Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

  Tonight, however, instead of being cheered by the plump cardboard cherubs decorating store windows and the bouquets of flowers peddled from pushcarts set up in the center of the mall, she was feeling empty and alone. Even the memory of Richie scrawling his number on a paper napkin didn’t help. The world was filled with lovers—or at least the shopping mall was. Laura had never been so aware of all the hand-holding that went on in public. On the bench in front of Woolworth’s, a couple in their seventies took turns licking a pistachio ice-cream cone. Two teenagers were draped around each other, their bodies so closely intertwined they appeared to be participants in a three-legged race.

  She suspected that even a major purchase, one requiring the use of a credit card, wouldn’t banish the dull ache in her heart. Yet she’d come this far. She was determined to go through with her plan to indulge herself.

  At the store directory, she fought off a sudden wave of dizziness. So many departments were off-limits. Jewelry, for example. The idea of buying herself a piece of jewelry had a pathetic quality to it. The same went for chocolates and perfume.

  Trying to ignore the thought that what she really needed was a new pair of snow boots, she hit upon “Lingerie.”

  Perfect, she muttered, heading toward the up escalator. Something lacy, silky, or of an otherwise sexy texture, was bound to make her feel desirable. Besides, one day in the future—as difficult as it was to imagine—she might actually have a reason to wear whatever bit of froufrou she bought for herself today.

  Visions of low-cut camisoles and high-cut bikini underpants followed Laura up to the second floor. Even if something new couldn’t cure her ills, at least it would anesthetize her for a while. A surge of energy catapulted her toward a rack of shimmering pink camisoles trimmed in cream-colored lace.

  She checked the tag. The price was within the conceivable range. As she fumbled around for size labels the sound of a familiar voice caught her attention.

  “I’m sure she takes a small,” a man was telling the salesclerk, a short, round woman who would have done well to shop in her own department with a more discriminating eye.

  “She has very narrow hips and an exceptionally tiny waist.”

  Laura’s stomach lurched, and she ducked behind a rack of filmy negligees, pulling back the hangers to peer through.

  It was Roger. He was holding up a pair of black bikini panties the size of an elbow patch.

  ‘Those are the silk Countess Ivanna’s, right?” the clerk said matter-of-factly. “Forty-nine ninety-nine? Just a minute, sir. I’ll see if we have any smalls in back.”

  Laura stood frozen to the spot, grasping the chiffon nightgowns with hands that were suddenly damp. She was both fascinated and horrified as she watched her husband, standing less than five feet away, run his fingers along the satiny fabric.

  In a flash, a picture of Roger with another woman passed through Laura’s mind. Naked buttocks, flailing legs and arms, moans and groans and all manner of guttural utterances ... Jealousy stabbed at her for a moment, but the feeling passed quickly.

  Before she had a chance to think about what she was doing, she stepped out from behind the rack. “Roger?”

  He glanced in her direction and his expression of surprise quickly gave way to one of guilt. She’d seen that same face on Evan a million times.

  “Laura?” He swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could easily ask you the same question.” She took a step closer, noting how absurd he looked, standing in the middle of the lingerie department, clumsily fondling a pair of coaster-sized underpants. “Actually,” she went on in a controlled voice, “I was doing a bit of Valentine’s Day shopping. It looks as if you were, too.”

  “We’re in luck!” the saleswoman announced triumphantly, emerging from the back room. With both hands she held up a black silk triangle. “Do these look okay?”

  Roger barely glanced at them. “They look, uh, fine.”

  “Cash or charge?”

  “So you’ve finally found yourself a thin woman.” Laura was trying hard to sound haughty, like Bette Davis in one of her finer moments. Instead, bitterness curdled in her tone.

  She expected a rush of denials, certain that “It’s not what you think” was bound to come pouring from her husband’s lips.

  Instead, Roger said simply, “I guess we’d better talk.”

