Once More with Feeling (9 page)

She scanned the article, curious but maintaining a certain skepticism. The idea of exposing herself in front of a roomful of strangers was nothing short of terrifying. Doing it at the word processor, with an entire jungle full of characters to hide behind, was one thing. Laying bare her soul to a real live audience was another.

Another factor that had kept her from making the initial telephone call earlier, responding to the invitation in the article’s final paragraph to
call Marilyn for further information,
was her concern over the value of sitting around with a group of fellow divorcees and separatees, complaining. What insights could possibly be provided by people who had also tried their hand at marriage ... and failed? The prospect reminded her of chatting with the other cruise ship passengers huddled in the lifeboat about how they all should have been learning to operate a radio instead of spending so much time playing shuffleboard.

In the end, her desperation got the better of her. After spending the day debating whether or not she would actually be able to go through with it, Laura found herself turning in to the parking lot of the Y, butterflies wreaking havoc with the Budget Gourmet entree she’d wolfed down at dinnertime.

Marilyn had explained over the phone that the evening started off with a coffee hour. Laura expected a small gathering, so she was shocked to see how crowded the meeting room actually was.

She stood in the doorway for a few seconds, taking deep, calming breaths as she surveyed the room. Nearly a hundred people had gathered, some of them standing around in small groups, cocktail party style, others sitting at big round tables, as if they were at a bar mitzvah ... or a wedding. Just inside the door, a table held an industrial-sized coffee urn, and a tray of store-brand cookies that she immediately pronounced not worth the calories. A pool table and a couch had been pushed to the back of the room.

Edging her way in, Laura strove to maintain an expression that was friendly yet detached. She helped herself to a cup of coffee she didn’t really want, then sat down at a table in the corner, as far away from the action as she could get without sitting in the hall. She felt like a wallflower. Her worst fantasies were coming true. It appeared that everyone knew each other. Everybody was chattering away happily, chuckling at inside jokes and slapping each other on the back and making brunch dates. As if that weren’t bad enough, from where she sat it appeared that everybody else even had a better eye for jewelry.

Still, she’d come this far. Laura leaned forward, eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. After all, she argued with herself, you might as well get a feel for what this is all about before deciding whether to stick it out or grab your coat and make a run for the door.

She heard a large woman declare in a voice that would have made Ethel Merman sound like an angel, “So I says to him, ‘Ya don’t send your child-support checks, ya don’t see your kids.’ “

Behind her, a tall man in a brown suit with a distinct polyester sheen was confiding in another man, “... Nothing but a hot plate and one of those bar-sized refrigerators. If I ever want to invite a woman over for dinner, I’m going to have to send out for Chinese food.”

A petite woman with flame red hair declared, “I feel so strong. So ... so powerful. I never knew I could feel this way.”

An older man, probably close to seventy, was shaking his head slowly. “It’s hard. It’s just so hard.”

Coat grabbing was becoming a stronger possibility. But Laura was distracted from plotting her escape when she felt someone pull out the chair next to hers. Automatically she jerked her seat away, scooping up her coat. It was the moment of truth. After a second’s indecision, she slung the coat across the back of her chair and, glancing over in the newcomer’s direction, smiled. “Hello.”

The woman beside her sat clutching her pocketbook as tightly as if she were on a bench in a bus station. While she wasn’t particularly attractive, she looked as if she had put a great deal of time into achieving whatever effect it was she was after. Every article of clothing she wore was dark green. Her sweater, her pants, her shoes, the scarf around her neck, the headband around her dark hair ... Unfortunately, none of the greens went with the others. Her makeup was similarly self-conscious. Cheeks slashed with two streaks of pink. Lips colored the same ruby red as Snow White’s. Eyes outlined in black, a dramatic effect apparently inspired by raccoons.

Even more noticeable than her
Night of the Living Dead
look, however, was her nervousness. Her hands moved constantly in a fluttering motion that reminded Laura of a nest of baby birds.

The woman peered at her. “What time do these meetings usually end?”

“Sorry,” Laura replied with a shrug. “This is my first time.”

