to announce great things,” I say. Slowly, I reach across the table and cover her hands with mine. She doesn’t pull away. “Everything is going to be fine. Haven’t I always taken care of you? I have several job offers I’m weighing. I just want it to be perfect and great. The best. And we have your trust fund.”
Mia’s eyes burn into mine. I see fire there. That worries me, and I try to take a breath. I tense my hands, push down against hers on the table. But I can’t stop what she has started. Why is she bringing all these topics to light? Tonight, of all nights. She may have fire in her eyes, but she has now reignited my flame.
But why is she crying? Her tears seem real. Mia looks directly at me. She doesn’t blink. I don’t like what she sees, I don’t like how she looks.
She is making a big mistake. Challenging our very foundation, our fabulous life. It’s a shame, really. Now more than ever, she should focus on everything that is good between us.
Next to us a four-top is seated. The women are laughing in loud staccato bursts. The men give each other a high five. Don’t they know this is a romantic place, a quiet place? I want nothing more than to silence them.
8:15 p.m.
14
It takes more effort than I care to admit to ignore the boisterous group and refocus on my wife. Mia looks down at the table and pulls her hands from mine. She wipes a second tear away and studies me as if she’s never seen me before. “That trust is for the boys, not us. We will not be touching it,” she says.
“Of course. No problem,” I say. Why not just agree with her for the time being? I need to calm down, I must calm down. It’s time to order. We need to talk about food, and enjoy ourselves. I open my menu and read intently. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. They have fabulous veal parmesan, I hear. Oh, and for you, look at all of the entrée salads. So much to choose from.” That’s the gift of life. Choices. So many. You make a mistake, and you pivot. You move on. Like Lois, just a mistake, and now I’m with the woman I was meant to have children with. Everything else is just background noise.
The waiter glides up to our table, carefully avoiding making eye contact with me and instead, focuses his attention on Mia. He should. She’s beautiful, my wife.
“Ready to order?” the waiter asks.
“I’ll have the salmon salad, no salmon, please,” she says to the waiter.
“Yes, of course, madam. Some risotto perhaps? Vegetarian?” he says. If the waiter finds this order as ridiculous as I do, it doesn’t show on his face. This guy just doesn’t have a sense of humor, not at all.
“Please, and thank you,” Mia says.
“May I be of any other assistance?” he asks. What’s with this loaded question? I mean, he’s a waiter. Assistance?
“No, I’m fine. That’s all,” she assures him. Her eyes are shiny but there are no tears rolling down her cheeks.
Asshole. Who does he think he is? “I’ll have the veal, and a house salad to start,” I say, holding my menu in the air. He takes it, without looking at me, and walks away. I hope he understands he is losing all possibility of a tip.
I look around the elegant restaurant, white-linen-draped tables now filled with sparkly diners, women wearing their finest dresses and jewelry, men looking the way men look at all restaurants of this nature: the same from a distance. Up close, that’s when you can tell the thread count of the fabric, the cut of the jacket. Waves of polite conversation and bursts of laughter wash over us as we sit in silence in our corner.
How do you get backed into a corner in your relationship, you ask? I’m sure you’ve never been here before. Ha! Typically, it begins with small misunderstandings, insults not forgiven, if you will. And then the negative feelings build like a child’s block tower. One block placed a little too far over, and the whole thing comes tumbling down. For my part, I believe I’ve been fair and forgiving. I try not to hold on to things, I place my blocks quickly, to complete the metaphor. But frankly, it’s easy for me. I always know what’s coming in the chess game of life. You need to be thinking several moves ahead. Always.
Take, for instance, when the boys were younger, Sam a newborn and Mikey a little over two. Both still in diapers. Now, those were the crazy days, harried times. I’d stroll in from work—coming home straight from the office on most days, missing important client happy hours—to help out. Mia would just glare at me, dark circles under her eyes, and hand me one kid or the other. She looked horrible, really horrible. I was tempted to have my mom come help, but I knew that would mean I’d opened the door for Mia’s mother to come, too, with her nosy disapproval, and we couldn’t have that. I needed them to stay in New York, continuing to build their empire. So, instead, I was there for Mia as much as possible. Did she ever thank me? Nope. Did I hold it against her? Of course not. But there was no way we were going to add a third kid to the mess we’d created. I was helping us both out with that by saying no to another baby. She had gone crazy or something.
Now, I could hold that time against her, you see. But I don’t. I have let go of all those messy, annoying years. But she is holding something against me right now. It’s uncharacteristic. It’s un-Mia-like, and I don’t deserve this, not at all. She sits across from me now, not as a woman who is backing me into a corner. Her demeanor doesn’t fit her words. Instead of looking angry, she simply looks sad. As if it were I, not her, who precipitated this turn in our evening, which of course is ridiculous. This is all her fault.
She turns away from me and faces the window, looking out toward the water, her back to the rest of the busy room, her lovely face in profile to me. She appears to be wiping a tear, but I cannot be certain. She focuses her attention on whatever is just outside the window of the restaurant. I know, of course, the lake is out there, dark and brooding, and the lighthouse with its ever-bright warnings.
But as I look more closely, my face almost touching the glass, I see an outside deck, a terrace of sorts, with tables and chairs. I suppose during nice weather and certainly during the day, the res
taurant expands with outdoor seating. A deck the restaurant must use once the summer season is in full swing. Tonight, there is nobody out there.
I look back at my wife. Mia is smiling now; I see her face fully reflected in the glass, the candlelight illuminating her white teeth, her small nose, her glistening eyes. But why is she smiling? Does she see someone or something that I don’t out there?
“Something funny?” I ask. Her mood, if I am reading things correctly, was angry and now sad. Smiling does not fit. My wife twitches in her seat, and then turns and faces me. Did she jump in her chair? Did she forget I was here?
“No, nothing,” she says, and she is no longer smiling. “Paul. What are your plans? If you haven’t been offered a job at any advertising agencies around town, which I suspect you won’t be, then have you branched out? Looked for other opportunities?”
Apparently she wasn’t listening when I told her I have many options. I don’t like that the conversation has shifted to me not working in advertising—the industry we both love—away from me forbidding her from working in advertising. My headhunter informs me I do have an offer on the table, from Columbus City magazine of all places. That was the call this morning, the one that meant we got a later-than-hoped-for start to our day. My headhunter is excited and believes this is the “perfect fit.” But my headhunter is an idiot if he thinks this is remotely the right kind of job for a man of my business stature.
The magazine would give me the title of Chief Revenue Officer, which sounds made up and probably is. The sales force—all ten people—would report to me. Yes, you can call it what it is. I’d be a sales manager for a city magazine. This is not what I want to do. It is far beneath my skill set. If I must, I will take this job. Put a huge spin on it to anyone who asks and then find something suitable. I don’t want to do this, put this lowly job on my résumé. But I can take it, if I must. It’s just that there is so much money sitting across from me, why should I have to stoop so low?
