Waltzing at Midnight (23 page)

Like everything else she had ever said to me, and like every e-mail that passed between us, I reread that message over and over looking for the hidden meaning. There was no “I love you”

lurking there, obviously.

At home, Amy and her friends came and went. Jerry alternated between hurt and angry silence and doting attentiveness.

There was no middle ground, and both of those extremes were intolerable. He had moved into Bradley’s room at my request, so I was sleeping alone for the first time since high school, though I was not sleeping much.

The new semester had begun at the junior college and Amy 16

had a full class load. On Wednesday nights I went to economics class. On a whim, I also signed up for Art History, Rosie’s major, on Thursdays. Amy thought it was cool to be going to the same school as her mother. Between the job and school, I kept busy as my mind swirled around the unresolved situation at home.

I’d been on the job less than two weeks when Faye stopped by to see my new setup and ask me out to lunch. Her agency was only a couple of blocks away. “Nice,“ she said. “Very nice. I don’t know how you pulled this off, Jean, but congratulations. Is it hard, what you’re doing?”

“Well, it’s interesting, that’s for sure. For the most part, I’ve just been writing letters and making phone calls. Relaying information. I’ve been thinking, though, about how to get more involved in the negotiations aspect. The partners want me to. At least Rosie does. She expects me to make things happen.”

“Rosie sure has a lot of confidence in you.” Faye, who was admiring the photo of 1877 Weberstown which now hung on the wall, laughed suddenly, a nervous laugh, and turned to face me.

“You’ll never guess what I heard the other day, Jean. An incredible bit of gossip. It’s just too wild. That you and Rosie have a thing going. Can you believe it? Someone’s probably jealous of what she’s done for you.”

I looked away, alarmed. A rumor was circulating? How could anyone know? People make assumptions. They didn’t actually have to have any real information. For all I knew, it was that horrible Tanya Lockhart who was spreading rumors. Or anyone with a little imagination who had ever seen me looking at Rosie.

I slid into my chair in shock. I opened my mouth and said nothing. Faye was looking at me, waiting for me to laugh, waiting for me to agree with her about how absurd it was.

“Jean,” Faye said, “it’s nothing to get upset about. It’s just a stupid rumor.”

I was sure I looked like a fish out of water, gulping vainly at air. “It is just a stupid rumor, right?” Faye knelt in front of me.

The longer I said nothing, the more alarmed she became. “Oh, 10

God!” she said at last, comprehending.

I choked up and began to cry. Faye put an arm around my shoulder and handed me a Kleenex from the box on the desk.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “And you haven’t said a word? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Would you?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“Uh, no, probably not.” Gradually, the complexity of this scene was dawning on Faye. “What are you going to do?”

“Decide how to live the rest of my life.”

“It’s that serious?”

I nodded. Faye stood gazing at me, her expression a sort of frown. “I can’t believe it,” she said again. She sat with me for an hour as I poured everything out, relieved to finally have someone to tell. She appeared sympathetic, but I hadn’t forgotten what she’d said about Rosie, about feeling uncomfortable around her. In Faye’s mind, as I spoke about love and happiness, she undoubtedly saw images of lesbian sex. I realized that I might well lose Faye’s friendship. This is the kind of thing Rosie had been trying to warn me about. If I left Jerry, I’d lose more than a husband and the shared experiences of twenty-two years. So far I’d only had a glimpse of what I would lose. And what would I gain? How could these things be measured? How could this decision be made?

“I know that if I give up this chance at happiness,” I said, “I’ll always regret it. I’ll wonder what my life could have been if I had had the courage to follow my heart. I don’t want to live my life wondering what could have been.”

“I see what you mean,” Faye said. “But if you leave Jerry, you might regret that too.”

“I know. If it turned out to be the wrong decision. But, you know, Faye, even if it didn’t work out with Rosie, I don’t think I can ever be content living the way I’ve been living. That’s not what I’m meant for.”

