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Firebush

Mike Schneider

    I had never seen Dr. Yang’s waiting room so crowded. Every chair was taken but one, and that was half of a two-seater better suited to a couple than two individuals, as it wasn’t as wide as most might prefer.
    Yang, who employs two other MDs plus various psychologists and counselors, is the private practice psychiatrist in Cleveland that Lorain VA Healthcare farmed me out to when I switched from Anthem a year and a half ago. With the veterans suicide rate running more than double the national average, VA requires all patients on anti-depressants to regularly see a psychiatrist, until such time as the doctor feels comfortable signing them off. In the beginning it was every month, now it’s every three months.
    The young lady I was about to sit next to looked to be about half my age, no more than 25, had the most beautiful red hair, the kind that lies midway between auburn and orange that Clairol chemists dream of but only God can bestow. Her complexion, slightly on the darker side of almost too light, complemented it with divine perfection. Her hair reminded me of my wife, Saffy’s (short for Saffron) before the salt-and-pepper gene ravaged both of us a few years back. Saffy’s was almost identical. The only other thing I noticed about her was a U.S. Army ring on her right hand.
    “I hope you don’t mind. It’s the only seat available,” I said as I sat down.
    “It’s fine,” she said without looking up from her magazine.
    Cleary it wasn’t. As soon as I hit the seat she switched from reading to fidgeting, repeatedly running the thumb of her left hand across the undersides of her fingertips. I didn’t pay much attention until a couple minutes later when she dropped the magazine in her lap and began ringing her hands as though washing them.
    “Darn!” I forgot to get a mileage reimbursement form at the desk when I came in,” I said, as I got up, headed back to the outer office. The young lady said nothing, did nothing.
    Ten minutes later I went back, hoping a different seat would be empty. One was but it made no difference as she was gone. I thought I had seen the last of her but 30 minutes later when Dr. Yang called for me, I passed her in the interior hallway as she was leaving. This time she not only looked at me but also flashed a bit of a smile and nodded. I responded in kind.
    My time with the doctor was routine, like it always is, because I’m what I call an accidental patient. While I do take an anti-depressant it’s only because the particular medication, Imipramine, has been found to mask the symptoms of panic disorder. I’ve been on it exactly half my life, since I was 23. While putting up with these appointments isn’t so great, on the plus side I don’t have many bad days.
    Coming back to Lorain County from Cleveland on Ohio Route 2, I invariably stop at Five Guys in Avon, order a little fry and small Coke, neither of which I’m supposed to have due to sodium and caffeine restrictions. But it’s only every three months so I figure I can kind of splurge that often and get away with it.
    One time I told the cashier, “I love your fries but I’m only able to get them once every three months. I call it splurging.”
    I was about halfway done eating when a hand out of nowhere set another order of fries down in front of me. I looked up, saw the cashier, a big smile on his face.
    “Here you go, buddy. If you can only afford them once every three months, have one on us.”
    I still chuckle about it.
    Although this time I said nothing like that, again when I was in the middle of my order a hand from the ether reached out, set another bag of fries on the table. When I looked up, instead of seeing a cashier it was the red-haired gal from the doctor’s office.
    “Would you like some company?” she asked.
    “Oh wow! Is this a coincidence or are you stalking me?” I laughed.
    “Actually, kind of stalking you. May I sit down?”
    “Of course. Fellow vets are always welcome,” I said, nodding toward her ring. “What’s the story?”
    “Well,” she said nervously, “I think you may be able to help me and I’m hoping you will.”
    I popped a couple more fries in my mouth, took a long draw on my Diet Coke.
    “Explain?”
    “Yes. I was in the army almost three years, first lieutenant, one tour in Korea right out of OCS, then Fort Benning, Georgia.”
    “Go on.”
    “I incurred some...some trauma,” she paused, choking up.
    I really didn’t know what to say so I took a chance.
    “Military sexual trauma, as they so benignly label it now?”
