Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

  They came flying too quickly for him to react. Instead, the bananas hit the floor—and exploded.

  Suddenly everything was coated with banana. Mushy white bits clung to the counters, the floors, the baseboards. Smaller clumps stuck to the coffeepot, the ceramic canisters, even Evan’s red plastic lunch box, tucked next to the microwave.

  Laura froze. Part of her wanted to laugh—the throaty, hysterical laugh that, in the movies, always elicited a slap in the face. But she was afraid that if she started, she’d never be able to stop.

  “All right,” she heard Roger say, his voice strangely quiet. “You’ve made your point. I’ll move out. I’ll start looking for a place right away.” Casting her a peculiar look, partly amazed and partly fearful, he added, “But it’s only because I’m afraid of what you might do if I don’t.”

  A sudden loud rapping at the back door startled them both.

  ‘Trick or treat!” several high-pitched voices called happily.

  * * * *

  “At least you got your ‘awful wedded husband’ to agree to move out,” Claire said, handing Laura a glass of white wine. “That’s quite an accomplishment, believe me.”

  “But I was completely out of control!” Laura protested. “I threw bananas at the man!”

  “That’s not so terrible,” Julie assured her in a soothing voice. “It’s not as if you have a whole history of throwing fruit.”

  With a long, tired sigh, Laura leaned back against the soft cushions of Claire’s couch. As upset as she was, she still felt she’d come to a place of refuge, surrounded not only by friends and the biggest bottle of chardonnay she’d ever seen, but also by a warm, familiar environment.

  Laura had always found Claire Nielsen’s apartment to be very much like Claire herself: stark, angular, no-nonsense. The predominant color was a creamy white, so much like her hair it could have come out of the same Clairol bottle. The shade had been used on the walls, in the carpeting, the important pieces of furniture, and even the bricks in the fireplace, which Laura had never once seen used during the decade or so Claire had lived in Oyster Bay.

  That was just the backdrop. Superimposed over this blank canvas were splashes of color, undoubtedly designed to shock, if not actually to cause migraine. The throw pillows on the white couch were hot pink, purple, and jade green. The silk-screened prints on the walls, meaningless blobs and rectangles that Laura could have sworn changed shape every time she saw them, favored colors like orange and lime green. An ottoman covered in a fabric that was halfway between a Hawaiian print and a Matisse rested underneath a windowsill.

  The effect was startling, to say the least. Despite the decor, Laura had always felt comfortable here. Even if Claire wasn’t the most competent hostess—making a pot of coffee but forgetting to mention she had neither milk nor sugar; serving muffins that were still frozen in the middle—the argument that “Claire meant well” always went a long way.

  Tonight, as she sat curled up on the white couch, taking tiny sips from her glass of wine, Laura thought about how lucky she was to have such good friends. Both Claire and Julie were in a particularly upbeat mood, or were at least pretending to be for her benefit. When Laura had called Claire earlier that day, in tears over the argument she and Roger had had the night before, Claire had insisted she and Evan come over for a Chinese take-out dinner. At the moment Evan was happily watching television in Claire’s bedroom, the impressive amount of General Tsao’s chicken he’d consumed slowing him down to couch-potato speed.

  “Think of it this way,” said Julie, perched on the ottoman, sipping a cup of Chinese tea, which fortunately required no sugar. “Last night’s fight may have been one of your worst, but maybe it’ll end up being your last.” She was dressed in a flowered granny dress that came almost to her ankles, giving her a reassuring maternal look.

  “It certainly was one of the worst,” Laura agreed with a shudder. “After fifteen years, one person really knows the other’s weak spots. When Roger and I were married, we always had an unspoken agreement about leaving certain things alone, no matter how angry we were. But boy, now that we’re no longer pretending to be a couple, there are no limits.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Julie, puzzled.