“Mine, too!” The woman’s glee over having found a kindred spirit faded quickly. “I’m kind of nervous. Are you?”

“A little. I—”

“I’m not good at speaking in front of large groups.”

“I don’t think everyone’s required to speak. I imagine you’re welcome to just listen until you feel comfortable enough to—”

“I just don’t see the point of exposing yourself in front of a bunch of strangers.”

“No one could expect you to say anything too  personal—”

“I hope not.” The woman blinked a few times. “I’m very shy.”

Laura was relieved when someone who was clearly in authority—Marilyn, no doubt—clapped her hands and begged for everyone’s attention. With crisp efficiency she explained that there were three different groupings. Group One, those who were newly separated, met in the room where they were sitting. Group Two, those who’d gotten over their initial trauma and were beginning to get on with their lives, met in the library.

Group Three, those who were already divorced, gathered in the lounge across the hall. That group, from what Laura could see, was the party group. They practically formed a conga line as, laughing and joking and doing an inordinate amount of touching, they moved, en masse, across the hall.

“Hey, Marilyn?” called one of the Group Two-ers, a mustached gentleman in a purple paisley shirt. “What about the group for people who hate their lawyers?”

“That group meets in Madison Square Garden,” Marilyn shot back.

Laura had already decided she belonged in Group One. Longingly she watched the rest of the already-divorced group prance out. After them the separated-and-getting-their-lives-together crowd left, not quite kicking their heels in the air but still pretty chipper.

Those who remained looked as if they were suffering from battle fatigue.

She was having second thoughts as she studied the seasoned members who were forming a circle with their molded plastic chairs, as dutiful as a class of eager-to-please first graders. There were four men and seven women, their ages ranging from late twenties to late sixties. The one thing this motley crew had in common was their downcast expressions. The woman with the raccoon eyes actually turned out to be one of the cheerier people in the room.

Their leader, Laura assumed, was the one with the clipboard. That was the only way to identify her, since her expression was as forlorn as everyone else’s. She had large, soulful brown eyes and dark, unruly hair that was shoved back with a wood-and-leather barrette. Peeking out from underneath the hem of her long batik skirt was a pair of Chinese canvas slippers.

“Welcome,” she said in a wispy voice. “My name is Merry, and this is Group One. First of all, I’d like to tell you all that you deserve a round of applause for coming here tonight. When you’re going through a difficult time, it’s easy to cut yourself off. But each and every one of you has taken a positive step by saving, ‘Hey! I’m going to take care of
me.
I deserve it!’ “

Laura had to resist the urge to curl up at Merry’s batik knee and sob.

“Now, let’s begin by going around the circle and telling everyone our names.”

Once that had been accomplished, Merry rewarded the group by forcing a brave smile. Laura couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw tears in her eyes.

“Who’d like to start tonight?” asked Merry. “Does anyone here have something to share?”

The silence that followed was long and deadly. It reminded Laura of her seventh-grade social studies class, in which her sadistic teacher used a terrorist version of the Socratic method to drill New York State history into twelve-year-olds. Of course, the fear in this room came not from making a mistake about which town was the elevator-manufacturing capital of the world, but of exposing some far more personal inadequacy.

Finally a man raised his hand. He was large, probably six foot four in his stocking feet, and something about him screamed appliance salesman.

“Last Friday night,” he said, his thick accent marking his birthplace as one of New York City’s outer boroughs, “when I went to the place where my wife is livin’ now to pick up my kids, she was all dressed up.” He swallowed hard. “My daughter—she’s fourteen—told me her mom was goin’ out on a date.”

“How did that feel, Arnie?” Merry prompted.

“How d’you think it felt?” another man answered for him. “It felt like shit.”

“Uh-huh.” Merry was nodding encouragingly. “Have you had a similar experience, Tom?”

“Hah!” snorted Tom, folding his arms across his dark blue work shirt with JO-JO’S BMW AND VOLVO REPAIR embroidered over the pocket in gold. “My wife left me for another guy! My best friend, as a matter of fact. Would you believe she left me for a guy that works on
Volkswagens!”

“Now,
that
would make you feel like shit,” Arnie mumbled.

