The Breakup (9 page)

Then I realized it was a picture of me and Eddie in bed at the Econolodge. I read the caption again and again, unable to make
sense of it, unwilling to believe it.

It said, simply, “You lose.”

I felt a boiling wave roll up my body, an enveloping sense of disorientation. This couldn’t be happening. My husband grinned
like a hyena. I stared at the picture until my eyes burned from the fumes of the ink on the page. Only one person could have
snapped that picture, and I vowed that if I ever got my hands on her, I’d rip her lungs out.

“What, exactly, were you expecting, my precious?” Roger squinted at me. “Let’s see. . . . Could it have been . . . divorce
papers, perhaps?” He snapped his head back and roared with laughter. “Oh! I wish you could see the look on your face. Priceless!”
He wiped tears from his eyes and pointed at me. “Priceless!”

I grabbed the phone and punched in Libby’s number. Roger sneered, “Let me guess. You’re calling your private investigator,
right?” How could he have known that? I slammed down the phone and raced out to the Jeep, locked all the doors, and picked
up my cell phone. I could see Roger watching me from the doorway, laughing harder than ever.

After a few shrill rings, I got that same recording again. I tried Omar next, but the secretary wouldn’t put me through. When
I gave her my name and insisted on speaking to him immediately, she said he wasn’t taking on any more new clients. I frantically
explained that I wasn’t new, that I’d already retained him. She insisted that she didn’t have my name in the files! “That’s
impossible,” I cried, the knot in my
stomach now wedged in my throat. “Look under Ryan. R-Y-A-N. Or maybe Tisdale, my husband’s name. T-I-S-D-A-L-E.”

The secretary sighed. “Okay. I’ll check again.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks and waited. Dear God, please. Please.

“Sharon Ryan?”

“No, no, that’s not me.” I was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Oh! Wait! Mr. Sweet just walked in. Let me see if he’ll take the call.” She put me on hold and I thought,
Of course he’ll take the call, you idiot!
But it was her voice, not his, that came on the line. She sighed again. “I’m sorry. I was correct the first time. Mr. Sweet
isn’t taking any new clients at this time. Would you like to speak with one of the associates?”

“I told you before! I am not a new client!”
My voice ricocheted inside the Jeep. My ears throbbed. “Please,” I whimpered. “You’ve got to believe me. He’s my lawyer,
for God’s sake. Okay?”

For a moment I thought I heard my answer back, thought I heard her say “Okay.” Then I realized that it was the echo of my
own voice, feedback from my stupid cell phone. The secretary had hung up. I had been talking to myself.

I sat in the car and fought back an overpowering fatigue, an almost primitive urge to go to sleep, to shut down, shut everything
out. Roger was no longer
at the doorway. I pulled out of the driveway and just started driving. I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had
to keep moving.

My cell phone rang. It was Roger. “I know you’re in no mood to talk with me but I just wanted to remind you that I’ve got
a rehearsal at two. You’ll have to pick up Petey today. Okay?”

“Okay!” I snapped the phone shut.

I thought about Mary. That poor girl. What had Roger done to her? I had to contact that guy who runs Classy Ladies, tell him
about Mary’s disappearance. My skull was vibrating. I found myself outside Omar Sweet’s office. I pulled into a visitor parking
spot and ran inside. I punched the elevator button, decided I couldn’t wait, took the stairs instead. I spotted the secretary
right away, a frazzled-looking redhead with a silver ring in her eyebrow. “I’m here to see Omar Sweet, and I’m not leaving
until I do.”

She looked at me blandly and buzzed his line. “Mr. Sweet, Ms. Ryan is here to see you, and she says she refuses to leave until
you talk with her.” She looked at me again. “Have a seat. He’ll be right out.”

I felt triumphant. Now we were getting somewhere! “No, that’s fine. I think I’ll stand.”

I heard a rustling down the corridor, the movement of Omar’s swift, long legs. “Ms. Ryan?”

I turned toward the unfamiliar voice. He was a short, round man with greasy black hair. His shoulders
were speckled with dandruff and I could smell his stale breath even from a distance. “Ms. Ryan?”

I figured it was one of his flunkies. “I’m here to see Omar, please.”

The man extended a hand. “I’m Omar Sweet.”

The last thing I remember was the pale watercolor on the wall behind his head, and the kelly green carpet, the way it felt
against my cheek when my face hit the floor. When I opened my eyes, the secretary was holding something under my nose, a slice
of lemon. I heard her whisper, “Look. It’s working. She’s coming to.” The man with the greasy hair was propping me up, offering
me a paper cup. “Have a little water. Are you okay?”