  Laura hesitated. “Well, one of the things he accused me of last night was having never opened up to him sexually—”

  “Oh, that’s original.” Claire snorted. She stretched her long legs across the oversized, overstuffed easy chair that looked as if it should belong to Papa Bear. Tonight she was wearing nothing but purple, a startling contrast to the jade green canvas that covered the chair. “Right off page twelve of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About How to Hurt Your Wife.”

  “There was something else, too....” Laura swallowed hard. “He told me he used to go downstairs late at night, pretending to watch Star Trek reruns when what he was really doing was, um, masturbating.”

  “Oh, my.” Julie covered her face with her hands.

  But Claire’s face lit up. “You’re kidding!” she cried, wide-eyed. “Now I understand why there are so many Trekkies running around!”

  Laura laughed. “And you thought it was Mr. Speck’s ears that had all those middle-aged men so intrigued.”

  She was trying her best to sound lighthearted. Tough, even. But all of a sudden she could no longer control her tears. They started by running down her cheeks unobtrusively, but before long she’d succumbed to a sobbing fit.

  “I—I—I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “The last thing I want to do is ruin everybody’s evening.”

  “You’re not ruining our evening!” Claire insisted.

  Julie had already come over to the couch to hug her. “Cry, if it makes you feel better. Don’t hold back, Laura. Let it all out.” Glancing up at Claire, she said, “Get her some tissues.”

  “I don’t actually have any tissues....” Claire, standing by helplessly, looking like a disoriented flight attendant in her purple space-age-style cat suit, thought for a few seconds. “How about a paper towel?”

  “That’ll have to do.” Julie smoothed Laura’s hair. “This is such a difficult time. Just remember that it will pass. Think of it as something you have to go through to get yourself to a much better place—”

  “And you will,” Claire reassured her. ‘Take it from somebody who’s been there.”

  “Laura,” Julie asked gently, “how is Evan handling all this?”

  “I think he’s pretty angry. Every once in a while he explodes. But most of the time he’s just quieter than usual.” Laura bit her lip. “I think it’s better when he’s crying and yelling and throwing toys all over the room.”

  Julie nodded. “You might think about finding him somebody to talk to. A counselor, somebody who knows how to talk to kids.”

  “I’ve thought about it. I’ll probably act on it one of these days, too. I’ve just been so busy trying to find myself a lawyer....” Laura shrugged. “I’m feeling so overwhelmed by all the stuff that’s going on with me that I can’t even bear to think about how much it’s affecting Evan.”

  “Poor Laura!” cried Claire. “You’ve got so much to deal with right now!”

  Julie was nodding. “I’ve been thinking. This is a time in your life when what you really need is to be nice to yourself. To concentrate on Laura Briggs.”

  “She’s right,” Claire agreed. “You shouldn’t be sitting around, marveling over how crummy it’s possible for a fairly well-adjusted human being to feel. You need to get out, to have some fun. You know what they say.”

  Laura and Julie stared at her blankly. “No,” Laura finally said. “What do they say?”

  “ ‘Living well is the best revenge,’ “ Claire replied. “Although I still think you can come up with a much more creative form of revenge, Laura. More dramatic, too.” She smiled sweetly. “How about something involving permanent scarring?”

  “Forget revenge,” insisted Julie, waving her hand in the air. “How about concentrating on having some f
un? Speaking of which, I’ve come up with the perfect solution. Can you field Evan out to your parents’ house some weekend soon?”

  Laura nodded. “They said they’d do anything they could to help. I don’t think parking him in front of their TV for three days is too much to ask.”

  “Perfect.” Julie’s face lit up. “Laura, have you ever been skiing?”

  “Skiing?” Laura blinked. “Well, no, I—”

  “I think it’s exactly what you need. Going to a place you’ve never been before, trying something new ... It’s precisely what the doctor ordered.”

  “Skiing!” Claire looked alarmed. “Where’d you come up with that idea?”

  “It’s one of my favorite sports,” Julie replied, slightly indignant.

  “But Laura is ... She and I are ...” Claire waved her hands in the air. “Let’s face it, Julie. You may be an old hand at slip-sliding around on the snow, but aren’t Laura and I a little old to start schussing?”

