by Peggy Webb
But I’m not going to dwell on that. Why should I? Howard and I don’t need each other back the way we were; together we’re toxic. We’ve already proved that.
“I’m getting ready for a party.”
“It sounds like you’re settling in, Beth. Are you?”
“I don’t know, Jane. All I know is I’m involved in a massive makeover. Some women get face-lifts and breasts implants, but I’m giving my house the face-lift, and the only implant that interests me is a new attitude. I’m composing again, making friends and sleeping with my windows and my mind wide open.”
“That’s great.”
She doesn’t ask, What are you going to do with the songs, which is one of the reasons I want to tell her.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything with my new songs, but it feels good just to have the music pouring out. And I think they’re good, Jane.”
I smell the cake and tell her to hang on a minute while I take it out of the oven.
“Enough about me. What’s going on with you?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but Jacob has broken his engagement. I hate to say it, but I’m glad.”
“Shoot, Jane, say it. Nobody thought Miss Perfect Pink Nail Polish was right for him. He’s too smart and wonderful.”
“He is, isn’t he? Oh, and Beth, he’s going to Sedona next week for a medical conference. I told him to check on Jenny.”
“Great. Listen, Jane, I don’t ask Kate because I don’t want to put her in the middle of my marital problems, but is she still playing nursemaid, housekeeper and cook to a man old enough to learn to wash his own clothes?”
“You haven’t talked to Howard?”
“No. I demanded space and I guess he’s giving it to me.”
“I haven’t seen Kate over there in the last few days. But I have seen delivery trucks from Paul’s Pizzas and Chong Ye Chinese.”
It might not seem much to most folks, but for Howard that’s a giant step.
“Hello, I’m Adam,” the Prices’ grandson says.
Holy cow and root, toot, tootie with whipped cream and cherries. Who needs firecrackers to celebrate the Fourth? Suddenly I’m Eve. Forget attitude adjustments. Shallow woman that I am, all I want is collagen lips, breast implants and a nice, flat liposuctioned belly.
“Welcome to my picnic,” I tell him, and then I turn cartwheels to the kitchen.
Not really, of course. For one thing, his grandparents are looking and for another I’d fall flat on my butt. And, of course, I’m married.
Separated. Living apart. Not cohabitating with my husband.
There is no end to the excuses your little devil tempter will make when your weary angel lowers her guardian’s wings. There is no end to rationalization when a woman who hasn’t felt physically attractive to a man in a very long time suddenly has a man looking at her as if he thinks she’s the sexiest thing since Bo Derek strutted herself as the perfect 10.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
Adam, who smells like wind and surf and something good that should be eaten in small bites, follows me into the kitchen while I try to figure out his age. When Ken and Irma said grandson, I thought about a little boy in knee britches, which obviously is not this Adam who tops six feet by a delicious two inches.
Perfect height. Perfect everything, now that I see him at close range in jeans and a T-shirt. Except age, of course. How old is he?
He’s leaning against the cabinet and handing me something. What? I’ve been too distracted by my calculations to notice the bouquet in his hand. Math is no my strong suit, but oh joy, gardenias are.
These are lush and rich smelling, and when I get Aunt Bonnie Kathleen’s cut-glass vase from the cabinet I feel like somebody who recently got crowned Queen of Last Chances.
But, is he a last chance? There’s the matter of a marriage certificate and old age. Mine.
Of course, Adam could be close to forty because Ken and Irma must be in their late seventies or even eighties. Still, that’s a huge age gap. I wonder how Adam feels about older women.
I’m not long finding out. When we take the food outside to the picnic table, he gallantly settles his grandparents on the shady side, and joins me in the sun on the other side, moving close enough that his upper arm occasionally brushes mine.
As if that weren’t signal enough, he looks deep into my eyes when he talks to me about directing the high school band at Ocean Springs.
“I used to direct band,” I say.
