Lying on the Couch (9 page)

Ralph Cooke had given her one good thing—a mnemonic to help identify feelings by starting with the four primary feelings: bad, mad, glad, and sad. It had been helpful more than once.

She propped a pillow behind her and concentrated. "Glad" she could eliminate immediately. It had been a long time since she had known glad. She turned to the other three. "Mad"—that was easy; she knew mad: mad was where she lived. She curled her hands into a fist and clearly and cleanly felt the anger surging though her. Simple. Natural. She reached over, pounded Justin's pillow, and hissed, "Fucker, fucker, fucker! Where in the fuck did you spend the night?"

And Carol knew "sad" too. Not well, not vividly, but as a vague, shadowy companion. Today she realized clearly its former presence by its present absence. For months she had hated the mornings: her waking groan as she thought about the day's schedule, her enervation, her queasy stomach, her stiff joints. If that was "sad," it had vanished today; she felt different this morning—energized, bristling. And mad!

"Bad"? Carol didn't know much about "bad." Justin often spoke of "bad" and pointed to his chest, where he felt the oppressive pressure of guilt and anxiety. But she had little experience with "bad"— and little tolerance for those, like Justin, who whined about it.

The room was still dark. Starting toward the bathroom, Carol stumbled against a soft mound. A flip of the light switch reminded her of last evening's clothing massacre. Slices of Justin's neckties and trouser cylinders were strewn across the bedroom floor. She stuck her toe into a section of sliced trouser and kicked it into the air. It felt right to her. But the ties—stupid to have slashed them. Justin had five treasured ties—his art collection, he called them—hanging separately in a suede zippered case she had once given him for his birthday. He wore a tie from his art collection rarely, only for very special occasions, so they had lasted for years. Two of the ties he had bought even before they married, nine years ago. Last night Carol had destroyed all of his everyday ties and then started on the art collection ties. But after slicing up two of them, she stopped and gazed at Justin's favorite: an exquisite Japanese design arranged around a bold and glorious forest-green layered blossom. This is stupid, she thought. There must be something more hurtful, more potent, that she could do with these ties. She locked it and the two remaining ones on top of the computer in her cedar chest.

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She phoned Norma and Heather and asked them to come over that night for an urgent meeting. Though the three did not regularly socialize—Carol had no intimate friends—they considered themselves a standing war council and often convened in time of great need, generally some crisis of gender discrimination at the law firm of Kaplan, Jarndyce, and Turtle where they had all worked for the past eight years.

Norma and Heather arrived after dinner, and the three women met in the family room with its exposed beams and Neanderthal chairs made from massive slabs of redwood burl and covered with thick animal skins. Carol started a fire of eucalyptus and pine logs and asked Norma and Heather to help themselves to wine or beer in the fridge. Carol was so agitated that she sprayed beer over her sleeve when opening her can. Heather, seven months' pregnant, jumped up, ran into the kitchen, returned with a wet cloth, and wiped Carol's arm. Carol sat next to the fire attempting to dry her sweater and described the details of Justin's exodus.

"Carol, it's a blessing. Think of it as a mitzvah," Norma said, as she poured herself some white wine. Norma was tiny, intense, with black bangs framing a small, perfectly proportioned face. Though her ancestry was straight Irish Catholic—her father had been an Irish cop in South Boston—her ex-husband had taught her Yiddish expressions for every occasion. "He's been a millstone around your neck ever since we've known you."

Heather, a long-faced, enormous-bosomed Swede, who had gained over forty pounds with her pregnancy, agreed: "That's right, Carol. He's gone. You're free. The house is yours. This is no time for despair; this is a time for changing the locks. Mind your sleeve, Carol! I smell singeing."

Carol moved away from the fire and plunked down into one of the fur-covered chairs.

Norma took a deep gulp of wine, "L'chaim, Carol. To liberation. I know you're shook up now, but remember this is what you've wanted. In all the years I've known you, I can't remember a positive word from you—not a single one—about Justin or your marriage."

Silence from Carol, who had taken off her shoes and sat hugging her knees. She was a thin woman with a long graceful neck and

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thick short black curly hair, pronounced jaw- and cheekbones, and eyes that blazed like hot embers. She wore tight black Levis and an oversized cable-stitched sweater with an enormous cowl.

