Five Days (16 page)

I broke off, not wanting to say anything more.

‘You don't have to explain anything,' Richard said.

‘Thank you,' I whispered, suddenly wanting a hole in the floor to open up and suck me out of this embarrassed place.

The check arrived and Richard insisted on paying it. He then asked me if I could get email on my cellphone.

‘I could,' I said, ‘but it's too expensive to run on a monthly basis. So I rely on texting.'

‘Well then, I am going to put the ball completely in your court. Here again is my card. My cell number is the one at the bottom. I am free tomorrow as of twelve noon – and I would love to spend the day with you. If you don't contact me, no hard feelings whatsoever. It's been lovely sharing this time with you. And I truly wish you well. Because – if I may say so – you deserve good things.'

Silence.

‘Thank you,' I finally said. ‘Thank you so much.'

We stood up. I found myself wanting to say:
Shall we meet somewhere downtown around one p.m.?
But again I held back.

‘Can I walk you to your car?' he asked.

‘No need. I got lucky and found a spot right outside the movie house.'

‘That still requires a few steps.'

We left the bar and said nothing as we walked less than half a block to my elderly vehicle. If Richard noticed its decrepitude he was very good at not showing it.

‘Well then . . .' I said.

‘Well then.'

Another silence.

‘I'm sorry tomorrow won't work out,' I said, thinking:
Now the door has been slammed twice.

‘You have my number.'

‘That I do.'

‘And that cheerleader – the one who heckled you – I bet she regrets all that now.'

‘I tend to doubt it. But do you want to hear one of the great supreme ironies of my life? My daughter's a cheerleader. Not a mean one, I hope. But very much a cheerleader. And very much desperate to be popular at all costs.'

‘So she's lonely.'

And I heard myself say:

‘Aren't we all?'

As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I whispered a fast goodbye and climbed into the car, unnerved by the fact that I had just told a stranger the one central thing that had been unsettling me for days, months, years: the fact that I've felt so terribly alone.

And having made that huge admission, what did I do? I slammed the door and drove right off into the night.

WHEN I GOT
back to the hotel it was almost one a.m. When was the last time I had stayed up so late, talking, talking, talking?

I felt a stab of self-reproach. Especially as I saw a text from my husband.

I was out of line before. Sorry. Dan

So there it was. An apology of sorts. Terse. Telegraphic. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of love.

And how did I react to this detached expression of regret? Without a pause for reflection I texted back:

No problem. We all have our off moments. Love you. Laura

Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops. And though Dan's anger of late had been so quietly contemptuous, his surliness tonight was, in part, due to the stress he'd been under, and the fact that he'd been roused out of sleep by my ill-timed call.

Why was I excusing his very bad behavior right now? Because part of me was feeling just a little guilty about having those two glasses of wine with Richard . . . and so enjoying myself. Just as I was also simultaneously castigating myself for turning my blurted-out admission of loneliness into a reason to dash off into the night. No doubt he now considered me highly strung and profoundly uptight. Except for that one innocent aside about this being something akin to a first date – an aside which I absurdly jumped on – Richard did absolutely nothing to indicate that he was in any way cruising me. Nor did he signal whatsoever that he was unhappily married or so frustrated with his personal situation that he wanted to . . .

But the way we talked about words, the way he got me to recite that poem by Frost, the way this man – who struck me initially as rather gray and fusty – suddenly came alive when we got discussing matters literary. He really seemed to get me on a level that . . .

Oh, will you listen to yourself. ‘He got you?' Now you sound like an adolescent who's met the fellow class geek and is dazzled by the fact that he seems genuinely interested in what you yourself so value.

And what is so wrong with meeting someone who actually thinks there is worth in language spoken and written? And why the hell are you classifying yourself and Richard as geeks?

Because I married a man who told me once he feared his son had ‘inherited the geek gene from his mom'.

Of course, I never said anything about this remark (made just before Ben had his breakdown and was already displaying signs of fragility). Of course, when Dan saw my shocked expression in the wake of this comment, he then backpedaled, telling me he was just jesting, ha-ha. Me being me I let it drop. But it has nagged at me since. Because it struck me as so unkind. And because, before that, Dan had never done unkind.

And now . . .

Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops.

Bing.

Another text on my phone.

Hey Mom – weird thing happened today. Out of nowhere Allison dropped by my studio.

Oh God. Why do manipulative heartbreakers always come back to wreak more havoc? I read on.

She was being all-friendly. Saying what a brilliant artist I am. Making really complimentary noises about the new painting I'm working on. Dropping all these hints that she really missed me. I know you're going to say not to go near her. But the thing is, I want to. Even if I get burnt again. Maybe will be a bit more flame-resistant this time. No lectures, please, but would like to know your thoughts. B xxx

Oh God. Allison the Arch Manipulator. Having aided and abetted my son's breakdown she now has probably sniffed out the fact that he's gotten over her and is back painting. So, naturally, she has to see if she can inflict more damage on him. But, reading through Ben's text around five more times, what intrigued and pleased me most was the hint that he knew she might do her best to hurt him, but he could handle it. Part of me wanted to tell him:
Slam the door in that vixen's face.
But I knew that Ben would interpret this as far too maternal, edging perhaps into the puritanical. Ben saw himself as a bohemian – and one who reacted badly when lectured on morality or the need to ‘be responsible' or act like ‘some dull asshole who sells insurance'.

