Better Off Without Him (5 page)

This was becoming much harder than I had anticipated. “Phyllis. Listen to me. Brian told me that he has met another woman and that he’s in love with her.”

“Hold on, dear. I need to get a drink of water.” I could hear a thud as she set the phone down. I stared at the receiver in amazement. I glanced at MarshaMarsha and Patricia, both of whom had that I-told-you-so look.

Noise on the phone. Phyllis was back. “Now, Mona, sometimes men reach an age where they, well, question their manhood. Sometimes they need a little fantasy to get over the hump.”

“Phyllis, this is not a hump. Well, actually it is, but it’s not any hump that I’m a part of. Brian came home this morning, packed his clothes and left the house.” I was almost shouting. “He told me he was leaving me for a thirty-year-old French woman he met at work. Her name is Dominique and he’s moving in with her.” I forced my voice back down to a normal pitch and managed to conjure up a little sob as I drove it home. “He’s got a lawyer.”

“Lawyer? He’s got a lawyer?” Phyllis finally got it. “Probably that slime-bucket Hirsch Fielding, who thinks nobody knows he changed his name from Feldstein. I knew his mother, Sadie. The poor woman turns over in her grave every time her worthless son takes on another client.” She was silent. “I can’t believe that my son would do this, Mona. I am ashamed. For a man to leave his wife and family like this. Thank God Lewis isn’t alive to see this day.” She had been sounding a little frail, but she suddenly got back into gear. “If you need anything, you let me know. I know you’ve got money of your own, but you call, okay? And if my daughter the religious fanatic tries to give you a hard time, you tell me. Okay?”

“Oh, Phyllis, thank you,” I said gratefully. “I was afraid for a minute that you wouldn’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? You two got married by a rabbi in the sight of God and the family. Brian should know better. He is a disgrace. And I’ll tell him that when he calls.” She slammed down the phone. I hung up more gently.

“Well?” Patricia asked.

“Thank God I went with a rabbi instead of a priest,” I said.

MarshaMarsha nodded. I noticed that sometime during my crying spell, she had acquired a martini. She patted my hand again. “Everything happens for a reason, honey. Honest. You may not know what the reasons are, but it will all become clear.”

Patricia, who does not necessarily hold to the Life-Is-A-Cosmic-Plan idea, rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But I know who you should call next. David West.”

I squinted at her. “Who’s David West?”

“My divorce lawyer. Believe me, with all the business I give him, he’ll probably take on your case pro-bono.” Patricia just finished up with husband #3. I think the reason she has always kept her maiden name is that she values economy of motion, and who wants to keep filling out all those name-change forms?

I nodded. Now, you may be asking why, in such a time of stress, I didn’t do what every other woman would immediately do, which is call my mother. Sadly, the wonderful and ever-supportive Evelyn Quincy passed many years ago, shortly after the death of her beloved husband, Jerry. Now, I do have a sister, who, being older, might have been a good substitute, but Grace and I are not really that close. She lives on a commune in Oregon. She’s lived there since she ran away from home in 1976 with a hash-smoking sitar player named Shadow. She’s a grandmother now, and Shadow makes hand-made musical instruments that sell for several thousands of dollars, but she is still just a little bit flakey, and has never forgiven me for not giving up Nestle Crunch Bars years ago, when there was a big to-do over something, I forget what, but it really got under her skin and I just shrugged it off and kept on eating chocolate.

Just then, there was a rattle at the back door. Somebody was turning the doorknob. I flew out of my chair and threw open the door, shrieking, “Brian,” but it was not Brian. It was Ben Cutler, my plumber. He stopped smiling as I dissolved into tears again.

“Mona? What’s wrong?” Ah, Ben. He’s tall, maybe, 6’2”. He’s almost 40, but in great shape, with broad shoulders and amazingly sexy arms, muscular, you know, from throwing all those toilets around. He’s got very dark, straight hair and bright blue eyes and a dimple you could get lost in. In a work shirt and tool belt, he stops traffic.

“Brian’s gone,” I wailed, and threw my arms around his neck, sobbing some more. He put his arms around me, very nicely too, and patted me on the back.

She could feel the heat of his hands through the sea-green silk of her bodice, and the long, hard length of him as his arms tightened, drawing her closer, his lips in her hair. Her heart was pounding, and she could feel the rush of blood as she lifted her mouth to his.

