January Sucks

As I walked out the door my cellphone rang. I didn't recognize the number but decided to answer anyway.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this Jim Lewis? My name is Janet Norton and I'm with the Sentinel. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Sure, Janet. You caught me at a good time. How can I help you?"

"Well Jan Davis, who runs our overnight desk, told me the strangest story this morning and suggested that I give you a call. I understand you had a run-in with our city's favorite son. Can you tell me what happened?"

Over the next half-hour I laid out my story, answering the occasional question, and discussing where things stood a day later. By now I had told the story enough that I was able to do it without the same soul-crushing sadness that I felt the first time or two. By the end of the phone call, Janet said that she was going to write up the story for the next day's paper and asked if she could call if she had any further questions. I told her I would help in any way that I could and hoped that she would be able to get her story published.

I found a cheap hotel roughly halfway between my home and office. After checking in and unpacking, I realized that I was hungry and decided to stop in at a small local bar a few blocks away from my office called "The Willing Mind."It was done up to look like a 19^th century working-man's pub, and had sort of a dive-ish feel to it, but was in the wrong part of town to attract the real riffraff. I went there occasionally to decompress; it was just the place. I had a couple of beers over the next few hours and thought. That's what I told myself I was doing, anyway, but I can't remember a single thought I had. So I guess I just sat there and hurt until closing time.

The future I'd wanted with the woman I loved had been blown to bits, at least that's how it seemed to me. What did I want now? I would have to figure it out and make it happen on my own, because what I wanted clearly didn't matter to Linda. The kids came first, that was obvious. They deserved a stable home where they would be encouraged to develop and grow to their full potential. I would accept nothing less from myself or Linda. That was non-negotiable.

What about Linda? She seemed to still think that once I got over my hurt, we would be back to where we were before. Not a chance. I knew I would hurt less with time, but that wouldn't change any of the real issues. The memory of her betrayal would be with me for the rest of my life, and despite her protests, neither of us would be the same again.

Were Linda and I finished, then? I couldn't see any other solution. What did that mean for Emma and Tommy? I shuddered at the idea of their being shuttled back and forth from one place to another, weekends and holidays parceled out between Linda and me. Kids always try to play one parent off against the other, and it's never good for them. If Linda and I divorced, we would make that all too easy. Emma had me wrapped around her little finger already; I would be an utter pushover by the time she was a teenager. Linda would be the same with Tommy: that mischievous look and dimpled grin were already capable of melting his mother's sternest resolve to the consistency of gooey caramel. No, it would take both of us working together to raise that pair. I had to figure out some way to make it happen. But how?

I was glad I'd had the idea to have Linda write things down. I would be able to go back and re-read parts that didn't make sense to me, and if I got too emotional, I could put it aside and go on later. I've noticed that I don't do my best thinking when I'm angry or grieving.

I was surprised to realize that yes, I was grieving. Something precious to me, the promise that I would "from that day onward" almost ten years ago be Linda's one and only in that most intimate of encounters, the trust that I would always be first in her heart, even the belief that she would never deliberately be cruel to me, all of that was gone forever. Did she miss it, too? She certainly had no hesitation about giving it all away; did she regret it now?

As promised, I stopped by my house on Sunday evening to the usual riotous greeting from my children. The thought of disappointing them almost broke my heart. So when Linda greeted me with a smile and a hug, I accepted.

Linda's first question after the children were in bed surprised me, though it probably shouldn't have. "Jim, where are we sleeping tonight? I desperately want us to make love tonight, but I understand why we can't. I'm willing to sleep somewhere else, but I don't think the couch will work, and we haven't fixed the air mattress after it sprung a leak over the summer."

"I've checked into a hotel near the office and I'll be staying there until I get a better handle on where things stand with us. I know that it will disrupt the kids' lives just a bit but, hopefully, letting them stay in their own house and sleep in their own beds will provide some stability."

"I understand," Linda said sadly. She sighed, and pulled a sheaf of hand-written paper from the drawer of the coffee table. "I spent a lot of time on this. I suspect one of the reasons you left was to give me time to think about things without your being here. That was smart of you, and I appreciate it. You know me well, though you might not think so right now.