    She nodded her head, unable to speak.
    “I’m very sorry to hear that. I would help if I could but you have the best doctors for that. Why would you think I could help?”
    “Well....”
    She stopped as tears began to run.
    I fished a napkin out of her fry bag.
    “Be careful. It may have some salt on it.”
    She shook it, wiped her eyes and cheeks.
    “Take your time, as long as you need. I’ll be here listening whenever you’re ready.”
    She looked at me, issued a small smile, was silent about a minute. For the first time I noticed how beautiful she was in addition to her hair. Big blue eyes, a nose that in no way detracted, thin jaw line, seductive lips, all set in a face that was stunning without a single dab of make-up.
    “The thing is it’s been two years and I still can’t trust men. You saw what happened when you sat next to me today.”
    “I did. That’s why I left. I could tell I was making you quite uncomfortable.”
    “It was so thoughtful of you to do that. Which I why I think you may be the guy I’m looking for.”
    “I don’t think I am, miss. I’m happily married, intend to stay that way.”
    She laughed.
    “That’s not it. My psychologist says I should have some men friends, who are just friends, to do things with. Do you know what I mean?”
    “Not exactly,” I replied, returning to my fries and starting on my second cup of ketchup.
    “Things like this, coming in separate cars to a well-lit public place with people around, eating lunch across the table from one another. It doesn’t have to be long, 15 or 20 minutes would be plenty.”
    “I don’t know. Where do you live?
    “I live in Amherst but wherever you live, or work, I would drive to you. I wouldn’t expect you to come my way.”
    I thought about it for a minute. She seemed sincere, and definitely in need of help.
    “Tell you what, give me your phone number, I’ll run it past my wife and let you know.”
    “Thank you so much,” she said as she jotted down her name and number on a napkin.
    When she handed it to me I said, “Well, Monica, you’re in luck. I live in Oberlin, just 10 miles away.”
    When I told Saffy about Monica she was fine with it.
    “As long as you promise not to miss any of Justin’s baseball games. He’s pretty pumped about making the varsity as a freshman.”
    “Are you sure, sweetheart? You know how totally crazy I can get at just the thought of a firebush,” I said, winking.
    She giggled.
    “You’re too late and behind the times, Romeo. Today all the young ones shave.”
    “In that case I’m so glad I was born when I was.”
    “So am I,” she said as she hugged me.
    For our first get-together we mutually agreed on Hot Dog Heaven in Amherst. A couple dogs with sauerkraut, mustard, and a spot of Ketchup make my taste buds purr. Another splurge but what the heck. Monica ordered hers with chili sauce.
    “So how are you feeling today?”
    “Somewhat better but still super nervous. I might always be. It happened when I thought I was absolutely safe. Here it appears I’m absolutely safe, too. See what I mean?”
    “I do. And while I would never presume to understand even one percent of what you are going through, I have been in situations where I also thought I was safe and wasn’t, so on that incredibly small piece of it I can relate.”
    “Like how?”
    “Well, one time in a random conversation when I was debating a point with a guy, we weren’t yelling or anything, he sucker punched me. Another time, one of my early jobs, fast food restaurant, someone said the boss wanted to see me. I walked into his office expecting to get a raise or promotion, and he fired me.”
    She didn’t seem impressed and I couldn’t blame her. Thinking about it later, I might as well have told a woman who said she lost her husband last week, ‘I understand, not long ago my dog had to be put down.’
    Geez. I hoped I would improve.
    Monica said she was a substitute teacher, fairly sure of getting a fulltime contract for next school year.
    “I’m filling in for a man who has been out four months, likely won’t be back, and the administration seems to like me. My major is English literature. I would prefer to teach high school English, English lit, or both, but will take what I can get,” she said.
    She certainly was beautiful. I’m sure if my English lit teacher had looked like Monica, to this day I’d have no idea who Shylock, Eppie, and Miss Havisham are. Seeing the books would have reminded me of my teacher and instead of reading for 45 minutes every night, I would have been lost in fantasy for at least that long, maybe longer. Class would have been 50 minutes of staring and occasionally drooling.
