by Debra Kent
I don’t know why I even bother to write about this man. I’m not looking to trade one set of husband problems for another; if someone as fabulous as Leslie didn’t want him, why would I? Anyway, it’s too soon to think about dating. This is, after all, a trial separation, and I continue to hold out the hope that somehow Roger and I can piece our relationship back together.
Yesterday I did something I haven’t done since I was in sixth grade: I prayed. I’d given up prayer after my grandfather died. He’d had lung cancer and every night for two months I asked God to make him well. I had an elaborate ritual that required at least fourteen “amens” (I was convinced that if I stopped at unlucky thirteen, the prayer would be null and void). When my grandfather finally died, I decided that God didn’t listen to prayers, at least not mine.
But last week, after I’d visited one of the social workers who had just had a baby, I felt drawn to the hospital’s chapel. It was empty. I sat in the first row and stared at the wall sculpture, an abstract wood-and-brass ordeal designed, I suppose, to represent all faiths. I stared and waited for divine inspiration. When that didn’t arrive, I closed my eyes and simply asked God, “What next?”
I listened to my breath, felt my heart pumping, and waited. Gradually, two words emerged like headlights through fog. Give love. I don’t know whether I just invented the message, the way kids do when they play with Ouija boards, or whether God, in fact, had spoken to me. But those two simple words have been with me every day since then. I don’t quite know what it all means, but I’m willing to find out. And I pray that next year will be better.
Happy New Year.
’Til next time,
January 8
I made the mistake of renting You’ve Got Mail last night. My colleague Dale and his partner Eric suggested it, convinced that a romantic comedy would be an ideal way to begin the new year. Yes, it was charming, adorable, enchanting, two thumbs up and all that. But I’m sick of movies perpetuating the romantic ideal. When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail… it’s all the same. And it’s all bullshit. Fast forward five, ten years. Let’s see how our love-struck couple is doing now, shall we? He’s a workaholic who’s still busting up independent bookstores along the eastern seaboard, she’s drinking a little too much these days and back to cruising the chat rooms. And they fight. Constantly.
I’m awful, I know. But I’m just so damn sick of the whole notion of romantic love. It’s like buying a St. Bernard: As a puppy, it’s absolutely irresistible, but be stupid enough to buy one based on your initial impulse, and in ten months you’ve got a shedding, slobbering monster that eats like an elephant and poops like one too.
Three years ago, when my parents still lived near my sister Teresa in Milwaukee, their surburb was rocked when a dental hygienist marched into an orthodontist’s office and shot him at point-blank range. It didn’t make sense. The meek Miss Linda Sheppard couldn’t hurt anyone, let alone Dr. Mel Neary, Milwaukee’s favorite orthodontist.
It turns out that Sheppard and Neary were involved. They began their relationship at a dental convention, and Sheppard, thirty-seven and hurtling toward spinsterhood, was bewitched by Neary. For five days he wooed her: he recited Shakespeare sonnets, arranged for a single rose on her pillow, rented a rowboat, and sang to her under the thin light of a half-moon. By the last night, Neary had convinced Sheppard to surrender her virginity, assuring her that he loved her with a full and devoted heart.
Six months later, he had lost interest. He stopped calling. He was remote and inaccessible. Sheppard confronted him at the office, but he put her off, day after day. She finally learned that her “intended,” the man who’d won her heart and body, was now seeing the first soprano in his church choir. Sheppard was numb, despondent. She stopped eating, showering, brushing her hair. She continued working but seemed disoriented.
One gorgeous spring morning, the kind of morning that satisfies all the senses and makes you glad to be alive, Miss Sheppard marched into Mr. Neary’s office as he consulted with a new patient, and she blew his face away. Sheppard is in prison, serving a life sentence. I asked my mother, who knows virtually everyone in her town, for her interpretation of the events.
“From what I hear, the orthodontist had never intended to marry the girl,” she explained. “She was just one in a long trail of broken hearts. People say he really did care about her, at first. He really did. I hear he was really good at beginnings. He loved beginnings.”
