High Anxiety (2 page)

I shrugged. I was too caught up in my own thoughts at the moment. My plan was to cut the meeting short, meet Jay for a quick dinner, and still have time for a roll in the hay afterward. I gave a little shiver of pleasure at the thought.

“I need to get over there,” I said. “The meeting starts at six thirty. I plan to be out by seven fifteen.”

Mona lowered her binoculars and turned to me. “You know, I’m thinking this class might be just what you need after all. You’ve been angry for a long time.”

“I’m not angry,” I said.

“This is me you’re talking to, Kate. I can tell when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry!” I said angrily. “If anybody has been angry, it’s
you
.”

“Why on earth would
I
be angry?” she asked.

“How about the fact that your love life is in the toilet right now,” I said.

“I’m managing just fine.”

“If you say so.” To be honest, Mona and I had both been a little testy lately. We’d snapped at each other a couple of times, something we’d never done before.

Mona started the Jag and put it in gear. A moment later, we pulled beside a pickup truck with a gun rack in the back. “Uh-oh,” Mona said.

I gave a huge sigh and reached for the door handle. “Let’s just get this over with.” We got out of the car and headed toward the church.

Ruth had told me to enter the building through a heavy wooden door at the back, pass through the dining room, and take the stairs to the basement. Mona followed me inside. The dining room held a dozen six-foot-long tables, each bearing a vase of artificial flowers. A blackboard announced an upcoming potluck dinner.

I found the stairs easily enough. “Be careful,” I warned Mona as we started down the steep, narrow flight of badly scuffed steps. Naked lightbulbs dangled above our heads, casting an eerie glow against the stone walls and making me think of a dungeon. It was an old church. We reached the basement, where the paint on the concrete floor had long since faded.

Eight people—five men and three women—had arranged their chairs in a circle. On the wall behind them hung a clock as well as a large painting of Jesus holding a lamb.

The group gave Mona and me an odd look.

“Who are you?” asked an older man with a grizzled beard. His head was completely bald and as shiny as a new appliance.

I forced a smile. “Hello,” I said. “My name is Kate Holly, and this is my, um, assistant, Mona Epps. Ruth Melvin had a family emergency and asked me to take over the meeting tonight.”

They looked from me to Mona and back at me as if sizing us up. I wondered if they were making comparisons, weighing Mona’s blond hair and size three Versace suit against my dark hair and larger-sized Jaclyn Smith outfit. Mona ordered her clothes from New York; I bought mine straight off the racks at Kmart. Mona’s footwear was designed by Prada, Jimmy Choo, and Manolo Blahnik. I wore whatever was on sale at Discount Shoes. I had long ago decided it must be fun being Mona, even on bad days.

A middle-aged man in a business suit got up and retrieved two chairs from a number of folded ones leaning against the wall. The group widened the circle as he unfolded them, making room for Mona and me. We thanked him and sat down.

“You’re late,” another man said, holding up one arm and tapping his wristwatch. He wore dark slacks and a blue work shirt with the logo “Hal’s Tires” stitched above his left pocket. He was staring at my legs.

“Shut up, Hal,” an elderly woman said. Her voice reminded me of my aunt Lou’s, who smoked unfiltered cigarettes and whose vocal cords sounded as rough as burlap. A walker sat beside her, within arm’s reach. An oversized purse had been tied to the handrail with a lime green scarf.

Mona and I placed our handbags beneath our chairs. I noted the time on the wall clock. Six forty. I usually asked people to introduce themselves before starting a meeting, but that would take additional time. I looked around the group. “If there is anything you’d like to share, feel free.”

Dead silence. I watched the minute hand on the wall clock make a full rotation.

“You first,” Hal said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You come in here expecting us to spill our guts,” he said. “We don’t even know you. Besides,” he added, “you don’t seem so happy yourself.”

Mona looked at me. “See? I told you. This would be a perfect opportunity to unload all your pent-up hostility.”

“I don’t feel hostile,” I said.

Mona shrugged. “Okay, stay in denial.”