  Laura hovered next to a Formica display of girdles, feigning interest in the instruments of torture. The irony of the moment—that she was waiting patiently for her husband as he bought sexy underwear for another woman— was not wasted on her. Her initial reaction, incredulity and confusion with a chaser of jealousy, had been replaced by simple curiosity. What, when, where . . . and above all, who?

  Laura followed Roger to a neutral area of the store, the coat department. It took all the self-control she possessed to keep from shrieking, “Who is she?” Instead, standing under a huge FINAL CLEARANCE sign, she remained silent. She’d let him do the talking.

  “I’ve been seeing someone,” he said evenly.

  A little more than seeing, she was tempted to add.

  “It started in November. Right around Thanksgiving.”

  Bingo. Claire had been right. There was a woman behind Roger’s concession that divorce really was the way to go.

  He took a deep breath. “It’s Melanie Plympton.”

  It took Laura a few seconds to process that bit of information. Melanie Plympton was one of the Clover Hollow mothers she knew from all the hours she’d logged in at the school yard, waiting for Evan. She was more memorable than most, mainly because she didn’t dress in the usual jogging suits, sweats, and oversized tees that looked as if they’d been grabbed off the back of teenage boys. Instead, she tended toward suede jackets with fringe. Floppy felt hats. Clogs. She was also Clover Hollow’s resident potter. Melanie taught elementary school children in the PTA’s after-school program the ins and outs of throwing clay onto a wheel and forming it into lopsided terra-cotta wonders.

  “She’s still living with her husband,” Roger went on, “but she’s wanted to get out for a long time.”

  “Excuse me?” Laura sincerely believed she had heard him wrong. “Did you say she’s married?”

  Roger looked annoyed. “Gil Plympton is a madman. He rages around the house like a maniac. You may think you and I had it rough, Laura, but it’s nothing compared to what’s gone on between them.”

  “She’s still married ... and you’re buying her silk underwear?”

  “She wants out.”

  “You’re certainly making it easy for her,” Laura shot back.

  “I don’t know why I expected you to understand,” Roger said, no longer treating her like a coconspirator. Instead, he was huffing and puffing angrily. “Anyway, now you know.”

  “Yes,” she returned dryly. “Now I know,”

  Melanie Plympton, a woman she’d barely given a thought to, had stepped out of the mob of Clover Hollow mothers into the limelight.

  * * * *

  “A potter?” Claire mouthed the word disdainfully. “Who wears clogs?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Laura clasped Claire’s purple throw pillow against her chest.

  “I hate to say I told you so—” said Claire.

  Laura sighed. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  “What a way to find out,” breathed Julie, curled up on the floor in front of Claire’s unlit fireplace, balancing her coffee cup on the Matisse-Goes-Hawaiian ottoman. “Imagine, stumbling upon your husband shopping for sexy underwear for another woman’s Valentine’s Day present.” She hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you jealous?”

  Laura paused for a few seconds, thinking hard before answering. “No, I’m not,” she replied sincerely. “I’ll admit, my first reaction was to be horrified. But to tell you the truth, part of me actually feels sorry for poor old Melanie. I’m tempted to take her aside and warn her about what she’s getting into.”

  “Sisterhood only goes so far,”
Claire observed dryly.

  She paused to take a sip of coffee. “Besides, I doubt she’d believe you.”

  “Oh, my God; you’re right.” Melodramatically Laura clutched her hand to her heart. “After all, I’m an ex-wife!”

  “Technically you’re still a wife,” Julie pointed out.

  “So’s Melanie,” Claire said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Goodness gracious, I feel like I’m living in General Hospital!”

  Laura grimaced. “Pretty sordid, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it could turn out to be exactly what you need,” said Claire. To get you to start giving serious thought to how you’re going to get your revenge, I mean.”

  “Revenge?” Laura repeated. “What good would that do?”

  “Make you feel better, for one thing. Besides, I have the perfect plan.”

  “Claire, I really don’t see any reason to—

  “Find yourself an absolute hunk. Somebody gorgeous, of course, but also rich. And charming. And funny.” Claire frowned. “Where can we find you somebody famous?”

