Happily Ever After? (17 page)

“Jeez.”

“Lighten up. It’ll be fun.” Diana tipped the edge of the herb bundle into the flame, let it burn a moment, then blew it out.
It smoked like incense. “This is sage. Got it at the health food store. Now close your eyes.”

“No.”

“Come on, Val. Work with me here.”

I closed one eye and peeked with the other. Diana waved the sage over her head and began a slow spiral in the middle of the
room. She chanted:

“Come ye spirits, come white raven,

Cleanse this home, this hearth, this haven—”

She looked at me. “Isn’t this great? I made it up myself.”

She continued,

“Evil spirits, now depart.

I call upon the clear white heart.

Darkness, blackness, gloom and doom

Take heed for now I cleanse this room.

The sun doth shine upon our star,

Yada, yada, yada … something, something, from afar.

In the name of the Goddess, I cast this spell

And send Roger Tisdale to the flames of hell!”

Diana ended her dance with a dramatic twirl. She leaned toward the candle and blew it out with a loud whoosh. She inhaled
deeply and exhaled noisily. “I can feel it, can’t you?”

“Feel what?”

“The absence of Roger’s malevolent spirit. The air feels cleaner somehow, doesn’t it?”

I made a face and shrugged. The truth is, I think she’s right.

’Til next time,

V

2:10
A.M.
I can’t sleep. So I put on CNN. But I didn’t want to wake Pete, so I switched on the closed captioning. I feel sorry for
anyone who relies on closed captioning. Here’s a sample of the mumbo jumbo that scrolled across my TV set:

As Americans fear a recession, Plesdentn Tush has pront to speed yup his tax clot to help get the faltzeloing econom back
o tyrack.

A convicted terrorist and former ally of Saudi xsmile Osamee benslattin will beeee the government’s
first witness in trail ooops trial of the bombings of mbassy.

Tomorrow I meet Reverend Lee. And find out why his wife is involved in this mess.

’Til next time,

V

I’ve decided that the best way to start the day is with aerobic activity. Tae-Bo works well. Sex works better. Bill called
at 8:35, a moment after Pete’s bus pulled away. By 8:39 I was riding his strong, sweaty body like a bronco. By 10:30 I was
showered, moisturized, blow-dried, made up, fully dressed, and on my way to meet Reverend Lee.

As I drove downtown, as I popped a couple of quarters in the meter, as I strode up the block, a joyous voice in my head sang,
“I’m having sex! Hallelujah! I’m having sex! Amen!” (to the tune of “It’s Raining Men”). I don’t want to know about Bill Stropp’s
ex-wife and kids, I don’t want to know about his tire stores or his favorite foods or childhood traumas. We are two bodies,
joined in a mutual quest for pleasure, release, satisfaction. Period.

When I arrived for my meeting with Reverend Lee, the restaurant was still empty. Busboys were setting up
the tables for lunch as the manager adjusted the blinds, letting in bright shafts of sunlight. Reverend Lee was sitting in
a booth in the far back, in the smoking section. I knew he didn’t smoke, so I assumed he chose that table for the privacy.
He stood and waved. He smiled nervously. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” I told him. Reverend Lee signaled the waiter, a lanky college kid with a high forehead and dark blond ponytail. We
both watched as he filled my cup, then topped off Reverend Lee’s.

“I’m definitely ready for colder weather,” he said. I must have heard that line fifty times in the last month. It’s all anyone
says around here. It’s the standard conversation starter, a classic example of small-town talk. I always nod, agree, say something
vacuous like, “No kidding.” But, in truth, I couldn’t wait for winter. I think I could handle twelve months of winter, twelve
months of oversized sweaters and leggings with elastic waistbands, coats and jackets that camouflage my wide-load ass.

Enough weather talk. “Reverend Lee, what’s going on here?”

He stared into his coffee cup as if the answers might materialize in the clouds of half-and-half. “I can only speculate,”
he began. He took a long breath, kept staring into his cup. “Michelle is a very jealous woman.” He took a sip and set the
cup down again. “Nine years ago, when I was assistant pastor at Faith Methodist in Owensboro, there was … an indiscretion
… with a
congregant.” He looked at me. “So you see, Michelle comes by it honestly. Her jealousy, I mean.”

