—Incompatibility and You: You Married the Wrong Guy
Mrs. Smith, she of the wedding invitation, sent me a gracious note on thick, expensive paper, written in a precise and feminine hand. She mentioned she had spoken to Richard. And she wondered if I was attending the wedding. Enclosed was another reply card. I checked the line marked “regrets” and popped it in the mail that afternoon.
The last thing I was in the mood for was a wedding. Weddings are so—stupid.
Divorce? Now that was interesting. I took Richard to the cleaners in our divorce. I’m sure his lawyer is still shaking his head. The money doesn’t make up for the insult, but it helps. Still, I feel like I won’t ever be able to trust any man ever again. If I remarry, it will be all for money, that’s all, and he can keep a separate bedroom for all I care; in fact, I’d rather it.
But why would I even bother to remarry? I’m fine alone. At least I can’t betray myself.
Richard says he had known all along, since before he married me, that he was gay. Why didn’t I sense something was wrong? Why did I believe he thought me the love of his life?
The funny thing is I know for a fact that Richard liked being seen out in public with me. He liked being seen with me because I’m tall and thin and pretty and because I dress well.
I guess I was a good cover. I should have gotten fat and sloppy; that would have driven him crazy. Sex?
Our sex life was occasional after the first years of our marriage, but I didn’t care all that much about sex and Richard never pressured me. True, on occasion I got crushes on a movie star and once I got a crush on a man in the building next door, but I never acted on those romantic feelings. I was married; fidelity was part of the deal. Besides, Richard was the only man I’d ever slept with, and you know what they say about not missing what you’ve never known.
Anyway, while I was at home redecorating the kids’ rooms and watching movies and reading novels, Richard was out on the town meeting guys and getting laid. Luckily, all sex between us had stopped before the seventh year of the marriage, so there was little if any chance Richard might have made me sick. Still. I was such a fool.
A fool and an excuse.
For a long time I suppose I was Richard’s excuse for avoiding his real life. “I can’t cheat on my wife; I’m married; I’m a father; I made a vow.” I suppose I was quite convenient. But I guess his true self, the self that needed men, finally became too strong to ignore. So Richard starting having sex with men but still refused to leave the kids and me.
Until Bob. Bob the electrician. I know I’m being mean, but I can’t help but picture my ex-husband’s lover as the children’s TV character, Bob the Builder, a blocky figure in a stupid yellow hat.
I miss my parents. It was horrible the way they died, but on some level I’m glad they didn’t have to witness Richard’s coming out and the subsequent dissolution of my marriage. I’m not sure they ever would have understood; I know they would have been heartbroken and terribly worried about me.
And they’d probably want me to remarry as soon as possible.
The thought of marrying again mystifies me. The thought of creating a whole new life with someone not Richard seems impossible. I have no idea of where I’d even start.
Well, I could start with a date, of course.
I think I want to date. At least, I—I what? I would like to have someone to take along to weddings. It would be nice to have someone to go out with on a Saturday night.
But do I want someone sleeping in bed with me every night? No. Absolutely not. Maybe. But in the far distant future.
Because first, I have to address the troubling issue of sex. I think I might want to have sex. I’m attracted to men, not all men, of course, not the slovenly or the overweight, but particular men, mostly on-screen but occasionally someone I pass on the street or meet at a function. But I’m scared out of my mind at the prospect of taking my clothes off in front of a man. Actually, terrified is a more accurate word.
I, Nell Keats, am a born-again virgin. I’ve been revirginalized. This is what happens after thirteen years without sex. I hardly remember what it was like being with Richard. How am I supposed to imagine what it would be like with another man?
Will it hurt? Will I be expected to do things I certainly never did with Richard? Will a man know it’s been so long and find me suddenly unattractive? Will I ever feel desire?
I wonder if convents are still accepting middle-aged women. I’m not Catholic even though I was married in the Catholic church, but what’s conversion compared to the trauma I’ve experienced?
Chapter 8
Laura
Die young and leave a good-looking corpse. Divorce young and be able to afford lots of plastic surgery.
—The Smart Woman’s Guide to Divorce
The apartment looks a whole lot bigger now that Duncan’s stuff is gone. His stuff. After eight years of marriage, figuring out who owns what is really hard, believe me.
All our money was in joint accounts. Duncan made more money than I did, true, but that was never an issue when it came to buying things. If I wanted new placemats and candles, I just went out and bought them. If Duncan wanted a new stereo system, he just went out and bought it.
Duncan took the stereo. I kept the candles and placemats.
Other things, things we’d bought together, things we both decided we wanted, well, they were harder to divvy up. The king-sized bed, for example. We were both crazy about it. It barely fit into the bedroom; Duncan had to shimmy sideways against the wall to climb in at night. And king-sized bedding can be a lot more expensive than queen sized, let me tell you! But we’d had a lot of fun in that bed.
Duncan really wanted it when he moved out. He never said that, but I knew. The problem was the apartment he was renting was far too small for the bed; you couldn’t even squeeze it into the living room. So the bed stayed put. Which is kind of a shame because I can’t bring myself to sleep in it anymore. Not that I miss Duncan. Not all that much, anyway. Not that I regret anything.