“There, there,” he murmured, or something equally ineffective. We stood like that for a few seconds, then he, as I would have written, gently disengaged himself from my desperate grasp.

He looked down at me sternly. “Take a deep breath, Mona.”

I did, several times, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Ideally, he would have handed me a starched, white handkerchief, smelling faintly of tobacco, musky sweat and old whiskey, or, better yet, wiped my eyes for me, but men don’t carry handkerchiefs anymore, whiskey-smelling or otherwise.

“Where did he go?” Ben asked.

“To Dominique’s. With all his clothes.”

Ben looked around. He knew both Patricia and MarshaMarsha, of course, not just because he’s spent so much time at my house, but because I have recommended him to all my friends and he has seen the insides of their bathrooms as well.

Patricia folded her arms across her breasts. “It’s true, Ben. The stinker took a powder. We were just discussing lawyers.”

Ben frowned, then his eyes lit on the martini pitcher. “Any extra?” he asked. Patricia, a born hostess even if it’s not her house, jumped to the task of finding another glass and cracking open a new jar of olives.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, Ben does not usually waltz into my kitchen and settle in for a cocktail. But between my hysteria and Patricia’s pronouncement, he probably figured it was a good move.

Ben steered me to my chair and pushed me back down. Gently but firmly. His hands were on his hips and his head was tilted slightly to the side. The sunlight was behind him, casting his handsome, rugged features into dark relief…wait. Perhaps I’m getting a bit off the track. He looked down at me, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Are you telling me that Brian has left? Really?”

All three of us nodded. MarshaMarsha, I noticed, was sitting up a little straighter and was slowly caressing the long, smooth stem of her martini glass.

“I can’t believe it,” Ben continued. I gazed up at him, waiting for his next words of comfort, but Patricia handed him a martini, momentarily distracting him. He took a sip, nodded his approval, and drank some more. “This is terrible, Mona. Terrible. Why any man in his right mind would leave a woman like you is beyond all belief.”

If I had been on my third martini, instead of my second, I very well might have thrown myself at his feet in gratitude, not to mention a teeny bit of lust. As it was, I just nodded and tried to look brave and plucky.

Ben appeared to be thinking about something. He was frowning slightly, sipping slowly, and he finally nodded.

“You need a good lawyer,” he said at last. “First thing. My last wife had a great one. Cleaned me out.”

MarshaMarsha leaned forward. “Oh, you’re divorced, Ben? I never knew that.”

“Oh, yeah. About four years now.” He was running his tongue over his lips, relishing the memory, or perhaps going for that last bit of martini, and all three of us took in a long, collective breath.

He set down his empty glass. “I came over about the tub. But I’ll come back. This must be awful for you.”

Awful? Why was he saying awful? Sitting there, looking up at him, I was having a lovely time. I realized, with a jolt, that I had never been around Ben while under the influence of two Carmichael Martinis before, and that my judgment was, to say the least, severely impaired. Brian had left. I was despondent. I had no right to be smiling up at my plumber.

“It’s okay, Ben,” I said at last. “You’d better go up. I want things around here to be as normal as possible for the girls.”

Ben nodded and headed up the back staircase. Patricia slumped slightly against the freezer as he left.

“Has he always looked that good?” she asked.

MarshaMarsha nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“God,” Patricia muttered. “Why did I never notice?”

“You were probably married last time you saw him,” I said. “And sober.”

“I’m sober now, darling, not to worry. You’re slurring a bit, though. Speaking of the girls, how are you going to tell them?”

“He wanted us to do it together,” I told her. “Miserable bastard.” I gazed into my empty glass and felt a new swell of misery. “They’re going to be so upset. They love their Daddy.”

MarshaMarsha pushed her empty glass toward Patricia with significant force. “Your daughters will be fine. They’re really very good kids.”

“Miranda will say it’s my fault,” I said in a muffled voice.

Patricia tut-tutted as she played with the ice. “Darling, be reasonable. How can she possibly blame you for this?”

“She’ll find a way. Remember last January, when the blizzard closed down the roads and she couldn’t get to the Green Day Concert? That was my fault. And it was my fault when the cat coughed up a hairball on her dress for the Freshman Formal last year.” I sank my head back down on the table. “She blamed me when Heath Ledger died.”

