Back In the Game (6 page)

“Am I a cliché?” Grace asked worriedly.

“Who cares if you are? I suppose I was a cliché by having an affair with Seth. He's only twenty-five.”

“So,” I said, “you're fully aware this relationship isn't going to last?”

“Of course I'm aware. But I don't get the sense that Alfonse is going anywhere soon. I think he's going to be my summer companion.”

I wondered.

“I hope you have some other activities planned,” I said. “Just in case the young man disappears before Labor Day. Besides, you can't stay in bed all day having sex.”

Or could you? I wouldn't know.

Grace frowned. “Actually, I'm not sure what I'm going to do this summer. Now that I don't have Simon to babysit.”

“Make sure you keep it that way,” Laura admonished. “Don't let him come sneaking back.”

“Simon doesn't sneak. He barges in. He's not subtle.” Grace turned to me. “What about you, Nell? What do you have lined up for the summer?”

Ah, the first step of my new life.

“I'm hereby letting it be known that I am an available single woman. I've already notified my colleagues on the museum and symphony committees and they're on watch for an eligible man.”

“Good for you,” Jess said.

“Why don't you sign up with a dating service?” Laura asked.

How could my sister begin to understand the horror I felt at the prospect of letting strangers arrange my romantic life?

“I am absolutely not putting an ad in a paper or signing up for an online dating service or going through any other channel but my friends,” I said. “I'm willing to be introduced to a man through a friend or colleague. It's the only way I can handle this—this whole new world.”

“Okay,” Jess said. “So, what are your requirements? You know, in case I meet anyone in my vast and exciting travels on the T.”

“Just a few,” I said. “He can't be too old.” I looked pointedly at Grace. “And he can't be too young. Can you imagine what my children would think of me if I went out with a twenty-one-year-old?”

“This is not about your kids,” Jess pointed out. “This is about you.”

I sighed. “There is no real me apart from my kids. Not entirely. But I know what you mean. Anyway, he can have kids of his own, of course. He can be divorced. Who isn't divorced these days? I would be happy to go on a first date, gather some important details, and then decide if I want to see him again.”

“What kind of details?” Laura asked.

“Well,” I said, “for example, does he talk about his job incessantly? Does he consider his children more of a burden than a joy? Is his ex-wife horrid? And if she is, does he take the high road and keep his mouth shut, or does he talk badly about her to anyone who will listen? Things like that, important things. Widowers are fine, too, again, depending on the details.”

“Like an obsession with his dead wife,” Jess suggested.

“Yes, like that.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “Financial solvency. I am absolutely not supporting a man. Good health, within reason. Good grooming habits. I refuse to teach a man how to trim his nose hair. Intelligence is a must. A sophisticated sense of humor is also a must. No little-boy toilet humor for me. Good moral character, of course. Brown eyes would be nice.”

Jess laughed, finally. “Is that all? Piece of cake. I meet a million perfect men every day of the week. You'll be married before the end of the month.”

“Oh, I'm not saying I want to get married. Yet. Maybe ever. I just think I should go on a few dates. I just think I should see what it feels like to have dinner with a man other than Richard.”

Laura beamed. “I think it's a great idea.”

“Are you nervous about being back in the game?” Grace asked.

“Ladies,” I announced, “I'm terrified.”

Chapter 11

I
t was called Women of Divorce. I found it online. The group met on Wednesday mornings at ten o'clock, which was not really convenient for me as I was usually in my office by nine, but I went anyway.

At the foot of the stairs leading from the sidewalk to the church basement there was a door. On it was posted the name of the group and a wiggly WELCOME. One last chance to run. I opened the door and went inside.

A ring of folding chairs had been set in one corner of the large, recreation-type space. Three women were already seated. One rose and waved me over.

“Women of Divorce?” I asked.

“That's us!” The woman handed me a blank name tag and a pink marker. I should have known right then that this group was not for me. Pink has never been my color. But I'd promised my friends to give it a try. And I always try to keep my promises. Except when I don't.

“I'm Patty,” she said, tapping her own name tag. “And this is Marianne and this is Heidi.”

I smiled tentatively at the other two women and took a seat across from them, a wee bit closer to the door.

Over the next few minutes the rest of the group gathered. It was a motley crew: a few women seemed to be in their fifties; one woman looked no more than twenty-five. Everyone was nicely dressed; after all, the meeting was taking place in the Back Bay. No underprivileged here.

I looked down at my five-year-old suit; it had been an expensive purchase for an academic. I wondered what I had in common with these women, other than our sex and being divorced. I thought again of fleeing but before I could take action, Patty introduced me as the newest member of the group. The women nodded or released tight, inquiring smiles.

“Jess,” Patty said, “would you like to tell us about yourself?”

No, I thought. I would not. And then, words, unrehearsed, just came pouring out of my mouth.

“One day,” I said, “I looked in the mirror; I was brushing my teeth, no big deal; and suddenly, I realized I didn't know who I was any longer.”

I looked at Patty. Her smile remained fixed and she gave a slight nod.

