And One Last Thing...
Page 8
In my mother’s mind, cautionary tales are timeless, however tenuously connected
I watched the lights reflecting off the water, violent blooms of color that made my eyes ache and my chest tighten. It was a little lonely, knowing that there were families out there, celebrating. It reminded me of the Fourth when Emmett and I were diagnosed with pinkeye and had to sit inside while all of the other kids ran around with sparklers. Every echo of a Roman candle taunted us
I had never spent a single holiday alone. As much as I used to resent being summoned to my parents’ house or to the in-laws’, it was sort of disorienting to have nowhere to go, nothing to do. If not for the fact that my mother kept making up excuses to call and check up on me - including calling to wish me a Happy Fourth that morning - I could have been eaten by wild boars or brutally murdered by my antisocial new neighbor and no one would know for weeks.
At the same time, I didn’t have to make three dozen deviled eggs or assemble some sort of patriotically themed outfit for the occasion. I wasn’t responsible to anyone, for anything.
My soon-to-be ex-husband didn’t seem to get that.
Mike had apparently decided that it was okay to break his lawyer’s contact embargo if he needed something from me. Because he was basically a giant five-year-old. Earlier that afternoon, I’d been lounging on the couch, reading The Stand instead of the Emotional Homework for New Divorceés book Mama had insisted I bring with me. I’d unearthed King’s masterwork from the front closet. I think one of my uncles had left it behind after a weekend visit. I was normally a Nora Roberts or Mary Higgins Clark reader, but I hadn’t been able to put this book down. It turned out that I really liked Stephen King, or at least post-apocalyptic, metaphorical Stephen King. (I was still decidedly against child-devouring clown Stephen King.) Who knew?
My cell phone rang and, distracted by the seemingly banal, creeping evil of Randall Flagg, I answered it without thinking. There was no greeting or acknowledgment of any kind, just Mike imperiously demanding, “I need my blue suit. Where did you leave it?”
I was so stunned at hearing his voice, I almost barked out that I’d dropped it at Speedy Cleaners on Schultz Avenue. Like a trained seal.
Despite recent personal revelations, my instinct to soothe and serve shamed me. I was so accustomed to jumping whenever Mike needed something, to catering to his whims before he realized he had them, that my response was automatic. I wasn’t a wife. I was a personal assistant - one of those harried, abused ones that sold their celebrity employers’ secrets to the tabloids.
Of course, my mouth didn’t have to catch up to my brain while I processed this, so my response was something along the lines of spluttering, “Beg pardon?”
“I. Need. My. Blue. Suit,” he said, enunciating every word as if he were talking to a very slow preschooler. “Where did you drop it off? Oh, and did you mail my Netflix envelope?”
I stared into the phone, sure I had just hallucinated what he’d said. He hadn’t talked to me for days, on the advice of counsel, and now he wanted to make sure I’d returned his rented copy of Alien vs. Predator?
Seriously?
Pressing the receiver to my ear, I demanded, “Do you have anything to say to me? How about, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been cheating on you. I was wrong’?”
“Oh, Lacey, I don’t want to go through this again.”
“We never went through it the first time, Mike. I mean, really, could you possibly be more cliché? Nailing your receptionist? Why not a cocktail waitress? Or a stewardess? I file for divorce, and all you have to say is, ‘Where is my blue suit?’ What is wrong with you?”
Unused to hearing this sort of talk from me, Mike stayed silent on the other end of the line. He finally snorted derisively and said, “I think you’ve said enough for both of us. Damn it, Lacey, I was trying to stay civil here. But you just can’t let it go, even for your own good. I know we were having problems, but I never thought you’d be dumb enough to pull a stunt like that e-mail. Why didn’t you come to me so we could try to work things out? How could you be so stupid? Nothing can fix this. Do you understand? My parents are never going to forgive you, never. I thought my father was going to have a heart attack.