"I've tried to think about the questions you would have, and the things that are troubling you, and answer them as honestly and completely as I can. I know it will hurt you to read some of this, and I cried as I wrote it. God, this was hard. I knew I could soften some of the hurt by lying to you, or by hiding things, but you're right that we need to get the truth out into the open. I promise that every word I've written, and every word I will speak to you, is the plain truth, however it makes me look. I will not lie to you, for any reason." Tentatively, almost shyly, she put the papers into my hand.

"Good night, Jim. I love you." She kissed the top of my head, and was gone.

I gazed at the papers in my hand. I'd always loved Linda's handwriting: it was feminine without being frilly or childish, and was legible and flowing without being fussy. It was her, just like the way she dressed herself and carried herself, and she knew I loved it. That was why she'd hand written it instead of typing. I sighed and began to read.

"Dear Jim,

"Yesterday afternoon when you left, you said that you didn't know what I meant when I said that I love you. I was stunned. I didn't think you could possibly have meant that the way you said it, after we've loved each other for so long. I think you meant that if I loved you like you thought I did, I couldn't have done what I did Friday night. I would have agreed with you. Five minutes before Marc came to our table, one minute before, if you'd asked me whether I could cheat on you with anyone, let alone walk out on you that very night, I'd have laughed and told you there was no way that would ever happen. And then it did.

"My love for you has not changed. I swear it has not. You've given me the opportunity to try to explain how that can be true given what I did Friday night, and I will do my best. First, please know that I didn't do this to hurt or humiliate you, though I know it did, or to get back at you for something. I think in your heart, you know that. Some of what you read here will hurt you badly. But you asked me to be complete and honest, and I'll do my best.

"I need you to understand what I felt like in Marc's arms. I was keenly aware of his size and his strength every moment I was with him. It made me feel small and powerless, even though he never came close to coercing me. I felt overwhelmed; almost absorbed in him. It wasn't as if I had no will, it was like my will was surrounded by his. It wasn't as if I had no choices, it was as if all the choices were already made. I felt that almost instantaneously when he took me in his arms for the first slow dance. I was his at that moment, for whatever he wanted, as long as he wanted me, and we both knew it. I didn't make a conscious choice, I just was.

"Did I like that feeling? At the time, yes. How do I feel about it now? I don't like the idea that I could voluntarily give up that much control of myself to anyone, but I must face the fact that I did, and to someone who I knew didn't care about me at all. I made absolutely no effort to take control of the situation, I just went with it and enjoyed the ride. Would it have been the same with any other big, strong, assertive man who wasn't 'the' Marc LaValliere? I don't think so. You know Paul is big and strong, and sometimes he can be assertive, but I've never felt anything while dancing with him like I felt with Marc. So I guess it must have been just Marc.

"When I signaled Dee to take me to the restroom, she already knew what it was about. She said something about him wanting the only pretty girl in the room who didn't go after him. I think she might have been a little jealous. Then she told me how lucky I was, and that she would make sure you didn't find out for long enough for me to get well away, and would remind you how much I loved you. She told me to have fun, and tell her all about it. Then I was out the door, and Marc was waiting there with my coat. I'm not sure how he got it without the coat check ticket, I guess it helps to be a celebrity. When he put his hands on my shoulders after helping me into my coat, I felt just as overwhelmed and possessed as I had in his arms on the dance floor.

"He drove me to his house, took my coat and hung it up, and put on some soft music. We danced for a while in his living room. I don't know why he did that: maybe he was trying to show me he was a gentleman by not taking me straight to bed. I appreciated it, and told him so. We kissed as we danced. He was in complete control, as he had been since that first slow dance at the club.

"After we danced for a while, Marc swept me off my feet into his arms, and carried me to his bedroom. He laid me on my back in his bed. He gently stripped me, almost worshiping me as he did. When he had me down to my underwear, I was as aroused as I have ever been in my life.

"I have no idea how long we had sex. It seemed like forever, and forgive me, Jim, but forever was exactly what I wanted. One time after we cleaned up, I briefly thought of texting you to let you know I was safe and tell you I loved you, but I was just too tired. All I could think of was sleep.

"And then, in the middle of the night I heard someone pounding on the door. I was half asleep when Marc got out of bed. I could hear talking downstairs so I threw on the robe he had given me earlier and headed to where I could see you in the doorway. My God, I was shocked. I had no idea you knew where I was and I hoped that Marc would just make you go home. But I was horrified when he told me I had to talk to you. I had no idea what to say so the best I could do was tell you to go home. That would give me a little more time to prepare myself.

