Suspicious Minds

Later that afternoon when I went to the restroom, I noticed my cellphone in my purse. "Damn, it's been turned off since Saturday," I realized. Powering it up, I quickly checked for any missed calls. There was one from Marshall this afternoon. I figured he was just checking up on me and erased it. The next missed call was one from Sis on Sunday! I made a mental note to call her tonight after Bill was gone; I had to make sure I talked to her before Marshall did.

I decided to turn my phone back off -- I sure didn't want to talk to Marshall if he called again.

Marshall

It was pretty obvious to Lydia that I was anxious to talk with her since I managed to arrive at her house before she did. She made a little joke about it, but I could tell she was well aware of my obvious distress.

When we were seated in her living room, she encouraged me to tell her what was going on, and I proceeded to recount everything that had happened over the last few days. She listened in silence until I'd finished, then she leaned forward and looked at me earnestly.

"Marshall, I think you're reading way too much into everything that's happened."

I started to protest but she stopped me. "Listen to yourself. You're obsessing because your sister-in-law calls and says she'd like the two of you to come visit. That doesn't mean that Marsha didn't spend the day with her, it just means Sis was being nice, trying to include you."

"But what about the way Marsha looked and acted when she got home Saturday night?" I asked. "What about her sleeping all day Sunday?"

"Can't you think of any other explanation that doesn't involve Marsha having an affair?" Lydia shot back. "She got together with her sister for the first time in a long time. Isn't it possible that the two of them blew off a little steam together?"

"I'll admit it wasn't very wise for her to drive home in that condition," she allowed, "but she made it home safely. If she got home too late for your dinner, you'll have other chances. If she slept all day Sunday, so what? She's been under a lot of strain lately, as you should well know."

I didn't think that Marsha and Sis would have gone out drinking on Saturday, but I had no way of proving that, so I kept my mouth shut.

Lydia looked at me intently. "Marshall, I know your wife, and I know that she's not cheating on you. I also know you, and I know you're a good man, just one who had a very bad experience with your ex-wife. You can't let what happened back then poison your relationship with Marsha."

"I care too much about the two of you to let this go on this way. It's pretty obvious that between your paranoia and Marsha's stubbornness, the two of you aren't communicating. I think it's high time you two started talking, and I don't think the two of you are going to be able to do that on your own. So I'm going to go over to your home with you right now and play referee. Maybe with a friend who loves you both for a go-between, you can start to understand each other."

I still thought Lydia was overlooking some pretty egregious behavior on Marsha's part, but at that point, I would have welcomed anything or anyone that could offer some help. I was at my wits' end, and Lydia was offering a lifeline, so I immediately agreed.

I called Marsha to let her know we were coming, but my call went straight to voicemail.

Lydia got in my car and we drove over to my house. When we got there, everything appeared normal, but when I used my key to let us inside, there was no one downstairs. "Omigawd," I said to Lydia, "you don't suppose she's still in bed?"

"Don't be silly," Lydia replied. "She probably just got home from work and is upstairs changing clothes."

She started up the stairs with me on her heels. When we reached the top, the door to the bedroom was closed, but we could hear a muffled voice from inside the room. "She must be on the phone," Lydia said confidently. "Let me go in first so as not to startle her."

She turned the knob and took a step inside with me right behind her. "Marsha, it's Lydia and Marshall . . ." She halted so abruptly that I nearly ran over her. I heard her gasp.

Before us on the bed were Bill and Marsha, both naked. Marsha was bent over on her hands and knees and Bill was behind her, mounted almost like a jockey riding a horse, fucking her ass. They must not have heard Lydia because Bill was chanting over and over, "Take it, Marsha, take it!"

It's one thing to ask questions about your wife's faithfulness; it's quite another to have those questions answered conclusively right in front of you. The scene before me hit me like a heavyweight's punch to my gut. I couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. It was the most sickening sensation I've ever felt.

