The Corner Table at Mickey's Pt. 03

Tom hadn't quite caught the nuances of women's conversation, but he understood the gist of the post-game analysis. He voiced what he'd thought days before. "If you wait for Mal to wake up, you'll be waiting for a long time. You rub her nose in it."

Robin thought back to when she first heard the Michael story, how it took Mallory four years to see ... and nodded in understanding.

An hour and a half later, Jim ushered Addison into his apartment. "I'll buy this place after the dust settles."

"Have you christened it?" Addison asked.

Jim looked puzzled for a second. His face cleared as Addison popped the top button of her blouse. "No, I haven't."

She smiled and popped another button.

Some while later, "Well, that's the living room couch. You know, I still haven't had a tour. What do you think, the bedroom next?"

It wasn't quite eleven o'clock. Lying with her nestled against his shoulder, both of them pleasantly relaxed, Jim asked her, "Are you staying the whole weekend?"

"I'd like to. Is that okay with you?"

"Perfect."

"Good, 'cause there's still the spare bedroom, the bathroom, the porch, and, I suppose, the kitchen since it's separated from the living room by the eating bar. We need to use our time wisely since who knows when I'll be back."

"How does that look?"

"Maybe six or seven weeks." Her voice was level as she elaborated. "This trip will take me a week, then two weeks prepping for San Diego, the convention, then a couple of weeks of catching up on everything that was put on hold." She fell silent, waiting to see what that would bring.

She heard Jim's breathing alter and wasn't sure whether she felt the shoulder she was lying on tense just a fraction more, but he said nothing for a while. Then, "Well, I'm glad you're here for the weekend. It's the longest we've had together."

In the early morning, she felt him stir and get out of bed. The white noise of rain hitting the gutter outside lulled her into half-drowsing until the smell of coffee percolated into her consciousness. She invaded his dresser to find a T-shirt and pulled it on. Venturing out she saw him through the glass doors, elbows on the porch railing, staring out, protected from the drops by the balcony above.

She slid the door open. His expression when he turned to her was thoughtful with only a faint smile to welcome her.

"I am so glad I'm here," she gave him. With that, she put her hand against his chest and pushed him back until he was half-supported by the railing. She reached for the belt of his bathrobe. "So ... this is the porch."

Wednesday evening, Jim looked into his rearview mirror as he pulled into the lot at Mickey's.

"What the fuck!" Lori's car followed him in.

They'd just come from the marriage counselor's office. Lori had, indeed, asked the judge for court-ordered counseling. A year of distance had allowed Jim to keep his temper though he didn't bother to conceal his rising impatience. Without profanity, of course, he had no desire for a contempt citation if it got back to the judge.

"So, Jim, your turn. What do you hope to accomplish here?" the counselor had asked.

"Fulfill the requirement imposed by the judge to participate."

If he'd hoped to get a reaction, he failed. I guess he's heard all of this a million times, Jim thought.

"Okay, then where do you see us going from here?"

"I plan to go to my attorney and instruct him to withdraw our offer of my share of the house, which was conditional upon her not dragging this process out with things like counseling sessions. The judge ordered three sessions so, by my estimate, each of these meetings is costing her somewhere near a hundred thou."

This time, Jim could read the counselor's brief expression: Hoo boy! One of these. He was pleased to see the faint flicker on Lori's face. Now, he stepped out of the car and faced his wife, annoyance written all over his face.

She opened with, "That was pretty non-productive."

"I told you."

"Are you going to be like that every time."

"Probably."

"Jim, we—"

"I have to go to work."

"It's not work. It's a hobby. They're not paying you here. You can spend a few minutes talking with me instead of stonewalling the counselor."

Jim glanced up at the threatening skies. He jerked his head toward the door.

"Tom, think you and Shannon could wait fifteen or twenty? I've got something to take care of."

"Sure."

As Jim gestured Lori toward the back table, Tom mouthed, "The wife?" Jim nodded. Both men grimaced.

"What was that?" Lori asked.