“Mona, when things are the worst, people rise above. I bet your daughters will surprise you,” MarshaMarsha said. I heard Patricia make a noise that, in another, less genteel person, might have been called a snort. Patricia has no children, and while she takes a keen interest on all her friends’ offspring, she harbors no delusions about the human spirit, especially the human spirit as found in teenaged girls.

We all sat drinking in silence for a few minutes. My lips, during this time, became completely numb. Patricia, recognizing the signs, took charge.

“We need lunch,” she announced. “We need lots of food, soon, or we’ll be passed out when the girls do get home.” She opened my refrigerator and began hauling things out. I watched her with keen interest.

I am a very good cook. I am also a very good eater. I have to work hard at not ballooning up to a size 22W. By working hard, please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not talking exercise. No, not at all. Although I do walk a great deal, including up to Town and the Yoga Centre, where, about once a week, I stretch and moan to Navaho flute music and very bad incense. No, by working hard I mean that I stay away from white food and ice cream, except on weekends, of course, and I try to eat a healthy balance of protein and complex carbohydrates, as well as low-fat fats to keep my skin and hair looking good.

Patricia is an excellent cook. Gourmet stuff. Without ever having to look at a recipe. And she’s bone thin. She explained to me that her weight had never been an issue for her, that her whole family was just naturally slender and she could eat whatever she wanted whenever she wanted to. I still like her.

In a remarkably short time, she presented us with a platter of open-faced sandwiches, some hot and bubbly from the broiler, lots of lovely salad and big glasses of cold water. She called up and asked Ben if he was hungry. Then we all sat and waited for him to come down the stairs.

Now, Ben coming downstairs is not nearly as impressive as Ben going upstairs, as you can imagine, or maybe you can’t, but it’s still a show worth watching. He sat down with us, smiled politely, and we all began to eat our lunch.

My first bite was asparagus and roasted red pepper under melted fontina cheese. “This is really good,” I told Patricia. “Where did you get the cheese?”

Patricia waited until she had swallowed to answer. “From your fridge, dear. Where else?”

“And the asparagus?” I asked.

“Where do you think?” Patricia doesn’t get angry at stupid questions, only stupid people.

“I don’t remember buying it,” I said, trying to explain myself to Ben. Ben smiled. “I’m surprised you still remember your name at this point,” MarshaMarsha said. “How are you feeling?”

I thought about that. Aside from a very big buzz that was filling me to the eyeballs, I was really pissed off.

“I’m really pissed,” I said.

They all stopped to watch me.

“Really angry,” I continued. “He’s not just leaving me. He’s leaving his family. His daughters. And for what? That’s what I don’t get. If he wanted to screw her, he could have done it and I probably never would have even known. He’s always working late and going on business trips. He could have had his little thing on the side and gone on with us at the same time. Why did he have to tell me?” I felt tears again. “Why did he have to hurt me like that? It’s just so – so - well, mean. Mean. Why would he do that?” I looked around at three kind and sympathetic faces.

“Oh, honey,” MarshaMarsha said softly.

I took another sandwich. Crumbled bacon, mushrooms and hot blue cheese. I took a few bites, chewing carefully as no one said a word. I was starting to feel more focused. I took several gulps of water.

“I don’t know how he’s going to explain this to the girls,” I said. “Is he going to tell them the truth? I mean, come on, a thirty-year-old girlfriend?” I viciously stabbed my salad with a fork. “And the thing is, I thought everything was fine. I mean, we weren’t fighting. We were still having sex. We planned his sister’s birthday party. It’s a surprise party. Here. I didn’t know anything was wrong. If I thought we were in trouble, I’d have been more prepared, or something. But he just came home and said – “ I stopped and drank more water. I looked fiercely at Ben. “You didn’t cheat on your wife, did you?”

Ben shook his head. “No. She wanted kids. I already had the boys from my first wife.” He never talked about his first wife, adding an air of mystery to his past. Like he needed to add anything. I could see Patricia starting to move her hand to touch his, then pull back. Luckily, I was closer. “I’m glad,” I murmured, patting the back of his long-jointed, strong hands, feeling the soft and springy hairs on his fingers…never mind.