I guess I assumed that Lydia would react the same way, but I was wrong. I heard her scream, "You bitch! You fucking whore!" Then Lydia leaped across the room, grabbed a startled Bill by the hair and yanked him over backward. He yelled in pain and fell off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. As he lay there trying to catch his breath, I saw Lydia draw back her hand with her nails extended to claw Marsha, and I dove across the room to grab her and pull her away. Lydia didn't fight me, but she continued to scream at Marsha, who was now scrambling desperately to get away from her lover's wife.

Finally, Lydia collapsed in sobs, burying her face in her hands as I continued to hold her from behind. Marsha too was sobbing, lying naked on the bed. Bill was scrambling to pull his clothes on.

"Get out of my house, you bastard," I yelled at him. "Don't ever let me see or hear you again." I paused for breath and, as he began to edge toward the door, I added, "I'm going to be taking Lydia home in a few minutes. If you're there when we get there, I won't be responsible for what might happen to you."

With that, Bill darted out the door and ran down the stairs. I heard the front door slam as he dashed away. I had no idea where his car was, and I couldn't have cared less. I wanted him out of my life even if he had to walk.

I continued to hold on to Lydia. I was no longer worried that she'd try to attack Marsha again, but I was concerned that she'd fall if she tried to stand on her own. Carefully, I helped her to her feet. "Come on, Lydia, let's get you out of here," I said in a soothing voice.

I helped her down the stairs and out to my car. Having something to do was good for me. As I slowly drove back to Lydia's house, she turned to me as she continued to cry. "Oh, Marshall, I'm so sorry I ever doubted you. I kept standing up for that bitch, and all the time she was screwing Bill. I can't believe what a fool I've been."

"No," I said, "she's my wife. I should have confronted her, forced her to tell me what was going on long ago. You were just trying to be a good friend. She betrayed both of us." Then I added bitterly, "And so did Bill." With that, Lydia's crying grew louder.

I helped her into her house and got her a glass of water and some tissues while she sat on the couch. "Would you like me to stick around for awhile?" I asked her.

She smiled wanly at me. "No, I'll be alright. I don't think Bill will come back here tonight."

A look of sympathy came to her face. "What about you, Marshall? Are you going to be okay?"

I stood up to leave. "I don't know, Lydia. I really don't know."

When I got home, I found Marsha dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. Her face was pale and her eyes were once again red, but this time I knew the cause.

"Oh, Marshall, I'm so sorry. You have to believe me, I never meant. . ."

I held up my hand and said loudly, "No I don't, Marsha. I don't ever have to believe you again."

Marsha's head jerked and she began to sob as her head sunk to the table.

One Year Later

Marshall

My secretary stuck her head in the door. "Do you need anything else, Marshall?"

"No, Karen," I waved, "have a good weekend."

After she'd left, I looked over my email one more time. I was pretty well caught up on my work. The truth was I just didn't want to go home. Our house was too big, too lonely and filled with too many memories. Finally, I sighed and stood up. I'd have to leave sooner or later; no use putting it off any longer.

I shut down my computer and closed the door. Walking through the aisles of cubicles, I could tell that I was the last person left in the office. Usually there were one or two people working overtime, but when the weekend came, the place emptied out pretty quickly.

I got behind the wheel of my car and headed out onto the road to our home. The news came on the radio, but I was already in a melancholy mood and hearing about stupid people doing stupid things wasn't going to help, so I turned it off.

Up ahead I saw the neon lights of an upscale grill, and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to stop and have dinner there. I was tired of eating alone.

As I walked in, I heard the buzz of dozens of simultaneous conversations. Somehow that felt good, even if I wasn't part of them. I liked being in the company of other people, even if they were strangers.

The hostess on duty asked if I wanted a table. I started to accept, then changed my mind. "I think I'll have a drink at the bar first," I told her. If I had a drink first, it would be longer before I had to go home.

The bartender brought me a glass of red wine, and I sipped at it, listening to snippets of the conversation around me. A woman's laugh rose above the voices, and I smiled at her pleasure. This was definitely better than sitting alone at home in front of the television.

I decided to order a second glass and drink it with dinner. I was just clearing my tab with the bartender when I felt a hand on my arm.

"Marshall, is that you?"

