As if her sudden death wasn’t enough, there is more. Now I find myself attracted to a man. And I am sick of listening to Reverend Talbot telling me about God’s plan. Would he say it was God’s plan if I told him about Michael? For me, this supposed plan, this answer for all unanswerable questions, is phoney. It does not bring solace. It is a worthless cliche so often spewed from the mouth of a white suited TV evangelist, the one recently arrested with a prostitute.
During the five months she has been gone I have been invited to dinner in the homes of several kind old ladies on the Caring Committee from church. Small talk is difficult when I want to scream about what is fair. None of the couples we know have invited me. Evidently I don’t fit in any more. At church I listen to their stumbling words and want to respond with sarcastic laughter.
Our son and daughter call every week to see how I’m doing and I cover well. We had another son but he died suddenly three years ago. That was supposed to be God’s plan too. Reverend Talbot said so.
I had expected to have difficulty, but not with this other dimension. Often I spend the night walking through our empty house, unable to sleep, asking the un-answerable why. I sit down and try to read but don’t see the words, then go back to bed until it is light.
Michael is one of the company representatives I talk to on the phone. We’ve had several business lunches together, but always with management people from the company he works for. Sometimes he has walked to my car with me. We’ve never seen each other socially or talked about personal things.
But he knows.
He has called twice since she has been gone, to our home phone rather than the business line.
It is morning. It takes great effort even to get dressed. I find the empty bourbon bottle under the bed and throw it into the trash. My hands shake so much I drop the coffee carafe then kick its broken pieces across the kitchen floor. Finally I sit down in despair thinking about my gun in the kitchen drawer. The telephone rings.
“This is Michael. I want you to come to the beach this weekend. I think it will be good for you.”
Goose pimples rise on my arms. “I’d like that,” I say. It is a defiant choice, not compulsion.
Michael lives two hours away. When we meet he suggests we continue on to the beach in his car. Riding in it gives me a lift but it is noisy with the top down.
We change into our bathing suits at the motel. My fantasy had him in a small bikini but he wears cutoffs. We walk on the beach and I feel the accumulated tensions leaving my body. A single, pleasant one takes their place. When we hold hands I imagine others watching.
We go into the water for a short time then back to the room and take a shower together. We soap each other. Michael likes it. I do not. I wonder if it is because everything about me is tangled and distorted.
We go to a restaurant Michael knows. I have been to Oceanside many times but never noticed it. Candles are the only lighting. All of the couples are men. Conversation is subdued and a pianist plays softly. The food is excellent, the waiters attentive. I wonder if they think I am Michael’s father, then realize men probably don’t come to places like this with their fathers.
Back at the room we hang up our clothes without speaking. Still silent, we stand for a moment looking at each other before getting into bed. For me, fantasy and reality look at each other across a chasm of guilt, anger and ten thousand must nots.
I am afraid but he is gentle, almost delicate. Then he tells me what he needs. Afterward I turn off the lamp. He lies against my chest, his head under my chin. The hoped for relaxation does not appear. Only guilt.
“This is new for me,” I say.
“Not even on camp outs when you were thirteen?”
“No, I was the last to mature. Being teased about something over which I had no control left me feeling inferior and afraid. Some of that has carried over into my adult life.”
“Yes,” Michael says,”maybe that’s why you’re always jumping up to do things for others, as if you need their approval. That’s how you are at our business lunches with the big guns. I’ve wanted to tell you to relax.”
There is no need to respond. He is right.
“With all the interesting things you’ve done in your life and all the places you’ve lived,” I ask, “why are you in that terrible job?”
“Because it is something not many can do. Knowing that gives me a feeling of self respect.”
“The training you’ve had is way above that,” I say.
His hand rubs my face. “You look beyond the prejudice that keeps others from hiring me,” he says. “Don’t you do things because you need to feel self respect?”
I think of the worthless college degrees I have collected but don’t answer, changing the subject instead. “I’m pleased but surprised you would call. I’m thinking about our age difference.”
His smile reassures. “Age has nothing to do with it,” he says.
He sleeps well. I don’t, afraid I have made a horrible mistake. I look at Michael. The guilt always waiting in the wings again comes to center stage, its weight crushing any good feeling there might be.