    When we parted that day, I went to the parking lot, got back in my car, and that’s when I knew-I wanted her.
    And that was something I did not want.
    As soon as I got home I masturbated to a mental image of Monica and I in bed together. I knew exactly what she would look like because I knew what Saffy looked like at 23, and in my mind I took her to Nirvana and back on a mission of rediscovery.
    Although I’m ashamed to admit it, when Saffy and I made love a few nights later it was Monica’s yin, not Saffy’s, with my yang, me consciously choosing Monica’s thinner body and prime firebush. At the end I literally exploded inside her like I did when we were first married.
    “Damn!,” she said a few minutes later. “That’s a hell of a wet spot,” then got up and brought a towel from the bathroom to lie on.
    We met once a week. Because I was worried about not being able to totally control myself when I was with her, I made a practice of masturbating just before going to see her. That negated the need, if not the desire.
    As we got to know each other better she opened up more. The army placed Monica in logistics. She didn’t like it, not challenging enough.
    “I basically reviewed and approved all the requisition forms of every company on the post. Like the stock manager in a grocery store but eight hours a day, week in and week out.”
    Over pancakes at IHOP she told me about the rape. It happened in the ladies restroom of the PX, near closing time. A guy with a knife placed a “Closed for cleaning” sign at the entrance. Afterward she immediately called her father, a retired air force colonel, asked him what he thought she should do. He told her, ‘Nothing. It could ruin your career.’ By the time she changed her mind it was a day and a half later, she had showered three times, the rape kit came back negative.
    “He was right about one thing,” she said. “It ruined my career.”
    I think we had been meeting about four weeks when I told her my six month old grandson would be undergoing hernia surgery the next day.
    “Oh no,” she said, the concern in her eyes and voice obvious as she placed her hand on my forearm. That was the first time she ever touched me and it stirred feelings as she said, “I hope he comes through it ok, will you text me and let me know?”
    After that I briefly thought about bowing out but decided I could handle it. I didn’t want to let her down as our meetings seemed like they were restoring her trust and confidence.
    The little guy wasn’t fazed at all by the surgery. There was no holding him down. Monica was relieved to hear.
    ‘I’m so glad, Greg. Maybe someday I will meet him,’ she texted back.
    Over the next few months, at the suggestion of her psychologist, we began mixing it up, branching out from well-lit restaurants, gradually decreasing the security level. Our trip to Whole Foods in Rocky River proved educational for both of us, so many things neither of us had ever heard of. For instance, dried lemons, pink peppercorns, and advieh, which I guess is a spice mixture used in Persian cooking, to name a few of dozens.
    We each brought sandwiches to Lakeview Park in Lorain. First we checked out the endless blooms of the approximately 2500 plants in the rose garden. Then we settled on a bench under a shade tree at the rear of the beach, near the snack bar, where we ate and watched as kids and adults played in the sand, waded, and swam in Lake Erie.
    Monica balked at first when I mentioned the Cleveland Museum of Art.
    “Art museum galleries are cavernous, like huge tombs, with very few, if any, people,” she said but eventually relented.
    Another milestone occurred there, at the special Alex Katz Exhibit. We were viewing a 1950s painting of a woman wearing an aqua rubber bathing cap when our arms accidentally touched. She had never gotten that close before, had always stood beyond arm’s reach. And it didn’t seem to bother her. After a few seconds she pulled her arm back to her side but didn’t move away. I found that appealing, had a troublesome pang of regret she hadn’t left her arm there longer.
    She got even braver the following month.
    “How about a movie? Shazam! is playing at Amherst Cinema,” she said.
    At the movies she progressed incrementally. The first time we sat two seats apart just a few rows back from the screen, most of the audience behind us. Next time one seat between us, a little farther back. A couple weeks later we wound up at the very top, back row, sitting next to each other munching popcorn from the same bucket. She even sprawled a bit so our legs touched. I moved mine slightly, hers moved with it, but then she moved it back right away.