“Are you sure you’re Omar Sweet?”

The man smiled warmly. “Last time I checked.” He helped me to my feet.

“But the Omar Sweet I met was tall and . . . bald.”

The man ran a hand through his hair. “No, I assure you Ms. Ryan, it’s all mine.”

I stared at him. “Look. Something terrible has happened. You don’t understand. A man who called himself Omar Sweet was going
to be my lawyer. He was supposed to serve my husband with divorce papers this morning. Tall, bald, silver goatee. Does he
work here? You’ve got to tell me!”

I sounded like a lunatic and looked like hell. He had no reason to believe me. “Look. I’ve got to go.” The man insisted I
stay until I felt better, offered me
coffee or a can of pop. But I had to help Mary. I had to get to the library. There were public computers there. I could go
on-line, send an e-mail to that Prost guy, who ran CLIT.

I took a left on Bemble and now I was about a half mile from the library. The road was clear. If I didn’t hit any red lights,
I’d make it to the library in three minutes. Someone tried to cut into my lane. An old lady. I honked wildly. Get out of my
way! But she scooted in front of me, then, naturally, slowed to a snail’s pace. I checked my speedometer. I was now going
eight miles an hour. Shit! I pulled up next to her and lowered my window. “Learn to drive, you batty old bitch!” I screamed
out, watching my own spittle fly out the window. The woman turned to look at me. Jesus! It was Carla Schumann, Pete’s first
baby-sitter. A sweet, caring woman who said she thought of me as a daughter. I prayed she didn’t recognize me and raced ahead.

The library was unusually crowded. I was afraid I might not get a computer, but I found an open one in the corner. I got on
Netscape, quickly set up an e-mail account, typed in classyladiesinternationaltrade.com, and waited. I e-mailed H. Wilhem
Prost, said I had reason to believe that harm has come to one of his “girls.” I told him everything I knew, gave Roger’s name,
and asked him to write back ASAP.

I checked the e-mail account, and, miraculously, found a response from Prost: “Sorry, but I have no
records of any CLIT girl interacting with anyone named Roger Tisdale. In fact, we haven’t transacted any business with any
gentlemen in your city. Good luck with your search. H. Wilhem Prost.”

I left the library and started sprinting toward the Jeep. I couldn’t run. My shins ached, and I got a stitch in my side. I
felt weighted down, paralyzed. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed a parking meter for support and stood there, panting, crying.
Passersby were staring. “What the hell are you staring at?” I screamed out. “Mind your own goddamn business!”

I wobbled back to the Jeep. I was suddenly filled with the most visceral need to be with Petey. Regardless of what happened
with Roger, I would always have my son. My chest ached with yearning to hold my child, to smell his hair, kiss his fingers.
It took twenty minutes to get to his school, and in that time I called my mother and Betsy, neither of whom were home. I felt
so disconnected. It was an awful, alien feeling. Pete looked confused when I showed up at his classroom. He was afraid I’d
come to take him to the doctor. I strapped him into his booster seat, and told him we were going to see Daddy’s rehearsal.

I wasn’t done with Roger. I had no idea what I would say to him, but there was no way I’d let him go about his business as
if nothing had happened. I pulled up to the Dante Theater, and for the first time in my life, I parked in a handicapped spot.
The lobby was locked, so Pete and I went to the back door,
which was almost always open. A young woman strode several paces in front of me, her glossy black hair swinging as she walked.
Oh, God. Could it be? I quickened my pace and called out to the girl. “Mary?”

Just as she turned around to face me, Petey started tugging my hand. I felt drugged, heavy, hot. I struggled to break through
a kind of gelatinous barrier between me and the girl. I wanted to touch her, but she was always just out of reach. She smiled
wickedly at me, pulled a wad of chewing gum from her mouth and popped it back in. Pete pulled my hand again, harder now. “Mom?”

“Not now, Pete,” I muttered.

“Mom? Please.”

