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January 17, 2005

The Understanding

You’re not an old woman. You know that much. It doesn’t help that the fact that your breasts are beginning to droop within the confines of your bra, but you’ve been told time and time again that these things are supposed to happen once you’ve hit menopause. Leaning back into the folds of an oversized leather chair, you’re reminded that you’re still pretty well put together. You’ve recently quit smoking for what seems like the twelfth time. But it’s always better late than never. Over the years, your ankles have begun to bulge and fatten from the wear and tear of shoes two sizes too small, but the curved silhouette of your legs and thighs looks sleek and toned from within your nude pantyhose. There’s a slight bit of paunch that sits right below the gaze of your navel, but it isn’t anything more than what’s carried by other women your age. Two children and thirty years later, you still haven’t been able to lose it.

You sink further into the chair, fingering the frosted pearl buttons on your cashmere cardigan. The crossed hands of the clock face remind you of your husband’s absence. You can already hear him lamely apologizing over the telephone, his voice muted and soft. “I’ve got some new clients, Charlotte. You know how it is.” And you do know how it is. You know how it feels to hear his newest secretary clear her throat repeatedly after hearing you give your name during business hours. You know how it is when he formally introduces you as “Mrs. Garner… my wife,” to the round of eager interns at the annual company picnic. And you certainly understand how it is when his face wilts away when he sees that you’ve dropped in unexpectantly for lunch.

“I’ve scheduled private meetings during my lunch hour, Charlotte. All week long—it can’t be helped. Just leave that… what is it? Macaroni salad? Just leave it up front with Sabrina—you know, that pretty little thing up front? That’s her. She’ll take care of it for me. She always does. I promise, I’ll make this up to you. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Wherever you want, I mean it. You understand, don’t you?”

Of course you understand. You understand not to look up at Sabrina as you hand her the sack packed carefully with a pair of thickly sliced deli sandwiches, dainty spiced coffee cakes and salty cheese crackers. You know how to smile graciously without really meaning it, thanking your husband’s secretary for discarding of your unwanted meal with the greatest of pleasure. You know not to feel the weighted stares of the office staff piling up on your neck as you make your way through the wood paneled hallways, down the marbled elevator car, and into the crowded gray street. You know not to expect to be taken out to dinner, or to receive any phone calls until well into the night, when you’re dripping wet, fresh from the shower. And when he finally slides his warm chest and legs between the cool emptiness of your bedsheets, you understand that you are no longer wanted.

______________

I was reaching for my coat when she sat herself down in her husband’s leather chair, crossing her ankles and pulling at the buttons on her sweater. There was a deep sigh as she stared up at the clock and shifted her weight in the chair, as if she was preparing to sit and die right there and then.

“Would you like me to bring you back a pack of cigarettes?” I offered from the door, fingering the spare key to the apartment.

“No,” she said quietly, sinking further into the chair. “I’m trying to quit. You know that.”

I wanted to remind her that she was almost always “trying” to quit, but the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted the sound that was about to rush from my lips.

“Answer that for me, will you, Joe?” Her finger was already pointed towards the desk across the room, as though she knew my obedience would come without hesitation. I doubled back across the floor of the study, giving a quick glance at her curled up in her chair, and wondering how I found myself looking to please her like a newborn puppy.

I had met her on my first night at the restaurant, when my tips were poor and my feet were dragging on the floor. They’d assigned her to my table, where I introduced myself with the list of soup specials. “She’s one of the regulars,” a hostess informed me from behind the kitchen doors. “Always comes in by herself. A widow, or something, I dunno.” I digested that information as I walked back to her table, paying close attention to the details of her order, my ears processing the soothing hum of her voice. Brushing against her shoulder, I inhaled the lush scent of Chanel No. 5 that lingered over fumes of garlic butter and sautéed shitake mushrooms.

I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t find her attractive. And when I say attractive, I mean that in strictly a motherly way, if that makes any sense. From behind the kitchen doors, I’d watch her fold her menu open and drag her finger along the list of entrées. I liked the way she sliced her veal cutlets into bite-sized pieces before spearing them with the back end of her fork. I liked watching her cross her plump legs under the thin skirt of the table, making sure that the space between her thighs was non-existent. I liked seeing her adjust the diamond-studded brooch that hung over her cleavage, which was conservatively hidden below a square neckline. And I was impressed by the way she always signed her name at the foot of the bill: Mrs. Jonathan Ives Garner.

It’s some real Mrs. Robinson shit, I know. But I had her wrapped around my mind like the strands of fettuccine she twisted around the tines of her fork.

It wasn’t until later that I found out about her husband. Through polite and casual dinner conversation, she’d give me bits and pieces of the story, making sure to keep things conveniently vague. I’d recite the specials, and she’d quietly give me details on Mr. Garner, the fifty-something ad executive going through an extended mid-life crisis.

“We have an understanding,” she told me one rainy evening, over a plate of smoked salmon and pinenuts. “It’s just what works best.”

Picking up the receiver of the telephone, I thought about that understanding as a nervous voice came over the line, not waiting for me to say hello. “Charlotte?”

I said nothing, swallowing the thick lump of spit that was lodged in the top of my throat. From within her chair, she leaned in the direction of the phone, her lips silently asking who was speaking on the other end of the phone. I clenched the handle of the telephone between my fingers, sweating at the tips of my fingernails. Though I said nothing, the voice on the line knew exactly how to respond to my silence. “Please tell my wife that I’ll be home in about an hour,” it instructed briskly, making a short and stifled cough. There was a brief, hollow pause before a crisp click! cut off the conversation, dissolving into the low-key buzz of a dial tone.

posted at 9:01 p.m.

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