“We’ll be fine. He’s doing well. I don’t want to push it.”
“This isn’t right.”
“I’m sorry, but what isn’t right?”
“My being here while you’re out on the road, doing whatever you’re doing, joyriding around the country.”
“Joyriding. I’m hardly joyriding, Mary.”
“You’re not fooling me,” she said. “I know what you’re really doing.”
I swallowed hard, glanced over at Ethan in the bed next to me. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re finally taking your big whatever, your book trip, your Blue Road thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The one you always talked about. You know, you could have taken that trip anytime, but you decided to take it now, just when everyone needs you. Your daughter is getting married, married, and you’re hiding behind Ethan.”
“I think I have the hardest job. Being with him is hard. Everything else is easy. You know that.”
“For your information, I don’t have it easy. There are a million things to do here. Plus, I think something’s going on with Karen and Roger.”
I paused, sat up. “What’s going on? What do you mean? Is there a problem?”
“Just get here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure yet. I can’t talk now.”
She hung up.
I put the phone down and was about to begin a solid mulling over of things, when it buzzed again. I reached for it. For the second time that morning, I heard Mary’s voice. She started in before I could say a word.
“He’s impossible. You can’t rely on him. He does whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s just so … I need you down here right away. I’m tired of everything.” At first I assumed she was referring to Roger—she was never a fan—or possibly Sal. But when she said, “Mindy, are you there? Mindy? Hello? Are you there?” I realized who the object of her affection was. Ethan was constantly playing with our phones; consequently, our redial numbers were always messed up.
“Good-bye, Mary.” I hit end and again looked over at Ethan, who, thankfully, was still asleep. I propped up my pillows; apparently, I was done sleeping, and I started in on an intense staring of the ceiling.
“Mary, Mary, sweet contrary,” I whispered.
My phone buzzed yet again, interrupting my musing. I scrambled for it, hoping it was my ex. But it wasn’t my ex, at least not the ex I was still in love with. It was, shockingly, lovely Rita. I didn’t answer.
*
If asked, I prefer philanderer to adulterer. Adulterer is very you-are-going-to-hell-old-school, very Ten Commandment-ish. Philanderer is more PC. It sounds playful, connotes harmless rolls in the hay. People seem to forgive philanderers, or at least put up with them. Bill Clinton was/is a philanderer, and he’s still pretty popular. People idolize JFK. Other than possibly someone on FOX News, no one calls Clinton and Kennedy adulterers. They just fooled around. Hey, some presidents golfed.
(Note: I really wasn’t a full-fledged philanderer. In more than thirty years of marriage, I only stepped out with one woman, lovely Rita, and it didn’t last long. Then I came to my senses, confessed all, begged forgiveness, had a bar of soap thrown at my head, had a bar of soap hit me in the head, and was told to move out. Nine months later I was a divorced fifty-five-year-old man, living alone, trying to decide whether to have Dominos for lunch, and mac and cheese for dinner, or mac and cheese for lunch, and Dominos for dinner.) I met Rita at the Mid-City Health Club, a mecca for tennis-playing MILFs and middle-aged men who liked to spend hours in front of locker room mirrors, plucking rogue gray hairs from their eyebrows.
We struck up a conversation by the elliptical machines. Subsequent conversations led to a quasi-friendship, which led to some lunches, which led to some wine, which led to some oral sex in my car, which led to conventional sex, and then, depending on your definition, not-so-conventional sex at a nearby Hampton Inn, which led to the whole Dominos—mac-and-cheese dilemma.
I no longer even try to guess what I was thinking. While very attractive, when she wasn’t performing acrobatics at the Hampton, I didn’t find her particularly interesting or intelligent. (Note: when she was, I confess, I found her enthralling.) My mistress had a simple worldview: play tennis, drink Pinot, have sex, finish the Pinot. She was about ten years younger than me, divorced twice; when pressed, she admitted to never “really” having read a book; and when pressed, admitted to never “really” having watched the news. She freely admitted the obvious to me though: she was highly sexually charged.