“Everyone's heard that cliché,” I went on. “‘I looked in the mirror and I realized I didn't know who I was.' I've seen ads for recovery programs that use that phrase or something like it. Well, that morning I learned the scary truth behind that cliché and I started to think about the strange process of alienation. It's slow and subtle and sneaky and you just aren't aware of it happening, until one day you look for yourself or for the person you're supposed to love and you can't see them without squinting. Instead of right next to you, they're miles away, little dots on the horizon, and receding ever farther. You shout, ‘Hey, come back!' but most times they can't hear you and maybe, used to silence, they aren't even listening.”

I felt a flush coming to my cheeks. I sat a bit straighter in the folding chair. I didn't see the women around me anymore; I saw my face in the bathroom mirror that important morning.

“And then,” I said, “I began to wonder if there was a way to recognize this process of alienation early on. I began to wonder if there was a way to stop it. I began to wonder if we're all doomed to live and die alone, apart even from ourselves.

“Right then, right at that moment, standing at the sink, toothpaste dribbling down my chin, I vowed to start paying attention—to me, to other people, to everything. It might, I realized, be my only hope of—of happiness.”

As abruptly as the words had come, they were gone. I looked around the circle of the Women of Divorce. No one was nodding sympathetically. No one was smiling encouragingly. The woman named Heidi looked angry.

I was puzzled. Weren't we here to talk things through, even if we didn't make complete sense?

Finally, Sally offered a practiced smile. “That's—nice. But let's get down to business.”

“I'm sorry?” I said.

A woman named Ellen spoke. “What Sally means is, what did your nasty ex do to you? Mine left me for my sister. He destroyed my family and tainted my past. Just so you know.”

“Mine developed a cocaine habit.” Diane snorted. “So retro! We lost the house and I barely got out with the few pieces of antique furniture I'd brought to the marriage.”

“You won't believe this,” a woman named Aggie said. Her eyes glittered with anger. “My creep of an ex-husband had a second wife and kids in New Hampshire. Evil bastard.”

Oh. I felt my shoulders slump just a bit. I folded my hands on my lap. What had my nasty ex-husband done to me?

Matt was obsessed with football. He didn't laugh much. He spent too much time at the office. But you couldn't blame the end of a marriage on sports or a poor sense of humor or even workaholism. Could you? I shot a look at Sally, who seemed to be the leader of this gang.

“So?” she urged. “Tell us.”

Here it was. The moment of truth.

“Well,” I began, looking at no one in particular, trying for a casual, yet not a flippant tone, “actually, the long story short is that I . . . I had an affair. When I told Matt, he demanded a divorce. So . . . we got divorced.”

There was dead silence. Really, everything felt dead, heavy. And then the woman named Ellen leaned forward, her neck stretched like that of a starving baby bird, eyes blazing.

“What gave you the right?” she demanded. “Here we are, so many women being betrayed by their husbands and you have a perfectly fine husband and you cheat on him!”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. “Um,” I said finally, “are you saying that because you were unhappy, I didn't have a right to be happy? That's like saying . . . That's like your mother telling you to eat all your vegetables because there are starving kids in Africa.”

“It's about being grateful for what you have,” Aggie snapped. “You should have been grateful to have a husband in the first place. You should have been grateful he wasn't a jerk.”

I felt a surge of anger like a wave of boiling oil in my head. I probably should have left the room right then rather than subject myself to further abuse, but I was far beyond sensible thinking.

“First of all,” I said, voice trembling, “you know nothing about me, not really, so how dare you lecture me on my personal happiness! And how do you know my husband wasn't a jerk? For your information he was a jerk, just like every other man can be a jerk. And, and, I should have been grateful? What is this, the days of Queen Victoria? A woman has a right to be happy, not just grateful.”

Eyes rolled but no one argued my point.

“What did he ever do that was so bad?” the woman named Aggie suddenly challenged.

What, indeed?

“He changed the access code to one of our joint accounts to
CHEATER
,” I said. “That was uncalled-for.”

Sally glared at me. “You
are
a cheater. He was just telling the truth.”

Clearly, she hadn't accepted Jesus as her personal savior. “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

My self-preservation instincts kicked into higher gear.

“You're preaching pick-and-choose morality,” I said, fixing Sally with a glare of my own. “If I had been an abused wife, no one would blame me for cheating. Are you saying it's acceptable to cheat because you have a black eye but not acceptable because your soul is bruised?”

“So,” Sally said, with a wicked gleam in her eye, “now that we know Matt's not a wife beater, can we have his number?”

A few of the women laughed uncomfortably. Sally, I realized, wasn't kidding. I felt stunned.

“I don't have it,” I said. “It's unlisted. We're not in touch.”

Sally turned to her neighbor with a smirk. “Who can blame him?”

 

By the time I got home that night—after a long departmental meeting, after a stalled train—I was wiped out, a dishrag, a wet noodle.

The women's message had been clear. Men who cheat are despicable but normal. Women who cheat are whores. Worse, they are potential threats to all other women, especially those who are married. After all, if you'll cheat on your own husband, what's to stop you from stealing another woman's husband?