"I was sobbing when I turned back up the stairs and Marc pulled me into his arms to comfort me until I stopped. He then walked me back up the stairs and we went back to bed, with him holding me against him until I fell asleep.

"And just as I slipped into sleep, I was awakened by the sound of an alarm going off followed by a car horn blasting. Marc jumped out of bed screaming at me to get up. Somehow, he knew it was you and he was pissed. He was already moving across the lawn by the time I got to the front door. I was aghast. It was like a nightmare. It was like I was watching in slow motion. I was sure that Marc would kill you or you would get a lucky shot in with that wrench and end his career. Whatever happened it couldn't be good, so I ran across the lawn hoping to break you guys up.

"But before I could reach you the police showed up out of nowhere. I couldn't believe how quickly they arrived. All I could do was stand by and watch as they separated the two of you and was horrified when I had to give a statement. You must know how embarrassing it was to tell the female officer who you were and how I happened to be at Marc's house. She was judging me, Jim. It wasn't fair and I didn't like it.

"And then they put you in handcuffs and drove you off. I couldn't help myself. I cried for the next 20 minutes in Marc's living room. How could something that started off so beautifully go so wrong? I don't remember falling asleep. I woke up in Marc's arms. Even half asleep, I felt the same possessed feeling that I had at the club, and during our sex. He woke up and we did it again, then he made breakfast for me. It wasn't as good as when you do it, but he'd worn me out to the point I would have eaten just about anything, even hash browns. (He didn't make hash browns, thank goodness.) Then we were together one last time, slowly and gently. I showered again (he has a bidet, and I used it thoroughly), I dressed, and he brought me home.

"When I got into his car, I felt like I could make choices again, as if he'd released me or something. I know it sounds silly, but that's how I felt. I think maybe you were right: he'd had what he wanted and he didn't want me anymore, and I felt that. So immediately, I started thinking about you, and how devastated you must feel. I know we are in for a rough patch, but I don't believe for a moment that our marriage is in danger. Our love is too strong; we are just too perfect for each other.

"Marc pulled into our driveway, said 'Thank you for a wonderful evening and morning,' and gave me a hug and a last light kiss. He stayed in the driveway until I had the front door open, like you always did when we were dating. I expect he does that for all of his dates, but it was still nice of him to do it. I smiled and waved, he smiled and waved, and it was over. I walked in our front door, eager to show you just how much I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. I feel exactly the same way now, as I write this.

"I don't think Marc thought he was doing anything to you. I think he just assumed he had a right to me, just like he would have a right to any woman he wanted. He picked me, and that was that. Not that he would have forced me; if I'd said no, I'm sure he would have gone on to someone else. He was completely sure I wouldn't say no to anything he wanted, and he was right.

"You need to know that Marc was kind and considerate to me the whole time. He didn't mistreat me, far from it. He was chivalrous and gentlemanly. He treated me like a lady, holding doors for me and everything. He even surprised me by remembering my name the next morning. I knew it wasn't about me; I'm quite sure he'd have treated any other woman the same way, and has done so often. Still, I can't help thinking well of him as a man because of it.

"This part will hurt, Jim. I'm crying as I write, thinking about what you will feel when you read it. Tears on the paper are such a cliché; I've 'borrowed' a couple of your handkerchiefs from your dresser. They'll be ruined when I finish this; I'll buy you some new ones this week. I would never dream of writing or telling you this, except that you told me to.

"Marc is an excellent lover: no doubt from lots of practice on lots of women. He knows his way around a woman's body very, very well. He knew what would please me and excite me better than I knew myself, and he used it all. He knew when to be gentle and when to be forceful, but even at his most forceful, I never felt forced: it was something I wanted as much as he did. He was always completely in charge, even at his gentlest. It was as though I was the instrument, and he was the virtuoso, and he was brilliant.

"I've read and heard sex described as a man possessing a woman. I never really understood that, but I do now. You treat me as an equal in all things. If there is possession involved, it's mutual: we belong to each other. Marc possessed me from the moment he took me in his arms on the dance floor until he seated me in his car to take me home, and there was nothing mutual about it.

"I responded to him, fully and completely. I lost track of how many times I came; they all ran together after a while. From the moment he took me in his arms, he dominated my senses to the point that there was no room for anything else, including what is most important in all the world to me: you and our children.

