The Space Between Promises (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine
The meeting place is a charming pub just outside of town, complete with a wrought iron gate at the entryway. Stands of white lights line the brick walls, and the neighboring street lamps illuminate the sign that stands on an iron peg by the walkway inviting the curious passerby. There is indoor and outdoor seating, and what I have been told to be a modest menu of promising burgers, savory mushroom appetizers and tempting enough house wines.
I am conscience of the clicking sound my lonely open-toed heels make as I head toward the door, where from the adjacent window I can see a crowd gathering at the bar. Perhaps I am a bit nervous because I have never taken my co-workers up on the offer to meet up on a Friday night. I am relatively quiet at work, somewhat of a recluse, both in the interest of professionalism and of protecting my private life, keeping it from the vicious jaws of idle women. I am well-liked enough, possibly more respected than liked, peaking enough interest to be invited out on occasion.
Reluctant to take on a babysitter while Gregory works the night shift, I always politely decline these invitations, and retire to my children's open arms instead. We make popcorn, rearrange the living room, pull out pillows and blankets and watch movies together. I don't want to leave them with a sitter on what is to be their eagerly sought-after Friday evening following a long week at school, where they are busy warding off bullies, struggling through math, hopping around in gym, and cramming an entire homemade lunch into their mouths into an impossible twenty minutes, coincidentally the only time they have to freely interact with friends. They deserve to have their Mommy to come home to and snuggle up with, and for these three jumping, contagious and giggling bundles of joy, I stay in on Friday evenings.
I approach the heavy wood door with mixed feelings. Among those is guilt for leaving the kids with Theresa, my mother-in-law, for what may end up constituting an evening of M.A.S.H. or the Hallmark channel in her tiny living room. She is good to them, though, and they will be fine. They are probably dipping into her homemade ice cream at this moment. I push back the nagging feeling of guilt, reminding myself that moms all over the nation treat themselves to adult companionship. The truth is, though, I don't have much respect for the Yoga Mom of today's generation. Always justifying her needs, continually lobbying that her children are better off in the long-run by her constant mission to self-satisfy, heading here and there, and doing this and that. "A happy mom is a good mom," is her mantra. And frankly, though my opinion is vastly unpopular, I disagree. A good mom is a self-sacrificing mom in my world. I wouldn't dare say it, as it would cause a rift with any such mom, though I'm quite certain they themselves feel this way to some extent and have not found a way to reconcile themselves to it. Either way, I am the Yoga Mom tonight, feeling quite fresh after a hot shower, a glossy shave, a squirt of Burberry, (a brave new fragrance,) my shining legs stretching out gloriously from underneath a simple black cotton knee-length button-down dress, drawn in at the waist by a thin leopard print belt.
The diamond on my engagement ring falls to the inside of my finger, and I push it back forward with my thumb as I swing open the door. A loose strand of wavy hair becomes trapped under the leather strap of my large patent purse which I shift it on my shoulders, freeing the clump of hair. My eyes quickly scan the pub, and I immediately flush under the interested gaze of several middle-aged men seated at the bar. I feel the heat of their stare, seeking first eye-contact, and then traveling quickly down my thin, covered torso to my gleaming Grace Kelly legs.
I am immediately relieved to catch the smile and wave belonging to Chelsea, a perky young secretary with delightful French manicured gel nails, and heavy eyelashes fanning out to her eyelids, lengthened by a generous amount of mascara. She is wearing a stretchy v-neck top, her freckled cleavage restrained only by what appears to be a firm brassiere. She stands up and tugs at the black mini-skirt with one hand, and motions me over with the other. There is a variety of appetizers spread across the table, belonging to no one in particular, and everyone is already on their second drink.
"I had to get the kids settled in," I say, not sure how to find my way in to the conversation. I move in, squeezed between Chelsea and Sandra, a fun-loving widow in her late forties. We exchange pleasant small talk, as I awkwardly nudge my oversized purse under the chair. The pub is a bustle of loyal patrons, among them a few local college kids playing darts, the established middle-aged married couples sipping wine at tables for two, a group of unassociated men at the bar, watching whatever game is on. I do not spot a waitress, and I am anxious to settle my nerves. I excuse myself and head to the bar, ordering a glass of Merlot, an unusual choice for me.
