Back In the Game (9 page)

Chapter 19

A
lfonse disappeared from my life bright and early on a Monday morning. He kissed my cheek and with a jaunty wave walked out of the apartment and, no doubt, into the apartment of some other lonely woman nearing forty.

No explanations. He simply didn't call or return my calls. After two days I understood. And in spite of my claim to knowing full well what I was doing by getting involved with Alfonse, my heart hurt. Not a lot, not like it had hurt so often with Simon, but it hurt.

As if sensing my vulnerability, Simon called that afternoon when I got home from work. I saw his number and I picked up anyway.

“You didn't come to my birthday party,” he said. “And I didn't get a card. Gracie, what's wrong?”

“Hello to you, too. Nothing's wrong,” I lied. “I just forgot. I'm very busy. The semester's almost over and there's a lot to wrap up. And I was just hired as the director of a summer program for city kids at—”

“Great,” he said, cutting me off. “Cool. Listen, I need you.”

I didn't want it to happen. But a tingle of excitement, of anticipation, passed through me.

“This amazing thing has happened to me, Gracie, and I need your support, you know. The Auster Gallery gave me a solo show and I'm, like, freaked. I need you to help me out, like you always do, you know, I need you to be there.”

Like I always am.

In truth, the gallery was an important one; a solo show there could really launch Simon's latent career. My helping him prepare for such a show would be a good thing, a generous, productive thing.

All alone in the living room I was overcome with embarrassment at my inability to resist Simon completely.

“I'll think about it,” I said carefully.

“Excellent! I'll call you back with details. My girlfriend just walked in.”

Without a good-bye, Simon ended the call.

Typical.

And then I was furious that Simon had assumed I would say yes to his cry for help. I'd said I'd think about it. I'd made no promises. But Simon had heard only what he wanted to hear.

I took a deep breath. I thought of all I wanted to change about myself. And I realized I'd made very little progress.

And then I felt defeated.

Face it, Grace, I thought. We both know the “I'll think about it” means “yes.”

Like it always does.

Chapter 20

“S
omeone start talking,” I said.

Because, I thought, I don't want to hear only my grim thoughts.

The four of us had met at Café Retro. Dinner with my friends was pretty much my only social life since Alfonse had gone off.

It made me wonder. Had tending Simon all those years eaten up so much time that I'd lost what personal interests I'd once had? When, I thought, was the last time I'd gone to a movie or to the theater? When was the last time I'd gone to hear a concert?

“I'll start,” Laura said, and she told us about the guy who lied about having children. We all agreed that Marcus was the lowest of the low, a bum, a jerk.

“You sure know how to pick them,” Nell said with a phony smile.

“It could have happened to anyone.”

“Not to me. I don't make a habit of going home with a guy I've just met.”

“You don't make a habit of going home with any guy,” Laura snapped. “Maybe if you had been more interested in sex, then Richard—”

“Don't say it.” The look on Nell's face stopped Laura cold.

“So . . . ” Jess said. “Anyone seen any good movies lately?”

I laughed. “Not me.”

“Me, either,” Laura said. “I'm too busy looking for Mr. Right. So anyway, I met another guy, just last night. I went out with a girl from work to Café America, and we talked for a while, and do you know what he told me? He told me his ex-wife and two children live in New York somewhere. And before I could ask how often he got to see his children, he told me that their living in New York was as good as his not having children at all because he didn't have to see them that often.”

“Yikes.”

“Well,” Jess said, “there's a guy with a healthy ego. ‘Hi, I'm a jerk, want to go home with me?'”

“Can you imagine?” Laura went on. “What's wrong with men these days? Either they don't want a family in the first place, like Duncan, or they go ahead and have a family they don't really want!”

I felt sorry for Laura, I did, but my sympathy was tinged with an uncomfortable feeling of annoyance. Hadn't we advised her against leaving Duncan; hadn't we suggested she reconsider such a rash act?

But who was I to judge?

“That's too bad,” I said lamely.