Maybe by the time the baby comes, I’ll be okay with the bed. Little Caroline and I can sleep in it together. And my new husband, of course.
My new husband. A shinier model man, one who wants to be a dad.
Nell thinks my leaving Duncan was a mistake. She’s still trying to get me to take him back. It drives me nuts. I just can’t convince her I know what I’m doing.
See, Nell thinks that our parents’ dying the way they did, so suddenly, so violently, somehow screwed me up and made me obsess about having a baby.
It did not screw me up. Well, maybe in the sense that it made me incredibly sad. I cried for days on end. Poor Duncan. He was really wonderful during that time. But I got over the shock and yes, I miss my parents so much. I used to talk to them every day, but just because I feel really alone sometimes since they’ve been gone doesn’t mean I’m trying to replace them with a baby! I mean, that doesn’t even make sense.
But poor Nell has had a terrible shock with Richard. She lost her parents and her husband, and though I know she doesn’t consciously want me to be unhappy, I think somehow she doesn’t want me to have children because that’s one thing she has that I don’t. Except that now I don’t have a husband, either, but I will have one soon.
I have plans.
Nell says I’m going about looking for a man like I’m a general at war, mounting a campaign. But what’s wrong with that? Who has time to waste?
I’ve written down a list of questions to ask on the first date. Mostly medical questions but a few other questions about lifestyle, like does he enjoy sports and how much time does he spend on his grooming each day. If his answers aren’t the ones I’m looking for, I won’t see him again, no matter how cute or charming he is.
One thing I know. I refuse to be a stepparent. I want my own children and only my own children. I don’t see why I should have to raise some other woman’s child. Nell pointed out that most people have children and that my chances of f
inding an eligible guy without a son or daughter are slim. But I don’t care. I’ve come this far; I’ve left Duncan; I’m not going to compromise now.
Nell, the spoilsport, also pointed out that at thirty-four I have far fewer eggs than I had at twenty-four. Duh. Of course I’m aware of this. It’s why this quest is so urgent, why I have to act like I’m a general mounting a campaign.
Anyway, I know I can conceive, I just know I can. Okay, I’ve never gotten pregnant, even when I was careless (only a few times) and didn’t use birth control. I guess I’ve just been lucky. I’m sure the fact that I’m almost the only woman I know who hasn’t ever been pregnant has nothing to do with my womb being hostile or anything.
What a horrible thing a hostile womb must be! You have to walk around knowing there’s something mean inside you, something that refuses to allow a life to take hold.
I’m a friendly person. I just know there’s nothing hostile about me, inside or out.
I just know it.
Chapter 9
Grace
The so-called Seven-Year Itch actually starts sometime in the fourth year. Keep this in mind when researching your next spouse.
—Getting In and Getting Out: The Cycle of Marriage and Divorce
I saw his cell phone number on the screen and let the voice mail system take his call.
In spite of my recent vow, I still didn’t trust myself to talk to Simon directly. Years of backsliding, years of being lured back into the role of indulgent caretaker had made me wary of my weakness. And now, days after finding the outrageous charge on my credit card bill, my anger had cooled. It was still there but no longer red-hot. Simon would hear the change in my voice and take advantage of my softer mood.
I watched the phone, volume turned down, until a red blinking light indicated that Simon had left his message. I raised the volume and listened.
“Gracie, if you’re there, pick up. It’s me. Pick up, Gracie. Come on. Okay. Whatever. I have to run. Meeting Jane. I just wanted to let you know I need your card to return that thing I bought. The guy at the store was a real asshole about it. So, maybe you should give me your card, just for the day, and I’ll take care of things. Okay? I’ll come by later to pick it up.”
No thanks. No good-bye.
I had to get out of the apartment. I knew Simon all too well. I knew he would pound on the door and issue pitiful pleas until I broke down and let him in. The only way I could be safe was to leave my own home and take my credit cards with me. I’d changed the locks—again—but Simon had been known to pick a lock. I scanned the apartment for anything valuable he might steal—or “borrow,” as he would claim—but there was nothing left to steal. I kept no secret stash of cash; I kept what little jewelry I had at Jess’s apartment. Simon wasn’t above pawning the gold bracelet my favorite aunt had given me for high school graduation. I loved that aunt and I loved that bracelet and Simon was not getting his hands on it. He’d already sold my wedding ring, though it was a shoddy thing to begin with and I can’t imagine he got any real money for it.
I went to my favorite art supply store on Huntington Avenue. The day was sunny and dry with a refreshing breeze, perfect for walking. I’d grown up in a suburb of Boston. Everybody drove everywhere. Until you got your driver’s license, you were virtually captive in your own home. It was only when I moved to the city that I discovered the joys of walking, that my legs were good for more than depressing the gas and brake pedals.
I wish I could walk to work, but that’s impossible, given the school is located in Brookline. Instead, I take a commuter train. I could drive but having a car in the city is a hassle; parking is hard to find and traffic is always crazy. I tried for a while, but in the end I sold the car. I got very little for it. Simon had been in several accidents with it; I’m still surprised he hadn’t managed to total the machine.