Every now and then, it resounds in my head: a man who loved beginnings. And I realize with a chill that I, too, am in love with beginnings: new puppies, new gardens, new jobs, new projects … I love those early moments when everything is fresh and full of promise. And, yes, I love the romance of new relationships. I am loath to accept that relationships must lose passion, urgency, and affection.
As for the men in my life:
Roger continues to call and visit almost daily, and I’ve encouraged him to do so—although Petey still doesn’t understand why his daddy has to sleep somewhere else.
Eddie is back together with Patty; I saw them at Taco Bell on Tuesday night, and she is definitely pregnant. I haven’t seen or heard from Eddie since I canceled out on him.
And Ben Murphy is still my unofficial StairMaster partner.
’Til next time,
January 15
I went to get my nails done and brought Pete with me, a move that probably qualifies as child abuse given the toxic stench of the place, but he really wanted to come along. I made him duck outside periodically for fresh-air breaks. I decided to ask him about one of his buddies, a cherub named Aaron, whose parents split up last summer.
Petey was rummaging through a dirty basket of old toys designed to keep kids busy (good idea, bad execution). He finally settled on a worn Fisher-Price farm set, minus the farm animals. He improvised with a Matchbox race car and headless Barbie.
“So … Petey … how’s Aaron doing?” I started. I watched him push the small, metallic blue car into the hayloft and close the shutters as best he could. The hinges were busted, and the doors kept swinging open.
“He’s good.”
“Is he happy?”
“Yeah.” Pete looked up. “Aaron has two rooms now,” he told me, eyes widening. “He gets to see his mom and dad all the time. He likes it.”
I checked my son’s face for traces of apprehension. There were none. I ventured further.
“Does he ever talk about his parents’ divorce?” At that, the young Vietnamese woman doing my nails exclaimed from beneath her pale green paper mask, “Divorce? Divorce no good for kids!” She pulled the mask off her face and filed my nails more ferociously. “A little boy in my son’s Bible school cry all time.” Grind, grind, grind. “Poor boy, he cries ‘cause his mama and papa are getting divorced. He pray every day—every day—for mama and papa to get back again.” Grind, grind, grind. “He’s sick. Don’t get any sleep. Cry all night. Poor boy!” She looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
I had to remind myself that this woman was a manicurist, not a mind reader. “Sure, of course.”
I didn’t want to engage her in a deep philosophical discussion of domestic strife. I glanced at Petey. He was now stuffing headless Barbie into the hayloft. Every hopeful contemplation of divorce—this morning in the shower, for instance, I lathered my hair and thought, I could actually be happy someday—is matched by a sense of apocalyptic foreboding, visions of Petey still wetting his bed at thirteen.
I’ve been thinking about Eddie. It’s a form of self-torture, really, and not only because I’m thinking about a married man who has returned to his pregnant wife, but because I can’t seem to conjure his face. Always, the nose is too long, or flat like a boxer’s, or he’s got a sleazy Don Ameche mustache. It’s a kind of cruel, subconscious sabotage. Already his image is fading from memory, like a deteriorating old newspaper clipping. And even though I’m glad it’s over, I miss those big arms and the warmth of his solid body, the sweet smell o
f his thick, black hair.
One last note:
At the club last night I watched Ben Murphy climb onto a StairMaster and program it expertly. I checked later and saw him switch to an elliptical trainer. Again, he programmed it without hesitation and moved like a pro. Now I know for certain that Ben’s flustered Stair-Master confusion was a con! And it gives me the willies! I feel like I was in one of those scary Valerie Bertinelli made-for-TV movies on Lifetime where she discovers the one chilling clue that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that her mild-mannered husband is really the crazed maniac murderer.
Betsy thinks I’m crazy. “Aw, come on,” she insisted on the phone this morning. “It’s not scary, it’s sweet! Any guy who’s willing to make himself look stupid to win a girl’s attention … I think that’s romantic!” I’m not so sure.