“What kind of woman would be attracted to a man who doesn't want to see his own children?” Laura asked.

Jess shrugged. “A woman who doesn't want to be saddled with another woman's children. A woman who wants to be the center of a man's attention at all times. A woman who doesn't want any children of her own.”

Ah, yes, I thought. There's someone for everyone.

“A man like that is toxic,” Nell said. “He's all about his own gratification. If he can ignore his kids, he can ignore his wife or his girlfriend. If someone's inconvenient, ignore her and move on.”

Laura suddenly looked defeated. “I don't know. I'm not giving up or anything, but sometimes . . .”

“Look,” Nell said, “this is the last time I'm going to suggest this, I promise. Please consider talking to Duncan before the divorce is final. Maybe there's some way for you to work things out.”

Laura stiffened. “You think I'm destroying my life.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But it's what you're thinking,” Laura insisted. “Fine. Think what you want. But I'm not compromising on this issue. I'll find another man, a good one, I'm sure of it, and I'll have my baby.”

There was another awkward silence; our conversations seemed to be full of awkward silences since divorce had come tearing into our lives.

“On another, less volatile topic,” I said, “you might be interested to know that Alfonse is history. At least, I think he's history. I don't really know what he is because I haven't heard from him in almost a week.”

“Have you called him?” Laura asked.

“Yes. No return calls. It's pretty clear to me he's moved on to some other pitiful single woman.”

“Don't say that, Grace.” Jess squeezed my hand. “You're not pitiful.”

Maybe. Maybe I wasn't pitiful regarding Alfonse. But regarding Simon?

I decided to keep Simon's most recent call to myself. I knew what everyone would say. And I wasn't quite in the mood to hear it.

But Grace, you swore things would be different this time.

Where's your self-respect, Grace?

“So, Nell,” I asked, “what's been going on in your life?”

Nell told us about Richard's call and his attempt to fix her up with one of Bob's friends.

“Do ex-husbands ever really go away?” I wondered aloud.

“I think it's kind of sweet of Richard to try to set you up,” Laura said.

“I think it's kind of sick.” Nell shuddered. “Who is he to hand me off to another man? It . . . It feels like prostitution somehow. I know he's no longer my husband. Still . . . I didn't want to be dating in the first place. If Richard hadn't—If I hadn't found that stupid note, everything would be fine—Oh, God, what am I saying?”

“Enough about Richard,” Jess said. “I want to hear about your date, the one your gynecologist set up.”

Nell told us. Jess and I laughed awkwardly. Laura seemed appalled.

“I can't believe Dr. Lakes set you up with a guy almost forty years older and didn't even tell you about it!” she cried. “Why would she think you were interested in diapering and spoonfeeding some old coot?”

“I don't know what she was thinking,” Nell admitted. “The sad thing is that he was really nice. Very smart and fit—at least, he looked fit in his suit, but who can tell what clothes are hiding.”

“Getting old is not for wimps,” Jess said. “The body begins to deteriorate at an alarming rate. Things sprout. Things spread. Things sag. It's horrifying.”

Nell laughed unhappily. “I've said it before and I'll say it again. Once a woman turns forty, she begins to fade to invisibility. It doesn't matter what she's accomplishing in her career or her personal life or how physically beautiful she is, men simply stop seeing her. Unless they're seventy-nine, and then I suppose a forty-two-year-old like me looks perfectly appetizing.”

“What I find more disturbing,” I said, “is how young women, women in their twenties, look at us with, I don't know, with pity, like somehow we've failed by growing older. Like somehow they've won the game. But that doesn't make any sense!”

“Of course it doesn't,” Laura said gloomily. “But young women are arrogant. What young women forget is that someday their breasts will be as saggy as ours.”

“Speak for yourself!” I laughed. “There's some benefit to being small.”

Nell sighed. “I suppose I really don't mind getting older. The alternative isn't too cheery. But I refuse to wear a purple dress with a red hat. If that's the way to get attention, forget it. I'll take invisibility. It's far more sophisticated.”