Life on a teacher’s salary doesn’t allow for a new car every other year.
I like teaching; I’ve been doing it since graduating from the Massachusetts School of Design with a master’s in art education. I like teaching, though there’s definitely a burnout factor to consider. A few older teachers at my school have taken sabbaticals. And I’ve learned that one of two things happen after a sabbatical. You come back refreshed, armed with new ideas and bursting with creative energy, or you don’t come back at all.
I used to wonder if I’d know what to do with a sabbatical of my own. Where would I go? What would I accomplish? I like to work; I need to work. I need to be taking care of someone or a roomful of little someones. What would I do if the only person I had to take care of was me?
A few years back I stopped wondering about sabbaticals.
A high-pitched voice to my right made me flinch. Two young girls, maybe about sixteen, brushed past me. They were dressed as if it were already summer. Their fat bellies hung over their low-slung, flouncy miniskirts; their hot pink and green flip-flops smacked the spring sidewalk smartly. I suddenly remembered all the times when Simon and I would be walking along, in the middle of a serious conversation or simply enjoying each other’s company, and an attractive woman would pass. Simon would stop, stare, even compliment her as if I wasn’t there, his wife, the woman supporting his career.
More times than not the woman responded with appreciation.
Are women their own worst enemies? So much for sisterhood.
Simon.
I caught up with the carefree teens at the next corner. One wore sunglasses that covered three quarters of her face; they were tinted purple. Was this, I wondered, the new style? If so, I’d need to buy a new pair of sunglasses or settle for looking old and frumpy this summer.
Summer.
The light turned green and I stepped into the street. What would I do with myself this summer now that I no longer had Simon to look after? How would I fill my time? There were options, of course. I could take a class, find a part-time job, sleep late, see my friends, maybe take a few road trips to museums—the Portland Museum of Art, the Ogunquit Museum of American Art, the Farnsworth, DeCordova. I could eat some lobster if the prices weren’t too outrageous this year.
Lots of options and yet, none of them seemed particularly enticing. It was only April but already the summer loomed as a long and lonely stretch of time.
Jefferson’s Paints. I pushed open the door and walked inside. As always, I gravitated first to the aisles of paints—oils, acrylics, watercolors. And suddenly, I felt a wee spark of excitement, maybe even inspiration—at least, I felt the desire for inspiration.
Yes, I thought, maybe this summer I would even work on my own art. I reached for a tube of cobalt violet. It’s a beautiful color, but difficult to use and for my budget, very expensive. I wondered if I dared to buy it. I remembered reading about the color in a paint catalogue; the ad said that cobalt violet had been used since 1664 by various Dutch masters.
I frowned down at the tube of paint in my hand. I was no master, Dutch or otherwise. I thought of my bank account, underfed and in poor health. And I decided that there was no point in my buying the paint.
Desire, I reminded myself, is not the same as need.
Simon needs to paint. I like to paint, but it hadn’t felt like a need for a long, long time. Maybe it never had; I realized I’d forgotten a lot about myself. Why had I put aside making paintings after I was no longer required to make them to earn my degree? It’s true that my job involves lots of creation, but my own work, what was once my serious work, is not what I do with my students.
My serious work.
With a sigh I put the tube of paint back in its place on the shelf.
The truth is that Simon is far more talented than I am. And Simon needs tending; his spirit needs succor; his inspiration needs to be protected. With my work ethic and his gift, we’d make the perfect successful artist, if by successful one meant an artist who creates and shows regularly.
We certainly hadn’t made the perfect husband and wife.
I turned to leave the aisle and stepp
ed right into a person.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I cried. It was a young man, maybe in his early twenties, wearing a T-shirt that said LIFE IS GOOD.
The young man smiled. “No, please, it was my fault.”
“No, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Well, neither was I. So, we are both at fault, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
I expected the young man to move on but he didn’t; he stood there and smiled at me again. “What are you buying?” he asked.
“Oh. Well, nothing.” I gestured to the shelves of oil paints. “I was just looking at a tube of cobalt violet.”
“It’s a beautiful color. It conveys passion.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it does. But it’s so expensive and I don’t really have any immediate plans to paint so . . .”
The young man lightly, briefly touched my arm. “I think you should buy it anyway,” he said, “even if you do not use it right now. If it is in your home, your studio, maybe it will inspire you to work. I am Alfonse, by the way.”
Alfonse—I’d detected an accent—held out his hand and we shook.
“I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.”
Alfonse smiled again and I found myself engaged in a lively conversation about painting in general and a current show at the Fogg Art Museum in particular.
Maybe it was the smile, maybe his generally warm manner and good conversational skills, maybe it was thoughts of a long and lonely summer. For whatever reason, I bought the tube of cobalt violet and a few new brushes.
Alfonse accompanied me to the cashier and then outside onto the sidewalk.
“Well,” I said, “good-bye.”
But Alfonse had another idea. “Would you come with me for a coffee?” he asked.
Of course I won’t come with you for a coffee, I thought. I don’t know you and . . . What will people think?
Back In the Game Page 4
