The Affair (28 page)

’Til next time,

I’m dreading tomorrow’s meeting with Cadence. The only thing that’s made me feel better is a voodoo doll that Roger, my biggest
fan and ally in all of this, bought me. He bought it at Borders. It came with instructions. I stuck a pin in the doll’s head,
another in her ass, and one right in her heart. It gave me a guilty pleasure. I also typed up a script for the meeting, reduced
it to a 6-point type, and glue-sticked it onto an index card that I can hold discreetly on my lap. I know how infantile this
all sounds, and how ironic—a therapist who dreads communicating.

The meeting with Cadence was anticlimactic, to say the least. I bounded into her office, pumped up and prepared for battle.
(Remembering her sensitivity to perfume, I had even made a point of giving myself a good spritz of Obsession on my way out
of my bedroom.) I eased into her guest chair and searched her desk for
some knickknack or photo to inspire small talk, but it was bare except for a small black clock, hardly a conversation piece.
So I just started. “I need to talk about that Kirby article.” She deflected me swiftly, gracefully. “Yes, I understand your
concerns,” she said, launching into the kind of sanitized neutral-speak you get from hotel concierges when you complain about
the dead lightbulbs in your room. “From now on, any time there’s big news at the center, it will be communicated to all personnel.
Immediately. Through interoffice e-mail. So now everyone can be kept in the loop.” The insincerity in her broad smile was
deafening.

I ran my fingers over the edges of the index card in my lap. I could almost hear Roger whispering in my ear, “Say it! Her
conduct was unprofessional and potentially damaging to the center. Don’t let her push you around! You’re better than that!”
Cadence sat there in her lime green suit and Gucci scarf. She drummed her fingertips on the table. She glanced at her watch.
Clearly she had a busy day ahead. “Will there be anything else?” Again, Roger’s voice in my ear: Say it!
Now!
But instead of following his advice, I fell back on the touchy-feelies. “Cadence, I came here prepared to talk about professional
protocol but …” My heart hammered in my chest. “… what I really want to say is, I am sorry we seem to have gotten off on the
wrong foot. And if there’s anything I can do to change your feelings about me, I hope you’ll let me know.” I gulped, took
a deep breath, and waited.

Cadence leaned forward. For a minute I stupidly thought she was going to smile and apologize. Instead she said, “Let’s get
something straight. I’m not your little playmate. I was hired to do a job. Pussyfooting around you and your feelings is not
in my job description.
If you’ve got a problem with me, take it up with personnel.”

I could feel the stinging of mascara and saltwater in my eyes. I told myself, Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Whatever you do,
do not cry.
I stood up, nodded, gesticulated psychotically, and left the room. I knew if I tried to utter even a single word I would
have started bawling. Roger called, as planned. “Well?” he asked.

“I blew it,” I told him.

“Oh, no. Honey. What did you say?”

“Don’t ask. I said it all wrong. Everything you told me not to say, I said.”

Surprisingly, Roger did not respond with “I told you so,” or any variation on that theme. Instead he encouraged me to come
home early, promised to make me feel better. I plan to take him up on his offer.

Roger is sound asleep—snoring like a St. Bernard—and I am wide awake. We just got through a marathon screwing session. Now
why didn’t I say an hour of tender lovemaking? Frankly, because it was
not
an hour of tender lovemaking. I felt like I was drilled by a jack-hammer for forty-five minutes. What was he trying to prove?
Now that he’s hurtling toward the big four-oh, does he think he has to demonstrate his stamina and endurance? Does he think
I actually
like
that?

It just went on and on and on. I tried to position myself in a way that might actually bring pleasure to my lower region,
to no avail. I begged silently, “Will you just
come
already?” Each time I thought he was nearing climax, I felt such joy and relief … but then he slowed his rhythm and I knew
he wouldn’t let go. Occasionally he would whisper into my ear, “Am I
hurting you?” Or, “Shall I stop?” I could have told him the truth, but then he would have wanted me to go down on him (I know
his pattern all too well). I was too exhausted and not feeling particularly generous. So I let him hammer away until he mercifully
exploded, rolled over, and fell asleep.

I once read a book by a radical feminist who believes that most women, if forced to answer truthfully, would admit that they
don’t enjoy intercourse. I wouldn’t go that far. I like it for the first forty seconds. Then I stop liking it.

’Til next time,

What should have been the proudest day of my life has turned out to be the most embarrassing. I was awarded a “CAPPY” for
one of my journal articles on childhood depression and family systems—not a huge deal, but a nice honor. Most of the center’s
upper management, therapists, and secretaries came to see me receive the award—including Cadence. The luncheon, hosted by
the local chapter of the American Association of Clinical Psychologists, was quite an elegant affair at the Hilton.