“She composes, too,” Irma says. “Beth, you should play your symphony.”
“I haven’t told you yet because I wanted to make sure it’s not a fluke, but I’m composing blues now.”
“You’ll have to play for us.” Ken glances from me to his grandson. “Maybe Adam can accompany you. He always carries a harmonica in his pocket.”
“I’d love that,” Adam says.
He’s looking directly into my eyes again. Later, after we’ve cleared the table and stowed the dishes in the washer, he leans against the piano with his hands cupped around a blues harp, coaxing out haunting riffs, key of G. They weave around my keyboard melodies and under my skin and into my throat until I can’t say a word.
Irma says, “That was great.”
“Fantastic,” Ken agrees.
But Adam says everything. “Wonderful.”
He covers my hand on the keyboard and I feel beautiful. I ask Irma to play, and when I leave the piano I’m conscious of my body, of the sway of my hips and the swimmer’s tone of my legs and the way my T-shirt moves across my torso.
Irma plays Broadway tunes while we sing. Typical musician, Adam is the only one who knows all the words and in my newly aroused state I think he’s singing just for me. If he’s not, I don’t want to know. I want to wallow in these luscious feelings.
They leave at the same time because Ken and Irma are staying with Adam overnight to avoid a long drive home in the dark.
I hug the senior Prices and promise to visit soon, then smile at Adam. In my sexually charged state I’m afraid I’d move in too close, hang on too long, look like a foolish older woman flirting with a younger man.
“I hope you can come again,” I say.
“Oh, I can and I will.”
CHAPTER 21
“Is Viagra enough?”
—Howard
I wish I had told Kate we wouldn’t have our usual Independence Day picnic this year. It’s not the same without Elizabeth. Nothing’s the same.
Of course, Kate would have been disappointed because she loves tradition. Although it’s nice to have the same potato salad and cake Elizabeth always made, seeing the food sitting there on the wrought-iron table only half-eaten makes me even more lonesome.
I should have invited the Meadors. Jane and Jim might have made this holiday more bearable. And of course, Jacob, too. I saw his car come in this morning.
It must be nice to know where all your children are. Ever since Elizabeth talked me into leaving Jenny in Sedona, I’ve felt as if she has simply disappeared from my life in the same way that her mother did.
“Come on, Daddy,” Kate says. “It’s time for fireworks.”
I feel guilty because Bonnie’s clapping and my daughter’s expecting a show of enthusiasm from me or at the very least a spark of life, but all I can do is sit here on the glider hoping it will rain. Thunder-clouds have been gathering since midmorning. They’re heavily banked in the south now. I wonder if Elizabeth is getting wet.
“I’ll do the fireworks,” Rick says, and I’m so relieved I have to blink back tears.
“No, Rick. Daddy always does them.”
“That’s okay, Kate. I just want to sit here and enjoy the show this year.”
Mosquitoes whine around my ears, and I slap at them while the bug zapper cracks and sizzles. I had planned to screen in the patio so we could enjoy the outdoors in summertime without the hassle of pesky bugs, but that was when Elizabeth was here to make entertaining fun. In fact, she made
everything more fun.
I don’t know what I’ll do now. About the screens or anything else, for that matter. What’s the use of planning home improvements if she’s not around to share the results?
She used to love sitting in this glider watching the moon and the stars. She’d sit out here when the moon was full, then come inside and say, “Join me, Howard. It will take your breath away.”
Sometimes I would, but more often than not I wouldn’t. Maybe that’s the basic difference between Elizabeth and me: she wants wonder, I want routine. Maybe if I had come out here more often to watch the moon she wouldn’t be in Ocean Springs under the guise of redoing Bonnie Kathleen’s house and I wouldn’t be up here facing the prospect of a string of lonely holidays.
Over the years I’ve heard patients, especially the single ones, bemoan the loneliness of holidays. Of course I understood their pain, but purely in a clinical sense. Until today I could never empathize with their bone-deep sense of isolation.
