I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (12 page)

Tig recognized the Wisconsin-lifer accent, Scandinavian vowels, and nasal twang. She pictured the caller dressed in a powder-blue cardigan, her high school sweetheart's diamond on her left hand, tiny and clogged with twenty years' worth of memories.

“Go ahead; I'm here to listen. Tell me your story.”

“Yeah, okay. So, I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. I guess it's that change of life thing you read so much about. Um, that's what the doctor said.”

“Good, you've seen a doctor. That's good.” Tig nodded with sincerity.

“Uh huh, so, the doctor gave me something to help me sleep and I've been taking it every night. Oh, and I feel so much better. It feels really good to sleep.”

“Well, that's great,” said Tig, looking over at Jean, anxious to move this caller into something more interesting and relationship-oriented than insomnia. Glancing at Macie, she widened her eyes. Macie nodded, gestured for her to wait for it.

“Sleep is good. Anyways, I forgot to take it the other night, y'know, cause it's new n' all, and I woke up in the middle of the night to my husband, y'know, having, um . . . sex with me. Like, he thought I was asleep.”

Tig jerked her head back to Macie, who nodded feverishly.

The caller continued, “So, what I want to know is . . . is that wrong?”

The man in the front row stopped buffing his nails and the audience collectively put down their coffees.

Tig tilted her head. “Are you saying that while you were asleep, your husband thought you were sound asleep, and he engaged in intercourse?”

“Yeah, that's right. I was dreaming about grocery shopping and well, you can imagine my surprise! The thing is—he is my husband and all. He says everyone does it. Y'know, because there's such a big difference in drive 'tween men and women. He says no reason for me to get all worked up if it's gonna be over that quick.”

There was a quick burst of laughter from the group.

Tig said, “Well, how do you feel about that?”

The woman hesitated. “I guess from a time management sense it should be okay, and I hate to be stingy. But . . . .” The woman clicked her tongue loudly into her telephone. “I don't like it one bit. I mean, it's my Private Pocketbook and all. I don't think he should be fiddling around in my area without me telling him it's okay. I mean, what the heck, why should he have all the fun, and I have all the mess?” As if remembering her place as the patient, she said, “What do you think?”

“I think you're absolutely right. I think at the very least, your husband owes you a giant apology and you should consider filing charges.”

“Filing charges?”

“Well, at the very least, counseling!”

“Oh, no. I couldn't do that. It's not like we haven't done
it
before.”

Tig considered this. The woman's need here was less about outraged litigation and more about setting boundaries and reasonable behavior.

“I think your husband needs a time-out. He should move his pillow onto the couch and have to submit written permission to re-enter the bedroom. I think you get to decide when you've forgiven him. I also think you two should talk to a counselor so he can understand what was wrong with his behavior, even if you can't exactly say why. If that doesn't work, try a shock collar.”

The caller giggled and a fumbling sound came through the studio's speakers. The woman spoke away from the telephone. “See, Brady, I told you it wasn't right. I told you to keep the Governor away from the Mansion when I'm sleeping.”

There was a burst of laughter from the audience. Then, into the phone, the woman said, “Thank you so much. I just couldn't ask my friends about this, and all I needed was someone to tell him it wasn't right.”

“Tell Brady he shouldn't need someone else to tell him it's right or wrong. He should listen to you, because what you think is what matters.”

The audience nodded. Tig glanced into the studio. Posture had improved; attention was focused on the stage. Macie hit the canned applause button, and the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree.

The next call came from a young woman who lived in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Six months pregnant and married only a year, she needed someone to talk to before she sat her husband down with her concerns.

“I don't go out anymore. I'm so tired at night. I'm a third-grade teacher, and after a day with the kids, all I have energy for is correcting papers and dinner.”

Tig considered the caller's statement. “I've never been pregnant myself, but my sister says it's exhausting.”

“It is! But I don't want to stop my husband from going out every once in a while with his friends before the baby comes. There won't be much time for that later, so I always say okay. Lately, though, he won't wear his wedding ring. Says it bugs him when he plays pool or darts.”

Tig looked at the audience. Two women in the center of the auditorium shook their heads with disapproval, and a mousy woman in the back row sat straight up in her chair. “Is that a problem for you, the fact that he goes out without his ring?”

“Yeah. I hate it. I think he's strutting around acting all single, while I'm walking around with this big billboard of a belly advertising that I'm anything but. Why shouldn't he have some kind of sign that says
I'm taken
?”

“I agree with you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. If it makes you uncomfortable, he should honor that.”

“What if he doesn't?”

“Well, you can always take it to the jewelers next time he takes it off and reduce it a half size. Then he won't be able to take it off. You get the added benefit of him thinking he's put on weight. That'll reduce his swagger a little.”

The crowd laughed.

Tig added, “I'm just kidding about fiddling with his ring. Just tell him that if he can't respect this small request from you, then you're not sure how this marriage will move forward with such stingy roots. Tell him Tig said so.”

It was silent for a minute on the phone. The woman seemed to be juggling the phone. “Okay, can you repeat that? I'm writing it down. So far I have, ‘if you can't respect this small' . . . what did you call it? Request? Oh, that's a good word.”

Tig repeated her previous statement and the woman hung up, but not before asking if she could send Tig some of her amazing rhubarb pie in thanks.

After several more calls, the last refrain of the theme song played and coupons were given to all the audience members for a buy-one-ticket-get-two-friends-in-free deal. Jean, Macie, and Tig sat together and debriefed while the sound technicians and interns tidied up.

“You were amazing!” Macie exclaimed. “I knew you could do it.”

“When I'm right, I'm right,” said Jean.

Tig smiled briefly, then frowned. “I just don't know about all this.”

“What are you talking about, Dr. M? You're a natural.” Macie's eyes shone with renewed admiration and warmth.

