The Affair (35 page)

I’ve spent my weekend consumed by fear. Thank God for Tylenol PM. Now I sit and wait. Twelve hours until I meet with human
resources. They’re going to fire me, I know it. I called Reverend Lee but he was at some kind of religious retreat in Lake
Geneva, Wisconsin. His wife sounded almost angry.

Here’s how screwed up my marriage is: I haven’t told Roger that I’ve been forced to resign. I guess it’s possible he would
have been supportive and compassionate, but more than likely—given how awful things have been between us—he would have been
incredulous and snide.

With everything that’s going on at work, I forgot to mention that we had our first therapy session last week. The therapist
I chose, Charles Moseman, has a sort of absentminded professor reputation, and when we arrived, he wasn’t even there! When
he finally showed up, exclaiming, “So sorry, so sorry! I’ve been running late all day,” Roger shot me a look that said: “This
guy had better be as good as you say he is because right now I’m completely unimpressed.”

Our first session went too quickly. I wished I’d booked a double appointment. We touched on Roger’s affair but not mine since
Roger doesn’t know all the details, and I wasn’t ready to open that Pandora’s box. I felt like I blathered too much and Roger
didn’t say enough, but Charles scribbled furiously in a battered loose-leaf notebook. He asked only a few questions, but each
one was unexpected, surprising, almost profound. He asked Roger why he was afraid to be nurtured by me. He asked me whether
I felt I could handle being in a relationship with a faithful, loving husband (suggesting that I’ve got exactly the type of
marriage I set out to get). The rest of that session is a blur. I left feeling completely drained and desperate for a nap,
but Pete would have his first Tiger Cub meeting in an hour so I had a large cup of coffee instead. Roger isn’t sure Charles
is any good, but he’s willing to give it a few more sessions.

It’s over. I’m out. Under the pretext of an annual evaluation (which normally doesn’t happen until November), Sharon Harris-Jackson,
director of human resources, has informed me that I had violated item number three in the center’s code of ethics.

She pulled out a document from a manila file—my file—and showed me my signature. “Do you remember reading this when you were
promoted to senior partner in wellness?”

I nodded dully.

Sharon was an inoffensive woman, colorless but benign. She had returned to the workforce at fifty after her husband died.
She’d started as Bert Wiley’s secretary. I knew this wasn’t easy for her.

Sharon cleared her throat and proceeded to read aloud. “‘I understand that as senior partner at the Center for Mental Wellness
I am responsible for conducting myself in a professional manner at all times, and behaving in a way that demonstrates respect
toward supervisors and support for coworkers.’ “

She flipped to the last page. “A violation of any of these terms may lead to suspension or immediate dismissal.” She returned
the document to the folder. “Valerie,” she said, her cheeks flushing, “I think you can understand how calling Cadence Bradley
‘one butt-ugly woman’ qualifies as a violation.”

I guess she was waiting for me to resign, but I wasn’t biting. She waited. I waited. Finally, Sharon cleared her throat and
said, “It’s Bert Wiley’s recommendation that you consider filing your resignation.” She said it was in my best interest to
do so, because my record would remain “unblemished” by termination. What she didn’t mention, however, is that if I resigned
the center wouldn’t have to pay me unemployment benefits.

I told her I had no plans to resign. So she mentioned Alice, the young client who walked in front of a bus the day I canceled
out on her to be with Eddie. She said, “We have reason to believe you were out with a friend that afternoon.” Sharon arched
her eyebrows ever so slightly, a signal that she could go on and provide more details if need be.

I stopped breathing. I wanted to get out of there. “Fine, then. You’ll have my resignation this afternoon.”

“Very good.” She stood up but didn’t extend a hand. “I know how difficult this must be for you,” she said.

“Right.” With stinging eyes and a constricted throat, I staggered out. By the time I got to my office, the files were gone,
as Dale had predicted they would be. The
only thing left was a manila folder of Christmas crafts I had begun collecting last year. I picked up my phone, half expecting
it to be disconnected. I got a dial tone. I watched my fingers punch in numbers, as if they were commanded by an outside force.
For reasons I still can’t explain, I dialed Eddie at work. He picked up on the second ring. I asked him to meet me tomorrow
at noon. He agreed without hesitation. I went home. I still haven’t told Roger. I have no idea what I’m going to do next.

’Til next time,

Tonight I told Roger about Cadence’s obviously vindictive decision to cancel the Open Mind conference. Then I told him I resigned
from the center. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” I said. “I really felt I had no choice but to leave. It became a matter
of pride.”

“What’s that?” Roger retorted. “A matter of pride?” The vein on his forehead was starting to throb. It was going to be a long
night. Roger didn’t just mute
Nash Bridges.
He turned the television off completely. For once, I had his undivided attention. Except now I didn’t want it.

“Is that so weird?” I asked him. “That I’d want a job where I’m actually respected? Where my ideas are valued? Roger, you
have no idea how miserable I was there!”

“Apparently I don’t.” He was frowning; I searched his
face for some signs of empathy but found none. “So, what, she cancels your conference and you just walk out? Just like that?”

Roger couldn’t understand why I’d give up my job just because Cadence canceled Open Mind. And he’d be right—if that was the
real reason I resigned. But I couldn’t tell him that I was forced to resign. I didn’t mention that I’d called Cadence “butt-ugly,”
or that the center had linked Alice’s suicide attempt to my rendezvous with Eddie.