’Til next time,
January 20
I saw an infomercial today for something called Elastalift, a nonsurgical face-lift. The celebrity spokesperson—a soap opera actress, I think—said it changed her life. She said she wasn’t ready to surrender to gravity, but she didn’t want the risk of cosmetic surgery either. I hate the flubber under my chin. The Elastalift is only $19.95 plus six dollars for shipping and handling. It couldn’t hurt to try it, could it?
’Til next time,
January 27
Yay! The Elastalift came today! I can’t wait to try it.
January 28
When I opened the box from the Elasta-lift people, I was surprised to find a dozen black elastic straps (like the kind that come attached to party hats) and twenty-four squares of clear adhesive tape. It also came with an instructional video which explains how to give yourself a nonsurgical face-lift and promises that “it’s as easy as putting on your makeup.” First you attach the tape to each end of the strap. Then you stick one end under your ear, hide it with your hair, snake it around the back of your head, and stick it to the other side of your head. After a few tries, I got it to work. My flubber-neck disappeared. And once I became accustomed to the tugging sensation, it actually looked pretty good. A little cumbersome, perhaps, but what did I expect for $19.95? I’m going to try it next week when I hope to go out with Ben for coffee. I really do want to look my best.
’Til next time,
January 22
My parents are back from three weeks in Cancún (three weeks! I’m so jealous!). On Wednesday, I met them for dinner at Café Rouge and am pleased to report that Dad is making an astounding recovery. After the diagnosis, Mom took a class in macrobiotic cooking, put Dad on a million vitamins and herbs, taught him creative visualization (apparently he imagined that the cancer cells were Chicago Bulls players), and even found a yoga instructor who makes house calls.
The effect of the surgery and Mom’s holistic steamroller is that Dad looks ten years younger and better than ever. He’s lost sixteen pounds and his face is full of color and light, aglow like a Chinese lantern. I know that it’s too early to make firm predictions, but Dad’s oncologist believes he’ll make a full recovery! (Thank you, God.) I watched my parents share a single plate of strawberry sorbet, and my father stroked my mother’s slender back while she traced a finger across his knuckles. I was happy for her—she wouldn’t be alone, not yet. My mother would be rootless without him.
Over espresso, my parents told me that Roger had phoned their house. The first time he called, Mom impulsively slammed down the phone the moment she recognized his voice. Now they check Caller ID first—if it’s him, they let the answering machine pick up. I’m not surprised; it’s almost an ideology for them, always leaving me and my sisters to face our opponents alone, whether it’s a cruel math teacher, nasty playmate, or philandering husband (although I still don’t know if their detachment was a carefully conceived parenting technique or just laziness).
I mustered the courage to ask, “Why didn’t you talk to him, Dad? You might have told him how you really feel, you know.”
“It’s none of our business, dear,” said Dad, firmly but not without compassion. “Besides, if he wants to win you back, he needs to deal directly with you, not your old folks.” (My mother visibly bristled at Dad’s mention of “old.” Vain and beautiful still, she thinks of herself as the woman who defied time.)
Dad is right. Roger is clearly trying to wheedle his way into my heart by playing the good son-in-law, but it’s a role he’s never mastered—or even attempted. He always thought my parents were superficial and often retired to his study when they came to visit.
I asked Roger why he’s been calling my parents, and he said, “Just to stay connected. You know I care about them, especially your dad.” (At this, I had to suppress a snort.) “But they won’t talk to me. Your mother actually hung up on me!” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “How’s your dad doing?”
“Fine. Recovering.” I added, superstitiously, “We’re keeping our fingers crossed.” I didn’t want to sound too cocky, in case the gods were eavesdropping. “Don’t bother calling. They’ve told me they don’t want to talk to you.” (Not quite accurate, but it sounds better than the complicated truth about their anti-interventionist philosophy.) “Besides, can you blame them for hanging up on you?”
