Rick's hands tugged at belts and zippers: hurry. We will do this . . . even
though his son might get out of bed, knock on the door, see me leave his
parents' bedroom. What I then forced myself to know was that this, this one
careless act of sex, was more important to Rick than his son. And because I,
too, couldn't say no, because I feared Rick would leave me if I refused him sex,
I began to know, had to accept, that sex was more important to me, too. In a
moment of clarity I realized that, while the sober part of me wanted to attend
his son, a tangled, humid, inescapable part stopped me. Time stalled: with
Rick's hands forever on his belt buckle; with my fingers always on the zipper of
And a moment later, I no longer heard his son crying.
The next therapy session I told my therapist, Ted, about Rick's son. More: I
confessed that I'd been secretly meeting Rick for weeks without telling him,
Ted. I couldn't stop. Before I'd left Ted's office, he called the inpatient unit
where he worked and scheduled my admittance. He told me it wasn't possible for
him to work with clients who showed up for a session "drunk" or "hungover." He
could no longer see me as an outpatient; he could only help me in the rehab
unit. "To have real feelings, you have to be sexually sober," he said. "Not
numbed out." Afraid to be abandoned by Ted, beginning to accept the emotional
destructiveness of my behavior, I agreed to go.
Now, as I cross the motel parking lot, dingy afternoon light fuses my blouse
to my sweaty back. All I want is to sleep it off. My footsteps sound hollow. My
mouth tastes contaminated, metallic. The little girl and her green balloon are
gone. Without her energy, the pool is a flat, glassy sheen. Driving from the
lot, I pass the neon sign, silently spelling rainbow motel.
I should never return here; yet I can't imagine not meeting Rick every
Thursday at noon. For what I do in room #213 is the only reason, I believe, a
man would love me . . . what my father taught me was love.
That evening my husband and I eat a silent dinner at the kitchen table.
Andrew sits erect, solid, focused on a Braves baseball game on the portable
television, while I hunch over my plate. Andrew takes angry bites of an overdone
hamburger, the third one I fixed this week, and canned string beans, all I
managed to prepare after returning from the motel. I nibble at an edge of
hamburger and spear one bean onto my fork. I put it down without eating. Looking
at all the food, I think I might be sick. Fumes from the motel seem to rise from
the hem of my skirt. My body feels sticky and smudged. It feels unhealthy.
Andrew seems not to see, pretends not to notice, this mess that is me. Or, yes,
he notices. But he never asks questions. He is too afraid of the answers.
"Sorry about the dinner," I say.
He isn't angry about the affairs; he doesn't know about them. He's angry
about my emotional disarray. He wants me to be industrious and smiling. Normal.
I worry, even with therapy, I won't learn how to love him the way I should,
won't learn how to act like a wife.
"I was wondering," I say, during a television commercial break, "maybe you
could drive me over there tomorrow and help me get settled."
"I can't just not teach my classes." His fingers grip the fork.
I want to touch his hand, loosen the grip, warm our fingers.
"I need to finish grading papers." He pushes back his chair. "Remember to
call your parents, tell them where you're going," he says. His six-foot body
fills the doorway. "I wouldn't know what to say if they call here looking for
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...