“How do you know that? You’re infatuated right now. I mean, Rosie’s a fabulous woman. How do you know it isn’t just her, a one-time thing? How can you know what you’re meant for?”

11

“You just know,” I said. “When you find it, you just know.

What kind of wife can I be to Jerry or any man knowing this about myself?”

Faye shook her head. “It sounds like you’ve already made the decision.”

Yes, I realized, it did sound like that. When Faye left, she was still, I think, in shock. She wished me luck. I would need more than luck, though. I needed courage and the ability to believe in myself in a way I had never done before.

Saturday evening I sat at my kitchen table doing my economics homework. My art history book was nearby, but was less urgent, since we were still covering antiquities in class and I had already read ahead to the Italian Renaissance. I was thoroughly enjoying both classes and was finding the assignments extremely easy. A lot had changed since high school, I realized, when I had spent more time resenting the assignments than doing them. School two nights a week, and the homework associated with it, provided a welcome distraction for me in the evenings. It allowed me to avoid Jerry, for one thing. He spent most evenings in the front room watching television. I worked in the kitchen or at the computer in the den. But I was aware that I was avoiding more than just being in the same room with him, that I was avoiding something much more threatening than that, and that it wouldn’t wait any longer. It had been two days since Faye’s visit to my office. She had sent me a cute electronic greeting card on Friday, trying to cheer me up and, I’m sure, letting me know that we were still friends.

Amy came home about eight thirty and raided the refrigerator, having missed dinner. With a great commotion, she made a cheese sandwich, and then, eating it, stood behind me looking over my shoulder. “Looks boring,” she said.

“I thought so too, at first.” I turned around to face her. “But when you consider that economics is the driving factor on which our society, even our morality, is based, well, then it becomes fascinating to observe how it operates in the real world. I mean, economics are central to pretty much everything we do, now and 12

throughout history. It’s how you can explain public acceptance of a morally reprehensible convention like slavery, for instance.”

“Whatever.” She frowned. “You’re over my head, Mom.”

“You’re not stupid, Amy,” I said. “Why do you pretend to be?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t know how to deal with this.”

I looked at her, concerned. “With what?”

“With you. I mean, did you just hear yourself? It’s weird, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. What’s weird?”

She sighed. “It’s a good weird. I’m glad you’re excited about school and about your job.” There was an implied qualification in her voice. She tore a paper towel off the roll and wiped her mouth.

Maybe you’re too self-absorbed, I thought. Maybe that’s what Amy is having a hard time dealing with.

“How are the play rehearsals going?” I asked.

“Good. I think I’ve got my part down flat. Mr. Meredith loves my gesture of grandeur. Like this.” She demonstrated, her eyes wide, her head tilted back, her arm sweeping dramatically in a wide arc.

“I bet it will look great in costume.”

“We’re having our first dress rehearsal next week.” Amy sat across the table with her sandwich. “Where’s Dad?”

“In the garage changing the oil in his car,” I said. “Don’t you have any homework?”

“Sure. But I’m not in the mood. Just chilaxin’ with my mom.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at me. They were caked with mascara, as usual.

“Well, I appreciate that, honey, but I
am
trying to do my homework.”

Sighing dramatically, Amy took her snack and went into the living room to watch television. Jerry came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He washed them in the kitchen sink.

“Is that grease?” I asked.

13

“Yeah.”

“I’ve asked you a hundred times not to wash off grease in the kitchen. Use the sink outside.”

He picked up the dishtowel, one of my good ones, and wiped his hands on it, wiped greasy soap on my good dishtowel, scowling at me. “It’s freezing cold outside,” he said. “This is my house and I can wash my hands anywhere I want to.”

“Why did you do that?” I asked calmly.

“Why did I do what?”

“Use my good dishtowel to wipe your hands when you’ve got a rag right there.”

He dropped the dishtowel on the counter. “To make you mad.” He left the room.

Amy came back in for a soda. “Are you fighting again?” she asked.

“Again? I don’t think we’ve stopped for weeks.”