I turned in surprise and saw Lydia Matthews standing there. When she realized it was me, she threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"How are you doing?" she asked. "I haven't seen you in months."

"I'm fine," I lied. "I just stopped in here on a whim to grab a bite to eat. Hey, if you don't have something better to do, why don't you join me?"

She seemed to hesitate a moment, then smiled and said, "Sure, why not?"

The hostess had a table for us right away, and as we sat down, the sidewalls of the booth blocked enough of the ambient noise that we could have a conversation.

"Where are you living now?" I asked her after we had ordered.

"I have a condo in the Patterson area," she told me. "We got lucky with the house. A couple who had just moved into town saw it and fell in love with it, so we were able to get a decent price. Fortunately, we had enough equity that I was able to use my share for a good down payment. What about you?"

"I'm still in our old house," I confessed. "It's on the market, but we haven't had any nibbles. It's way too big for one person, but I guess I'm stuck until the market improves."

I didn't want to open any old wounds, but I couldn't help asking, "Whatever happened to Bill? Do you ever hear from him?"

Her mouth tightened momentarily, then relaxed. "He left town. He put in for a transfer at work and there was an opening in Chicago, so he took it. I haven't heard from him since the final financial settlement."

She hesitated, and then went on. "Before he left, I learned some things about Bill. It turns out he was quite the Lothario, screwing around on me every chance he got. It was like a game to him; apparently he could get almost any woman into his bed. He was actually bragging about it," she said with bitterness. Then she looked at me sympathetically. "Marsha was just another notch on his belt. Once he set his sights on her, she never had a chance."

I wasn't moved. "She could have said no if she'd wanted to."

We both fell silent for a while.

"Do you ever hear from her?" she asked.

"She moved in with her sister," I replied. "She wouldn't take any alimony in the divorce, and since the house hasn't sold, I guess things are pretty tight for her, moneywise. We never talk."

"I've seen her around once or twice," Lydia volunteered. "She looks like she's lost some weight."

"She's not the only one," I said with a wry smile.

"Well, it looks good on you," she said.

"So, how's your social life? Are you a woman about town now?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Not so much," she said. "You might think that a divorcee's life would be one big party, but it's not. The truth is that every wife thinks you're on the prowl for her husband, and every man thinks you're horny and easy. I can't tell you the number of propositions I've gotten, many of them from married men."

I could tell I had touched a nerve.

She paused to take a sip of her wine, then looked up at me. "And what about you? Are you cutting a swathe through the female ranks out there?"

"Not really," I admitted. "I've had some friends who tried to fix me up with single ladies, but the few I went out with were disasters. Not because of them, because of me. I just wasn't ready. And the bar scene -- I can't handle that. There are a lot of attractive women out there, but they're just not, well, just not what I'm looking for."

She must have read something into my voice because she reached across the table and patted my hand.

"I know, Marshall, I know."

We had finished our meal and paid the check by then, so I walked her to the door. When we got outside, she surprised me by hugging me and giving me a brief kiss on the lips. "Hang in there, Marshall," she said. "It will get better."

She started to turn away, but I held onto her hand. "Listen, Lydia, do you think we could do this again some time?"

"Sure, Marshall, give me a call some time," she said offhandedly. She started to turn away, but then she turned back to me and took both my hands.

"Marshall, you are a genuinely nice guy, and I don't want to treat you like the creeps who hit on me. Under different circumstances, you'd be the kind of guy I'd love to go out with. But we have too much history together, and I'd never be able to date you without remembering everything that's happened. Can we just be friends?"

"Sure, Lydia," I said. "I understand completely. Please stay in touch."

She waved as she got into her car, and then she was gone.

As I drove home, gloom washed over me. Lydia wasn't really what I was looking for either, but at least she and I had shared the same experiences and could talk to one another. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to go out with me, but it still hurt to be shot down.

On Saturday, I got up early so I could get in a round of golf at the local municipal course. Since I was going solo, I had to get to the course early and hope the starter could find a twosome or threesome I could join. Sometimes I got to tee off almost immediately; other times I'd had to wait over an hour. It was all luck of the draw.

