“Mr. Hoyt…Roger. May I call you Roger?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Cut to the chase, I decide. Ask him point-blank. I lean forward. “Cindy has said that she feels you don’t love her anymore. That you’re bored with her.” I catch his gaze, hold it. “How do you feel? Are you bored with your wife? Have you fallen out of love with her?”
Roger Hoyt reeks of fear, or it might be his aftershave; I’m not sure. He glances at the woman in question and clears his throat. “I still love my wife. It’s just, well, I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”
Cindy’s lower lip quivers.
I flash back to the moment Bert made the same admission to me, and I sympathize with Cindy Hoyt. “Okay, Roger. When did you realize this?”
He clears his throat again. “I can’t put my finger on an exact moment. It just sort of happened over time. We stopped having fun together, stopped talking about anything except the kids and the bills. That sort of thing.”
“So, you’re saying you’re more like brother and sister now?”
“Yeah, but we still…you know. We’re more than brother and sister, but it’s not enough.” He shifts in the chair. “I want more.”
“You’ve got commitment, the security of family, but no passion?”
He nods.
I turn to Cindy. “What’s it like for you to hear all this?”
“It hurts.” She blinks tear-bright eyes. “But he’s right. We don’t have fun anymore. We don’t really talk. And our sex life has suffered. But I think we can work things out if we try.”
I watch for Roger’s reaction. Interesting. Cindy sees it, too, and looks down at her lap.
“Roger, when Cindy just said that, you cringed. Why?”
“I don’t know. I, um, I guess I’m not sure if I want this anymore. I—”
Cindy sits straighter; her expression hardens. “That’s just what I thought, Roger. Do you think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending at work?” She turns to me. “I think he’s starting something with his secretary.”
“I am not!” Roger’s face flames.
“Not an affair,” Cindy adds quickly, anger replacing the hurt in her voice. “Not yet. But I saw the e-mails, Roger. I saw them. The woman couldn’t be more than twenty-five.” She crosses her arms and leans back.
A switch flips inside me. I stare at Roger and cross my arms, too. “Would you care to tell me about these e-mails between you and…?”
“Bitsy,” Cindy hisses. Our eyes meet then narrow in unison. In unity.
“So, Roger, you and Bootsy have been flirting with infidelity through e-mails, is that—”
“Betsy. Her name is Betsy. I—we’re—” Roger scoots to the edge of the chair. Glares at Cindy. At me. “We’re not…I…” He stands. “Fuck this! Fuck it! I won’t sit here while a complete stranger and my wife gang up me.”
Oh, no! No! Damn it! What’s wrong with me? What am I doing? I reach my hand toward him. “Calm down, Mr. Hoyt. No one’s ganging up on you.”
“Oh, really?” He paces and tugs at his collar, at the tie that isn’t there. “What would you call it then?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I was simply asking a question. Perhaps I should rephrase.”
“Perhaps you should.” He flops down in the chair.
“It seems that the two of you are at a point of decision, would you agree?”
Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs. He and Cindy look at one another. The two of them nod.
I tap my index finger against my thigh and study the immature jerk, trying to see deeper. Will he choose some temporary, ego-boosting fun with little Miss Bootsy who, judging from the looks of Roger, is probably only after his money? Or will he decide to make an effort to revive what he once had with the mother of his children, this intelligent, attractive woman he chose to marry? This woman who has washed his dirty socks and underwear, stuck with him through the early, sparse-money years after he started his business, believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.
Realizing my thoughts pertain to my own marriage, not necessarily the Hoyts’, I take a deep breath. This is about them, not me. “Both of you need to spend some time thinking about what you really want, what’s really important to you.” I zero in on Roger. “Do you want to preserve your commitment or move on to something else? Think hard about that. This affects not only your life, but also Cindy’s. And your children’s lives, too. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”
I turn. “And you, Cindy.” Her efforts to control her emotions trigger my own. My throat knots up; I tell myself to breathe. “If Roger stays, are you willing to work on the marriage? Can you put your suspicions and bitterness away and trust him again? And if he chooses to leave, what will you do? Your life will change dramatically. How will you deal with that? It’s something to ask yourself.”
We end the session. And while Roger doesn’t promise to come back next week, he does say he’ll consider it.
In the meantime, I have a lot to think about, too. It’s clear I still have Bert issues. I thought I’d worked through the worst of them, buried the pain, cynicism and anger in a deep, dark grave. But judging from what just happened, they’re all still alive. And thriving.
The paperback novel lies open in my lap. A Room For Eleanor. The current literary rage. Four hundred pages of angst and introspection.
Perching my funky new reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I glance down at the page. The final chapter, thank God. If I have to spend one more week reading about the depressed and depressing Eleanor, I’ll need a room, too. At the psychiatric pavilion.