I thought about the times I’d called him at home, and how resentful Michelle had sounded when I asked to speak with her husband.
“So you think she’s behind the pictures?”

“She is. She had you followed.”

“She hired a private investigator?”

He nodded. “She has pictures of us in my office, holding hands, praying together. And she has pictures of me in your house
after Mary died.”

I shivered.

“But the only really, uh, scandalous pictures were the ones taken at the Econolodge, and those are the ones she sent Roger.”

“But you weren’t in those pictures!”

Reverend Lee shrugged. “Michelle didn’t care. She’d convinced herself that we were involved. She hated you. She wanted to
hurt you.” Reverend Lee reached for my hand. “I don’t know what to say, Valerie. I’m so terribly sorry.”

You damn well should be, I wanted to scream. You screw around and I wind up paying for it!

At this point I ask myself: Was I born under a freaking dark star? Have I been cursed by the gods? Am I trapped in some kind
of ancient karmic purgatory of sin and retribution? Why me, oh Lord, why me? Why are all these people always apologizing to
me for some form of deception and betrayal? Why can’t I live a normal, uneventful
Midwest suburban life? Why can’t I simply wake up every morning next to my stable, balding husband, send Pete off to school,
eat my bowl of Special K, vacuum my house, make a casserole for the church potluck, whip up a nutritionally complete dinner,
have missionary sex with my stable, balding husband, and go to sleep? Not me. I wound up with the Philandering Shithead Formerly
Known As My Husband. And everything else just flows like sludge from that singular mistake.

“Now what the hell am I going to do?” I said. I was too overwhelmed to cry. I wanted to go home and go to sleep.

“I don’t suppose you want to join me in prayer?”

I stared at Reverend Lee’s kind, bland face and repressed the urge to rip it off. “Maybe some other time.”

’Til next time,

V

I called Libby as soon as Pete left for camp. I had to know how it was logistically possible to get those pictures.

“Hmmmm,” she said, considering my question. “Even with the blinds or curtains closed, I can usually get a clear shot depending
on the angle and if I’ve got the right lense,” she said. “All you really need is a little crack between the blinds.”

Shit.

Interestingly, it seems that my libido intensifies in direct proportion to the level of stress in my life. Bill called at
noon and summoned me. We had sex in silence, hungrily, against the foyer wall. We kept our clothes on. As I left, he said,
“Forget about the trees,” and I said, “Okay.” Those were the only words we exchanged.

’Til next time,

V

Pete is home with a stomach virus. I cleaned vomit off the carpet and all the bedding, replaced the sheets and pillowcases,
and got him back into bed. Then he threw up again. I’ve got him in the guest room now. I put on Nickelodeon, but he’s too
miserable to enjoy it. Poor little guy. I think I hear him calling me. Gotta go.

I’m back. I was on my hands and knees scrubbing puke out of the kilim rug in the guest room when the phone range. It was Omar.
My custody hearing is Monday.

’Til next time,

V

Omar and I met to talk strategy. He believes it’s likely that:

• Sloan will argue that it’s in Pete’s best interests to live full time with Roger because of my “immoral” lesbian lifestyle.
  
• Sloan will produce Exhibit A, the photographs of me and Diana at the motel room.
  
• Omar says it’s unlikely that he will have pictures of Eddie and me in that same motel room, because it doesn’t bolster the
  lesbian angle.
  
• In addition to arguing for full custody, Sloan will request an immediate full reversal of the settlement, and I will be asked
  to repay whatever money I have already spent. (I almost had a heart attack when I heard this, but Omar insists that even under
  the worst circumstances, the judge won’t make me pay back the money).
  
• Sloan will support his case with testimony and comments from various witnesses such as Lynette.
  

Omar has assured me that Roger will NOT get everything he wants. But by asking for full custody, he is likely to get at least
joint custody. By arguing for a settlement reversal, he’s likely to get at least alimony or child support. Omar says that
because we already have a sympathetic judge (sympathetic to Roger, that is) we must tread lightly on character issues. In
other words, we’ll need to be careful in raising Roger’s infidelity/bigamy as an issue. As Omar put it, “If it doesn’t go
to his competence as a father, it’s worthless.” Omar’s key strategy:

• The photographs do not prove a lesbian relationship. Omar will present Diana’s sworn statement verifying that she and I have
  never had a sexual relationship.
  