I get up early, put on my pajamas, and read the paper. Our motel room is new and I wonder who did the finish work. The pocket door to the bathroom is an inch short. The plastic base board material is loose. A curtain rod is low on one end. Everything not quite right. I identify with that.
Michael wakes up. I make him a cup of coffee and sit on the edge of the bed.
He touches my back. “This was new for you but I have always been this way,” he says. “It is lonely and I am not one to indiscriminately reach out.” His voice is soft. “I’m attracted to you because you allow yourself to be open, to show your feelings.”
Far too sensitive, I say to myself. Too open to hurt and guilt. Vulnerable. Feminine. We talk for hours. He asks a lot of caring questions about her. I cannot think of a way to tell him what I have to. At noon we have champagne cocktails at an outdoor restaurant, then lunch.
We go to the beach then to a little shopping mall where Michael buys me a container of violet starts for my garden. In the early afternoon we take showers separately and get ready to leave. We embrace before we dress but men’s bodies don’t fit together like those of man and woman.
The noisy convertible makes conversation difficult, giving me time to decide what to say.
He stops next to my car and speaks before I can.
“This isn’t right for you,” he says, “I can tell.”
“Michael, I don’t know and I’m afraid.”
He rubs the back of my neck. “Its OK,” he turns his face away, “you aren’t the only one who is afraid. I’ve never found anyone who I really wanted to be with,” he swallows. “Until...”
He turns to me and I see the tears in his eyes. It rips my guts out.
I try to find things to do at home. The next morning I go to the China cabinet and take out the good China I never liked, have it packed and sent to our daughter. I buy a simple blue and white set to replace it. After planting the violet starts Michael gave me I pull out all the dwarf Barberry bushes that line the front walk and replace them with Dusty Miller.
Goodwill comes to pick up the heavy coffee table I don’t want any more. I start to empty its single drawer, then stop. Her reading glasses are there. The auger in my stomach makes another turn and I dread finding other things of hers.
I invite two couples for lunch after church. I always did most of the cooking. It was a secret she and I had. They like the chicken salad. It is the one with red grapes and toasted almonds with the chicken marinated in raspberry vinegar. I make cheese sticks and the wine is a dry semillon.
Later, when I am putting dishes into the dish washer, Maxine Johnson comes into the kitchen. We have known Maxine and Bill for a long time.
“The salad was excellent, Frank. All these years and we didn’t know you cooked.” She stands too close. “Bill is gone all next week helping his brother.” Her tone of voice says more. “Come over some evening. Late when its dark. We’ll go into the hot tub. It’ll be good for you.”
She has never been like this before. Perhaps it is something she too, has wanted to try.
“I’d like to come over when both you and Bill are there,” I say.
She blushes. Bill comes into the kitchen. “There you are,” he says, looking at both of us. He takes her arm. “C’mon,” he says. His look tells me he thinks I was hitting on her. I know I am crossed off their list.
Next I invite the Rawsons. Recently retired, they have just moved here so there is no history on either side. I had spoken to them the first time they were in church.
Don Rawson calls a couple of days before the dinner. “Frank, my sister is visiting us unexpectedly. OK if we bring her? She recently lost her hubby.”
I prepare the pot roast in beer. Potatoes, carrots and onion go in when the roast is almost ready. I had made a relish plate and the green salad before going to church. The last of the Key lime juice she and I got in the Caribbean went into the pie I made last night. A Gamay goes well with the roast.
Benita Rawson and Don’s sister come into the kitchen after we have eaten. His sister is tall, over weight and wearing a heavy perfume that partially covers her perspiration odor.
“Our turn,” Benita laughs, taking my arm and guiding me out of the kitchen. “The chef cooks but the slaves clean up. We’ve been watching. You’re the quintessential care giver. Time to receive.”
“How about going fishing with us down the river for a few days?” Don says when they are leaving. “It would be just the four of us.” His sister watches, smiling.
“I’ll call you,” I say.
They leave. I go to the office and check the answering machine for messages.
Michael has called.