“Things are sure fucked up around here,” she muttered.

“Amy!”

“Sorry.” She stuck her glass under the ice maker in the refrigerator door.

“What do you mean?” I asked, overlooking the expletive.

“You and Dad. It’s depressing. And, Mom, you’re so touchy all the time. Like the other day when you yelled at Wendy. She wasn’t doing anything. She’ll probably never come over again. A dude’s gotta walk on tiptoes around here. Dad too. He just sits around looking miserable. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but you have got to deal with it.”

Amy went back to the living room, leaving me incapable of completing my reading assignment. She was right. I had to deal with it. I went over what I would say, tried to imagine how Jerry would react. I had been through this in my mind hundreds of times already. When I went into the living room, I found Amy and Jerry watching television, enjoying themselves and each other’s company. I don’t want to interrupt that, I thought. I can wait until bedtime. Then I almost laughed out loud remembering a scene from Hamlet—yes, I had seen a few plays. Or was it a movie 14

I’d seen? Hamlet approaches his stepfather to murder him, finds him praying, and rationalizes that it isn’t a good time to do it.

“Jerry,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.” They were both looking at me curiously. Jerry must have sensed the urgency in my voice. He got up and followed me to my bedroom. We sat on the edge of the bed, facing each other. “I have something to tell you,” I said fatalistically.

He looked resigned. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“I knew it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I knew you were seeing another man. That was the only explanation.”

“It’s not a man.”

He looked confused, then, gradually, his expression turned to horror. “A woman?” he breathed, his eyes wide. Then, more emphatically, he asked, “A woman?”

I nodded.

“No, no,” he said. “My God!” He stood, strode back and forth for a few moments, then came to the bed, sat and faced me again. He took my chin firmly in his hand and made me look at him. “It’s a fluke,” he said. “You’re not a lesbian. You can’t be.

It’s just one of those things.” Then he put his arms around me, holding me tightly to his chest. “I’ll help you through it, darling.

We’ll get through it together. Some pervert has taken advantage of your affectionate nature, that’s all. Tried to brainwash you. I understand. These things happen. Don’t worry, Jeannie. We’ll make it through.” He released me and started patting my hand hysterically.

“Jerry, try to listen,” I said calmly. “I don’t want to get over it.

This is what will make me happy at this point in my life. I’m in love with a woman. I want to be with her. I want to get groceries with her and take her cats to the vet and feed her chicken soup when she has a cold.”

His face was pale. “You’ve slept with her?” he asked. I saw that he was trembling.

“Yes.”

15

His Adam’s apple jumped up as he swallowed. “How did this happen? I don’t understand.”

“It just happened. I didn’t know myself what was happening until it was out of my control. You remember, Jerry, what you said about me being miserable before I started working on Rosie’s campaign?” He nodded. “You were right. I didn’t realize how miserable I was until I had something to compare it to, until real happiness crept into my life. It wasn’t just the work that made me happy, though. It was Rosie. Working for her, being useful to her, being around her.”

“Rosie,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “It’s Rosie you’re in love with?”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is. Who else? What an ass I’ve been! Why did I let you…?” He grew quiet and inscrutable, and then suddenly jumped up, his face set into a horrible glare. “I’ll kill her for what she’s done to you, that vile, disgusting bitch!” He sputtered and was on his way out the door before I had time to move.

“Jerry,” I called frantically, “don’t you say a word to her.” I ran after him. He was at the front door, pulling on his coat, shoving his wallet into the pocket. He glared at me, nostrils flaring, and said nothing. A gust of cold air raced past me before he left, slamming the door hard on his way out. When I turned around, I saw Amy in the hallway, looking alarmed, holding her empty soda glass in one hand. I attempted a smile, which merely confused her.

She held the glass up to one eye and said, “Watson, something’s afoot. Fetch my bag. We must investigate.”

Well, that was one way to deal with this, I thought, then slumped into a chair in the living room. The TV was still on.

People were laughing.