I'd let my country club membership lapse. I really didn't want to play with my old golf partners -- I couldn't stand their well-meaning questions or their sympathetic looks. Playing with strangers was easier.

I had a decent round: about what I normally shoot. Actually, it would have been a pretty good score except for the sixteenth hole. Even when I'm playing well, I always seem to have one bad hole where I do something stupid and screw up the whole round. Golf is such a mental game, and I just can't seem to keep my head together for the full eighteen. I used to do better.

That afternoon, I went back into the office for a few hours. I thought I might try to get a head start on the coming week, especially since I would have to miss a couple of hours Monday morning going to my annual physical. In truth, there wasn't that much I could get done over the weekend, but I had nothing better to do.

That evening I ordered Chinese take-out and watched college football on tv.

On Sunday I went to church. My parents had taken me to church when I was growing up, but I'd gotten out of the habit while I was in college and hadn't resumed once I'd graduated. But after Marsha and I were divorced, I just sort of drifted back. Maybe I needed the opportunity to be around people, although I found I didn't want to get involved in any of the social activities the church held. They even had a program for single and divorced people, but I avoided that like the plague.

The funny thing was that being part of the congregation made me feel better, but seeing all the families there was painful because they reminded me of what I had lost. Yet despite the pain, I found myself continuing to go almost every Sunday morning. I don't know -- maybe I was becoming some kind of masochist.

Back home Sunday afternoon, I switched on our local pro football team, but the game was painful to watch. Our starting quarterback had gone down with a season-ending knee injury two weeks ago, and it was obvious that the back-up just didn't have what it takes. We were down three touchdowns in the third quarter when I turned the game off and decided to go for a jog.

Running was something else I'd started since the divorce. It had a lot going for it: I could run almost anywhere, it didn't require a partner or opponent, and it was good for me. The only negative I'd found was that it gave me too much time to think. Sometimes, thinking too much isn't a good thing.

By the time I'd gotten back from my run and showered, it was almost time for dinner. I found some leftovers in the refrigerator and ate those -- no use wasting food. Besides, I wasn't particularly hungry anyway. Hmm, what kind of wine goes with egg rolls and enchiladas?

The Sunday night football game was a dud, but the only other shows on tv were romantic comedies and those so-called reality shows, so I stayed with the football.

On Monday I went in early just to make sure that no emergencies had popped up in Europe or Asia. Apparently it was just as dull over there as it was in our office, so I was able to slip off to my doctor's appointment without guilt.

I'd been going to Dr. Garfinkle ever since college, so he had a pretty thick file on me in his hands when he came in the office. "How are you, how are you?" he asked in a hearty tone as he closed the door to the examining room.

"Just fine," I replied.

He glanced at the data his nurse had collected: weight, blood pressure, medications. "You've lost some weight since the last time you were here," he observed.

"I've taken up jogging," I told him. "Maybe that's it."

"Mmm-hmm," he said noncommittally, making a note in my file.

"And how about work -- how's that going?"

"Same old rat race," I replied.

He nodded as though that was insightful and made another note in the folder.

"What about the rest of your life? Have you gotten back into the social scene yet?" he asked offhandedly.

"Not really, Doc. I guess I'm not interested in that just yet."

"I see," he said. "Well, let's find out how the rest of you is doing."

With that, he proceeded to listen to my breathing, check my eyes and throat, and test my reflexes. When he was done, he looked up and gave me a little smile as he pulled on a disposable vinyl glove. "Well, you know what comes next."

I sighed, stood up, undid my belt, pulled my pants and shorts down, then turned and leaned over the examining table. Like every other man, I hated this part, but at least it would be over quickly.

This time, however, instead of reassurance he gave a long, "Hmmm."

"What is it?" I asked uneasily.

"Your prostate is enlarged," he told me in a neutral voice.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said, "but we'll find out." He reached for his pad and wrote a couple of lines. "I want you to call Dr. Bannerjee's office and make an appointment. He's a urologist who specializes in these sorts of things."