Uh-huh. After three years together, after all those professions of love and tender moments making love. After all those times he looked lovingly into my eyes—how is that possible? How is it we can do those things, things that feel permanent, like even if the relationship ended, those feelings would still be there? It makes me not believe in anything, in any feeling, in any profession, in any love at all. It’s all just bullshit. Just hormones and lust and needs and filling people’s gaps, the holes in their souls. We all just use each other, don’t we? Nothing is what it seems.
“Well, that is a lot to discuss, Charlotte. You are right. People do that to each other. But sometimes it becomes more than that. Sometimes the weaker loves, the lust-driven loves, the filling holes, turn into more. And sometimes those momentary connections, the ones that catch us off guard like a cold wind coming around the corner of a building, sometimes those stay put and then become an anchor for a more permanent connection. That is what most people in stable relationships describe. It’s the connection, and the need for that connection. And from there, like anything we need, we take care of it with kindness and caretaking—acts of love. But that is really too much for one day, isn’t it? Tell me how you feel now, after Bob said ‘fuck you’ and left?”
I feel disoriented. I feel like I’m lost in my own life.
“That’s perfect, Charlotte.”
Perfect? It’s miserable.
“Let me ask you this: If Bob called you and said he was sorry, would you go to him? Would you make love to him again?”
I would want to. But I couldn’t. How could I possibly do that after all of this? After I saw the person he is, the lying, the cruelty, the way he dances in and out of affection and aggression. But I would want to. It feels very hard to know that it’s gone. It was the thing that made my life possible.
“I know. It will be hard to quit Bob. Just do one thing for me? Don’t find a replacement. Just sit with the discomfort. Be lost for a while and see how long you can stand the pain. It’s my guess that it will pass. Like when you stub your toe on the edge of the sofa.”
Charlotte agreed. She had given up her one cigarette, at least for now. And I was so very proud of her! Yes, I had been monomaniacal about saving my son. And yes, I had also wanted to finish my work with Jenny. I had not considered Tom or Charlotte. There was no room for them. But that does not mean I no longer cared. I was deeply invested in both of them. As Jenny would say, they were a math problem I knew I could solve, and solve easily. How could I not want to do that? I am a doctor. It is my calling to heal and to cure.
I had not considered the possible synergies embedded within my plan, but I could see them now. It might have taken years for Charlotte to quit Bob. Years! And by then, it may have been too late. I felt deeply satisfied for Charlotte, and at the risk of sounding egotistical, I was very pleased with myself. Charlotte was going to be all right. I could see it. The quitting was the hardest part.
Bob would not fare quite so well.
Chapter Thirty-two
Fran Sullivan is a woman after my own heart. That is such an odd expression, but we all understand its meaning, don’t we? She was not a good person. Nor was she a kind person. But she took care of her own.
Fran and Bob had met in high school. She was one of those people who likes to indulge, and so she does not exercise or watch her diet or inhibit her cravings in any way. She wears what she likes. Sleeveless dresses in the summer that highlight the flesh under her arms. They swing like elephant tusks as she marches down the street with her brood of men—her three sons and her rich husband. In the winter, she pulls out her furs, coats made of dead baby animals, which repulse most people these days. Her hair is big, her makeup bold. You can smell her perfume blocks away. I imagine she was no more attractive when they met as she was now, but I can also see why Bob married her. She was a valuable member of the team.
I have never met Fran Sullivan in person. Our paths do not cross socially. But she is a large personality in a small town. It is impossible not to notice her.
It is said by many that Fran Sullivan made her husband what he is today. I believe this to be true. I believe that she saw in him a large ego with a huge appetite and that she knew she could use this hunger to her advantage. They had grown up together in Cranston. Lower middle class. Sick of the struggle. Sick of the wealth just miles down the road that was out of their reach. Fran did not attend college. Fran worked as a secretary, helping Bob pay for Skidmore. Bob got a job in a car dealership. He came home every night with his stories about stolen commissions, ass-kissing, backstabbing—they were gladiators in the Colosseum, these salesmen. They are notorious, aren’t they? Car salesmen? Fran had a brilliant mind, a cunning mind, and no conscience whatsoever. In every battle, Bob Sullivan was the last man standing.
Of course, this is all speculation on my part. But I cannot be far off.