“Everything external affects the marriage unless you go to an island,” he tells me.
Ah ... the man-island again.
“We were married for twenty-two years,” he says. “In the beginning I fancied Cynthia had goals like me, but never really stopped long enough to ask her about them.”
I nurse a nasty sweet ice tea knowing the aftertaste of the saccharine will linger in my mouth long after the drink is gone. Kinda like these interviews.
“Tell me about when you first met Cynthia.”
“I had just started my career with an architectural firm in Columbus. Cynthia was a secretary.”
“How long before you proposed?”
“I proposed after a couple of months. I imagined she would be a wonderful mother and a great life partner. She was so supportive back then.”
“Supportive?”
“Not financially! I mean she supported my career decisions. We moved to Chicago and got into the suburban mindset. Cyn and I hung around with two other couples who were pretty close. We did everything together. It got to be a ‘had-to-do’ rather than a ‘want-to-do.’
He shrugs. “Enough became enough. Couples who desperately need the company of other couples aren’t a couple at all. They’re just a unit looking for other units to lock in with because they’re boring each other. The three wives would go out drinking and talk about each other’s husbands. I felt betrayed.”
Ginger slides open the glass door. “Mind if I join you?” She says as she steps onto her deck.
“Rather you didn’t,” I say. “I get better results one on one. Sorry.”
She avoids eye contact with me. After being the other woman in Rob and Cynthia’s marriage all women will be suspect to her. She’ll never be able to trust him completely.
Rob continues, “I filed for divorce but near the end of our separation, I walked in and she was crying. She said, ‘I don’t want a divorce. I love you.’ The kids were very young at the time. So I moved back in and we gave it a try.”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “That was the last time I heard ‘I love you.’ Seven years later, I finally said, ‘I’m not feeling anything. I don’t want to stay in this relationship.’”
Being a stranger to patience, I ask him, “How does anyone stay in a bad marriage for seven years? What was going on in your head?”
“I took it pretty seriously when I married. If you really love each other you work through your ups and downs. Besides I’d started to see someone and it relieved some of the pressure.”
His eyes dart Ginger-ward again. “I still believed that Cynthia and I were meant to be together. I wanted to try all avenues to keep us together.” He pauses. “Our divorce was final last week.”
I decide to poke at the corpse a little bit. “You sound like you might still love Cynthia.”
His tone is slow and deliberate. “No I don’t love her. I’m just reflecting back to what I felt then. I have no feelings for her now.”
“Anything Cynthia could have done to save your marriage?”
“There are things that I should have done and there are things that she could have done, but neither of us was willing to do them. When I loved her it was miserable. Now I don’t. Our fighting killed any love we might have salvaged.”
I recall what lawyer Chris said, “After people are married for while, they develop new, more intimate ways to fight.”
He continues, “When I would come home, I’d see her car in the driveway, I would say, ‘oh man.’ The heart went out of me. Just listening to her made me physically ill.”
“There’s got to be a reason why you stuck in there.”
“Inertia ... maybe? I don’t know.”
“How are the other two couples doing now?”
He squints at me with his deep set eyes. “None of them got divorced. They’re all unhappy, but they’re still together.”
I crawl into his head and rummage around. “Why do they stay together?”
“They stay married, because divorce is expensive – but they have affairs. I would not do that,” he says, conveniently forgetting about Ginger.
“I was hoping Cynthia would get a life, get an identity. Not just raise the kids.”
“Didn’t you talk about that before you were married?”
“Yeah. She told me she wanted to be a stay-at-home mother. But I didn’t think she really meant it. I’m goal oriented. In her whole life Cynthia never had goals. That was one of my disappointments with her.” He rubs the spot between his eyes.
“My daughters are teenagers and they know what they want to be when they grow up. Here’s Cynthia at forty-two years old and she doesn’t know what she wants to be. She goes to school one night a week. Everybody asks what she does with the rest of her time.
I look out over the tree line and wonder – why all this moral outrage directed at stay-at-home moms? It’s like some sort of contest. Who’s got goals? How much money are they worth?
I bite my tongue and flip the tape.
“Cynthia would tell you I had all the power in our marriage and she’s not entirely wrong with that. For the most part Cynthia had anything she wanted, but I did have her on a budget for food and stuff.”
“So money played a part in the demise of your marriage?”
He nods. “Cynthia told me I destroyed her life. When I asked her to explain, she said, ‘You had all the control.’”
“‘Control over what?’ I asked her. She answered, ‘Money’.”
I set up my special question. Ready, aim, fire. “When you loved Cynthia would you have died for her?”
His eyes narrow. “I told you. She had no goals. No. I would not have died for her.”
Ginger has run out of patience. She steps out onto the deck, just in time to hear me thank Rob for his time.
As I settle behind the wheel of my rental car I dial Sheila. She has a private investigator on call. I get his number.
That night Sam the P.I. notes all my info on Mark. “This shouldn’t take long he reassures me. I’ll find him for you.”
