acting forays to a local thespian group.
Since Dom and Izzy are not only my friends but also my neighbors, it took me all of two minutes to throw my suitcases into my car and drive to their place—twice as long as it would have taken me to walk over. Dom answered the door, took one look at my tearstained face, and ushered me into the kitchen. He shoved a box of tissues in front of me, hollered for Izzy, and then busied himself making tea.
Izzy walked into the room, looked at me, and said, “Uh-oh. What’s the jerk done?”
“The worst possible thing,” I sobbed.
Dom turned around from the stove, slapped a hand to his cheek, and looked aghast. “Oh, no! You mean he wore plaid with stripes again?”
I laughed despite my misery. “No, it’s much worse than that. He had sex with someone else.”
“That bastard!” said Dom.
“Are you sure?” said Izzy.
“Oh, yes,” I said, wincing. “I’m quite sure. I caught him in the act.”
“What a fool,” Izzy said, and for a brief moment I was flattered by the thought that Izzy considered me enough of a catch that David had to be an idiot to look elsewhere. But then he added, “How stupid is it to do it right in your own house?”
“It wasn’t in the house,” I said, pausing to inhale some steam from the tea Dom set in front of me. “It was at the hospital. In one of the operating rooms.”
“Eeeewwwww,” Dom said, making a face. “Aren’t those rooms supposed to be sterile?”
“Supposed to be,” said Izzy. “But you’d be surprised what goes on there. A few years ago I heard about a doc who was caught trying to use a suction machine to—”
“Hey, guys,” I interrupted. “Can we get back to the subject at hand please?”
Dom jumped in with “It was a hand job?”
“No,” I said, giggling. “It was a blow job.”
“Oh, well that changes everything,” Izzy said. “Blow jobs haven’t been considered sex since the Clinton administration.”
For the next hour and a half, I sat at their kitchen table alternately sobbing, laughing, whining, and listening as Izzy and Dom called David any number of nasty names and cast a host of colorful curses on his wandering, one- eyed trouser snake. By the time they got around to declaring Karen a whoring bitch and me a selfless heroine horribly wronged, it began to feel like one of those religious revival sessions. Several times I was tempted to holler “Amen!” at the end of a particularly rousing criticism or curse.
The fun didn’t last long, though. The hard reality of my situation kept creeping back into the forefront of my thoughts—that and the ominous silence of Izzy’s phone. In my mind, I kept imagining David frantic with worry once he realized I wasn’t home. I felt certain he’d be desperate to find me, to try to explain himself, or maybe even apologize. And I figured it wouldn’t take him long to figure out where I was. He knew Izzy and I were close friends, so I was pretty certain that once he determined I wasn’t with my mother or my sister, he’d check Izzy’s place.
But he didn’t. There was no knock on the door, no ringing of the phone, and when I finally gave in and called my mother to tell her not to worry, I discovered David hadn’t called there either. Curious, I called home, and when David answered I quickly hung up, stung by the truth of my situation. He was there, he knew I was gone, and yet he’d done nothing to try to find me or talk to me. That hurt almost worse than his infidelity. Everything I had come to believe about my relationship with him, about my life and my marriage, was a lie.
And I still had no place to go.
That’s when Izzy came to the rescue. There was a cottage behind his house that he’d had built a few years ago for his mother, Sylvie. At the age of eighty-something, Sylvie’s health had taken a turn and Izzy didn’t want her living alone. But she was none too keen on living with her son as long as Dom was around. While Sylvie is well aware of Izzy’s lifestyle, she isn’t particularly happy about it. The mere sight of Dom always makes her clutch at her chest and let forth with a melodramatic
So Izzy compromised by building the cottage and hiring home nurses. After a year there, Sylvie’s health improved and she moved into a retirement village where she’s still
Sylvie’s defection meant the cottage was empty, furnished, and available. Given my circumstances, it would have been foolish of me to refuse Izzy’s offer to let me stay there. Of course, the tiny detail that the cottage is a mere stone’s throw from my own house is something I chose to ignore. Besides, it isn’t as if I’m
The cottage was meant to be a temporary way station, though so far, “temporary” had lasted a little over two months: sixty-seven days of hiding away and wallowing on my pity pot. And despite what Izzy thinks, I have a very good reason for hiding. Small towns aren’t particularly conducive to privacy. Fart with your windows open and the news will likely make it across town faster than the wind can carry the smell. Sorenson is no exception, and given that several people witnessed my hysterical flight from the OR with David chasing after me as he struggled to do up his pants, I have little doubt that most of the townsfolk know every sordid detail.
I finally surfaced from my self-imposed exile a few days ago, and that was because I had to. I’m broke. The pitiful severance pay I had the hospital mail to Izzy’s address—four weeks of accrued vacation time that I used as notice so I wouldn’t have to show my face at work again—is almost gone. I’ve spent the bulk of it on essential food items like chocolate and cheesecake, though a few bucks (as Izzy well knows) have gone toward counseling from my two favorite therapists: Ben & Jerry. And another month of rent is due soon—not that Izzy would toss me out if I didn’t pay—hell, he’s willing to let me stay in the cottage indefinitely for free. But pride is about the only thing I have left at this point and, warped as it is, setting up house in a Frigidaire box seems preferable to taking a handout.
I’m just as determined to avoid asking David for help. Our checking account is a joint one and the checkbook is in David’s desk at home. All of the credit cards are in his name, too, and while I don’t think David is mean enough to freeze all the accounts, I can’t be certain. And I sure as hell don’t want to risk further humiliation by going to the bank to find out. Besides, trying to sneak a few measly bucks here and there isn’t my style. I want to earn my money fair and square and with my pride intact—by nailing David’s ass to the wall in a highly messy divorce proceeding.
Once again it was Izzy who saved the day, this time by offering me the job as his assistant. While the actual work it entailed did give me pause, I knew I couldn’t afford to be picky. When I tried to think about nonmedical jobs I had enough training for, the only thing I came up with was prostitution. And then I realized that, in one way, the clientele at this new job were perfect: they were probably the only people in town who didn’t know the sordid saga of David and me.
So thanks to Izzy I have a new job and a new home. I have a chance to start over and leave a painful past behind. And as I sit here looking out the window at the distant flash of headlights from a car pulling into David’s driveway, I tell myself I don’t really give a rat’s ass who might be visiting.
But I do. It’s perverse and stupid and destined to cause me pain, but I have to know.
Which means there is at least one other job I qualify for: that of the village idiot.
Chapter 3
I’m not sure what haute couture dictates for night spying, but it really doesn’t matter since my choices are severely limited. In my hasty flight from the house two months ago, I shoved what I could into a couple of suitcases. Several times I’ve thought about going back to retrieve more stuff—I still have my key, so it would be simple enough to get in, assuming David hasn’t done something drastic like change the locks. But I’m afraid. Not of David, but of myself and the strength of my convictions. Loneliness is a powerful motivator.
Fortunately, the meager clothing I do have includes a pair of black slacks and a black turtleneck. Worried that my blond hair will shine like a beacon in the night, I’m delighted I also have a brown scarf among my absconded treasures. I dress, tie the scarf around my head, and then give myself a quick perusal in the mirror. I look like the