Kate would be hurt if she knew how I felt, so I make myself clap when Rick shoots off a bottle rocket that lights up the sky with red, white and blue. How can she possibly understand this kind of lonesome, the kind that’s even worse when you’re surrounded by people?
I feel myself choking up again, so turn my head while I fumble around for my handkerchief, hoping nobody will see.
“Daddy?” Kate’s hand is on my arm, and she’s leaning over me as if I’m some senile old fart instead of a man in his prime. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, hon. I got a bug in my eye, that’s all.”
I’m so far from all right, it’s a wonder I don’t choke on the lie. As for being in my prime, that’s another illusion. Recent events certainly contradict the idea, but I don’t dwell on it. No use adding another burr to the pile that’s pricking my saddle.
“I have a great idea, Daddy. Why don’t you come over and spend the night with us?”
Kate’s too smart to fool. She’s just like me, gifted with the ability to see through the smoke screens people put up and get directly to the truth. Of course, I didn’t see Elizabeth’s truth, and now it’s too late.
“I’ll be fine here, hon.”
“I mean that, Daddy. We’d love to have you.”
Her offer is tempting—a night in a bed where the empty pillow on the other side doesn’t remind me of Elizabeth. Kate has plenty of room for me. In fact, her house is large enough I could have private quarters that include my own bathroom.
I picture myself not only staying the night, but moving in. I could sell this house where every nook and cranny is filled with bittersweet memories and create a simpler life, one that involves nothing more complicated than getting up in the morning, going to work, being pleasant company at the dinner table and then going to bed at night.
Naturally I would bear my share of the expenses. I may be many things (not much of a stud, for instance), but a cheapskate is not one of them. Too, I’d be right on the premises when Kate needs someone to watch Bonnie. Think what she’d save on babysitting fees, alone.
“Kate, it’s about bedtime for Bonnie.”
Rick’s reminder brings me to my senses. Moving in with them ranks as one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. No house is big enough for two families, not in today’s fast-paced, anxiety-producing society. And considering the cool distance between my daughter and her husband today, even staying overnight is a bad idea.
Did they think I wouldn’t notice? Even in my current state of self-absorption I couldn’t fail to see Rick’s exaggerated politeness to Kate and her unusual sharpness to him. I’m not privy to what’s going on between them—nor should I be—but I have no intention of getting in the middle.
“Rick, please don’t interrupt. I’m trying to get Daddy to spend the night with us.”
There she goes again, snapping his head off. My son-in-law shows a quick flash of irritation, but to his credit, smoothes it over very quickly.
“Sure, hon. That would be great. We’d enjoy having you, Howard.”
“Thanks, but I have a lot of work to catch up on. You two kids go on.”
“We’ll just leave the food with you,” Kate says, but I tell her to take it. As much as I hate the thought of Chinese takeout or Kentucky Fried Chicken for one, I don’t want any more reminders of this picnic.
Bonnie sidles up to me, and I lift her for a good-night hug. “Sweet dreams, sweet pea.”
She giggles and then says, “See ’ou ’ater, al’gator.”
“After a while, crocodile.”
It takes every bit of willpower I have to say this to my granddaughter. This is the exchange she always has with Elizabeth.
Will the time ever come when I can do all the things we used to do together and not think of her? I wish I knew how to get her back.
After they leave I go inside…and there sits Elizabeth’s baby grand, untouched. In previous years, the whole family would gather in the living room, and she would sit down at the piano and play patriotic songs while the rest of us sang off-key.
Thank God Kate didn’t suggest we sing this year. I’m as tradition-loving as anybody, but there’s only so much tradition a man can take when he’s lost his right arm.
Already I can tell this is going to be a Tylenol PM night. There’s no use getting in bed and tangling myself up in the covers while my mind gnaws on the beat-up bone of my marriage.