“Just remember if he’s married I don’t want you to make contact with him.” With a silent prayer that Mark is single I click off.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Is she really the right girl or do I make her the right girl?”
~ Todd, 40, single
A pattern forms from the wet clay of the interviews. Man after man talks to me of being disillusioned when the woman of his choice turned out to have no identity, except the one he had given her. Is that part of the problem, I wonder? John, the actor, told me we spend our lives trying to fit people into frames we carry with us. Do we set ourselves up for failure?
Case 500 / Todd
Todd’s Manhattan apartment overlooks Central Park, a small bank of windows allow a view of the blaze of colors that is autumn in the city. His home is immaculate – white on white with touches of red and black. The light oak floors are polished to a high sheen. Nothing is out on the counters or table tops. He appears to lead a very tidy, organized life.
Pretty great looking with thick black hair, violet eyes and gorgeous features, Todd has made a career out of photographing some of the world’s most beautiful people. At forty, he’s never been married and he’s not in any rush to get there.
Today I find him recuperating from a car accident. He warns me that his refusal to take painkillers has made him cranky. I find just the opposite, he is laid-back and mellow. Todd wears a black corduroy shirt opened over a black tee shirt and jeans. He’s tall and slender and sexy as hell.
“Nice boots,” Todd says as I park myself on the sofa across from his seat. He leans back in a red leather lounger on a mirrored base, looking like a character in a scene from a futuristic movie.
He tells me to help myself to drinks in the refrigerator. I don’t for fear of spilling something on his spotless surfaces. We begin to chat. Todd describes his inability to find a woman. I can’t understand how he can be having trouble hooking up. He lives
his life in the middle of a feast and claims to be hungry. Why?
“Up until recently I didn’t realize what I was doing. I would walk into a woman’s life and set up the most flattering scenario. Best lighting, mood and setting trying to bring out her most attractive qualities. I was blocking anything that was ugly, anything that was displeasing and I was bringing in balance. There’s a real control factor involved. Attractive was what I made it to be.”
I catch myself nodding. How many times had I made a prince out of a frog, then fire bombed him when I discovered his warts? Breaking my own rule, I share my experiences with Todd. I tell him I have done the same thing. “I have a mental picture of the ideal man, a playful guy who makes me laugh. I’ve been responsible for some lousy decisions based on setting the picture to what I wanted or needed to see.”
“Human nature,” he says. “We find something we think we want, and we find a way to make it work.”
We sit quietly. The park view has turned golden. I check my watch. It’s time to make my way back to my hotel room and sort facts from emotions. I throw my killer-question out and reel Todd in. “Would you die for the woman you loved?”
“I can’t imagine that happening. But let’s pretend. I’d save her so she could live happily ever after with another guy? I don’t think so.”
As I get up to leave, Todd suddenly remembers a friend. “You might want to talk to Robert, he just got divorced. He’s in town from Minnesota for some kind of convention. You’re a good listener you’d probably be good for him.”
“Thanks for the contact and the interview. I’ll let myself out.”
Todd moans softly. I grab an ice pack for him before I exit. Water drips on his perfect wood floors. I apologize and fumble a clean up using paper towels to restore the waxy glow.
“It’s okay,” he says, but I can tell by the look on his face that it’s not.
Mark used to think my klutziness was cute. Would he still think so?
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Women keep trying to have it both ways.
Come here. No, not you. The other guy.”
~ Robert, 42, divorced
Case 501 / Robert
His hotel room is a cramped Hyatt stop-off with a view to the dingier side of the Manhattan skyline. “I was thinking about this before you got here.” Robert speaks as he offers me a choice of chairs. He wears Dockers, a pinstriped business shirt and bulbous white running shoes. Thick glasses filter his water-blue eyes, his ordinary features are boxed in a salt and pepper beard.
“I don’t think I want to know myself that well. Answering these questions might make me look at myself in a real way.”
I’m surprised at his response. He’s a forty-two year old software executive, who told me over the phone that he enjoys pop psychology.
“I thought I would enjoy getting into my own head, but now I’m afraid.”
I wait, letting Robert resolve his panic attack. I won’t force an interview – that would be mental rape. “Just relax,” I say. “I’ll be gentle.”
He sighs and rubs his neck.
I plop down on a corner of his bed, pull up a pillow, and place my notebook and recorder on the crisp white surface. I offer up my most professional expression. I must be crazy or else I have a death-wish. The thought skips in and out of my mind. Robert could be a serial killer visiting from Minnesota in search of new meat.
He appears uneasy. Does he smell blood or is he afraid of me? He’s invited a strange woman in to his hotel room. I could be a serial killer knocking off nerds.
“You have to understand before we begin,” he mumbles. “I’ve never had a long-term relationship with a woman in my life.” He rethinks his statement. “I mean, not counting my wife and ... marriages aren’t what I meant by relationships.” He babbles.
I smile. “Let’s start slow. Tell me about being attracted to a woman, say you are at a party.”
He likes the question. “That’s easy. If I see her and there’s that special sparkle in her eye, an animation, a sway to her body that indicates an ease of being both physical and spiritual at that same time ... that works for me.”