“What did you expect to happen, Lacey? That you’d write this horrible, slanderous piece of garbage and send it out to all of our friends and family and I’d suddenly want you again? And did you think about what you were doing to the business? Or Beebee? She had to go home to Natchez to visit her mother, she was so upset. She’s humiliated.”
“One, it’s not slander if it’s true. And, pardon me, but Beebee has been humiliated? I’m supposed to worry about Beebee? How about me? How am I supposed to feel knowing that the entire area code knew that you were cheating on me? That you didn’t at least have the respect to try to hide what you were doing… from anyone besides me? I mean, really, what did you expect from me, Mike?”
I could hear him flipping channels on the TV. He had already checked out of the conversation. I was talking about the destruction of our marriage and I still couldn’t hold his attention. “Come on, Lacey, you had to know something was going on with me and Beebee. I thought we had an arrangement. We were having problems, but I thought we had some sort of unspoken agreement to keep up appearances. I thought you knew to hold up your end of the bargain.”
“My end of the bargain?” I exploded. “I assumed my husband was a decent human being who wouldn’t do that to the woman he was married to. If I missed some obvious signs, it was because I wanted to believe you respected me enough to honor our marriage vows … or at least not crap all over them. And if you thought we had some sort of unspoken arrangement, that’s because you didn’t have the balls to ask me about it and find out for yourself.”
“You knew I wasn’t happy. I mean, I was never home, [acey. I was always working. And when I was home -”
“When you were home, you weren’t home,” I told him. “You were talking about work, making calls for work, getting ready for meetings related to work, thinking about work, or hell, probably thinking about Beebee. I’m not saying I was any happier. But at least I didn’t run off and sleep with some Cheetos-colored bimbo.”
“You don’t talk about her that way,” he growled. “Beebee cares about me. She listens. She cares about what I want, what I need.”
“Asking whether you want to be on top or bottom doesn’t mean she cares about you. Beebee’s looking for a meal ticket, Mike. She wants an easier life and, fortunately for her, you are more gullible than she could ever have imagined.”
“She wants to see me sail my boat, Lacey. She even came up with a name for it. The Liquid Asset.”
“You don’t have a boat, Mike.”
“Yeah, but she wants me to finish it,” he said petulantly. “She wants me to have a hobby, to relax. All you ever want me to do is work.”
“When the hell have I ever said that?” I demanded. “When have I ever insisted that you work more? If you felt pressured because we had to pay for the bass boat, which you wanted. Or the condo, which you wanted. Or the truck or the jet Skis or the club memberships - well, then maybe I could have gotten a job to help out. But you didn’t want me to work. It was embarrassing, you said. My job was to keep you going, to build this perfect, stupid life for you. That was what you wanted. Don’t blame me because you changed your mind!”
“Beebee’s what I want, Lacey. And I’m not being fair to her. I can’t keep making promises to her that I can’t keep.”
“Oh, you’re not divorcing me because of Beebee. You’re divorcing me because I managed to shame you as much as you’ve shamed me.”
“You won’t last five minutes without me, you know,” he sneered. “The house, the money, the credit cards. I’d love to see how you’re going to get along without my credit cards.”
“Aw, Mike, I wouldn’t worry about it. I recently liquidated some assets of my own, so I think I’ll have some pocket money for a while. Mr. Goote really is very generous.”
I shrugged. “Probably twice what I sold it for.”
Mike growled. “I’m going to leave you with nothing. No cards, no cash, no house, no car, nothing. By the time Beebee and I get done suing you, you’ll be living with your parents, working double shifts at the Sizzler -”
“Oh, go sting the BumbleBee,” I sniped, shutting my phone off.
How, I wondered as I stared out over the water, could two intelligent adults end up like this? Well, one intelligent adult. Why was it that other relationships had flourished and ours seemed to have stalled and died an agonizing, horrible death? Mike and I had been given all the tools to build a good life together. Both sets of our parents bumped consistently along the glass ceiling between middle and upper class. We had good orthodontia, summer camps, swimming lessons, new cars for our sixteenth birthdays. We graduated college without student loans. We got married at the First Baptist Church and our reception was held at the Singletree Country Club. The down payment on our sweet little starter house was a gift from my grandparents.