I ate my lunch at the dais, onstage, with other award recipients. Emilio Arpetta, president of the local chapter, introduced
me. I searched the audience for Cadence’s face as Emilio read the highlights from my CV. It would have given me tremendous
pleasure to watch her as my achievements were publicly announced and celebrated. She may think I’m dryer lint, but to the
AACP I’m a star. I finally found her at a table in the back, whispering behind her hand to another managing partner. She shut
up when my name was announced, and even clapped along with everyone else. I stood up and smiled, aiming for a humble yet happy
expression.

Then I heard a loud crash.

Apparently, thinking the edge of the tablecloth was my napkin, I’d inadvertently tucked it firmly into the waistband of my
skirt. When I stood up to receive my award, I dragged the entire tablecloth with me, toppling the water goblets. Half the
plates fell on the floor. It actually took me a few moments to realize that I was responsible for that horrible, clattering
noise. There was an awful collective gasp from the audience and then a smattering of laughter.

I looked helplessly at the wreckage I’d caused, watched as one of the other honorees frantically dabbed at the salad dressing
on her cream-colored suit. I pulled the tablecloth out from under my belt. I could see Cadence shaking her head, rolling her
eyes.

I gripped the sides of the podium to stop myself from shaking. “I was told it’s always nice to start a speech with a joke,
but I thought I’d try something entirely different this time.” Amazingly, everyone laughed. I felt a lot of empathy and appreciation
from the group. And soon into my comments, I knew they were listening to my talk, not thinking about the tablecloth fiasco.
All’s well that ends well, I suppose. But I don’t think I’ll ever get Cadence’s expression out of my mind.

What a pleasant surprise! Reverend Lee just called. He wanted to know how I was doing, whether I’m finding time for daily
prayer. He also wondered whether I
might like to come in for more pastoral counseling. I agreed to meet with him again next Tuesday at noon. I’m looking forward
to it!

’Til next time,

Today I had my session with Reverend Lee. I actually found myself staring into my closet this morning wondering what I was
going to wear for it, as if I were going on a date instead of getting spiritual counseling from a man of the cloth.

I told Reverend Lee about my conversation with Cadence last week, how I tried to connect with her and she snapped back, “I’m
not your plaything. Take it up with personnel.” I even told him about the voodoo doll Roger bought me. I expected the Reverend
to frown or remind me that the church abhors witchcraft, but he only laughed and asked me where he could get one for himself.
“There are a few people I wouldn’t mind vexing with a pin or two,” he said. That comment alone ratcheted up my opinion of
him. Did I mention that his whole face crinkles when he smiles? Or that his eyes, which can only be described as merry, are
the most amazing hazel? Or that he has a ponytail? It suits him.

We started with a quote. Not from the Bible, but from Hermann Hesse. “If you hate a person, you hate something in him that
is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.” Reverend Lee asked me what part of Cadence I hate in
myself. It was a wonderful
question. It was, in fact, the sort of question I pose to clients who, like me, are marinating in resentment. I tried to piece
together a coherent response. What I hated most about Cadence was her self-confidence, her arrogance, her superciliousness.
I am not consciously aware that I embody any of those traits—if anything, I’m too self-deprecating.

“Oh well. Perhaps something will come to you later. Or maybe it doesn’t apply at all. Don’t force it.” He smiled that giant,
face-crinkling smile of his and I felt instantly at ease. We ended the session by joining hands and praying for Cadence. The
Reverend is a big believer in praying for one’s enemies. His hand was big like a bear’s paw, and warm. I didn’t want to let
go.

We made an appointment to meet again next week.

I wish the serenity I felt in Reverend Lee’s study would sustain me at work. But the minute I walk into the center, my stomach
starts churning again. I used to love my job. Now I can’t stand this office. I know this sounds paranoid, but I just feel
so … alienated. I want to work in a place where people greet me when I walk in, where coworkers and supervisors are genuinely
glad to have me on board. That’s definitely not the vibe I’m getting these days.

Oh God, I can’t believe what I’ve done. I came into work early today—6
AM.
Even The Bitch doesn’t get here until 7:45
A.M.
But instead of catching up on paperwork (the explanation I’d given Roger), I went straight into Cadence’s office. Fueled
by equal measures of paranoia and self-righteousness, I decided to
read her e-mail. That’s right, I have finally hit rock bottom. I still can’t believe I did it.

I switched her computer on and double-clicked on the Eudora icon. It asked for a password. I took a wild-ass guess. Though
I know almost nothing about Cadence’s personal life, I remembered someone mentioning that she and her husband, Barry, had
two beloved Rottweiler show dogs. I held my breath as I typed in R-O-T-T-W-E-I-L-E-R. In an instant I saw the “Checking Mail”
box in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. Oh God. I did it. I broke into her account! (I must admit that even in my
crazed state, a small part of me was proud of this accomplishment.)