There was a time when I could be completely honest with my husband, a time when I knew he’d offer solace and support and compassion.
All I can expect now is shaming denigration and incredulity, and I wasn’t in the mood.

“So now what?” he asked, his voice brittle with exasperation.

“I don’t know.” And, truth is, I really don’t. I feel so unmoored right now. I’m literally dragging my body through the day.
I can’t even contemplate finding another job.

Every time I think about my upcoming meeting with Eddie, I get nauseated. I should take this as a sign, and yet I feel compelled
to go through with it. He’s a friend.

Eddie called me to say he’d rather meet at his office. When I got there he was talking to one of his employees. He poked his
head out of the door, told me he needed a few more minutes, and winked. He looked tanned and relaxed and a bit older, but
also sexier. His mouth—that overbite!—was just as delicious as I remembered it.

I felt disappointed and a little insulted that he left
me waiting in the reception area, like I was one of his customers. I expected an entirely different reunion. I wondered whether
I should get up and leave.

But something kept me rooted to my seat. I wanted to see him. Eddie’s office was nicer than I’d imagined. Of course the place
was full of robust, glossy plants and trees, including a ficus that looked a lot like the one that first brought us together.
The furniture was surprisingly sleek. There were stark black-and-white photographs on the walls, and a small stone fountain
in the corner.

I decided to use the bathroom to freshen up. I stared at myself in the mirror, angled my face so I couldn’t see the second
chin. I scrutinized my hair: Did long hair make me look sexy or like a hag? Should I keep it loose or put it up in a ponytail?
I had every hair accessory known to womankind stuffed in my bag and I tried them all, frantically. I finally settled on leaving
it loose. Eddie always liked long hair. He had this amusing theory about men who insisted their girlfriends cut their hair
off. “Repressed gays,” he called them, so sure of himself. “Same for guys who like flat-chested girls.” Eddie could be such
a dope, but I laughed anyway. I suspected the same thing, but would never have the guts to say something so un-PC out loud.

By the time I came out of the bathroom, Eddie was waiting for me on the leather couch. “Nice place,” I said, trying to keep
my voice steady. “I’m impressed.”

“Hi,” he said in return. He was staring at me. “You look fantastic.”

“Hi, yourself,” I said, suddenly shy. He stood up and led me to his office. I spotted a pin-up calendar taped to the filing
cabinet. He is such a
guy
. I was dying to kiss him.

I told him everything and when I was through, he had two words: “That bitch.” I suddenly had a flashback to grade school.
Reggie was an enormous, strong, sweet boy who had a crush on me. I didn’t want to date him, but Reggie wasn’t easily deterred;
he asked if he could be my bodyguard. One day I got a death threat from Lydia, a bully who had decided I had to die because
I wouldn’t share my Fritos with her. I told Reggie. The next day Lydia didn’t just leave me alone, she left a bag of potato
chips on my desk in homeroom. The rest of that school year, I was untouchable because Reggie was my bodyguard and everyone
in school knew it. I
loved
it. I realized now that I wanted to see Eddie in the same way. He’d already helped me with Diana. Now I wanted him to help
me with Cadence. But how could he?

There’s lots more to say about Eddie (suffice it to say, my lips are still swollen) but if I don’t leave right now I’m going
to be late picking up Petey.

’Til next time,

Back to Eddie. The abridged version of the story is this: He told me he has thought about me every single day since he moved
back in with his wife, and, yes, even when he’s having sex with her. (He says, “Otherwise it’s just not bearable.”) He said
he’d thought of me while his wife was literally pushing out the new baby. I
found this last comment too gross to be flattering, but didn’t say anything.

He pulled me onto his lap. We made out. His mouth tasted exactly the way I remembered it, like lollipops and beer. He tried
to unhook my bra. I wriggled out of his grip. I couldn’t go on. Roger and I had started with Moseman. I wasn’t about to break
the cardinal rule of marriage counseling: no screwing around.

But I realized I’d gotten what I’d really come for. Proof that I was important to at least one human being in this great big
rotting world. Maybe Roger didn’t want me, and Cadence didn’t want me, but this man with massive arms and a delectable mouth
did. And right at that moment, that’s all I needed to know.

There wasn’t a thing Eddie could do about Cadence, of course. What was I thinking? That this blue-collar tough guy would have
some underworld connections? That he’d offer to whack the Amazon for me? This wasn’t
The Sopranos.
This was my real, relatively boring Midwestern life, and there would be no adventure, no intrigue, no great acts of revenge.

“Look. Cadence is a bitch and you got screwed. That’s life, sweetheart.” He pulled me close and said the five words I expected
and dreaded.

“Can I see you again?”

I shook my head, told him that would be a mistake. We were both stuck in crappy marriages and neither of us had any intention
of bailing. He held me tighter. I felt his little finger slipping beneath the waistband of my panties as he buried his face
in my hair. “Change your mind,” he whispered.

I pulled away. “No.”

When I got back to the house there was a message on my machine from someone I hadn’t seen since high
school: Sunny Rose (her real name, believe it or not). I’d worked for Sunny the summer of my junior year. She’d accused me
of flirting with her husband, Barry. (I knew he was hot for me but he was so old he didn’t even register a little blip on
my radar. He was probably thirty-five.) She fired me during one of her bizarre jealous rages, and I cried all the way home.
I never heard from her again until tonight. She’d gotten my number through my mother. She said she was calling to apologize,
to set things right before Rosh Hashanah. “I’ve felt just awful all these years,” she told me. “Can you ever forgive me?”