"This is the worst part. I'm crying as I write this, but you asked, so I must tell you. I'm so sorry, Jim, but this will hurt. Marc is a very, very skilled lover. With all the experience he's had, he ought to be. If he weren't, it would mean he's a fool, which he isn't. It was by far the best sex I've ever imagined, let alone had. He's learned and practiced well, so that he can give a performance like he did on me. I mean that exactly as I wrote it: it was a performance, and it wasn't with me, or for me, it was on me. You'll never have the experience he's had, thank God! But you've learned so much through the time we've been together, as have I. You have a far better motive: you want to learn because you love me. That's far more valuable to me than even the greatest sex.

"That's the hardest part. I think it gets easier from here. I hope so, anyway. Your second handkerchief is almost soaked.

"Marc wanted to give me great sex and please me, and he did, but it didn't really have anything to do with me as an individual. I was just another female to him. I think he would be the same with any woman, but it's because of who he is, not who she is. For such an intimate act, it was almost impersonal.

"One more thing you must know. If Marc LaValliere got down on his knees in front of me and asked me to divorce you and marry him, I would tell him no. That would be true even if we didn't have Emma and Tommy. If I were single and both you and Marc asked me to marry you, I would choose you in a heartbeat. I would not need to think about it, and I would have no regrets. He is an excellent lover; you are an excellent man. He may be the city's unofficial hero; you are my official hero.

"How can I say you're my hero when I've told you I had better sex with Marc? Neither you nor I believes there's such a thing as 'just sex.' I don't think it was 'just sex' for Marc, either; if it had been, it wouldn't have been as good. And that was what we spent most of our time doing. But what you and I have together is more important than anything Marc and I did. If I were to trade what you and I have for a lifetime of nights with Marc, I would be the world's biggest fool.

"I don't love Marc. Not even close. I like him, I respect him for what and who he is, and I enjoyed my time with him, but that's all. It's over, one and done, and I'm more than ready to move on with what's really important to me: to return to where my heart is, and has been for the last ten years.

"Which brings me back to the beginning of this letter. How could I do this, loving you as I know I do? Or to put it another way, why didn't my love for you stop me? I'm not sure I completely understand, but this is what I think. When I got up to dance with Marc, I thought it would be a couple of dances, a few minutes' teasing from our friends, and that would be the end of it. The man who every woman at our table wanted, wanted to dance with 'just the same old me.' So I went to dance with him. I had no idea at the time of doing anything more than that: just a couple of dances. What could be wrong with that? Then came the slow dances.

"I think men like Marc really do believe they have a right to any woman they want. What was it Henry Kissinger said, 'power is the ultimate aphrodisiac?' When Marc asserted his 'right' so confidently and strongly, it never even occurred to me to question it. If I thought at all, it was something like, 'Oh, of course,' and I didn't think about it any more, except to be flattered that he wanted me. It was just who he is.

"It wasn't that I stopped loving you or the kids. It was more like I wasn't thinking or loving at all; everything in me was just reacting to him, like an instrument reacts to a musician. I'll say again, there was and is no love for Marc anywhere in my heart. My heart is at home where it belongs, with you and our children, and that's where it will always stay.

"Jim, I know you're hurting terribly, and I know it will take time for you to heal. Take the time you need. Do anything you need to do. I ask only two things: don't do anything that would hurt the children, and please don't take a lover. I know it sounds hypocritical, but that would destroy me. I will do anything to help you heal. (I've already arranged to get my blood drawn for the tests tomorrow morning.) Even the worst hurts heal with time, and I will be right here for you for as long as it takes, and forever after.

"I know you very, very well by now, and I know you love me. I can see it in your eyes, behind the pain; I can feel it as I write this, even though you're not in the house. I trust my future, and my children's future, to that love. I know you're upset that my love for you didn't prevent me from letting Marc take our special night, and borrow things that I had promised would be only yours. I understand, but now, everything he borrowed has been returned, and like my love for you, they are unchanged, and will be yours as long as I have breath.

"Love, as always,

"Linda."

I felt stunned and completely exhausted. Mentally and physically. Reading the letter took me on an emotional rollercoaster and I knew I had suffered enough for one day. I picked up the papers, turned off the lights, and slipped out the front door for the drive back to my hotel.