I, the Divine (2 page)

I sat up and he moved closer to me, shoulder to shoulder, extinguished his cigarette saying, “I think smoking is overrated anyway. It tastes like shit.”

“I have to drink something,” I said. “I have to get rid of this taste in my mouth.”

“Let’s get a Seven-Up.” Excited to be doing something helpful. “It’s good for your stomach anyway.” He helped me up, even though I was feeling better.

“I have a better idea,” he said. He zipped his anorak, but did not pull the hood up, running out into the rain. He stood five feet away from me, all smiles, impish as usual, calling me with his hands and eyes. I walked out tentatively. He pulled me close to him and hugged me, still smiling, hair all wet. He tilted his head backward, opening his mouth to the sky. I did the same, rain falling on my face, drinking whatever drops fell in my mouth, quenching an unnamable thirst, laughing. We hugged closer and drank. We were sopping wet. I looked down to see a craned neck, elongated like a swan’s, and my heart fluttered. He looked at me, mouth open, tongue distended to capture more. And then he kissed me. Two thirteen-year-olds who knew nothing about anything, French kissing in the rain. I wanted to swallow his tongue.

I was in New York last week and saw two retrospectives, Pierre Bonnard’s and Rothko’s. Besides noting that Bonnard could not draw if his life depended on it and that Rothko did not even try, I was stunned by a major realization. When it came to a choice between a beautiful color and the correct color, Bonnard always picked the beautiful one, while Rothko, in his great paintings, picked the correct one. I realized when it came to men, I did not pick the beautiful or the correct. I picked the wrong one. I chose David.

I stared out of my window onto the bleak, leafless branches of the tree in front of my Victorian flat. The late afternoon light was fading to violet. Noisy sparrows appeared, a bustle of activity before they retired for the night. January of 1992.

My ex-husband Joe had called and asked if I would be willing to fly and attend a party in his honor. His company had just promoted and relocated him to Dallas. Both he and his wife wanted me to join them in celebration, to see their new house and so forth. Joe was in constant touch with my brother, Ramzi, in whom I confided, so they knew I was feeling blue.

I started to make tea, but decided against it. I took a walk to Duboce Park, a short distance from my flat. Every weekday, beginning at four in the afternoon, the park transformed into canine heaven. Barking, frolicking dogs of every breed, color, and shape raced around the grass. Owners stood in groups chatting while their pets played, sniffed, chased, and did group somersaults. I had been coming to the park every day for the last two weeks. I was dogless, but I came prepared.

The instant Sally, a collie, saw me, she bounded over, jumped with joy as I reached into my coat pocket for her biscuit. I tossed it and she caught it in midair. Mindy, a tan pug, began licking my jeans. In less than a minute, I had ten dogs to play with.

“When are you getting one?” Annette, Sally’s owner, asked me. She towered over me, looking taller from my new position, flat on the ground with dogs all over me. “Get off there. You’ll ruin your coat.”

“It’s cheap,” I joked. The dogs disbursed in different directions, forgetting me as I stood up. Annette was popular with the other dog owners; a couple of women moseyed over. “Besides, you know I can’t get a dog. I can barely take care of myself. I don’t even have a job right now. Anyway, my cats would hate me.”

“A dog does wonders.”

In a couple of minutes, a thin, lanky woman showed up, a sprightly spring in her step. I recognized the leashed dog, but it took me a moment to realize it was Sandra. She released her cocker when she reached us.

“Jesus,” Annette exclaimed. “You’re looking wonderful.”

“I’m dating.” Sandra beamed. She looked as if only her heavy coat kept her grounded.

“That really works,” Annette laughed.

“We just had sex,” Sandra giggled. “I left him sleeping on the bed.” She looked ten years younger than she had the day before. Her appeased lust had softened her face, smoothed her miniscule wrinkles.

After polite time had passed, I excused myself and walked the six blocks back home, alone.

I locked myself in, clicked on the teakettle, and sat on the sofa in the big mess otherwise known as my living room. I picked up the phone and dialed Joe and Charlene.

“I would love to come,” I said. “It’ll be good to see you both.”

“I’m so happy you’re coming,” Charlene cooed. “You might even find Mr. Right. You should think about moving to Dallas. San Francisco is so depressing and morbid.”