“Oh, I agree. But I don't want to go gently, anonymously into death, either. I don't want to look at the world someday and feel nothing sexual.” Jess shook her head. “I don't want to be content with only a cup of sugared tea and a plain cracker. I want to drink martinis and eat Mexican food until the day I die. I might get old, but I dread having to feel old.”

“Would you rather die now, before you're even forty?” Laura asked with real concern.

“Well, I would leave a prettier corpse. I don't want old-woman skin. It's horrifying.”

“Jess!”

“Relax, Laura,” Jess said with a laugh. “I'm not planning on departing this world any time soon.”

“What you need,” Laura told her, “is a man. It'll take your mind off gross things like age spots and liver spots, whatever they are. Go ahead, look around. There are lots of men right here in this restaurant. Well, there are some. Maybe you'll see a man you like and he'll like you and then you won't feel like you're getting old.”

Nell shook her head. “Ah, if only life were as simple as Laura seems to think it is.”

“I am getting old whether I feel it or not,” Jess pointed out. “Besides, a restaurant isn't a good place to meet a man. I just want to enjoy my meal, not worry about how wobbly my chin looks when I chew.”

“That's one of the good things about marriage,” I said. “You can stop worrying obsessively over your appearance. Your husband knows you have a double chin, and you know he has a spare tire, so big deal. No more surprises, nasty or pleasant. There's some appeal in the usual.”

Though with Simon, I thought, even the usual, the everyday, was never dull. Exhausting, but never dull.

Nell sighed. “I don't think I have the energy to get married again. I don't know if I have what it takes anymore to get to know a person so thoroughly. It's an awful lot of work and for what?”

For living with the man you adore.

“Wait until you fall in love again,” I said, hating the words as I spoke them. “Love makes everything seem doable. Love gives you energy.”

“Love gets you into trouble,” Nell replied speedily.

Yes, I thought. It most certainly does.

“Don't you mean lust gets you into trouble?” Jess said.

Nell smirked. “Aren't love and lust really the same thing?”

Yes, I thought. In many ways they are.

Chapter 21

I
picked up the phone out of habit. In retrospect it was a stupid thing to do. I've since ordered caller ID. One's home is one's castle, at least it should be, and I'm all for the installation of the modern equivalent of a moat and drawbridge.

It was Matt's older brother, Mike. I'd never liked Mike much. Then again, neither had Matt.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. Of course he had to have called because something was wrong with Matt. Or maybe one of Matt's parents was ill. Or maybe Mike was calling to curse me for having broken his baby brother's heart.

“Yeah, everything's cool, you know.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So, how you been?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Cool. I was, you know, just wondering. You wanna go out sometime?”

This, I thought, has got to be a joke, a cruel joke.

I laughed, nervously. “Okay, Mike, very funny. I've got to go now.”

But Mike was serious. “No, wait, Jess. I mean it. I always liked you; you're kind of hot, you know. So, whaddya think?”

What did I think? Good question.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that going out with you is a very bad idea.”

Mike chortled. “How come? We're both single.”

It seemed I really was going to have to explain to Mike why his suggestion was in seriously poor taste.

I explained and was careful not to make him angry. Mike had a temper and even over a phone line it could be nasty.

“But Matt and I aren't even close or anything,” he replied.

“Still.”

“And you cheated on him. It's not like you're a saint or something.”

Mike's voice was steady, his tone, almost conversational. He wasn't attacking me; he was just pointing out a sorry fact.

“Look,” I said, feeling all buzzy and sick, “I really have to go. Sorry.” And I hung up.

Mike had hurt me but I'd done worse. I'd committed an enormously hurtful act. A good person who'd done a bad thing? Right then I wasn't so sure.

I called Nell. Poor Nell. She had enough to handle without my crying on her shoulder.

Of course, she was furious on my behalf.

“Mike's a jackass, Jess. Didn't he get arrested once for drunk and disorderly conduct?”