• Pete needs the stability of one home, with his mother, the parent who has cared for him during this entire ordeal.
  
• My current financial situation enables me to stay home with Pete and give him my undivided attention.
  
• Roger’s sexual activity and former “marital relationship” with a minor has made it difficult, if not impossible, for Roger
  to be an attentive and responsive father.
  

I’m trying not to obsess about this, but I’m consumed by questions. If Roger gets full custody, am I going to be closed out
of Pete’s life? Will Roger’s zygote du jour become his new mommy? (I swear, I could kill myself just thinking about that.)
If Roger wins joint custody, how will Pete handle the stress of shuttling back and forth between two households? What if Pete
gets angry with me and decides he doesn’t want to come back here? How will I oversee Pete’s emotional/moral/ethical development
if I’m not the main caregiver in his life? What if Roger and his zygote let him run wild, let him watch limitless TV, eat
only junk food … or worse—smoke pot. Drink beer. Join the skateboarding street kids in the municipal parking lot.

I’m driving myself crazy. I’ve got to get some sleep.

’Til next time,

V

Oh God. Pete walked in while I was pulling my custody files together. He picked one up, spotted his name, and tried to read
through the legalese. He couldn’t. He asked me to read it to him. I told him as simply as possible that I was going to court
to make sure that he would stay with me, but he would still get to visit with his father. He started to cry. He said he didn’t
want to visit Roger. He wanted to live with him! I asked him, “You mean, you want to live with both of us?”

“No, I mean, I want to live with Daddy. But you can come visit us whenever you want.”

I decided not to pursue it. Pete can say whatever he wants. I’m not giving him up.

’Til next time,

V

It’s 2:15
A.M.
and I cannot fall asleep. I suppose I could have taken something but then I’d be logy tomorrow and I can’t afford that. So
I’m sitting here, imagining
what life would be like without Pete, torturing myself, really, picturing his empty room, empty bed. We had a perfect evening
together. I made his favorite meal (pot roast, glazed carrots, mashed potatoes, Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice
cream for dessert), got a fire going (okay, I cheated. I used a Duraflame log) and then we played four rounds of Cootie. As
I tucked him in, I asked, “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to go live with Dad?”

He blinked sleepily. “I dunno.”

“Well, it’s okay if you feel that way, sweetie,” I told him. “Your feelings are never wrong. You can feel anything you want
and it’s okay. But I hope you understand that we need to make choices that will be best for you.” I was on unsteady ground
now. I didn’t want to bad-mouth Roger. That’s a lie. I wanted to say, Your dad is a bad man, Pete. He is a pathological philanderer
with a predilection for young flesh. He trampled on his marriage vows. He had an illegitimate wife and now has a girlfriend
young enough to be your big sister. And if you wind up living with him I will absolutely kill myself.

“But I love my dad.” His bottom lip trembled. “I miss Dad. How come I never get to see him anymore?”

If there is any justice in this world, there will be a special circle in hell reserved just for Roger and his ilk. Bad enough
that he betrayed me. I’ll survive. I can’t say the same for Pete. “Dad never stopped loving you, sweetie. And he is fighting
hard to see more of you. But …” I
swallowed hard. “Daddy has problems, honey, and those problems make it hard for him to be the kind of daddy you deserve to
have.”

Pete sat up. “I don’t care if Dad has problems. I wanna be with him. And he wants to be with me. And if you try to stop him,
I’m gonna hate you forever!”

My son’s words stung like a slap. I willed myself to stay calm but I could feel tears flood my eyes. “Well, sweetie,” I began,
“you’re very angry. I can see that. But I still love you. I will always love you. And Daddy will always love you too. And
somehow we’re going to work this out and maybe it won’t be so easy or fun all the time, but you will always be loved and cared
for because you are very precious to us. Do you understand that?”

Pete turned his head to the wall and said nothing.

“Pete?”

“Can you bring me a glass of water, please? And a Milano cookie?”