I thought about phoning Ben right back – he never got to bed before three on most nights – but also knew that this was not a wise idea. When Ben wanted to talk he'd phone me. When he wanted to limit the communication to the written word he'd email. When he wanted an immediate response – without direct conversation – he'd text. So I resisted the temptation to dial his number. Instead I punched out the following message:

Ben – all cliches are true, especially: leopards don't change their spots. I think she's toxic. But I am not you. If you feel you can get involved again – and not get hurt – then by all means enjoy the sex, but don't think it's romance, let alone love. Those are my words of wisdom for Friday night. Call me whenever you want to talk. I love you – Mom

As always I read through the text several times before sending it, making certain it didn't sound too cloying. I hit the ‘send' button, then sent a text to Sally:

Hi hon – in Boston. Hotel isn't much, but nice having a little time away. Hope you're having a chilled weekend. You deserve some serious downtime. Around if you need me. Otherwise see you Sunday night. Love – Mom

Again I scrutinized the message carefully before sending it, taking out the word ‘chilled', as that was an expression Sally used all the time (as in: ‘I so wish I could chill' – something she genuinely found hard to do)
.
Coming from me it would sound a hollow note, as if I was trying to use her generation's argot and could stand accused of trying to be ‘with it' (to use
my
generation's argot). Just as I know that Sally certainly didn't need some ‘serious downtime'. She needed seriousness.

Children: the ongoing open wound. And the two people without whom life would be unimaginable. As I once told Sally when she went into a ‘I know you'd prefer a brainier daughter' routine:

‘I have never – and would never – think that. You are my daughter – and I love you without condition.'

‘Love always has conditions.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘I just know it.'

‘Well, between a parent and a child . . .'

‘You mean, your mother loved you unconditionally?'

Ouch.
Though I hadn't talked much with Sally about my mother's pronounced chilliness, I did drop some hints to her that our relationship was less than a close one (even though I remained a dutiful daughter until the end of her life). Yet Sally had far more emotional insight than she gave herself credit for.

‘My mother was my mother,' I replied to her rather tart (and painfully acute) question. ‘But I am not my mother – and I do love you unconditionally.'

‘I'll quote that back to you when you find me smoking crack.'

‘That will never happen.'

‘How can you be so sure?' she asked.

‘Because if given the choice between five hundred dollars a week on drugs and spending the same amount of money on clothes . . .'

‘I'm going with the clothes.'

We both laughed.

‘You know, Mom, sometimes you can actually “do” cool.'

High praise from my daughter.

The text scoured for any possible tricky phrases, I hit the ‘send' button, then tossed my cellphone on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed backwards against the synthetic floral bedspread. I closed my eyes.

Bing.
A text. From Ben.

Mom – never thought my mother would say have sex with someone and dump her at first sign of trouble. Know if I start I might get smitten again. That's the thing about love, right? You have to take risks. Which invites possibility of hurt. So – is it potential for pain, or caution, hesitation, no risk? Am sleeping on it. B xxx

My son the philosopher. Reading through his text again I couldn't help but marvel (maternal pride talking once more) at the way Ben could get to the heart of the matter when it came to the nature of choice. Especially the choice that sends you onto a little island of safety that becomes sterile and confining.

‘Yep. Followed Dad right into the family firm.'

Out of nowhere that comment popped into my head. But when is anything ‘out of nowhere'? Especially as Richard had been there, seated opposite me, much of the evening. Ever since then, he'd been clouding my thoughts.

You have to take risks.

My son the purveyor of uncomfortable, ever-so-evident truths.

I sat up. I reached into my pocket and dug out the card that Richard had given me – the card with his cellphone number. I picked up my phone. I sent a text.

Sorry about hasty exit tonight. Not my best moment. As contrition, how about lunch in Boston tomorrow? Should be able to meet around 1 p.m. Any thoughts? Best – Laura

I hesitated for a moment before hitting ‘send'. But less than a minute after it was dispatched,
bing
– a reply:

Laura – no need to apologize. I had a lovely evening. And am happy to meet you for lunch tomorrow. I'm buying. Will make a reservation and text details anon. So – can I say this?– it's a date. Best – Richard

I smiled. After all my objections before when he had dropped that word, now . . .

I texted back.

Yes. It's official. It's a date.

‘
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The gentleman pitching this machine to the fifty or so of us had great teeth. And a real slick salesman's delivery which still didn't do much for the turgid copy he was clearly reading from a prepared script. I tried to focus on what he was saying. I failed. And decided that ducking out of this conference early wasn't going to make me miss much – especially as Dr Harrild had already hinted that he wasn't likely to pick my brains too much about what, if anything, I'd gleaned from the conference. A light
bing
on my phone indicated the arrival of a text. I glanced down at the screen. I read:

Cleaning out the garage today. Hope the conference is interesting. D xxx

Part of me was touched by this text. Cleaning out the garage – which has been hopelessly stockpiled with all his home improvement equipment, car mechanic equipment, and the home gym stuff that he never uses – has been a request I've been making of my husband for the past eighteen months. I've not nagged him about it. I hate nagging – though in any long-term relationship there are always domestic details that seem to cause friction – like one person's inability to make the bed, or do a load of laundry or, indeed, divest the garage of all his accumulated junk, so we can actually park our two cars there when the snow falls. The few times I have mentioned these ongoing annoyances to Dan, they have been met with gruffness or sheer silence. Which, in turn, has meant that I have quietly gone on making the beds, doing the laundry and parking my car outside of our overfilled junk-shop garage (and I am now really sounding just a little too put-upon here). The fact that he has just announced that he is now finally clearing it out . . . well, that too was his way of saying sorry for last night. But I don't want acts of contrition. I just want a husband who desires me, who actually seems to want to be with me.