I was actually thinking of Joe. I would go to Dallas to show my support and try to give him the approval he always sought from me.

I overbrewed my tea; drank it slightly bitter.

I called my hairdresser and made an appointment to cut and dye my hair.

I arrived in Dallas two days before the party and planned on leaving the day after. I hated the city as much as I thought I would. All anyone could talk about were the Cowboys and their chances in the playoffs. Charlene was happy. Joe was not, or so it seemed to me, in spite of the fact that he had finally gotten exactly what he thought he wanted from a wife: she gave him an adorable boy, she did everything in their home including laundry, and most important, she did not embarrass him.

Whenever I was alone with Joe during the two days I was there, Charlene would send her son into the room with us. The first time I carried him, Charlene made sure to mention how surprised she was that I had motherly instincts. She probably used the pronoun
we
more in one day than I have in my whole life. I did not blame her. Most plain women stake their claims clumsily.

I decided on a short, fitted black Chanel for the reception, scoop neck, a tad risqué, but I figured one can never go wrong with black, and this dress in particular highlighted my best feature, my legs.

“I wish I had the nerve to wear something like that,” Charlene said. She wore a long pink gown with white chenille daisies. She scrunched whatever was left of her eyebrows, lifted her dress, showing a purulent cyst on her upper right thigh. “Look, I can’t wear anything above the knee until this is gone.”

Joe watched the exchange, a puzzled look on his face. I saw him shudder and put his right hand in his pocket. He looked skinnier.

The reception was at a downtown hotel. As usual, the first thing I noticed was how badly most women wore evening dresses. There are a few places on the East Coast, and maybe Los Angeles, where women understand evening gowns. The rest of the country still has far to go. That night most of the women wore expensive prom dresses in all kinds of pastels. The second thing I noticed was that, other than the help, there was not one nonwhite person in the room. These were the company executives and their clients. I began to see why Joe would want me there. I had always been his defense against American gentiles, the country club set.

David stood in the center of the room surrounded by four people, holding their attention. He was unlike any of the men who usually caught my eye. He was a little over six feet, dark blond hair graying at the temples, not in very good shape, big-boned, with a slight belly. He had high cheekbones, cherubic and baby-faced, and the light turned his cheeks a Bonnard pink. He listened intently to one of the men in the group, while the others looked at him, but his full attention was on the speaker. A man who listened was an anomaly in my life.

He glanced up at me and hesitated. At first, I did not make much of it. In that room, I looked different from all the other women. I was also standing next to Joe, the guest of honor. David kept looking back at me, though. At the first break in conversation, he excused himself and walked over to Joe and Charlene. They exchanged pleasantries, and he was introduced to me as David Troubridge, senior vice-president in charge of the Western region. He was formal until he found out I was Joe’s ex.

“It’s wonderful you two are still friends,” he said. “I wish I could say the same about my ex.” That should have been my first warning, but I never listen to warnings, mine or anybody else’s.

“Actually Sarah is close to both her exes,” Joe said. “She’s good that way. No acrimony.”

“You have an accent.” David had his full attention on me. “Are you Israeli?”

Joe chuckled.

“He wishes I were,” I laughed, pointing at Joe. “Nour el-Din is a Lebanese name. I am originally from Lebanon.”

Joe had to chime in. “Technically, the name is Druze, so it could be an Israeli one . . .”

“An Arab woman marrying a Jewish man,” David interrupted, ignoring Joe. “What did your family think?”

“They didn’t approve.”

“I can imagine. Do you work for the company?”

“No,” Joe said, trying to include himself one more time, “but she could. She’s a good engineer.” He stepped closer to me.

“Was,” I said. “Was an engineer, but not a good one.” I took a sip from my drink, but kept my eyes locked on David’s.

“Why did you give it up?”

“I found out I hated it. I would call myself an academic engineer. I was good at solving problems on paper, but hadn’t a clue when it came to the real world. Anyway, I could not function at all in such a structured environment.”

“And what do you do now?”

“Professional divorcée,” I said, thinking it a clever reply. His face registered confusion, followed by disappointment, which he tried quickly to mask. I lost him. He looked at Joe, wished him well in his new job, said his very-nice-to-meet-yous to Charlene and me, and withdrew.