I look up for a moment, scan the group of four women, all wearing glasses of some kind or another, and one man whose vision must be better than mine, since he’s lens-free. Ten folding chairs sit empty behind them. We started the club a year ago with fifteen members. Fourteen women and Oliver something-or-other, the sharp-eyed old charmer who sits at the end of the first row beside my mother. The club has dwindled to these five people; I don’t know why.
Lifting the novel, I begin to read aloud from chapter twenty-three.
“Eleanor locked the bathroom door, turned to the mirror then lifted the tweezers to her right eye. ‘No more,’ she whispered, plucking one lash then another and another, numb to the pain. ‘No more…’”
As I read, my mind drifts to my session with the Hoyts this morning. I almost crossed the line, let my personal feelings affect my professional objectivity. I transferred my anger at Bert to Roger Hoyt. That scares me. I have no business counseling couples if I can’t keep my own emotions out of the equation. I should’ve made every effort to connect with the man, prove myself to him, gain his trust, not put him on the defensive.
“She turned on the faucet and water spilled out, over her hand, into the tub, warm, soothing water to wash away the pain. And Eleanor whispered, ‘No more…’”
It’s just that, when I saw the Hoyts sitting across from me, middle-aged, miserable, together yet miles apart, I felt I was looking at a photo of Bert and myself from a year ago. Then Roger Hoyt finally started to talk, and I saw my own feelings reflected in his wife’s eyes. Humiliation. Self-doubt. Fear. For a second…okay, maybe more like five minutes, I envisioned the two of us tackling the balding Don Juan, strapping him to the sofa, face-up, castrating him with a dull pair of fingernail scissors.
Not good. Not good at all.
“The water surrounded Eleanor; her legs, her body, her face, filling her with peace, with truth. All her life, she had tried to avoid what she knew in her heart. ‘No more,’ she thought now. ‘No more.’”
I yawn. Okay, so maybe I do have an idea why the reading group has dwindled.
Halfway through the second scene, a loud snuffle brings my head up.
Mary Fran Hawkins and Frances Green, otherwise known as “The Frans” since they share not only similar names, but also an apartment, snore in rhythm, their chins on their chests. Mary Fran’s book is on the floor. Fr
ances still holds hers open, though it’s migrating toward her knees.
I guessed the first second I met them that The Frans are lesbians, but Mother refuses to discuss it. According to her, it’s an inappropriate assumption on my part and none of our business one way or another. But whether she’ll admit it or not, I’m sure she knows it’s true. Like she’s always telling me, her eyesight’s bad, but she’s not blind.
Between The Frans and my mother, Doris Quinn files her nails and hums quietly to herself. Not a single silver hair on her head is out of place. She’s a tiny, twittery, totally feminine woman. Always upbeat. Always ready to bat an eye at any man who happens to glance at her. Eager to sympathize with their hard luck stories. I can imagine Doris being the “other” woman in her younger days. The equivalent of Roger Hoyt’s Bitsy or one of Bert’s baby-faced…
There I go, doing it again. Transferring my anger at Bert to someone else. Comparing a sweet, romantic woman of eighty who loves people and life to one of Bert’s bimbos.
At the end of the row of book lovers in front of me, jolly Oliver something-or-other, his book face-down in his lap, grins as he whispers something to Mother. She blushes, but pretends to ignore him, her gaze fixed on her copy of A Room For Eleanor, which she holds in both hands upside down.
“Eleanor opened her eyes, gazed up through the rippling water. Life shimmered above her, painful, chaotic, unpredictable life. She—”
“The End,” I say five paragraphs before the final line. I slap the book closed. The noise snaps The Frans to attention.
“So, what did you think?”
Doris stops filing her nails and sighs. “Remarkable. A masterpiece.” She presses a palm to her chest. “The ending…” She sighs. “It makes a person think, doesn’t it? There was so much wisdom in it, so much hope, so much—”
“Bullshit,” Mary Fran mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes and eliciting a snicker from Frances.
Doris flinches. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought it was an interesting selection, Cecilia,” Mother cuts in before Mary Fran can elaborate. “Another fine choice on your part. Very thought-provoking, as Doris said.”
Oliver smirks at her. “Come on now, Belle. It was a real stinker, and you know it.”
Doris points her fingernail file straight up. “Perhaps one person’s odor is another’s perfume.”
The Frans snort.
“Thanks for the show of support, Mother. You, too, Doris. But I have to agree with the others.” I tap a finger against the book’s cover. “I don’t get it. The book’s been at the top of the bestseller lists for over a month.”
Oliver winks at me. “There’s no accountin’ for taste, CiCi.” He scans the room. “No offense, but we’re gonna have to liven things up around here or pretty soon you’ll be reading to a bunch of empty chairs.”
I’m surprised by the look of distress that passes across Mother’s face at his comment. Wondering about it, I reach down for my briefcase then place it in my lap. I pop the latches, open the lid, pull another Oprah-esque book from inside. “I’d planned this for our next selection.” I hold the book up so the group can see the bland cover.