With effort I turn away from the phone, wanting to return Michael’s call and at the same time not wanting to. I drink the rest of the wine, then start on a bottle of bourbon. I look at the drawer with the gun in it.
On the last day of the fishing trip Don and Benita go hiking at dusk. His sister and I go into the water. When we come out she unzips her bathing suit and looks at me, smiling. It is her third invitation in as many days. I should have gone hiking with Don and Benita. I mumble something about going to look for a good fishing spot. Later she comes to my tent. I tell her to go away.
The next afternoon they drop me off in front of the house. I do not invite them in. I rush to the liquor cupboard, take a bottle out and mix a drink. Then another. Several. Oblivion beckons. I go to the drawer and take the gun out. I set it on the counter. I hesitate, then drink directly from the bottle. Vomit runs down the front of my shirt. I look at the gun. I pick it up. The barrel is cold in my mouth. My hand shakes. Then something inside me cries out. I put the gun down and stay up the rest of the night.
“I miss her so much, yet I went to the beach with Michael,” I say to the psychologist.
“So you’re going to flog yourself forever because you had sex with a man?” he says. “You say what you did isn’t right for you. Or does it just go against what others know and think about you?”
I can’t answer. I don’t know.
He waits, then continues. “Will you tell me more about your relationship with Michael?”
“I was stupid.”
He holds up his hand. “I asked you a question.”
“We had a good time together and have lots in common, but I guess sex was not, it didn’t seem right for me.”
“Sex with a man isn’t your thing and you’ve said another woman could never measure up to what you had. Do you see what you’ve done to yourself?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ve turned everything into shit!” I spit out the words.
“Listen! If you want to feel sorry for yourself you don’t need me to talk to. The world is full of practicing experts in that area. I asked you a question.”
“I have put myself into an impossible position,” I say.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me more about your wife.”
It takes a long time.
“I’ve got the picture,” he says. “You can work yourself out of this or go the self pity route. Which is it?”
I start to speak. He holds up his hand again.
“It would also be a good idea to explore your having to do so much for others. Even with sex. How did you feel when Michael did things for you? Or when your wife did?”
“With her, I had to be so noble. I always had to be the one to do everything. With Michael I’m...I don’t know.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. In always doing for others are you blind to people wanting to do things for you?
“No!”
“Or do you feed others only so you can get what you need from them?”
“Wait just one damn minute!”
He leans forward. “Ah! Talk about your anger.”
I have a lot to say.
He pushes the box of tissues toward me. “So there’s anger mixed with the fear. I’ve heard some classic examples of wrong thinking too.” He stops. “You OK? What are you feeling right now?”
“Stupid but relieved now there is someone I can talk to.”
“This is a start. I can help but you have to find the answers for yourself and you can’t reason if you are depressed. I’ll call your medical group and get a prescription. Make sure you pick it up today. I’m guessing your booze consumption has gone way up too. With the meds you’ll be taking that has to stop.”
He leans forward again. “One last thing. I need a commitment that you will call me rather than kill yourself.”
“I can give you that.”
“Then you’ve decided to live?”
“Yes.”
“OK,” he sits back,”bring me the gun.”
In the last three months Michael and I have had no contact. The confusion remains and I keep telling myself I’m handling it OK. Then late one night the phone rings. It is Michael. I am afraid.
“How have things been going for you?” he asks.
“You already know.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says.
“Always that,” I respond.
“I hope things will get better for you,” he says.
“The violets are growing,” I say, wanting to tell him I’m lonely.
“I’m living in Vermont,” he says.
An instant sadness comes over me. “I had something to do with that. I’m sorry.”
“I knew that’s what you would say,” he responds. “Don’t be sorry. I move a lot.”
There is a long pause. I wait for him to speak. “I’m calling on the chance you might come here and be with me.”
I close my eyes and take several quick, shallow breaths. In that instant my confusion disappears.
“Yes, Michael, yes. Give me your phone number.
“I was so afraid...I didn’t think that...I’m so glad.”
He gives me his phone number and address. “Hurry,” he says.
“There are some things I’ve got to take care of here.”
“Hurry,” he says again.
I go to the kitchen window and watch the full moon come up.
For the first time in many months, I am sleepy.