"I relieve him so that he can go out for dinner with his girlfriend. You're delaying that."

"I think eight years of marriage are worth a few minutes delay on a dinner."

Most of the next ten minutes was a rehash of the apologies, explanations, promises, excuses, and mea culpas of the last few months. He had to give Lori credit: the open hostility, manipulation, and threats were absent. She was honestly making a plea for them to try.

"It's too late, Lori."

"Why?" I don't understand, her tone screamed.

"Lori, the truth is, when I saw you in that car with that guy and took the picture, that was the death knell. I didn't know until much later that you were already six months into your ... adventures"—she dropped her head, flinching—"but I knew about two times before that."

Her head came up. "How?"

"The bouncer at the club? It's a part-time job. He's a floor supervisor for me at the plant."

She shook her head at the happenstances that ran the world.

Jim waited to see if she'd say anything. When she didn't, he went on. "So, this was at least the third time you were cheating in some form or another, and quite frankly, it wasn't some trivial way. A little-too-much smooch at a Christmas party can be written off to eggnog and holiday spirit. A blowjob in a car outside a club ..."

She gave it one more valiant try.

"Jim! I was caught up in a bad combination of loneliness, and alcohol and drugs"—it was the first Jim had heard about drugs—"and the excitement of being bad. I admit that last. It's wrong, but surely you can see that it exists. I got sucked under.

"But"—she reached out and clutched his hand—"people like alcoholics get sucked under too. They do things they shouldn't, damage things around them. But some of them go to AA and recover. They acknowledge what they did, never do it again ... never touch another drop of alcohol for the rest of their lives. I can be like that!"

He didn't jerk his hand away. He wasn't trying to be harsh. Or, more accurately, he was keeping a tight rein on his desire to be harsh.

"The thing is, Lori, even if seeing a few seconds of you going down on that guy didn't sear every bit of affection I felt, there's something else. Remember that day I knocked on Kevin's door?"

She nodded. "The worst day of my life!"

"One of mine too. The thing is, I didn't leave that day. I drove around the block and then parked and watched."

She flinched, unsure of where he was going.

"I saw you two come out. It was bad enough seeing you with bed-head and him in just a thin pair of shorts. The thing was, I could see that you were upset. No surprise. Your mother was in the emergency room. I had found out about your affair. But I watched you. You leaned up and hugged him. He grabbed your ass because, hey, he's a sensitive guy when his lover's mother is in the emergency room." Jim wasn't above a little venting, didn't even try.

"You didn't swat him away. You just leaned in for that hug and said something to him. I was fifty yards away, so I didn't know what it was. But I did know one thing. Despite getting about the biggest wakeup call a cheater can get ... your spouse finding out ... you weren't upset about having an affair. You were upset you got caught."

"Oh, please, Jim. I was so wrapped up in it. I wasn't thinking. Yes, at that moment I was horrified I was caught. Now I'm horrified I ever did those things." Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"It doesn't matter. At that moment, all that rage I felt after seeing you in that car changed. In that instant, it became utter indifference. You were no longer part of my life. I just had to deal with my own feelings about myself."

She started sobbing. "Please, Jim."

"We're done, Lori. You're just a logistics problem for me." It was harsher than he would have liked, but this needed to end. "Sign the papers and move on."

She stumbled out the back door of the pub to avoid people seeing the tear-streaked face. Jim rose to see Shannon and Tom regarding him supportively from behind the bar.

"We weren't eavesdropping. But she wasn't quiet," Shannon said.

"I don't care who knows. Now git, you two. Sorry to hold you up."

Eighteen hours later, Mallory sat at the bar eating her lunch while Tom polished glasses in front of her. She was steaming over what Tom had told her.

"She's unbelievable! She spends eighteen months fucking around on a husband who treats her like a goddam goddess and she's sobbing in disbelief because he doesn't say"—she affected a John Cleese accent—"'Tis but a scratch.'"

Tom met her eyes but said nothing.

