'Marriage counselor?' he suggested quietly.
I shook my head. 'I mentioned it, and Herman became absolutely livid.
He refuses to discuss it. I think he's deliberately trying to make my life so miserable that I'll walk out on him. Then he'll be the aggrieved party, and if there's a divorce, he'll hold all the cards.'
'Oh, Marleen,' Greg said sorrowfully. He glanced around.
The cafeteria was filling up. 'Let's talk more about it on the drive home. This isn't the place.'
I nodded, and we finished our lunch without saying anything more.
I went back to my office wondering if I had done the right thing to confide in Greg. But then I realized I had no other option. My parents are deceased, I'm an only child, and I have no close women friends. I had to talk to someone, and Greg is a thoughtful, serious man. And I knew he'd be understanding, his married life is as wretched as mine.
The ride home that I was driving that week, and on t g Greg and I resumed our luncheon discussion. evenin I recited the whole sad litany about Herman's heavy drinking, his constant philandering.
'I thought he was a diamond in the rough when I married him,' I said ruefully. 'He turned out to be a zircon in the rough, and he's getting progressively worse.
'You've spoken to him about how you feel?'
'Many, many times. All he does is laugh and then give his awful imitation of John Wayne, A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.' But what am I going to do, Greg? ' 'It's such a perHe was silent a long time. Then, sonal decision, Marleen, and so difficult that I hesitate to offer advice.'
'You're not offering,' I said, 'I'm asking. I value your opinion.
What do you think?'
'It seems to me,' he said carefully, 'that if you find your situation completely unendurable, then you must take steps to change it.'
'That means divorce, ' I said determinedly. 'There's no other way.
'Would you consider a trial separation?'
'For what purpose?' I demanded. 'He's not going to change.'
'Perhaps he might. After he's been away from you awhile and misses you and Tania.'
'Never!' I said. 'Herman is a self-centered oaf who thinks only of his own pleasures, which, in his case, mean whiskey and women. I blame myself. Marrying him was the worst mistake I've ever made in my life.
I just didn't recognize him for the lout he is. Greg moved uncomfortably in the passenger seat, and I realized my confession was embarrassing him.
'I'm sorry to dump all this on you, Greg,' I said, 'but you're really the only one I can talk to.'
'I wish I could suggest some solution,' he said despairingly.
'But I'm no good at personal relations. Human behavior just mystifies me. I suppose that's why I turned to science.'
'I think you're too hard on yourself,' I said. 'You're a sympathetic man, always willing to listen to other people's problems' 'Perhaps I'm willing to listen,' he said forlornly, 'but I don't seem capable of doing anything about them. And that includes my own problems.'
I turned my Honda into our driveway and stopped. Greg started to get out of the car, then stopped and turned to me.
'Please don't do anything at the moment, Marleen, he said earnestly.
'It may prove to be rash. Let me think about it awhile. All right?'
I nodded and watched him trudge across the lawn to his own home, to a marital misery that matched mine.
I had told him that I did not think him a wimp, and that was the truth.
But I did wish he would be more assertive. He simply would not argue or even disagree. Not because he was weak and ineffectual, but because he was a sensitive man who abhorred crude, loud, and violent behavior.
I believe it almost made him physically ill.
It wasn't timidity on his part. He just wanted everyone to be civil-a vain hope, as well I knew.
I'm a liar. I've lied all my life, I admit it. Not because I enjoyed it, but I had to lie if I wanted to survive.
Let me give you a for-instance. I told Marvin McWhortle I was twenty-one when actually I am twenty-six. Thank God I've got the body to get away with it. Besides, men are such shlubs about women's ages, ask them to guess, and they probably won't hit within five years.
Why did I lie to McWhortle? To make myself more attractive to him. I knew porking a twenty-one-year-old would give the geezer's ego a real charge, and that's how it worked out. Also, I call him daddy. He likes that.
If I had had a good education and learned to do something like run a computer or be a nurse, maybe I wouldn't have had to lie. But putting out for him a couple of times a week sure as hell beats selling pantyhose at K Mart. The house is in my name, he can't take that away from me. And the salary I get is I'm not complaining.
Marvin picked me up in a Miami hotel bar. He never asked me what I was doing there. Looking for a fish like him, that's what.
But let me say this, After he set me up in his town, I never cheated on him once-and that's no lie.
I had been living in my house about six months when a guy came to the door and wanted to talk to me. He was well-dressed and all, and his silver Infiniti Q45 was parked at the curb, but I made him for a grifter right away, and believe me I've met a lot of them. It's their cool way, hard eyes, and the way they never blink that tip me off.
'What's it about?' I asked him. 'You selling something? ' He handed me a card. He was William K. Brevoort, or claimed to be. No company name, no address, just the name and a phone number, engraved yet.
'Okay,' I said, 'now I know who you say you are and your phone number.
But you haven't answered my question, What do you want to talk to me about?
'About the Snakepit,' he said.
I sighed. The Snakepit is a nude dance joint in Miami, and I worked there for almost a year. I quit after the place got busted for the fourth time. That's when I hit the convention circuit, which was how I happened to meet McWhortle.
'All right, Mr. William K. Brevoort, ' I said. 'What's the game-a shakedown?'
'Far from it,' he said. 'You don't pay me, I pay you.
The guy looked like a weasel-a long, pointy nose, you know-but he didn't look like a mad rapist or even a strongarm, so I let him in the house. We sat in the living room, and he looked around.
'Nice,' he said.
'Is that what you wanted to talk about?' I asked. 'My interior decoration?'
He took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began flipping pages and reading out loud, 'Jessica Mae Fiddler. Born in Macon, Georgia.
Father deserted family when you were six. One brother in the navy, killed in a fire at sea. Mother died of cancer.
Raised by your Aunt Matilda. You were kicked out of high school as incorrigible. Pot and moonshine. Lied about your age and married Bobbie Lee Sturgeon, a gas jockey. Marriage annulled.
Moved to Atlanta. Busted for loitering for the purpose of prostitution. A fine but no jail time. Moved to Miami. Busted with the other girls at the Snakepit. No convictions. Now you're here in this nice house. Paid for by Marvin McWhortle, owner of McWhortle Laboratory. Have I got it all correct?'
'Close,' I said, 'but no cigar. You missed the time I got a ticket in Fort Lauderdale for double-parking. How much did it cost you to find out all that stuff?'
'Not much,' he said. 'It's easy when you know how.'
'Why did you go to the trouble?'
'How about offering me a drink?'
'Talk first,' I said. 'What's on your mind? I know you're not law, your suit is too elegant.'
'Nice, he said, stroking his lapel. 'Italian gabardine.
You like?'
'Cut the bullshit,' I told him, 'and make your pitch. If it's blackmail, McWhortle is the one you should be talking to.'
He shook his head. 'Not blackmail,' he said. 'Not my style.