“Okay,” Merry said in her usual near whisper. ‘Tom, Arnie, it sounds as if you’re both feeling a lot of anger. And that’s
okay”
Her eyes traveled around the circle. “It’s
okay
to feel anger, isn’t it?”

Laura, along with all the others, nodded obediently.

“Let’s all tell Arnie and Tom that it’s
okay
to feel anger.”

Automatically Laura mumbled along with the rest of the group. “It’s
okay
to feel anger.”

“Hey, thanks, everybody.” Tears had welled up in Arnie’s eyes.

Tom, not quite as much the sensitive New Age guy, simply pounded his fist into his hand. Laura told herself she was probably imagining the growling sound coming from the back of his throat.

“There.” Merry was beaming triumphantly. “Anyone else? Dawn?”

A plump woman draped in gold jewelry, apparently real, shot her arm up into the air. “I had a bad experience this week, too. I was cleaning out my husband’s things—”

‘To pack them up so he could come by and get them?” Merry asked encouragingly.

‘To throw them out the window the next time we get a really good rainstorm. Anyway, I was going through his papers—sorting them, I mean—and I found a diary he’d been keeping our last year of marriage.”

Laura moved closer.

“I’d been a wreck since Jerry told me he wanted out. But then I started reading about some of the stuff that’d been going on. I had no idea he’d been gambling. For months he’d been hanging out at OTB with those degenerates who look like they live there. Stupid me, I thought he’d been working late at his podiatry practice, and it turns out the only feet he was looking at had horseshoes on them.

“He lost thousands. Tens of thousands, even.” Dawn bit her lip. “And he never told me a thing about it.”

Laura was doing some lip biting of her own.

“You
must have felt some pretty heavy-duty anger,” commented Amie. There was triumph in his tone.

“Actually,” said Dawn, “finding that diary turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I was finally able to face who he was. At last I understood.” She was nodding energetically. “It helped me get past the fantasies about what I’d lost.”

“My ex-husband never lied to me like that.” The tiny woman with the flame red hair spoke up. “Even so, in the end, I was the one who left him.”

Finally, thought Laura, breathing a little more easily.

“And what was it that pushed you over the edge, Carolyn?” Merry asked.

“He was cheap,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Hey,” cried Tom, clearly offended. “What’s wrong with a guy bein’ thrifty?”

Carolyn cast him a cold look. “He used to water down my makeup so it’d last longer. He would soak used stamps that hadn’t gotten canceled off envelopes so he could reuse them. He’d drive around town for half an hour until he found a parking meter that had time left on it.” She took a deep breath. “He used to wash out condoms so we could reuse them.”

“Wait a sec.” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You mean his ... or somebody else’s?”

Merry had grown agitated. “Carolyn is certainly feeling a lot of anger. What else do you think she’s probably feeling right now?”

“Frustration, I guess,” Tom volunteered with a shrug.

“Sadness,” Amie tried.

“Relief,” breathed Dawn.

Laura was surprised when the woman with the Rocky Raccoon look timidly raised her hand.

“Oh, good!” Merry exclaimed. “A new person! Stella, isn’t it?”

“Estelle.”

Merry nodded. “You deserve credit for speaking out. It’s hard, being new. Now, what would you like to share with us tonight?”

“First of all,” Estelle began, clearing her throat, “I’d like to say that I’m not very comfortable speaking in front of a group. I—I’m not even sure this is something I’ll be coming back to. I’m basically very shy—

“You’re doing something good for yourself by coming here tonight,” Merry assured her. “We’re all here for you. We’ve all been where you are.”

Estelle hesitated. Laura found it painful, watching her try to get up the courage to speak. “We’ve all had difficult experiences,” she began slowly. “That’s why we’re here. Separation is one of the most difficult things anyone ever has to go through.”

Merry was nodding. Tom, Laura noticed, had resumed punching his fist against his other hand.

“But I think it’s important for all of us to keep in mind that we
will
get through this, and there
will
be another person in our lives. Someone to care about. Someone to love. Maybe our love for this one particular person who disappointed us is dead, but that doesn’t mean our capacity to love died with it.”