"I mean, come on! She's got a fucking prince of a husband. He's one of the nicest guys around. He doesn't treat women like they're nothing but a pair of tits and a piece of ass. He's faithful. He's funny. He makes a good living, and it would have been a helluva good living if she hadn't screwed things up. He's well-respected. He's fucking nice to old ladies, for Christ's sake! I mean, he won't even stop doing Meals on Wheels even though it's just one more thing in his busy day because it would upset his old-lady admin."

Tom raised an eyebrow and nodded to let the rant flow.

"And then he puts on a little weight because he's, like, you know, killing himself to build a fucking business, and she's like, 'Ooh, I gotta go get me some stud who's—'"

Mallory stopped talking like she'd run into a brick wall. She stared at her glass of seltzer in shock.

The silence continued. Tom said nothing, watching the interplay of emotions across her face as she heard what she'd just said, heard the declaration of values she'd made.

He flipped his bar rag over his shoulder and carried the rack of glasses down to the far end where they were stored.

Robin wasn't unprepared when Mallory showed up at the gym Friday. Tom had texted her. "Let's skip spin and go do weights," she said to Mallory.

"Huh?"

"Weights. I don't feel like gasping for breath for the next hour. C'mon."

The two women were seated on adjacent benches, enjoying the pause between sets of hammer curls.

"Robin, yesterday I was at Mickey's for lunch and ..." Mallory trailed off.

Robin waited to see if Mallory would pick back up again. She didn't. So, Robin filled the void. "You know, being someone's best friend and being someone's attorney are very similar." At Mallory's quizzical look, she amplified. "Sometimes you have to tell the other person something they absolutely don't want to hear."

Mallory set her weights down, listening.

"I've watched you go out with about a hundred and seventy-two different guys."

"It's not even a fraction of that!" Mallory protested. "It's like eight or ten. Maybe twenty if you count the absurd blind dates everyone set up for me."

"I was rounding," Robin said dismissively. Mallory stuck her tongue out.

"Leaving the stupid fix-up attempts out of it, those others had some things in common." Robin waited for the question, but Mallory didn't speak. "They were all buff as hell."

"There's nothing wrong with liking a guy who's in shape!" Mallory lodged another protest.

"Agreed. I like a little eye candy myself. But most of us girls have a type. DH is wiry. That's the type that gets my motor running. Shannon likes 'em more jacked. She told me she'd have Aquaman's babies any day he felt like asking." She giggled briefly and then sobered. "But you ... there's Josh; lean as a rail, almost my type. But Brandon ... Jesus! ... the word swole was coined for that guy. They couldn't be more different."

Mallory started to say something, but Robin cut her off. "Hey! I'm not trying to be too heavy, but I am trying to make some points. Let me, huh?" Mallory subsided.

Robin considered her next words and then continued. "It's like you're not attracted to a guy because you care how he looks; it's like you're attracted because he cares how he looks. Any guy who's obsessive about his body will do."

"A person can think more than one type of guy is good-looking! And furthermore, a guy who has enough self-respect to—"

"Just stop! You need to listen to me." The sharp tone, so uncharacteristic of their conversations, finally shut Mallory up.

"Of course a woman can find more than one type of guy good-looking. But it's not just the guys. If you miss a day of workout, you beat yourself up for three days after. It's salads, salads, lean protein, and more salads. You allow yourself two beers a week and not a drop more, even when we're celebrating. Every time you have some of that butter pecan you're so addicted to, you tack on another five miles."

Mallory stayed quiet, staring at Robin somewhat balefully.

"Hon, I'm not saying you have an eating disorder because I'm not qualified. But there's something about body-image going on."

Mallory flared. "Any doctor will tell you that I'm eating a perfectly healthy diet. And last time I checked, exercise was considered a good thing." The meaning behind the icy tone and cold words was quite clear: Mind your own damn business!

Robin put up her hands. "Okay." Inside she added, for now. She didn't want Mallory to shut down and push her away. I just wish I could get a toehold somewhere.

"There's something else. Even though you're glaring at me a little already, I'm going to hit you with another one. I warned you about 'absolutely don't want to hear.'"