"Well, hello there," his voice calls, and I turn, glass in hand, to see Walter, a co-worker that I have little to do with on a daily basis, but exchange pleasantries when we meet in the lounge or pass one another in the parking lot. He is handsome, in his early forties, wears thin spectacles, often pushes a pencil through his peppered hair, and always wears a tie. He mentions how he's never seen me out before, and seems to fumble toward an appropriate greeting. I am equally awkward, wondering if he can tell that I find him attractive and embarrassed that I do, considering that I am married. I am not good this, hiding emotions, and terrified that he will discover that he has unnerved me, I quickly excuse myself and retreat to the corner where the girls are uproariously laughing over the incident when Martin passed gas in the lounge while bending over to gather his loose change that had slipped from his pocket. I am immediately uncomfortable. Martin is a good guy, pleasant to everyone, does his job to the best of his ability, never taking short-cuts. His weight, shiny skin, and awkward clothing are often a source of whispers when he is present and throaty laughter when he is not.
I am beginning to regret my decision in abandoning my children to squirm under the unkindness that surrounds me. I doubt they will notice if I have a glass of wine and excuse myself. I turn the base of the glass around on the table a few times, and take a ginger sip. To my surprise, I look up and I see Walter smiling at me, registering my discomfort. It is a sympathetic smile, mixed with humor, knowing full well that I am a mouse among these cats. I smile back, jolted by Chelsea who has just let out a snort and is toppling into me.
 

The sounds of wheezing, giggles and cackles are slowly drowned as the girls give a temporary moment of silence to the introductory notes of the live band. Within minutes, they are back to their banter, and I am polishing off my wine, with the intent to leave shortly. I nibble on a jalapeño popper, and just as I feel a slight drizzle of grease making its way to my chin I reach for a cocktail napkin and look up to see Walter heading to our table. "I came to steal her," he says, nodding in my direction. This is met with a series of oohs and ahhs as the ladies ask why not them. "Because you gals are already loosely gooey over here, and she needs another drink!" He is rescuing me, thank God. He winks at me and I slide out from behind the table.
"God, you looked miserable over there," he says, smiling in my direction as we weave through the crowd that is beginning to congregate on the dance floor. I nod, squeaking out some response that I've never been big on chit-chat, that I'd much rather a quiet conversation. What a dumb thing to say, I tell myself. I'm at a pub, by choice, and then I tell him that it is the opposite of a good time. He reaches for my elbow, guiding me past a few drunken college kids. "I agree," he says, and I wonder what exactly he is doing here. "My old roommate is in the band," he says, gesturing toward the stage. "I told him I'd come and listen to them play." We sit at the bar, and fall easily into conversation. He is careful not to study my eyes, and I am grateful for that. He makes casual eye contact, and cracks several witty jokes about work, none of them denigrating a fellow employee. He orders me another glass of wine, and I already feel my face flushing from the first. I find myself giggling and my legs are uncrossed, hanging loosely over the bar stool, the heels of my shoes hooked onto its base. As I set my empty glass down, he is aware that I am a bit tipsy and considerate of the fact that I would probably take a third and regret it later. I pause, unsure what to say, and I glance in the direction of the band which has moved into a slow song.
"Let's dance," he says, taking my hand. "I shouldn't," I say. He knows I am referencing my marriage, and in turn, I know he is dismissing the awkward silence that comes when you've had enough to drink, but aren't ready to leave. "I won't grope you, I promise," he says, hand to his heart. I laugh, and concede. He wraps his arm around my waist, and nods in the direction of his roommate, immediately relieving any possible tension by providing quirky anecdotes of their friendship. I want to listen to what he is saying, but I am suddenly aware of his cologne, something Gregory refuses to wear, because he's a "man's man," after all. I feel a slight release in my pelvis, and I cannot look at him. He pulls me a little closer and he is taller than Gregory, nicely built, and his fingers are long and careful on my back. His voice drops off; he sees I am not listening. I feel his mouth brush against my hair, and his breath is warm. He moves me into a corner, where we are blocked on all sides by strangers, far from the curious eyes of our co-workers. I look up at him, not wanting him to brush against my face like that again. He smiles down at me. My eyes agree, and he touches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, and gently kisses me. It is over in a moment, and he simply says quietly, "You looked as though you needed a kiss. That's all it has to be," he confirms, his hands not moving from my waist.
Of the many things I could say in this moment, the words that form are these; "Thank you," I say, and I leave him on the dance floor, as he heads in the direction of his roommate. I wiggle my purse from under the table and manage a cordial good-bye to the girls, gasping as my lungs fill with the cool night air.
***
If it were not for the two glasses of wine, I would not have been able to sleep, but I manage to drop off into a fitful slumber. I expect that I will feel guilty in the morning, or when I hear the sound Gregory's footsteps on the stairs following his evening shift, but for now, the warmth of the wine and Walter's kiss nudge me into the sweet release of sleep. To my surprise, I awake feeling strangely exhilarated. The guilt will come later, I assure myself, as I slip into a gray and white striped cotton dress that ties at the waist with a sash and falls in a gathered circle around my knees. I pull my hair into a cute ponytail and wave it with my curling iron. Exuding girlish charm, I smile as one by one the kids make their way up the stairs, messy hair and sleepy eyes. I pour glasses of milk, pop slices of bread into the toaster, pull cereal bars from the cupboard, and find myself humming as I mix apple juice with water in Tessa's Sippy cup.