    Saffy never complained or displayed any jealousy. But I never came home with lipstick, or make-up, on my clothes, smelling like perfume, or anything else female. When Monica wanted to work out at the gym together I politely declined.
    “Never a good idea for a married man to come home after being with a woman, smelling like he has just taken a shower.”
    What I didn’t say was that sometimes I thought about taking a shower with her, undressing each other one piece at a time, stepping into the warm spray and letting the water carry us to a place we had not yet been. That was more of a concern now because I sensed-knew actually-she had similar thoughts. A couple times I had caught her staring at me, wistfully. The first time she immediately looked away. The second time it took her a few seconds to realize I was meeting her gaze. When she did we both turned red but said nothing about it.
    Another big jump in her progress came when we began meeting in front of her apartment building and riding in the same car. The first couple times she drove, then we alternated. On nice days I drove my 1952 MG convertible, inherited from my father. There’s not much room in it, you sit really close. It was apparent she enjoyed it.
    I think it was at the end of our seventh same-car journey when she said, “Ok, here’s the big one. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
    I wasn’t sure if I should, didn’t know if I could trust myself, but it didn’t turn out to be a problem because when we got to the main entry she couldn’t go through with it.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, crying.
    Before leaving I held her for a long moment, told her it would come in time.
    It did, three weeks later.
    Monica had a cute apartment, decorated in a stuffed animals dog-and-cat motif, even though she had neither.
    “I know it’s lame for an English lit major with Shakespeare, Keats, and all the rest to choose from, but ‘The Gingham Dog and Calico Cat,’ by Eugene Field, has always been my favorite poem,” she said.
    We were drinking French vanilla coffee at her kitchen table, discussing our favorite movies when she got up, walked past me saying, “I’ll be right back.”
    A few minutes later her arms encircled me from behind as her cheek pressed against mine, and a purple promise from a material sheer enough to hide nothing and expose everything, draped across my shoulder.
    This was the moment I had longed for and dreaded, masturbated and dreamed about, and had probably wanted since that first day at Five Guys. Now that it was here I was scared to death. This would be new ground for me. Confusing. Even frightening. While I had never broken my wedding vows, I also never had an opportunity to do so with a woman like Monica, an uncrowned Miss America.
    I couldn’t decide if I would feel worse waking up in the morning knowing what I had done, or realizing what I had passed up. In that brief moment views on adultery from the great philosophers caromed through my mind, but in the end it was Saffy’s voice that broke through loudest and clearest.
    Whenever anyone mentioned a decision they were having a hard time making, she always said, “My dad used to say, ‘If you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything.’”
    Honestly, even then I wasn’t sure I had the will power to walk away until I heard myself saying it.
    “Monica, as beautiful and desirable as you are, and as badly as I want you, what I said at Five Guys still holds, I’m a happily married man and want to stay that way.”
    “Saffy will never know,” she half whispered, half blew, in my ear.
    “But I would,” I said as I stood up and headed for the door.
    When I got there I turned around, partly to present the tent pole in my pants so she would not think she had done something wrong, or lose confidence in her ability to turn a man on.
    “Please don’t look so sad. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re back to where you were before it happened,” I said, smiling, before going through the door and out of her life.
    At home I told Saffy what had happened, purple negligee and all.
    “As awkward as it was, I feel good that I was able to help her get to that point and go on with her life. I also like the idea of no longer having to take time away from you and the kids.”
    “I knew all along I could trust you.”
    “Thank you,” I replied, without saying she had much more confidence in me than I did.
    “So tell me, Romeo, was I right about all the young ones?”
    “Not that one you weren’t, a firebush any young man would die for.”
    “Oh my God! Now I’m really impressed that you turned around and walked away,” she said as we embraced each other, laughing.

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