Maybe the problem was that we never struggled. There was nothing to bond us together, us against the world. We didn’t have to turn to each other and figure out what the hell we were going to do to pay the light bill or make the next house payment. We just coasted along. The thing about coasting is that it usually means you’re going downhill.
I knew we were pathetic excuses for adults. I knew we should have told our parents to back off and just let us be. But it was so easy to let the hard stuff, the bills, the worrying, the minutiae, be taken care of so we could focus on getting our lives up and going.
I screwed myself over. That’s the worst part. I did this to myself. I’d never lied to myself about the level of contentment in my marriage. I knew I was never blissfully happy. When I realized our newlywed life wasn’t the ecstasy-fest I’d hoped for, I thought, “Well, no one is completely happy.” And when I had to fight harder and harder to find the bright spots in my marriage, I thought there was something wrong with me. I had a beautiful home, a husband who provided for me, security, position within my community. Most women would have been thrilled with my life. I thought maybe I didn’t feel things the way people were supposed to. Maybe my expectations were unreasonable. I even thought about going on antidepressants for a while, but we just don’t do that in my family. Three Bloody Marys for breakfast was perfectly acceptable, but a Xanax or two showed character flaws.
To give a more explicit example, in eight years I’d never had an orgasm with Mike. Ever. Not even a promising twinge. I read somewhere that a good lover played your body like an instrument, listening for the right sounds and striking the ideal notes at the perfect time. Mike’s playing style was more like “Chopsticks,” hitting the same notes over and over again and nobody got any enjoyment out of it.
At first I was convinced it was because I was just too nervous that Mike might trick me into sex that I couldn’t relax enough to enjoy our “we’ll do everything but that one thing” phase. That was followed by our “let’s just get it out of the way so there’s no pressure on our wedding night” phase, followed by the “is that it?” phase. Just after we were married, I convinced myself that I was still too new to sex to enjoy it properly. About three years in, I finally realized that Mike Terwilliger was just lousy in bed.
By then, the mere mention that we might need to buy a book or get some counseling sent Mike into a snit that lasted two weeks. It wasn’t his fault that I didn’t respond to him, he said. If I would just relax and give in to some of his naughtier fantasies, I’d be having multiple orgasms in no time. Unfortunately, most of his fantasies weren’t all that naughty. He really thought having sex in our tent on a camping trip was living on the edge.
I convinced myself my problem was clinical, like I had some nerve endings disconnected somewhere. I even tried talking to my doctor about it, but Dr. Metzger, our general practitioner, had been treating me since I was four and was extremely embarrassed by the conversation. He used some Yahtzee metaphor I didn’t understand, something about scoring combinations and not expecting multiple Yahtzees in the same round, and then quickly left the exam room.
Of course, my self-diagnosis that I was dead from the waist down changed when I attended Genie Howett’s Pleasure Chest home sales party. Genie, who Mama had always called “fast,” had taken up selling various toys and lubes at home parties for pocket money. She announced this after her husband, Duke, cut up her MasterCard.
At the time, none of us were sure whether she did it because she enjoyed the work or because she wanted to embarrass Duke into opening another account for her. Three years later she was the regional sex toy queen managing five saleswomen. But this was her first party, a sort of trial run, before she launched herself on the public. While Duke was away on a duck-hunting trip, she invited about a dozen old friends to her house for “tapas, margaritas, and sex swing demonstrations.”
Mike practically lay across the driveway to keep me from going. He considered the idea of me buying a vibrator a direct insult to his manhood. He seemed to think the other women in the room would know what his “shortcomings” were based on what I bought. He’d almost talked me out of attending - heck, I was almost apologizing for wanting to go - when he said, “You’re not going to go spend my money on that crap.” I don’t know whether it was the tone of his voice or the “my money” part that pissed me off more, but I shoved about two hundred dollars from my mad money jar into my purse and slipped out of the house.