A chin raised questioningly joined the glare.

"None of those guys was ever in your league. You were smarter than they were, more mature, and a hell of a lot more interesting. Not one of them was ever a threat in any way except that they could bench press you."

"Oh, you're saying Tom is stupid and boring?" Mallory asked snidely.

Robin didn't take offense. "Nope. I am not. He's a glaring exception. But I'm noting that Tom is the only one you ever stayed friends with, despite very few bad endings. I mean, most of them never lasted longer than a month or so and didn't get beyond a little making out. You could easily have friend-zoned them, but it's like they weren't worth bothering with.

"I'm also noting that you pulled the plug on Tom ... what? ... three months after you got serious? ... because he was 'commitment-phobic' you said." Robin put the adjective in air quotes. "Even for some of the desperate bitches we know, that's pretty fast when you're talking about a guy who's agreed to be exclusive."

Her raised eyebrows inviting comment were met with mulish silence. Robin let what she'd said settle. The two women exercised in silence for the rest of the cycle. As they picked up their towels, Mallory asked, "Why did you bring this up now instead of, I don't know, any time in the last three years?"

Robin drained the last of her Hydro Flask. A toehold. Thank you, Jesus.

"Remember that day the two of us and Jim walked to Conti's?" Mallory nodded. "I saw the look you gave him when we got there. He was flushed and puffing a little, and your look said ... well, it didn't say kind things. Yet yesterday you went on a rant about how that guy was perfect commitment-material except for a little weight problem." Robin nodded before the question even came. "Yes, I talked to Tom." Robin faced her friend directly. "I'm going to point out, a little weight problem—your words—he's trying to do something about."

"He's not trying that hard!"

"Let me ask you something, hon. Tom aside"—Robin waved her hand to indicate she was conceding that one entirely—"I've watched you try to make hot guy after hot guy into a good guy. Why are you so reluctant to help a good guy become a little hotter?"

Mallory didn't answer. She shrugged in a gesture that conveyed a frustrated I don't know. She rushed through her shower and dressing, telling Robin. "Make my apologies if you would. I need ..." She shrugged again, inarticulate and perturbed, and left.

Daniel met Robin outside and the two walked over to Mickey's. Tom, Shannon, and Jim were already seated. "Mallory?" Tom asked.

"She headed out after our workout." She met Tom's eyes. We talked, that glance said. Tom smiled.

Thirty-five minutes later, Jim's face lit up.

"Hi everyone. Sorry I'm late," Mallory said. "Stuff," she non-explained, avoiding Robin's eyes.

As they pushed back their completely devoured plates of chicken piccata, Mallory asked, "So, how are your workouts going, Jim?"

Jim's face fell. "Not so well. I have good intentions, but things keep coming up. I'm a little better on Tuesdays and Thursdays because I don't want Robin yelling at me." Everyone grinned.

"He still manages to miss some of those," Robin teased. "Some specious claim about needing to be at work when the doors open."

"When do the doors open?"

"Eight," Jim answered.

"Then," Mallory said, "you once told me you got up extra early. So do I. Seven o'clock at the gym, five days a week. Don't make me come haul you out of the house, because I so totally will."

"Why?" Jim asked, nonplussed.

"Because I'd like to spend a little more time with you, and as Tom said before, a gym buddy will help you stick to it."

Jim's shock was evident to everyone. Those in the know, which was everyone but Daniel and Jim himself, carefully didn't poke fun or even smirk. Conversation moved on to other topics.

Under cover of a heated debate between Jim and Daniel about the Steelers' chances, Tom leaned over to Robin. "I guess she really did have her Road to Damascus moment."

"Road to Damascus moment?" Robin's grin was a mile wide, even for her. "I believe I may have underestimated you, Mr. Byrne."

He shrugged. "I was a high school humanities teacher before I inherited this place."

Robin's eyes opened wide in surprise. Shannon's bray erupted at Robin's expression, and half the table was in laughter ... leaving Jim, Mallory, and Daniel wondering what was so funny about the injury list of the team.