Everyone groans. Even Doris and my mother.
“Okay. I’m open for suggestions.”
As they debate whether the next title should be a mystery, a family saga or an action adventure, I return both books to my briefcase. That’s when Penelope’s Passion catches my eye. The story has become my new addiction; I can’t get enough of it. Or, to be honest, I can’t get enough of the captain. I’ve been trying to squeeze in a paragraph or two between patients whenever possible. I tell myself it’s a healthy diversion from reality. What’s the harm in a little fun?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Yesterday I met with two of my regulars, a sixty-year-old shoe salesman and his wife of thirty-five years. They blame his mother’s penchant for going barefoot and wearing red toe-nail polish when he was a boy for his obsession with women’s footwear and feet. Toes specifically. He’s partial to sucking them and struggles to restrain the urge at work. While they talked, I caught myself thinking about a scene in Penelope’s Passion where the captain and Penelope make love for the first time. In my daydream, though, I was Penelope.
Pathetic, I know. My mind should be on my patient’s abnormal preoccupation with Jimmy Choo shoes, not on being seduced by some make-believe macho man. Still, the toe-sucker left my office happy, so I suppose it didn’t hurt that my mind wandered a bit while he talked.
Studying the wrinkled faces before me, I remember Mother’s bread beater, which I’ve nicknamed “BOB,” as in battery-operated-boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t the only one here, me included, who misses intimacy. These senior citizens would probably appreciate a healthy diversion, too. The next best thing to sex I’ve found. Some relatively harmless fun. I’m betting even The Frans’ relationship could use a shot in the arm.
“Ladies,” I say in a raised voice to be heard over the chatter. I stand, put my open briefcase on the stool and clap my hands. “Ladies! You, too, Oliver.”
The talking stops. They all look up at me.
“What do you think about this?” I pick up Erin’s book, turn it over, read the blurb on back….
“When Lady Penelope Waterford stowed away on
The Voyager
She wanted only to escape an arranged marriage
To be carried away in the arms of a powerful ship
Toward a fresh start in a new, untamed land.
When Captain Damian Stonewall set sail
He wanted only to deliver his cargo on time,
To see his crew safely to the opposite shore
And collect the money owed him.
The captain never suspected he harbored a passenger
Or that one glimpse of her creamy skin, flaming hair
And flashing blue eyes would force him to question
His priorities and tempt him to break his own rules.
The lady never expected she might be forced to marry
The hot-tempered captain who found her hiding, soaked
And exhausted, below deck. Or that his touch would
Make her tremble with lust as well as with anger.
But as land disappears from sight
And the wind rages around them
Penelope and the captain discover their biggest
Surprise of all:
A passion more vast and powerful than the sea….”
I lower the book to my lap and look up.
Doris whispers, “Oh, my.”
The Frans snort, then smile at each other.
Oliver chuckles. “Now you’re talkin’.”
Mother looks from my briefcase, to the book, to me. She lifts an eyebrow.
Shrugging, I smirk at her. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we just found our next selection.” I turn the book around to show the group the sexy cover. “I give you, Penelope’s Passion.”
A hush falls over the room, but is broken seconds later by the sound of an ear-piercing alarm.
I hope it isn’t someone’s pacemaker going off.
CHAPTER 5
My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.
We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad.
I add spices to the Ragu.
“Did you talk to your dad today?” I scrape chicken into the disposal, then hand the plate to Erin.
“Yeah. He called right after school.”
Right after I called and gave him an earful. If that’s what it takes for Erin to receive some attention from her father, so be it. I’ll bug that man from now until he drops dead.
Erin places the plate into the dishwasher. “Did someone straighten up my room?”
I laugh. “If so, they didn’t do a very good job.”
“I’m missing a book.”
“Penelope’s Passion?”
A blush stains Erin’s cheeks as she reaches for another plate. “Yeah.”
“I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. Sorry. When we finish up here I’ll get it for you. I’m planning to read it at Nana’s group so I’ll be buying my own copy and copies for all the members.”
Pausing with the plate in her hand, Erin’s eyes widen. “Mo-ther!”
“What?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. Why?”
“You can’t read that to people their age.”
I wet a dishcloth, turn off the faucet and wipe down the counter. “Why not?”
“There’s stuff in it.”
“You think your generation invented stuff?”
Erin lowers the plate she’s holding. “But, they’re old.”
Mother enters the kitchen, headed for the breakfast nook and the hutch where she keeps her knitting basket. “Listen here, smarty-pants,” she says to Erin in a teasing voice. “We old people could teach you youngsters a thing or two about romance. There’s a lot to be said for wooing.”
“Wooing?” Erin scowls.
“That’s right, wooing.” Mother tucks the basket under her arm and smiles. “Candy and flowers. A walk in the moonlight. Stolen kisses on a front porch swing.”
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