Monday Mourning

By day, I was surrounded by academics. Dedicated. Compassionate. Bright. And as socially sophisticated as the Burpee seed catalog. Katy was an infant. My colleagues were childless and clueless concerning the demands of parenthood.

Each evening, I collected my baby at child care and transitioned to a picture perfect ad for country club living. Manicured lawns. Upmarket cars. Stepford wives with stay-at-home mind-sets. Female conversation focused on tennis, golf, and car pools.

I was despairing of ever developing meaningful female friendships when I spotted Anne at a neighborhood charity tea. Or heard her, to be more precise. Steel magnolia meets the drunken sailor.

I zeroed in. Instant connection.

Anne and I have seen each other’s kids through broken bones and broken hearts. Our families have shared two decades of camping and ski trips, Thanksgiving dinners, christenings, and funerals. Until the collapse of my marriage, the Turnips and the Petersonses hadn’t missed a summer at the ocean. Now Anne and I made the beach trips alone.

“What have you told the kids?”

“Nothing. I haven’t actually moved out of the house. I’m on a leave of absence. Traveling.”

“But—”

“Let’s not talk about me, darlin’. Let’s talk about you. What are you working on these days?”

There is no pursuing an issue with Anne when she closes down.

I summarized the pizza basement case, and told her of my frustration with my pal Claudel.

“You’ll bring him around. You always have before. Get to the good stuff. Are you seeing anyone?”

“Sort of.”

The waiter replaced our salads with entrées. Lasagna for Anne. Veal piccata for me. Anne ordered another wine, then snatched up the grinder and screwed cheese onto her pasta. I decided to try another run at the Tom thing.

“What exactly is the focus of this new personal outreach program?” I tried to keep the cynicism from my voice.

“Fulfillment. Self-esteem. Appreciation.” She smacked the grinder onto the tabletop. “And don’t even suggest it. I’m not signing up for one more puking course.”

We ate in silence for a few moments. When Anne spoke again her tone sounded lighter, but forced, somehow.

“I got more attention from the hunk in 3C than I have from Tom Turnip in the past twelve months. Boy’s probably out buying me gardenias right now.” Anne knocked back a swig of wine. “Hell, messages are probably piling up on your answering machine as we speak.”

“What boy in 3C?”

“A sweet little stud I met on the plane.”

“You gave him my phone number?”

“He’s harmless.”

“How do you know he’s harmless?”

“He was in first class.”

“So were the nice lads who torpedoed the Trade Center.”

My friend looked at me as though I’d suggested she cut off a foot.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Tempe. I’m not actually going to see the guy.”

I wasn’t believing this. I use extreme caution in giving out my home number. Anne had blithely shared it with a complete stranger, who might be calling my home looking for her.

“I’d had a couple of Manhattans,” she continued, oblivious to the extent of my annoyance. “We talked. He asked where he could reach me. I jotted the stuff on a napkin—”

“Stuff? Meaning address, too?”

Anne gave an Academy Award orbital roll.

“I’m sure the guy tossed it as he exited the Jetway. How’s your veal?”

In contrast to the conversation, my meat was perfect.

“Good,” I mumbled. So the guy might not call. He could show up on my doorstep.

“Mine is parfait. See what I mean? Already I’m in a different galaxy from Clover, South Carolina.” Anne circled her fork in the air. “Québec! La belle province! C’est magnifique!”

I have been accused of speaking Southern French. Anne’s accent left me in the Dixie dust.

“This is just a cooling-off period, right? A marital sabbatical?”

When I was married to Pete, Anne and I often joked about the “marital sabbatical.” It was our code phrase for “road trip, no men allowed.”

“I could be dead a week and Tom Turnip wouldn’t notice I was gone.” The fork came back up, this time pointed at me. “No. That may be harsh. If Tom ran out of toilet paper he might holler to inquire as to my whereabouts.”

Anne gave one of her full, throaty laughs. “There’s a pretty picture, darlin’. The great barrister, caught midstep taking a dum—”

“Annie.”

“Hon, the boy is history.”

For a few moments we ate in silence. When I’d finished, I gave the topic one last shot.

“Annie, this is Tempe. I know you. I know Tom. I’ve seen you two together for twenty years. Tell me what’s really going on.”

Anne laid down her fork and began working the paper napkin under her wineglass. A full minute passed before she spoke.

“Things were amazing when Tom and I first met. The March of the Toreadors every night. And things stayed great. The books and talk shows tell you that married couples go from towering inferno to not so hot, and that that’s normal. But it didn’t happen with Tom and me.”

Jagged scallops were appearing along the napkin’s edge.

“Not until a couple of years ago.”

“Are you talking about sex?”