“Yes.” I'd forgotten about that. It was just after I'd met Matt; he'd put together the bail and not spoken to his brother for a month afterward.

“Jess,” Nell went on, “I remember that on more than one occasion you told me you felt lonely in your own home. You didn't recklessly destroy something that was perfect to begin with. You dismantled a faulty structure. Maybe that wasn't your conscious intention when you met Seth, but that's what resulted.”

My unconscious, it seemed, had a lot to answer for. “Yes,” I said, “that's what resulted. A marriage in ruins.”

“Anyway,” Nell went on, ignoring my self-pitying comment, “who are these people to think they can just call you up or send you a letter and tell you what they think you're doing wrong with your life! It's incredible, really.”

It was incredible. It was hard to believe. But it was real.

“I don't think Mike meant to insult me,” I said. “He was just stating a fact. I did cheat on his brother.”

“But what gives him the right to bring up the past to you?” Nell argued. “You were never his friend. He was entirely wrong in calling you at all.”

“Yes,” I said. “He was wrong to call, but he was right about my cheating on his brother.”

Nell groaned. “Maybe if his brother had laughed a bit more or hadn't spent endless hours in front of the boob tube, you wouldn't have had the time or the inclination to stray. Stop taking all the blame for what happened.”

Who else was there to blame? Was Matt guilty because he wasn't “there” enough? Was he guilty of what the Catholics call a “sin of omission”?

I don't think so.

“It's very generous of you to help me deal with this,” I said, “particularly given what you went through with Richard.”

“What, because I was the person cheated on? Every relationship is different, Jess. If I equated you with Richard just because you both had an affair, I'd be pretty simpleminded. Besides, Matt and I couldn't be more different. I'm far prettier than he is.”

“And a far better friend,” I said. Tears threatened. I don't like to cry. “Thanks, Nell. I'll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing when I interrupted.”

“Ah, yes, my exciting life. I was ironing if you must know. I love linen, but it's hell to maintain.”

 

Call it what you will: poking the wound, wallowing in self-pity, slogging through shame . . . Later that night I took out a box of photos of Matt and me. For some reason—lack of interest, probably—I'd never gotten around to putting the pictures in albums. In fact, aside from our official wedding album, every photo I had of Matt was in that box. I'd never even framed one for my desk.

Well, if that isn't telling, what is?

The photos were bound to cause pain and discomfort. I dug right in and came up with a few shots taken on our honeymoon.

Getting Matt to agree to Paris as our destination was a real coup. He'd wanted to go to a tropical island and do the whole sweet fuzzy drinks and cabana thing. But I'd made my case for the most romantic city in the world and convinced him.

In one photo Matt stood in front of the Arc de Triumph. He wore a baseball cap backward. I remembered being embarrassed by the hat, but I hadn't asked him to take it off. A good wife, I'd thought, supports her husband in all ways, even his poor sartorial choices.

I looked hard at Matt's boyish face and thought about how I'd dragged him from museum to museum and how he'd followed along gamely, good-naturedly. Maybe he knew the trip was the only one he'd have to make to Paris; probably he was thinking about all the football that awaited him stateside.

I wondered: Had I ever really loved Matt? Maybe I had, in the very beginning. Why, why else would I have married him?

But then something must have gone wrong because if I'd continued to love him, I would never have cheated on him with Seth.

Right?

I grabbed another handful of photos and spread them out like a deck of cards. Matt at a New Year's Eve party given by one of his colleagues. Matt on a ski weekend in Vermont. Matt and his buddies at a football game, the Patriots' symbol painted on their faces.

In all of the photos Matt was smiling.

I gathered the photos and crammed them back into the box. At ten o'clock I went out to Bar Loup. I ordered a martini and then another. I chatted with a guy in a navy blazer and khakis. Chatting led to flirting and another martini.

I took him home. We had sex but I don't remember much of what actually went on. He left me his number, which I immediately tore up.

One more night to regret.