"Mmm," Gregory says, wrapping his arms around my waist, nuzzling his head into my neck. He tugs playfully at my ponytail and discreetly presses against me, allowing me to feel his excitement. "Nice dress," he says, squeezing my shoulder, and I am grateful that we have a kitchen full of children to prohibit his pursuits. Even now, the guilt does not come. He swings the empty apple juice bottle toward my bottom, and as always, I play along, dodging each playful spanking as I drop slices of toast on plates and navigate around him, setting the table.
I find that I do not feel any differently toward him. I do not feel inclined to make up for the kiss in any way, nor do I feel any less intimate than I did before. Everything about his touch and playful banter feels the same, and it strikes me that today will be no different than any other Saturday. He will go to work in a few hours, I will grocery shop, the kids will play outside, and I will sleep on the couch just as I have for several weeks. Tonight, I will fall asleep recalling Walter's quiet hands on my back, the way he looked at me before the kiss, with admiration for my beauty and understanding of my quiet pain, savoring the moment when his warm lips touched mine, parting them momentarily, just enough to leave me hungering for more. I will savor his expression following the kiss; confident, unashamed, hinting that where the kiss would lead is my choice, assuring me that it was not delivered or pursued by lust or self-pleasure. As the kids bustle about, half dressed, sliding toys into the living room, I wipe down the baby's high chair, and pour myself and Gregory a cup of coffee.
"Thanks, babe," he says, and I smile in return, thinking of how well we've gotten along the past few weeks. He has come home on his early shifts and asked about my day, offered back rubs, and congratulated me on small successes at work. He has complimented my clothing, commended my mothering, and stayed away from Finn's. I am aware that my evolving state has aroused his interest. As he reads the news on the computer while I wrangle Tessa to the floor for a quick diaper change, I am content. I can't seem to dismiss the gleam in Walter's eyes each time I giggled at his jokes, and I am longing to smell his cologne again. I haven't kissed another man in more than thirteen years, and I am propelled by the excitement of sharing my soul with another man. I let loose my grip on Tessa and she rolls over, promptly stands up and runs toward Maggie and Sam, who envelop her in eager arms, wrestling her to the floor, tickling her, showering her with congratulatory accolades.

I look up and see Gregory studying me. I am taken aback to see his attention drawn away from the computer, and I raise my eyebrows, "What?" I ask, blushing under his gaze.

"Nothing," he says, "can't I look at you?" He asks, his voice falling.

“
It's just that you normally don't 'look' at me," I respond. "Most of the time, I feel as though I am invisible," I continue, my voice soft, and I am surprised by the whisper of hurt that escapes with the wave of my words. I do not normally let my guard down, and it's not like me to point out the ways in which he inflicts pain. His gaze softens, although I am expecting a defensive retort, his tone is gentle. "I look at you," he says quietly, "but usually when you are asleep." There is a slight catch in his voice, and he immediately reflects on the computer screen. Knowing that this is the extent of the conversation, that he has just shared a piece of his heart with me, I busy myself gathering up the dirty laundry, and pretend as though I do not realize that he has just admitted to me that he has always felt that I was beyond his reach. Chained by his lack of self-worth, he kisses me when I am asleep, escapes to Finn's where he feels worthy, showers the children with love because he is safe in their embrace, and admires me from afar.
It is not Walter who fills my thoughts tonight with the promise of his kiss, nor is it Nate's smile, a ghost of what might have been. It is Gregory's downcast eyes that I see before me, and I know that I cannot heal him, that I too have been broken by his unkindness and anger, just as he was broken as a child by someone else's. I resist a wave of sympathy that I begin to feel, refusing to lose any ground that I have gained. I pull the blanket around my shoulders, and ignore the ache in my back, a lingering result of endless nights on the couch. Hours later, I stir to see him standing over me. “Do you want to go to bed?" He asks quietly, for the first time in weeks. Instinct takes over, and without hesitation, I pretend to be in a dazed sleep, incapable of responding, and I slip back into the pillow. As he retires instead into his recliner, a familiar feeling overwhelms me. Relief and regret. And for reasons I do not know or understand, I close the door to him, wondering if, like the marine, he will walk away without a fight. Or will he claim me, wading through trenches of bitterness and uncertainty, determined to win my heart, as he once promised?