The Affair (20 page)

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,

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 of 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,

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,

Yay! The Elastalift came today! I can’t wait to try it.

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,

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.