I give him a congratulatory nod.
Encouraged, he continues. “What attracts me to a woman is the possibility that there will be a connection between us. At times I have wrongly created a connection that did not exist. I led with my imagination and in the end I hurt the object of my fantasies.”
“Tell me,” I urge.
“Well, I met this woman at one of our conventions in Hartford. She was adorable. I wrongly thought she was into me.”
I let the silence sit.
Robert’s tongue frets over his lower lip. He decides to release his story. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”
I love these never-told stories. They’re usually so juicy.
“I sent her some cards ... just a couple. I called a few times. She was always very nice, but distant. I assumed she was shy.”
I nod, while keeping my professional corner-of-the-bed sitting demeanor.
“I would call her a few times a week, just to let her know I was thinking about her. I didn’t know what to do. I want to call her right now and ask if I did anything wrong. Or should I just let it go? I can’t figure out what to do. It’s weird.”
I’m fascinated with his cluelessness. I watch as he struggles, a victim of his own desperation.
“She lives in Hartford,” he tells me. “I found a reason to return there.”
“And?” I begin to recognize the situation for what it was ... stalking.
“Well, I knew where her house was, so I drove by.”
“And ... ?” I’m sitting, perched for the coming action. He lives in Minnesota but finds himself cruising the streets in Connecticut.
“And ... well she got very upset. Somehow I had misread her cues.”
“Restraining order?”
“Yeah. How’d you know that?” He looks amazed.
“Just a lucky guess,” I respond while remembering an over-enthusiastic admirer of my own. Jim the Stalker was an IBM executive who took an unreturned interest in me. That was twenty years ago and I still hesitate when going to my car in parking garages. No matter where I went when I returned to my car it would be festooned with flowers and handwritten love notes. Then Jim would appear out of nowhere and pledge his undying love. He made my skin crawl.
“I don’t think I’ll ever have a long-term relationship with a woman. My job is my passion.” Robert extends his arms to illustrate his love for his work and then brings them in to a self-hug, as he stands in the middle of the dinky little hotel room extolling the joys of his life. “Sometimes when I’m sitting at my house or going down the road in my car I get this feeling. Why am I still going out looking for love? I just turned forty-two. I get turned down every time I ask a woman out. I wonder why?”
Aching to get up and stretch instead I remain on the corner of his bed. I’m looking at vanilla pudding with no vanilla. I can tell him what’s wrong, but that’s not my job. I could stretch but then he would think I was bored. Ever conscious of my obligation to be nice, I sit motionless, my elbows sinking deeper into the pillow. I imagine myself at Smith and Wollensky’s slicing into a sirloin, medium rare. I remember I didn’t have breakfast this morning.
Suddenly Robert seems to realize how much of himself he has exposed to me. He regroups. “I think I’m too positive for women.”
I gag and it makes me cough. He caught me unaware.
“Want some tap water?” He unwraps a sink cup.
“What’s in your mini-bar?”
“They charge for that.”
Yeeks. Geeks.
He goes on, “Sometimes when I meet a girl who’s very attractive, I get tongued-tied and my mouth gets dry.”
I nod in pseudo sympathy.
“With this girl recently, I know I screwed it up. It was a business dinner, but I talked and talked and talked.”
“Why?” I ask as I shake myself awake.
“She was staring at me the whole time.”
“Really?” I speak with an edge of sarcasm. I need some food.
“I called her the next day. I think I called her too much. It’s either that or I talked too much or ...”
It’s hard to keep a cool head when you’re drowning. I feel like I should wade in and help him. But the idea of a medium rare steak and a baked potato with everything on it and maybe a scotch, neat, had taken seed in my brain. I could think of nothing else.
Our time is up. I leave the bed-corner, which Robert eyes in such a peculiar way I’m left with a creepy feeling.
I thank him for his time and wish him well.
Months later, Robert drops me a note to tell me he has remarried. I remain unsure of my own judgment. What did I fail to see in Robert that some other woman found desirable? Or did I see nothing in this man because I had seen so much in other men? Had I become the woman who knew too much?
CHAPTER FIFTY
“The woman I’ve been living with for two years, she thinks we’re involved in a serious relationship. I think we’ve been having convenient, casual sex.”
~ Terry, 49, single
Case 502 / Terry
I taxi over to Tribeca to meet with a producer of children’s television shows. Terry contacted me to schedule an interview after hearing from one of his creative type friends. I remain amazed at how guys are looking me up in order to unload their stories. I’m Lucy Van Pelt from Charlie Brown– the 5¢ psychotherapist in a box.
Terry ‘s operation is located in a small third floor studio with ceiling to floor windows. In an adjacent office two of his assistants slam and bang about like human sliding doors. The noise is distracting.
Tall and thin, Terry’s skin is the color of milk chocolate. His hair is close cropped with one pencil thin braid trailing down his back. At forty-nine, Terry seems at first contact to be what I would call a sensitive male.
The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman Page 14