I nab the bottle from the back of the medicine chest, and when I shut the door, I look myself in the mirror. Great-granny’s ghost, I look like something that ought to be taken into the woods and shot. If being separated from Elizabeth can do this to me, imagine what being divorced would do. Probably kill me.
Maybe I’d better talk to Jack Warner before I fall apart completely.
It feels funny being on the wrong side of the psychiatrist’s couch. Here I am stretched out like one of my own patients while Jack studies me in that Buddha-like way of his.
“Relax, Howard,” he says.
“How can I? I know all the tricks.”
“Forget doctor/patient protocol and just talk to me as a friend.”
“Then why in the hell did you put me on this couch?”
“I’ve never heard you use that kind of language. When did you start? After Elizabeth left?”
“No, before, actually. But I don’t give a rat’s ass anymore about language. All I want to know is what did I do wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t pay her enough attention, but…good Lord, we’ve been married nearly thirty years. Wouldn’t you think she’d want to stick it out? It’s not as if we’re spring chickens. Who would want us now?”
Jack doesn’t say anything, which makes me squirm. I wonder if this is how my patients feel when I sit in my chair and wait for them to figure out the uncomfortable truths?
“Do you think she’s having an affair, Jack?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t think so, but she did dye her hair. Bright red, if that tells you anything.”
“What does it tell you?”
“It looks like she dipped it in red icing and styled it with a kitchen mixer, but I guess I’m stodgy. I was used to her natural color.”
I pat my own rapidly balding pate. Face it. Elizabeth looks pretty darned good now, and I’m no catch, even if you’re not very picky.
“Then there’s the matter of sex.”
This is hard for me to say because I was brought up to believe that matters of intimacy were best kept within the bedroom walls. But since I’m here to get help I might as well bare it all, pardon the pun.
Jack has shifted so I can’t see his face—a clever ploy. I’ve used it myself. Still, this feeling of speaking anonymously gives me the courage to carry on.
“The truth is, I’m experiencing a little…hmm…sexual dysfunction.”
His silence gets on my nerves. Why doesn’t he say something?
“It’s probably just a passing thing,” I add.
“It could be prostate trouble…I had it once…about ten years ago.”
It was only after I’d embarrassed myself three or four times in the bed that Elizabeth suggested I see Dr. Paulk.
“Maybe I’ll see Dr. Paulk,” I say.
“Ask about Viagra.”
“What?”
“Viagra, Howard. It’s fairly common for men our age to need it.”
I should have thought of this sooner, but I did have that little flash of passion in Florida. Besides, every man likes to think of himself as invincible, a hero to his wife. Having to take a pill before you can meet her needs lets the air out of that ego-inflated balloon.
“Have the two of you talked?”
I’m glad Jack has left my floppy subject and moved on to something more substantial.
“Not lately.”
“You should. If you have any hopes of reconciliation, the two of you have to communicate on a real level. You know that, Howard.”
“Yes. I’ve told my patients that hundreds of times. But advice is easier to give than to take.”
“Coming to me was a good start. It shows you’re willing to work with Elizabeth toward a compromise that’s satisfactory to both of you.”
I thank Jack and head to my car. His advice sounds reasonable to me, but I don’t picture Elizabeth getting too excited over a marriage that’s a “satisfactory compromise.” She’s fanciful and romantic. I guess it’s the artist in her.
They say opposites attract, which was certainly the case with Elizabeth and me, but the irony is that the differences that drew us together have become the source of our discontent. Take, for instance, the matter of Paris.
Elizabeth has wanted to go for years. She’s built it up in her mind until you’d think the Eiffel Tower was some sort of sacred totem. Not that I have anything against Paris. It’s just that I believe in paying attention to my business. That’s what keeps a roof over our heads. If I flitted off on every one of Elizabeth’s whims, my patients would find somebody else who kept dependable office hours.
A car horn blares and a red-faced driver shakes his fist at me.