My face burned. I shot her a dark look. Mona had been watching
Dr. Phil
for years—she recorded all his shows—and had become an armchair psychologist. She took careful notes, not only so she could advise my patients behind my back but because she dreamed that one day I, too, would have a TV show—called
Dr. Kate
.

“You
both
look pretty hostile to me,” Hal said.

“You’re wrong, Hal,” Mona said. “I’m just trying to help Dr. Holly come to terms with her anger. I, personally, have no reason to be unhappy. I’m rich, and I wear a size three.”

My irritation flared. I
so
wanted to tell the group that Mona had broken up with her boyfriend because of their age difference and the fact that she’d grown tired of Botox injections. “I suppose I
have
been a little irritable these past few weeks,” I finally admitted. “Not to mention frustrated. But I’m feeling much better now.”

“So what got your panties in a wad in the first place?” Hal asked.

I hesitated. I had not planned to slide my own dysfunctional life beneath the lens of a microscope for all to see; but, unlike Mona, who genuinely cared about me, Hal was apparently getting off on my discomfort. I refused to add to his pleasure by letting him see me squirm.

“Well, Hal,” I said calmly, “my husband is a firefighter, and he recently was injured, so I’ve been acting as his nurse.” I decided not to mention that Jay and I were actually divorced, since I
had
intended to stop the proceedings the day we were to go to court, but I’d ended up in the ER instead. Too complicated. Sort of like everything else in my life.

“You’re pissed off because you had to take care of him?” Hal asked.

I read the looks of disapproval from the group. “I’m
not
pissed off,” I said sharply.

“You sure as hell sound like it to me,” the elderly lady said.

“All right already!” I said. “I
was
angry. And do you want to know
why
I was angry?” I didn’t wait for a response. “I had hoped my husband and I could spend quality time together. I hadn’t counted on all the firemen within a twenty-five-mile radius dropping by unannounced after their shifts. Who do you think got stuck picking up all those beer cans and peanut shells? Me, that’s who! My husband and I barely had five minutes alone at Thanksgiving and Christmas because ‘the guys’ kept stopping by. So, there you have it.”

Dead silence. My face flamed.

One by one, the members began to nod and clap, all of them except for the old lady with the walker. Mona threw her arms around me. “I’m so proud of you, Kate!”

I just sat there, not knowing what to say or do. But I had to admit, I felt better. “Thank you for listening,” I told the group, trying to regain my composure.

A woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late forties slid forward on her chair and raised her hand haltingly. Her long red hair had been braided, and she wore a gingham dress. She looked nervous. “I would appreciate it if we didn’t use foul language,” she said. “After all, we’re in the Lord’s house.”

“I completely understand,” I said, then smiled. “Would you like to share?”

She hesitated. “Well, um, okay. My name is Sarah-Margaret,” she said, her voice trembling. “I attend St. Francis, and I heard our church was offering this group, so I signed up. As everybody knows, my husband left me for another woman. I was devastated. And angry,” she added.

She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “But I finally realized, like Ruth said, I’ve only been hurting myself, so I’m trying to let go of it.” She shrugged. “That’s all I have to say.”

“Thank you, Sarah-Margaret,” I said gently. I looked at the man sitting next to her. He was casually dressed with thick salt-and-pepper-colored hair.

“I’m Ben.” He gave a small wave. “Also going through a divorce. There seems to be a lot of that going around,” he added with a rueful smile, “but I’ve pretty much come to terms with it. I don’t really have anything more to share.”

Then it was Hal’s turn. “Hal Horton,” he said and pointed to the patch over his pocket. “I own a tire company. Some of my customers can be a real pain in the ass. It’s like you can’t please ’em, no matter what. I had it out with one of them and—”

“He broke the man’s nose,” Ben said.

Hal frowned at him. “I was getting to that part. How about you mind your own damn business and let me tell my story?”

“Please,” Sarah-Margaret said. “I don’t feel comfortable around people who use bad language.”

Hal tossed her a dark look.

I glanced at the wall clock.

“I punched the guy in the nose,” Hal said. “He pressed charges. My wife told me to do something about my temper, or she was going to walk.” He paused and shrugged. “Anyway, Ruth said we needed to keep a journal and write down what triggers our anger,” he added.