With a rush of adrenaline and a feeling of relief so profound it made me weep, I realized I’d been dreaming. I wasn’t backstage
at the Dante, but in my own bed. That vivid feeling of the scratchy carpet against my cheek was the prickly embroidered decorative
pillow I’d been too tired to toss off the bed. Roger was snoring, whistling through his nose, and I’d never been so grateful
to hear his drone. It was three in the morning. The clock on the VCR was flashing like a strobe light (we never did figure
out how to set it). I could hear the ice maker churning downstairs. Pete was at my side, rubbing his eyes. His pajama top
was open and by the aquamarine light of the VCR clock, I could see a ghostly sheen of sweat on his bony chest.

“I had a bad dream” he whispered.

“Me too,” I told him. “I had a bad dream too.” I pulled him into bed and curled my arms around his waist. His hair was damp
and smelled like baby shampoo. I squeezed him tighter. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

“No,” he whispered back. His body softened in my arms, and soon I heard the deep, measured breathing of his sleep. As I held
my son, I allowed myself to recall bits of the dream, gingerly reconstructing it from the few remaining shards. I tried to
find the deeper meaning in that horrible nightmare, some higher purpose. Today I have the chance to expose a philandering
husband, end a torturous marriage, begin anew with my child. But in my dream, I was going nowhere, completely stuck, completely
alone. Why had I manufactured a dream in which the people I’d most depended upon—my lawyer, my investigator—were all shills
in the service of my husband? And why, instead of divorce papers, did Roger hand me a photo of me in bed with my lover? I
knew that dissecting the dream this way would dilute some of its power, but I was too tired now. I had a long day ahead of
me and it was almost 4
A
.
M
. Eventually I slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

’Til next time,

V

I didn’t awaken until the alarm sounded at 7:30. I felt elated, and even found myself singing in the shower, “It was a dream,
it was a dream, it was all a bad dream!”

Roger rapped on the pebbled door. “What are you so happy about?”

“I’m just glad to be awake!” I shouted over the roaring shower. “I’m thrilled to be alive and awake on this fine day!” I squirted
blue Garden Musk shower gel on a sponge. I’d bought the stuff in desperation years ago, after I overheard someone at the store
say it worked like an aphrodisiac on her husband. It hadn’t had the same effect on Roger. In fact, he said it smelled like
insecticide. I brought the soapy sponge to my nose and inhaled deeply. I thought it smelled like sex in the woods. I loved
it.

I dropped Petey off at school and sped out to Lake Merle, as planned. I held my breath as I approached the house. What if
my dream had been prophetic, and Mary had really packed up and left? Or what if there was no Mary after all? But before I
even got out of the car, the door flew open and Mary was waving happily. “Mrs. Ryan! Mrs. Ryan!” I waved back at my new best
friend. “I hoped you would come today,” she yelled, “and here you are!”

She was wearing denim shorts and a black T-shirt I’d bought at Target years ago that bore the words: “I Fish, Therefore I
Lie.” I still don’t know why I bought that shirt given the fact that I’d never been fishing. It had been among the things
Roger said he’d take to Promise House. Mary’s closet was probably filled with all the dreck I’d bought on impulse and never
wore.

She pulled me inside. “Tippy had her babies!” She linked her arm in mine and led me past my ugly painting into the small kitchen.
The condo smelled of fried food and Pine Sol. The cat, who lay in a cardboard Hammermill paper box, gazed up at me dully,
while six tiny kittens nuzzled against her belly.

I took a deep breath. “Mary, I need to tell you something.”

She squatted by the box and stroked the cat’s head. “Do you want one of the babies?”

“No, honey, I don’t. Listen, we need to talk. Now.”

“Do you want some pop! Or tea?”

“Roger is my husband. And we’ve been married a long, long time.” I watched her try to process this information.

“My Roger? Roger Tisdale? My husband?”

“Yes.” I pulled out a picture from my wallet. It was my wedding picture.

She brought it up to her face and squinted at it. “Not my Roger. Mine’s older. And not so fat.”

I sighed. “That’s what he looked like back then, Mary. He’s older now. He lost weight. Believe me, it’s him.”

She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. “Not him. Not possible.”

I wished I had a more recent photograph. Then I remembered my key chain. I took it from my pocket and showed it to her. “Look
at this, Mary.” Encased in a Lucite oval was a photo of Roger and Pete last fall at the Tiger Cub camping trip.

Mary peered at it and smirked. “Still not him.” I took another look at the picture and saw that my husband’s face was bleached
by a splash of sunlight.
I
knew it was him because, well, who else would it be? But I suppose from Mary’s perspective—the perspective of someone whose
identity as the wife of a “famous” American playwright now depends on refuting my claim—this man with the bleached-out face
could be anyone.