Norma and Heather searched for the right tone. They proceeded haltingly and glanced frequently at each other for guidance.

"Carol," said Norma, leaning over and rubbing Carol's back, "think of it this way: you've been cured of the plague. Hallelujah!"

But Carol shrank from Norma's touch and held her knees more tightly. "Yes, yes. I know this. I know all this. This is not helping. I know what Justin is. I know he wasted nine years of my life. But he's not going to get away with this."

"Get away with what}'' said Heather. "Don't forget, you want him gone. You don't want him back. This is a good thing that's happened to you."

"That's not the point," said Carol.

"You've just burst a boil. You want the pus back? Let it go," said Norma.

"That's not the point, either," said Carol.

"What is the point?" asked Norma.

"Revenge is the point!"

Heather and Norma overspoke each other. "What?! He's not worth the time! He's gone, let him stay gone. Don't let him continue to run your life."

Just then Jimmy, one of Carol's twins, called. She rose to go to him, muttering, "I love my kids, but when I think of being on twenty-four-hour call for the next ten years . . . Christ!"

Norma and Heather felt awkward in Carol's absence. Best, each thought, to avoid conspiratorial chatter. Norma added a small eucalyptus log to the fire and they watched it sizzle until Carol returned. She resumed immediately: "Of course, I'll let him stay gone. You're still missing the point. I'm glad he's gone—I wouldn't take him back. But I want him to pay for leaving me like this."

Heather had known Carol since law school and was accustomed to her antagonistic ways. "Let's try to understand," she said. "I want to get the point. Are you angry that Justin walked out? Or are you just angry at the idea of his walking out?"

Before Carol could respond. Norma added, "More likely, you're angry at yourself for not throwing him out!"

Carol shook her head. "Norma, you know the answer to that. For years he's tried to provoke me into throwing him out because he was

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too weak to leave, too weak to bear the guilt of breaking up the family. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of throwing him out."

"So," Norma asked, "are you saying you stayed in the marriage simply to punish him?"

Carol shook her head irritably. "I swore a long, long time ago that no man would ever walk out on me again. I'll let him know when he can leave. I decide that! Justin didn't walk out—he doesn't have the guts: he was carried out or wheeled out by someone. And I want to find out who she was. A month ago my secretary told me she saw him at the Yank Sing happily eating dim sum with a very young woman, about eighteen. You know what pissed me off most about that? The dim sum! I love dim sum, but not once has he ever taken me out for dim sum. With me, the bastard gets MSG tremors and headaches whenever he sees a map of China."

"Did you ask him about the woman?" asked Heather.

"Of course I asked him! What do you think? I'm going to ignore it? He lied. He claimed it was a client. The next evening I settled the score by picking up some guy at the Sheraton bar. I had forgotten all about the dim sum woman. But I'll find out who she is. I can guess. Probably someone who works for him. Someone poor. Someone stupid or myopic enough to adore that tiny dick of his! He wouldn't have the nerve to approach a real woman. I'll find her."

"You know, Carol," Heather said, "Justin ruined your legal career—how many times have I heard you say that? That his fear of being home alone sabotaged your whole career. Remember the offer from Chipman, Bremer, and Robey you had to turn down?"

"Do I remember? Of course I remember! He did ruin my career! You guys know about the offers I had when I graduated. I could've done anything. That position was a dream offer, but I had to turn it down. Whoever heard of anyone in international law who couldn't travel? I should have hired a fucking babysitter for him. And then the twins came, and they were the nails in the coffin of my career. If I had gone over to C, B, and R ten years ago, I'd be a partner there now. Look at that nerd, Marsha—she did it. You think I couldn't have made partner? Hell, yes, I could've done it by now."

"But," Heather said, "that's my point! His weakness controlled your life. Spend your time and energy on revenge and he'll continue to control you."

"Right," Norma chipped in. "Now you've got a second chance. Just get on with it!"