  “Not at all. Just today I was talking to a new patient who didn’t take up skiing until he was in his late forties.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Claire said dryly. “His twenty-year-old wife—his second wife—got him into it.”

  Julie frowned. “He didn’t say anything about a wife. He is divorced, though.”

  Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, Claire let out an exasperated sigh. “What is it with these guys? During their first marriage, you can’t get them to do anything but sit in front of the boob tube. If you even suggest anything the least bit adventurous—like going to the movies or trying a new salad dressing—they fight you so hard you’d think you were trying to talk them into getting a tattoo.

  “But when the second wife comes along, they go skiing, they go bungee-jumping—”

  “He didn’t say anything about bungee-jumping,” Julie said thoughtfully.

  “I guess the thing to do is be a second wife,” Laura commented.

  “Well, this man hasn’t remarried. At least I don’t think he has.”

  Claire cast Julie a meaningful look. “Or maybe he just wants you to think he’s single.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a tad cynical?” asked Julie. “He’s a nice guy, that’s all.”

  “I take it this ‘nice guy’ isn’t exactly Jean-Claude Killy,” Laura observed.

  “Poor Bob twisted his knee. He told me all about it while I was massaging his pectineus.”

  Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “Why, Julie Cavanaugh! You wicked thing!”

  “Relax. It’s a thigh muscle.”

  “Not nearly as interesting as the image that first came to mind.”

  “Anyway,” Julie went on, “the reason I brought him up in the first place is that I think he’s doing the right thing.”

  “What, pulling muscles with obscene names?”

  “Trying new things. Bob got divorced a while back, and now, instead of sitting around, feeling sorry for himself, he’s going out and enjoying life. He’s exploring, expanding his horizons—”

  “Sounds like a real going-for-the-gusto kind of guy,” Claire observed with a wry smile.

  Julie ignored her. “Laura, I think you should be doing the same thing as Bob. All three of us should. Together.”

  “If we’re going away for the weekend,” said Claire, “why don’t we at least pick a place where we can sit on a beach, drinking mai-tais and ogling men’s butts? We’ve got all those islands with the ‘Saint’ names so close to us. Surely we can find one where there’s not much political unrest.” With a shrug she added, “Why would anyone go somewhere where the whole point is to be cold?”

  Julie ignored her suggestion. “Laura, it’s really important that you break out of your rut.”

  “I’m not in a rut.”

  “What did you do last weekend?”

  “Let’s see. Evan was out of the house with Roger most of the weekend, so I ...” Laura struggled to reconstruct two days. “I cleaned the attic.”

  “I rest my case,” said Julie.

  “That’s not all.” Laura was quick to defend herself. “I also rented three videos and baked chocolate-chip cookies.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, she added, “With nuts.”

  Claire shook her head. “The woman is out of control.”

  “Laura,” Julie said with exaggerated patience, “we all need downtime. It’s an important part of healing. But you really should be getting out more.”

  “Maybe, but skiing? Isn’t that awfully ... dangerous?”

  “It certainly is!” Claire exclaimed. “Do you have any idea what those clingy ski pants can do to a pair of hips?”

  “It’s settled,” Julie said firmly. “We’re going. I’ll lend you some of the clothes you’ll need. I can probably get hold of some discount lift tickets. And I know a great travel agent who can get us a reasonable rate at one of the ski lodges upstate, probably the Robin Hood Inn. We just have to decide on a weekend.”

  “Great,” muttered Laura, trying to sound enthusiastic but still not completely convinced. “Now all I have to do is pay a visit to the Wizard of Oz. I just hope he’s still got some courage in stock.”

  Chapter Seven

  During the long bus ride to the ski lodge, Laura stared out the window, half listening to Claire and Julie’s happy chatter. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that while she was traveling north in search of adventure, Roger was packing up his things to move out. She was glad to be away and not have to witness the physical dismantling of their house—and, in essence, their life together. She only hoped that hiding out in the Catskills, pretending to be a mountain goat, wouldn’t turn out to be a mistake. Especially one that resulted in expensive visits to an orthopedic surgeon.