  “You know,” Julie offered, “Claire does have a point.” Ignoring Laura’s protests, she went on, “It probably is time for you to start dating again. Not for revenge, necessarily. For your own personal growth.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Laura held up both hands, as if fending off an attack. “Don’t start on me.”

  “Roger’s ended his period of mourning,” Claire pointed out. “And I’m sure the designers of overpriced lingerie couldn’t be happier. Now it’s your turn to trade in your bedroom slippers for a pair of dancing shoes.”

  Laura looked at Claire, then at Julie. With a shrug she said, “I—I’m not ready.”

  “You can’t sit home forever,” Claire insisted.

  “I haven’t been staying at home.” Laura stuck out her chin defensively. “In fact, I’ve even joined a group for single parents.”

  Julie and Claire exchanged looks of surprise.

  “My, my,” said Claire. “So our little Laura is spreading her wings.”

  “What group did you join?”

  “POTO. Parents on Their Own.”

  “I’ve heard of them!” Julie exclaimed. ‘They’re supposed to be excellent. Have you been going to their meetings?”

  “One. A welcome party.”

  “Meet anyone interesting?” asked Claire.

  “As a matter of fact,” Laura said with a casual toss of her head, “somebody asked me out.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Julie squealed, clapping her hands together with the enthusiasm of a pom-pom girl.

  “Who is he?” Claire asked eagerly. “When are you going out with him?”

  “Well ... I’m not. I told him I wasn’t really interested in dating yet.”

  Both Julie and Claire groaned.

  “I wish someone would just invent video dating,” Laura said.

  ‘There are plenty of video-dating services,” said Julie. “But why would you want to go out with a man you’ve only seen on a television screen?”

  “From the waist up, no less,” Claire interjected.

  Laura waved her hand in the air impatiently. “No, no. I’m talking about an actual date. I’ve got it all planned in my mind. The way it works is that you’d get all dressed up—or not, depending on how much energy you felt like exerting. When you were ready, you’d run the video. It would start with a door opening. On the other side, there’d be a gorgeous guy—one you’d preselected, based on the pictures on the boxes at the video store—holding out a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Julie cried. “The video would show the male half of the date.’’

  “It would be interactive.” Claire leaned forward, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. “The guy would say, ‘Where shall we go for dinner? A fancy restaurant—

  “Or a picnic?” Julie supplied. “And you’d push a button to choose. Meanwhile you’d have gotten the food that goes with the type of restaurant you picked.”

  “Lean Cuisine,” Claire suggested. “They have Italian, French, Mexican—”

  “The best part,” Laura went on, “would be the dinner conversation. The dream date would say things like, ‘So tell me about your work’ or Td love to hear about your childhood.’ Then he’d sit back and give you a chance to talk.”

  “He’d appear to be genuinely interested,” said Julie, nodding. “He’d say, ‘Uh-huh’ a lot, as if he were really listening.”

  “He’d look you in the eye,” Claire added, “instead of in the chest.”

  “It sounds perfectly wonderful,” Julie breathed. “Romance on tap.”

  “Better than pornography.” Claire snapped her fingers. “Hey, what about that? Sex, I mean?”

  “At the end,” said Laura, “the dream date could be shown naked, lying in bed, whispering sweet nothings. Things like, ‘You were wonderful. What a great body you have!’ “

  “How about ‘I really get turned on by cellulite?’ “ Julie suggested. “Or ‘I admire a woman with stretch marks. They tell me I’m with a woman who’s experienced life to its fullest.’ “

  “Only one problem,” said Claire. “You’ve just left out the best part.”

  “Remember Estelle, the woman in my support group?” Laura reminded her. ‘The viewer would simply have to follow her advice.”

  Claire smirked. ‘Take matters into her own hands, so to speak.”

  “Oh, you two!” Julie’s cheeks had turned pink.

  “Us?” Claire shot back. “You’re the wild one, the one who’s ‘torn between two lovers,’ as the old song goes.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Julie’s expression clouded. “I feel so bad about what I’m doing to George. Not that George knows what I’m doing to him. Not that him not knowing makes it any easier—”

  “Julie,” Laura interrupted, “what, exactly, is going on between you and Bobby?”