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"Just get on with it," Carol snapped. "Easy to say. But not so simple to do. He sucked up nine years! I was stupid enough to get sucked in by promises of things to come. When we married, his father was ill and was about to turn over their hardware-store chain to him—worth millions. Here it is nine years later and his goddamn father is healthier than ever! Hasn't even retired. And Justin's still working for peanuts as Daddy's bookkeeper. Guess what I'm going to get now when Daddy croaks? After all these years of waiting? As an ex-daughter-in-law? Nothing! Absolutely nothing.

"'Just get on with it,' you say. You don't 'just get on with it' after blowing off nine years." Carol angrily threw a cushion to the floor and got up and began pacing behind Norma and Heather. "I've given him everything, clothed him—the helpless bastard—he could never buy his underwear alone, or socks! Black socks he wears, and I had to buy them for him because the ones he bought were not soft enough and always slipped down. I've mothered him, wifed him, sacrificed for him. And given up other men for him. It makes me sick when I think of the men I could've had. And now a tug on the leash by some airhead and he just saunters away."

"Do you know that for sure?" asked Heather, turning her chair to face Carol. "I mean the woman. Has he said anything to that effect?"

"I'd bet on it. I know that jerk. Could he possibly have moved out on his own? Bet me: a thousand to five hundred that he's moved in with someone already—last night."

No takers. Carol usually won her bets. And if she lost, it wasn't worth it—she was a nasty loser.

"You know," said Norma, also turning her chair, "when my first husband left me I went into a six-month funk. I'd be there yet if not for therapy. I saw a psychiatrist. Dr. Seth Pande, in San Francisco, an analyst. He was terrific for me, and then I met Shelly. We were great together, especially in bed, but Shelly had a gambling problem and I asked him to work on his habit with Dr. Pande before we married. Pande was marvelous. Changed Shelly around. Used to bet his whole salary on anything that moved: horses, greyhounds, football. Now he's satisfied with a small social poker game. Shelly swears by Pande. Let me give you his number."

"No! Christ, no! A shrink's the last thing I need," Carol said, as she rose and paced behind them. "I know you're trying to help. Norma—both of you—but trust me, this is not help! And therapy is

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not help. And how much did he help you and Shelly, anyway? Get your story straight—how many times have you told us that Shelly's a lead weight around your neck? That he's gambling as much as ever? That you have to keep a separate bank account to stop him from raiding it?" Carol grew impatient any time Norma praised Shelly. She knew a great deal about Shelly's character—and about his sexual prowess: it had been with him that she had settled the dim sum score. But she was good at keeping secrets.

"I admit it was no permanent cure," said Norma, "but Pande helped. Shelly settled down for years. It wasn't till he got laid off from his job that some of the old stuff's come back. Things'll be okay when he gets work. But, Carol, why are you so tough on therapists?"

"Someday, I'll tell you about my shit list of therapists. One thing I learned from my experience with them: don't swallow your anger. Believe me, that is one mistake I won't make again."

Carol sat down and looked at Norma. "When Melvin left, maybe you still loved him—maybe you were confused, or wanted him back, or maybe your self-esteem was shot. Maybe your shrink helped with that. But that's you. And that's not where I am. I'm not confused. Justin stole almost ten years from me, my best decade—my make-or-break professional decade. He deposited the twins in me, let me support him, whined day and night about his two-bit bookkeeping job for his daddy, spent a ton of our money—my money—on his fucking shrink. Can you believe three, sometimes four times a week? And now, when the fancy strikes him, he just walks away. Tell me, do I exaggerate?"

"Well," said Heather, "maybe there's another way to look at—"

"Believe me," Carol interrupted, "I'm not confused. I sure as hell don't love him. And I don't want him back. No, that's not right. I do want him back—so I can throw him the fuck out! I know exactly where I am and what I really want. I want to hurt him—and the airhead, too, when I find her. You want to help me? Tell me how to hurt him. Really hurt him."

Norma picked up an old Raggedy Andy lying next to the wood chest (Alice and Jimmy, Carol's twins, now eight, had outgrown most of their dolls) and set it on the fireplace mantel, saying, "Pins, anyone?"

"Now you're talking," said Carol.

They brainstormed for hours. First it was money—the old-fashioned remedy—make him pay. Put him in debt for the rest of