  When they finally arrived, Laura filed into the lobby behind Claire and Julie, suitcases in hand. She studied the place with curiosity. The Robin Hood Inn didn’t quite fit her fantasy of what a ski lodge should be like. Her first impression was that the Inn had been designed by a renegade architect from Disneyland, with its mock-stone exterior, numerous decorative towers, and groin vaults. Observing the interior filled with plush red velvet, she assumed that the look it was striving for was medieval castle ... a luxurious medieval castle, the kind in which even the dungeons had wall-to-wall carpeting.

  “Gee, think it’s big enough?” Claire commented, looking around the cavernous space.

  “It seems quite ... clean,” Laura added. For a moment she wished she’d brought Evan along. He’d have adored the two knights with swords and battle-axes flanking the door to the men’s room.

  She had to remind herself that the whole point of this weekend was to get away from her familial duties. It was her breakout weekend. Her chance to do something for herself. An opportunity to be on her own, without worrying about peanut-butter sandwiches and clean soccer shirts and separation agreements.

  Kurt, the red-haired, ponytailed tour guide for the group from Bellinski Ski Tours, of which the three of them were officially members, checked them in. Tucking her room key into her pocket, Laura felt a surge of excitement. This really was an adventure, a chance for her to have a good time—without anyone looking over her shoulder. She’d never skied before. She’d never gone away for the weekend with her girlfriends, either, at least not in fifteen years. The trips she’d taken had either been business trips, giving speeches or signing autographs at conventions, or else family jaunts, during which she constantly wondered why she and Roger were spending money to fight in hotels when they could do that perfectly well at home.

  Their room was designed with the same faux-medieval flavor. Stumbling through the door with her suitcases, Laura was overwhelmed by all the massive wood-look furniture that had been stuffed into the compact space, to say nothing of the red shag carpeting, the red drapes, and the red flocked wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis pattern.

  “This looks quite comfortable,” Julie said. She’d opened her suitcase and, with great meticulousness, was putting neatly folded clothes into drawe
rs.

  Claire had embarked on a more thorough tour. “Oh, look!” she called from the bathroom. “Ye Olde Velvet Toilet!”

  “Let me see.” Laura giggled. The toilet itself wasn’t fuzzy and red, but just about everything else in the bathroom was.

  “Gee,” Claire commented, “I don’t know whether to take a shower or behead somebody.”

  “I know what I’m going to do.” Julie, having finished her unpacking, was stripping down. “I’m going to soak in a hot tub for at least an hour, and then snuggle up in bed with a good book. I hope to be asleep by ten.”

  Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t you the party girl.”

  “Skiing is quite demanding,” Julie explained. “I want to make sure I’m relaxed and rested when we get that eight o’clock bus to the slopes tomorrow.”

  “Not me,” Claire insisted. “I came up here to have fun. And you,” she went on, pointing at Laura, “are going to come with me.”

  “Fun?” Laura repeated; Eyeing her warily, she asked, “What exactly do you mean by fun!”

  Claire shook her head slowly. “Ah, Laura. You’ve been married too long.”

  It was only a matter of minutes before Laura learned what that three-letter word translated to, at least in the eyes of a forty-year-old divorced woman imprisoned in a fake castle with hundreds of people in purple and green Gore-Tex.

  “There’s a huge social scene that’s associated with skiing,” Claire explained, leading Laura down the corridor to the hotel’s lobby. “Most of the people here have no intention of skiing. In fact, they’ve never even been on a ski slope.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because they want to meet people who ski. What better place than a ski lodge?”

  “Why would anyone work so hard just to meet someone who skis?”

  “Demographics, my dear. We’re talking upscale, educated, single people. People with money to burn. People with time on their hands. This Robin Hood fantasyland is exactly the kind of place singles flock to.”