“Did you find that helpful?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Hal said with a grin. “My trigger is bitchy customers.” Several people laughed.

I wondered if Hal was serious about the class or merely taking it because his wife had threatened to leave him.

“I guess I’m most likely to get angry if I’m stressed or hungry,” he finally admitted.

Sarah-Margaret raised her hand. “I suggested to Hal that he keep protein bars in his desk for those days he is too busy to take a lunch break. As for me, I’ve started walking an hour every day. Exercise raises your endorphins. My stress level has dropped dramatically.”

Hal gave a grunt. “Sarah-Margaret is our star pupil,” he said, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Which is why I wonder how come she keeps attending,” he added. “If you ask me, I think she and Ben are boinking each other. I think they’re raising each other’s endorphins, if you know what I mean.”

Sarah-Margaret gasped, and her face turned the color of beets.

Ben glowered. “You know what, Hal? You’re a jerk and a pig.”

Hal flipped him off.

“Oh, that’s real mature,” Ben said. “You want to take this outside?”

“I got no problem with that,” Hal replied, standing.

“Nobody is going anywhere!” I said authoritatively, deciding it was time to step in. It was clear to me by now that Hal was a bully. If it were my own group, I might have tried to work with him, but I had to admit to myself that I was just trying to get finished in time to get to dinner.

Surprisingly, Hal sat without comment.

The older woman with the smoker’s voice and the walker raised her hand. Her face was mottled with age spots, and her gray hair fell to her shoulders in no particular style. She wore a denim dress and tattered white sneakers. “My name is Bea,” she said, “and I’m here because my daughter-in-law is a bitch.” She indicated the professionally dressed young woman beside her.

The woman’s head snapped up. “I resent that remark!” she said.

Bea shrugged. “You can resent it all you like, Sandra, but you’re still a bitch.”

Sarah-Margaret raised her hand. “Language, please!”

“Quit your whining,” Bea said to her and then looked my way. “I moved in with Sandra and my son six months ago, because I’ve been having trouble getting around,” she said, indicating the walker. “Bad knees,” she added. “But Sandra makes my life miserable.”

Sandra made a sound of disgust. “We both know you were miserable long before you moved in with us. The only reason we put up with you is because your other children didn’t want you.”

“That’s a lie!” Bea said, grabbing her walker and pulling herself to her feet. “All my kids adore me. The only reason I agreed to live with you and Brandon is because you have the biggest house, and I don’t have to climb stairs.”

“Brandon is the poor sucker who lives with them,” Hal said. “He made them come here because they were driving him up the wall.”

Bea ignored Hal. “My son is working himself into an early grave trying to pay for a fancy house, because my daughter-in-law is selfish and materialistic.”

“You are the most ungrateful person I’ve ever met,” Sandra said, “not to mention a troublemaker. You’re constantly trying to drive Brandon and me apart.”

Bea scoffed. “My son deserves better. You’re not good enough for him.”

Sandra bolted to her feet as well and planted her hands on her hips. “Listen here, you old lady,” she began.

“You’d better watch your mouth,” Bea said. “I am
not
old!”

“Hold it!” I said, cutting off Sandra’s response. Things were quickly getting out of hand. These two had anger down to a T. It was the management part they lacked. Time for me to reel them in. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if we all calmed down and took some deep breaths.”

Sandra ignored me as she focused her attention on her mother-in-law. “All you do is watch game shows while Brandon and I support you,” she went on. “You’re eating us out of house and home. Your room is a pigsty, and you don’t even bathe on a regular basis. I’m surprised Brandon turned out so well, considering his mother lives like white trash.”

“Who are you calling trash?”

Sandra looked at me. “She smokes in the house when we’re at work, even though we’ve asked her not to. She even keeps a gun under her pillow. Brandon and I certainly do
not
approve of weapons!”

“Deep breath,” I said loudly.

“Maybe it’s time I let you have a good look at my gun!” Bea said, snatching a pistol from her pocketbook and aiming it at her daughter-in-law.