“I don't think I should be weighing in as if relationships are a glib piece of cake. I don't know the whole story, nor am I getting both sides of the stories. What if something happens?”

“Wait, are you saying you think it might be okay to have sex with your wife while she is sleeping?” Jean shook her head.

“Or how about the guy whose wife would only have sex after she'd had a full professional mani-pedi?” Macie said. “What was that about?”

Jean laughed. “Hangnails can be vexing in the throes of passion. I think telling him to go to cosmetology school or make the sex more interesting than a trip to the spa was perfect.”

“That's what I mean,” Tig protested. “That's not good advice. It may be good radio, but I'll never work as a therapist again in this town.”

“Are you kidding? Did you see how many calls came in?”

“Just because people ask for it doesn't make it good for them. The mullet was a very successful hairstyle back in the day, but we know how that turned out. There's a whole generation of people with hidden senior class photos and buried family portraits.”

Macie nodded. “Smart people, foolish choices.”

Jean said, “Why does therapy have to be like going to the dentist? Why can't people laugh a little while they're making their relationships better? And don't get me started on the PC terminology.”

“Language is important,” Tig said.

“Sure, when everyone understands it,” Jean said. “I had this one counselor who told me that I had to identify my faults and own them before my marriage could get better. Own them? They're my faults by definition; how can I own them anymore?”

“They meant acknowledge that you have faults.”

“So why not just say that! Besides, how is
owning
my faults going to fix my husband's sleeping around? Are they saying that if I'd have admitted that I'm wrong more often, my husband would lay some pipe at home for a change? What I'm saying is that I need real language. Real directions.”

“I can't change the language of the profession.”

“But you can!” Jean said. “And I like how you tell it like it is. Listen to this: I called my insurance to take that cheating bastard off my policy. If he gets any warts, I'm not paying for burning 'em off, unless I get to cauterize 'em myself. Anyway, the guy on the other line told me to wait for the
marital transition
to progress. I said, ‘Marital transition; a.k.a. divorce, you mean?' He actually got uncomfortable.”

Macie nodded and said, “I can't keep up. Yesterday at the co-op a woman sneered at my banana, saying that clearly I wasn't a locavore.”

Jean said, “What the hell is that?”

“Think globally, eat locally,” said Macie with a smile.

“Shit, another thing to feel badly about,” Jean said. “I eat an orange and I'm not supporting the Wisconsin farmer. Just wait, scurvy will be on the rise and then the cost of oranges will skyrocket.”

Macie put her headset back on and said, “Local farmers get thrown under the bus for citrus. News at six.”

Tig said, “All right, you two. I get it. I'll give this a try. What the hell, I'm unemployed, right? That's not very supportive of the economy.”

“You're in a
job transition
right now,” Jean said. “Embrace it.”

• • •

As much as Tig wanted to talk to Pete about this new success, she knew that her status as an on-air relationship counselor would not impress the man who knew Tig was an imposter. The full irony could collapse the conversation. What Pete didn't realize was that, in the grand scheme of relationships, it was easy to point to absolutes as to why a relationship works or not. Try to be faithful, prioritize, trust, and communicate, all so important, but it was the smaller conflicts that often derailed people from the happy road to the fiftieth anniversary. Arguments about who should pick up the milk after work, unload the dishwasher, and replace the toilet paper could kill the passion. Add to that the larger considerations of whose job is more important and where will the kids go to daycare, and Waterloo can ensue.

Later, perched on a footstool in her mother's old room, amidst cartons, shoeboxes, and manila folders, Wendy smiled at Tig.

“You were great today.”

“You listened?”

“I had the radio on while I worked on this room. They're delivering a crib tomorrow.”

“Did you like the guy whose wife refuses to acknowledge his low sperm count?”

“What was his motto? ‘Shoot to get hot, shoot to stay hot'? People are hilarious.”

“God, I know. I love that I don't have that confidentiality clause anymore. I love that I can talk about all of this.”

“You could start your own private practice today and rake it in.”

“I doubt it. People don't want tough love in person. I'd never get any return clients.”

“Do you care? I mean, maybe traditional counseling isn't where it's at anymore. Maybe it's time for a change.”

Tig bit her lip. “To be honest, I don't know. How many years did I imagine I would be happy doing the same thing every day?” Halfheartedly, she moved aside a box of lace doilies and handkerchiefs embroidered with violets. “Maybe that's what Pete was really thinking. Maybe the prospect of every-day-forever sent him packing.”

Wendy sighed. “It appears, little sister, that we just happen to have chosen very one-dimensional, one-hit wonders who can't go the distance. Better to know now than in five years.”

“I thought Pete was different. Why do you imagine we pick men who leave?”

“Imprinting.”

Tig gave Wendy a sidelong glance and opened a box of faded yellow letters.

“I took a reading comprehension test in, like, eighth grade, and there was this thing about ducklings imprinting. Whatever they see when they hatch, they will immediately identify with it, even if it's an animal of a different species. We imprinted on a father that was there a short while and then gone forever.”

“He died. I don't think we can blame him for leaving.”

“I'm not blaming him. I'm just looking at facts. You don't know that imprinting isn't the same for humans.” Wendy dusted off an old photo box, pulled out a couple of pictures, and brushed them with her fingers. “Did you ever get anything out of Pete? An explanation? Something?”

“It happened fast and we haven't talked since. He just said he wasn't excited about me.”

Wendy frowned. “As in sexually?”

“Don't you wish? Then you could be the hottie of the two Monahan sisters. No. Just in general.” She thought about it for a minute, then added, “Maybe he meant sexually, but I don't think so. We were good there, I think.” She tugged at a handful of photographs.

Wendy flipped through the pile like a dealer at a casino. “What did you guys fight about?”