I noticed that Roger had also lost a few pounds during our separation. Is he eating enough? Or is he working out more? I couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to ask … didn’t want to appear more nurturing than would be appropriate under the circumstances. Thinking of exercise reminded me of Ben, and a shimmery feeling passed through me. I pictured his strong legs pumping the StairMaster.
“Roger, while we’re separated, have you thought about the ground rules?”
He knew what I was getting at. “In other words, you want to see other men.”
I could have said, “No, I want to know if you’re seeing other women,” but what would be the point of being disingenuous now?
“Yes,” I answered.
“My love,” he said, resting both hands on my shoulders and searching my eyes, “you may see anyone you want, but you need to know that I’m saving myself … for you. I want us to be a family again.”
I disentangled myself from his grip. This is not what I’d wanted to hear, especially since I’d already resolved to invite Ben for coffee. I stepped backward. “I don’t know if we can be a family again,” I finally mumbled. “And to be perfectly frank, Roger, I’m not sure monogamy is in your future. Speaking as a therapist and as a woman, patterns of infidelity aren’t easily altered.”
“You sound like a textbook,” he said, scowling. “Give me a chance.” He smiled suddenly, as if he held a happy secret from me like a gift in his coat pocket, the secret of his miraculous psychological transformation.
I could only think of Ben, the man who liked me so much that he was willing to make an idiot of himself (Betsy’s interpretation) to win my attention. I was warming to the idea of Ben and have decided that he’s not a homicidal maniac after all.
And tomorrow I will ask him out for coffee.
’Til next time,
January 29
This week I pulled all my bills together and tried to figure out if I could survive on my salary alone. The good news is, yes, I can.
The bad news is, I’ll need to work full-time, something I’ve been determined to avoid until Petey started kindergarten in the fall.
With Roger’s monthly check—a sizeable one, at that—I never have to worry about my billing hours. I can be selective about accepting new clients, and I can always shuffle my schedule if Petey gets sick, or whenever his preschool needs a room mother in a pinch. Except for the occasional late night (and the time I’d spent with Eddie, I must add, guiltily), I am one of the few women I know who is routinely done with work by two or three o’clock; while the others labor in offices, I am already home with my son, making play dough or sharing a chocolate peanut butter cone at Sweety Todd’s. It hurts my heart to think about it. Losing the freedom to spend time with Petey is, in itself, a compelling incentive to stay with Roger.
Then I got this letter from him, and all the doubts came flooding back. The letter begins with his whining, again, about the fact that my parents won’t talk to him: “Promise me that the next time you see Weezy and JR, you’ll send them my best. Tell them that this is a separation, not a divorce, and they are still in my heart.”
I was mystified by Roger’s sudden attachment to my parents. (It was never Weezy—a nickname only her closest friends use, short for Louise—or JR, just “your parents.” I was always amazed, in fact, at the syntactical contortions he would undergo just to avoid addressing them by name.) Betsy speculates that he’s careening toward more depression or a real breakdown, since he seems to be yearning for all his old connections, even the most tenuous ones. I read further:
“Even my own parents and siblings have cut me off. My mother says I’m a screwup (can you imagine those words coming out of her mouth?), and my father is diplomatically silent on the matter. You know how much they adore you.”
And I believe they do in their own reserved way. The letter ends with Roger’s version of an apology: “I know I’ve been less than attentive. But please realize that when I was depressed, it felt like you were giving up on me. Not that I blame you. I was a lump, a vegetable. At the same time your career accelerated. But even after my Prozac kicked in, you continued to turn away from me. You took to wearing those hideous sweatpants and my black socks to bed. You’d undress in the bathroom. So I eventually lost interest too. You see, you’re not the only one whose sense of self-worth hinges on another’s desire. I needed to know you were still attracted to me. By the time you started making your moves—and I’ll never know what motivated this resuscitation of desire—there was too much distance between us. Only now, with real geography separating us, do I feel true hope—no, confidence—that we can be together again.”
