Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
didn’t mean to upset you, I was simply asking a question. Perhaps I should rephrase.”
“Perhaps you should.” He flops down in the chair.
“It seems that the two of you are at a point of decision, would you agree?”
Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs. He and Cindy look at one another. The two of them nod.
I tap my index finger against my thigh and study the immature jerk, trying to see deeper. Will he choose some temporary, ego-boosting fun with little Miss Bootsy who, judging from the looks of Roger, is probably only after his money? Or will he decide to make an effort to revive what he once had with the mother of his children, this intelligent, attractive woman he chose to marry? This woman who has washed his dirty socks and underwear, stuck with him through the early, sparse-money years after he started his business, believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.
Realizing my thoughts pertain to my own marriage, not necessarily the Hoyts’, I take a deep breath. This is about them, not me. “Both of you need to spend some time thinking about what you really want, what’s really important to you.” I zero in on Roger. “Do you want to preserve your commitment or move on to something else? Think hard about that. This affects not only your life, but also Cindy’s. And your children’s lives, too. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”
I turn. “And you, Cindy.” Her efforts to control her emotions trigger my own. My throat knots up; I tell myself to breathe. “If Roger stays, are you willing to work on the marriage? Can you put your suspicions and bitterness away and trust him again? And if he chooses to leave, what will you do? Your life will change dramatically. How will you deal with that? It’s something to ask yourself.”
We end the session. And while Roger doesn’t promise to come back next week, he does say he’ll consider it.
In the meantime, I have a lot to think about, too. It’s clear I still have Bert issues. I thought I’d worked through the worst of them, buried the pain, cynicism and anger in a deep, dark grave. But judging from what just happened, they’re all still alive. And thriving.
The paperback novel lies open in my lap. A Room For Eleanor. The current literary rage. Four hundred pages of angst and introspection.
Perching my funky new reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I glance down at the page. The final chapter, thank God. If I have to spend one more week reading about the depressed and depressing Eleanor, I’ll need a room, too. At the psychiatric pavilion.
I look up for a moment, scan the group of four women, all wearing glasses of some kind or another, and one man whose vision must be better than mine, since he’s lens-free. Ten folding chairs sit empty behind them. We started the club a year ago with fifteen members. Fourteen women and Oliver something-or-other, the sharp-eyed old charmer who sits at the end of the first row beside my mother. The club has dwindled to these five people; I don’t know why.
Lifting the novel, I begin to read aloud from chapter twenty-three.
“Eleanor locked the bathroom door, turned to the mirror then lifted the tweezers to her right eye. ‘No more,’ she whispered, plucking one lash then another and another, numb to the pain. ‘No more…’”
As I read, my mind drifts to my session with the Hoyts this morning. I almost crossed the line, let my personal feelings affect my professional objectivity. I transferred my anger at Bert to Roger Hoyt. That scares me. I have no business counseling couples if I can’t keep my own emotions out of the equation. I should’ve made every effort to connect with the man, prove myself to him, gain his trust, not put him on the defensive.
“She turned on the faucet and water spilled out, over her hand, into the tub, warm, soothing water to wash away the pain. And Eleanor whispered, ‘No more…’”
It’s just that, when I saw the Hoyts sitting across from me, middle-aged, miserable, together yet miles apart, I felt I was looking at a photo of Bert and myself from a year ago. Then Roger Hoyt finally started to talk, and I saw my own feelings reflected in his wife’s eyes. Humiliation. Self-doubt. Fear. For a second…okay, maybe more like five minutes, I envisioned the two of us tackling the balding Don Juan, strapping him to the sofa, face-up, castrating him with a dull pair of fingernail scissors.
Not good. Not good at all.
“The water surrounded Eleanor; her legs, her body, her face, filling her with peace, with truth. All her life, she had tried to avoid what she knew in her heart. ‘No more,’ she thought now. ‘No more.’”
I yawn. Okay, so maybe I do have an idea why the reading group has dwindled.
Halfway through the second scene, a loud snuffle brings my head up.
Mary Fran Hawkins and Frances Green, otherwise known as “The Frans” since they share not only similar names, but also an apartment, snore in rhythm, their chins on their chests. Mary Fran’s book is on the floor. Frances still holds hers open, though it’s migrating toward her knees.
I guessed the first second I met them that The Frans are lesbians, but Mother refuses to discuss it. According to her, it’s an inappropriate assumption on my part and none of our business one way or another. But whether she’ll admit it or not, I’m sure she knows it’s true. Like she’s always telling me, her eyesight’s bad, but she’s not blind.
Between The Frans and my mother, Doris Quinn files her nails and hums quietly to herself. Not a single silver hair on her head is out of place. She’s a tiny, twittery, totally feminine woman. Always upbeat. Always ready to bat an eye at any man who happens to glance at her. Eager to sympathize with their hard luck stories. I can imagine Doris being the “other” woman in her younger days. The equivalent of Roger Hoyt’s Bitsy or one of Bert’s baby-faced…
There I go, doing it again. Transferring my anger at Bert to someone else. Comparing a sweet, romantic woman of eighty who loves people and life to one of Bert’s bimbos.
At the end of the row of book lovers in front of me, jolly Oliver something-or-other, his book face-down in his lap, grins as he whispers something to Mother. She blushes, but pretends to ignore him, her gaze fixed on her copy of A Room For Eleanor, which she holds in both hands upside down.
“Eleanor opened her eyes, gazed up through the rippling water. Life shimmered above her, painful, chaotic, unpredictable life. She—”
“The End,” I say five paragraphs before the final line. I slap the book closed. The noise snaps The Frans to attention.
“So, what did you think?”
Doris stops filing her nails and sighs. “Remarkable. A masterpiece.” She presses a palm to her chest. “The ending…” She sighs. “It makes a person think, doesn’t it? There was so much wisdom in it, so much hope, so much—”
“Bullshit,” Mary Fran mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes and eliciting a snicker from Frances.
Doris flinches. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought it was an interesting selection, Cecilia,” Mother cuts in before Mary Fran can elaborate. “Another fine choice on your part. Very thought-provoking, as Doris said.”
Oliver smirks at her. “Come on now, Belle. It was a real stinker, and you know it.”
Doris points her fingernail file straight up. “Perhaps one person’s odor is another’s perfume.”
The Frans snort.
“Thanks for the show of support, Mother. You, too, Doris. But I have to agree with the others.” I tap a finger against the book’s cover. “I don’t get it. The book’s been at the top of the bestseller lists for over a month.”
Oliver winks at me. “There’s no accountin’ for taste, CiCi.” He scans the room. “No offense, but we’re gonna have to liven things up around here or pretty soon you’ll be reading to a bunch of empty chairs.”
I’m surprised by the look of distress