I tried to eat something but had little appetite. At eight-thirty I got ready for bed. In the bathroom I saw Matt's shaving equipment on the sink. It wasn't really there but I saw it anyway, like an accusation.

I looked straight in the bathroom mirror and spoke these words aloud: I broke my marriage vow. I did something wrong. But I believe, deep down, that I am a good person, a good person who has done a bad thing. I am not an aberration of nature, no matter what the Women of Divorce think.

I am not an aberration.

Chapter 12

“S
o, little lady, what will it be?”

I smiled tightly. I really wanted to leap from my seat at the white-clothed table and run, but I sat tight and smiled tighter.

“I think,” I said to the red-faced, overfed specimen across from me, “that I'll have the broiled fish.”

I hoped my choice of entrée would put him off. I assumed he'd try to bully me into eating red meat, and that the more I refused the more he'd realize I was not the “little lady” for him.

I was wrong. I'd never been up against this particular breed of man before.

“Now that's what I like to hear!” he boomed. “A lady taking care of her looks, watching her weight so her man can look across the room when she makes an entrance and know that every other man in that room is crazy with jealousy.”

What, I wondered, had Jane Roberts, someone I'd known for years, someone I thought sane, what had Jane been thinking fixing me up with this caricature?

Over the salad—which Mr. Longhorn barely touched—I was informed that a pretty little thing like me shouldn't be all on her own in a big city like this. “I don't know what that ex-husband of yours was thinking when he took off on you,” Mr. Longhorn said, shaking his head sadly. “That homosexuality, it's a disease is what it is, a disease and a crime against God and man. And against all the little ladies like you.”

Have you ever been so shocked, so appalled by the words coming out of someone's mouth you can't even protest? You're frozen, you can't imagine where you would even begin to argue.

“Uuuh,” I said.

Over dessert and coffee—I made sure to order the double portion of cheesecake in a last-ditch effort to repulse him—Mr. Longhorn promised me my very own horse. I protested that I didn't ride. He laughed loudly and assured me that if he had anything to do with it, I'd be sitting tall in the saddle before long.

The check arrived and Mr. Longhorn signed with a flourish. I began to rise but Mr. Longhorn reached for my hand and anchored me to my seat. He leaned in and his expression turned serious.

“Now, what you need,” he said, “is a real man to take proper care of you, a real man to give you all the nice things you deserve like pretty clothes and sparkly jewelry. Little lady, I am that man. Now, I'm also a gentleman; nobody will tell you otherwise. So I'm prepared to offer you my guesthouse, which, by the way, has a Jacuzzi and three bedrooms and a pool and all the other amenities, until you feel ready to move into the big house with me.”

Central casting. I was out with a character from central casting. Where was the director to yell “cut”?

I nodded weakly. “I'll think about it,” I lied.

Mr. Longhorn released my hand and grinned. “Little lady, I'll expect your answer in the morning.”

 

Later that night, safely at home, sitting by a window overlooking beautiful Marlborough Street, I wondered.

Suppose Richard wasn't gay.

Would we have stayed married forever? Or would we have gotten divorced at some point along the way?

There was no way to know.

I suppose it hadn't been realistic to think that Richard and I could, that we would stay together our entire lives, from the age of twenty, and be happy, fulfilled, challenged in our relationship.

I suppose it's never realistic or even reasonable to think that a person can be really happy with one other person forever after.

How many married couples who stay married until one of them dies can honestly say that they weren't terribly bored at times?

How many can honestly say that they never fell in love with someone else along the way, someone they didn't pursue because they'd made a vow to stay with their spouse? How many would say they regretted that choice?

How many people married until the end of a life can honestly say that they were perfectly content?

Well, I thought, whoever is perfectly content? And who ever said anyone had the right to be perfectly content?

Life is hard. Life is lonely.

If I'm honest with myself, and I'm trying to be in this process of emotional recovery, I can admit to times during my marriage to Richard when I felt very lonely. Only now am I realizing—or am I inventing this?—that I would have liked more passion in our relationship. All those nights watching romantic movies on DVD, watching men sweep women into their arms and kiss them hungrily . . .

I had none of that, not since the very beginning with Richard, and even then, though there was intense love, there was never intense passion.

Maybe I was unhappy for a lot of my marriage but didn't even realize it. Why? Because I had so many things, I still have so many things: beautiful furniture, stylish clothes, gorgeous jewelry. Lots of things. And I have a career of sorts, volunteer work but meaningful work. And I have Colin and Clara and a house to run and parties to give and friendships to maintain. She who is busy has no time to realize unhappiness.

Now I have to wonder: why was I so busy in the first place? To fill a void I suspected was there but was afraid to acknowledge? Maybe. I might not ever really figure out the past, my past before Richard and my past with Richard.

And what about the present? It feels tender and raw. The future? It feels dark; it feels frightening, not in the least bit promising. I hope that before too long that changes.

One thing I do know about the future. It is not going to include Mr. Longhorn.