  Julie bit her lip nervously. “I’ve seen him a few more times. We had lunch a few times, and then dinner again—”

  *’At least he’s keeping you well fed,” Claire observed. “Soon you’ll be able to write a restaurant guide to Long Island.”

  Hesitating, Julie confessed, “We’ve been eating at his apartment.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Claire. “You’ve been treating yourselves to dessert in the bedroom.”

  “Of course not!”

  “You mean ‘Not yet’.” Claire smiled wickedly.

  Julie sighed, the long, deep sigh of the ambivalent. “I’m developing strong feelings for him. I can’t help myself. He’s so ... so alive. His eyes light up when he speaks. He’s so animated, so enthusiastic—”

  “Sounds like the man’s on uppers,” Claire muttered.

  Julie ignored her. “We have so much to say to each other. And when I talk, he really listens. It’s just like Laura’s video date. He understands me, too. We’re so much in sync it’s unbelievable.”

  Claire was nodding. “Unbelievable sounds like the right word.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate to burst your little bubble of denial,” Claire explained, “but somebody has to ask the inevitable question. If this Mr. Right of yours is so perfect, why did his ex-wife dump him?”

  “He doesn’t talk about his first marriage. The few times I brought it up, he simply said that that’s the past, and right now he’s concentrating on the present ... and the future.”

  Laura exchanged a skeptical glance with Claire.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” said Laura, “it’s that for every eligible divorced man out there, there’s a woman who’d be only too happy to give you her side of the story.”

  “Well, whatever happened, I’m sure it was mostly her fault,” Julie insisted. She paused, then added, “You know, it’s kind of a funny coincidence, but Bobby’s ex-wife’s name was Claire, too.”

  “Oh, no!” Claire groaned. “Another Robert-and-Claire combination. Maybe it’s simply inevitable that people with th
ose two names get along together as well as a pack of matches and a stick of dynamite.”

  “Julie,” Laura said gently, “I know you’re head over heels in love with this guy, but it might be helpful if you could find out a little more about what went on in his marriage.”

  Claire nodded. “Have you tried going through Bobby’s desk while he’s in the bathroom?”

  “Claire!” Julie was shocked. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  With a shrug Claire said, “You’d be surprised what you can learn about a man by pawing through his paper-clip drawer.”

  “He was married so long ago, I’m sure he doesn’t have anything around from those days. There is one thing, though....”

  “Don’t tell me. A woman’s head in his freezer, sealed up nice and tight in a Ziploc bag.”

  Julie gave her a dirty look. “There’s a little box he keeps on the coffee table. It’s hand carved out of a light-colored wood. On the lid there are two birds. Doves, I think. When I asked him about it, he mentioned that his ex-wife had given it to him. It was a birthday present. Or maybe anniversary.”

  “Sounds to me like there’s a sentimental side to this man,” Laura observed. “Don’t you think so, Claire? Claire?”

  Claire didn’t respond. She was staring at Julie, a look of horror on her face. “Wait a minute. What did you say this guy’s name was?”

  “His name is Bobby—uh, Robert Weiss.”

  Claire dropped her coffee cup into its saucer with a loud crash. ‘This sweetie pie of yours is my ex-husband!”

  “But ... but ... that’s impossible!” Julie sputtered. “Your last name is Nielsen.”

  “Of course it is! I took my own name back when I left that bastard!”

  “Wait a minute,” Laura interrupted. “We’re still not sure we’re talking about the same guy.”

  “Oh, it’s him, all right. And let me tell you something about that darling little keepsake from his marriage that he still displays on his coffee table. That was never his. It was a wedding present from one of my friends. I fought him tooth and nail for it. It became the most symbolic issue in our divorce settlement. Finally he stole it. He stole it!”

  Julie was so flabbergasted she was having trouble forming words. “I can’t believe ... It’s just not ... But he’s so . . .”