Imagine sitting in a perfectly respectable living room full of giggling women you’ve known since your Tumble Tots days, drinking from obscene margarita glasses and pretending not to be looking at a hot pink catalog chock-full of things you’ve only seen on the internet. You’re expected to maintain eye contact with a saleswoman as she uses words like “clitoral stimulation” and “nipple tingling.”
“Now, if you want to know whether a toy is powerful enough for you, touch it to the tip of your nose,” Genie managed to say without any irony. “It’s the most sensitive non-erogenous part of the body.”
Despite the fact that several women gamely pressed candy-colored small appliances to their faces, I declined. After several seconds of nose-buzzing, Genie laughed and said that putting the toy to the web between your thumb and forefinger worked just as well. Despite their margarita consumption, our embarrassed, red-nosed party compatriots were not amused at Genie’s attempt at breaking the ice, so she started passing stuff around the room to appease the crowd. I was handed something called the Velvet Slide, a small, blue, curved piece of pliable plastic that, frankly, looked like something a naughty dentist might use. I blocked out Genie’s explanation of where exactly I was supposed to use it as the slender body jolted to life. I glanced around, but no one was looking at me. They were fixated on hardware of their own. I pressed the flat tip to the crook of my hand and felt… tingly. A strange, full awareness in my special places. It was primal and powerful and -…
This must be what gun nuts felt like at the firing range.
I wanted this. I wanted to take this home with me right now. The woman sitting next to me practically had to pry it out of my hands to pass it to the next woman. I leaned over to Genie and whispered. “I think I want that one.”
“Good girl!” she squealed, clapping her hands like an over-caffeinated cheerleader. “Your first vibrator! I’m so proud!”
I laughed, sipping my drink as I was handed a large purple latex wand with elaborate prongs and probes coming off the sides. “Dear Lord!”
“I see we’ve moved on to the heavy artillery,” one of the other guests marveled, her eyebrows raised.
“Is it a tuning fork?” I asked, poking a finger at the little probe on the back. I was beginning to suspect it was meant to go where nothing had ever gone before. “Why are there little Gre
ek gods and goddesses molded on the sides?”
Ever helpful, Genie reached over and turned the dial on “high.”
“What the -” I cried as the vibrator started spinning and twirling like a carnival ride.
“We call it Zeus’s Thunderbolt,” Genie said, winking at me. “It’s one of the most powerful vibrators on the market.”
“Why would anyone want a Greek-themed vibrator?”
She was caught between a grin and grimace and nodded at the offending probe. “Well, you know, the ancient Greeks were into -”
“I’m well aware of what the ancient Greeks were into!” I hissed. I passed the angry-sounding device to the next woman and surrendered to an endless parade of things I could never take home. Flavored body gels, fuzzy handcuffs, some sort of rubber ring that looked like gummy candy from hell. Mike would never want to use any of this stuff. For our first married Valentine’s Day, I bought him a cute little gift basket stuffed with naughty dice, a blindfold, some chocolate body paint. He looked at the little dice inscribed with “nibble” and “nuzzle” and various body parts, then rolled his eyes and asked why we would want to bring gaming equipment into the bedroom.
Genie wrapped up the party by demonstrating how the Slip’N’Slide Vibrating Shower Glove pulsated the Luxuriant Evenings massage lotion into our hands, she explained that this was a great way to wrap up a good round of “water play.” I realized I’d never even had a round of water play. Citing the possibility of slipping or throwing his back out, Mike refused my repeated advances in the shower. Come to think of it, he’d also refused to have sex in our kitchen, the hot tub in the fancy hotel suite we booked for our anniversary, the guest room in my parents’ condo. The only place where he seemed interested in me was in our very own bed.