This Is How It Happened (11 page)

When Carlton felt he was in the doghouse, he wooed me with tons of flowers. Cards. Chocolates. Candles. The whole shebang. Every day he’d surprise me with little gifts. It was as if we were back in our honeymoon period.

I craved the extra attention. And I loved the man who was giving it. He was my soul mate, if ever there’d been such a thing. If we were going to be together forever, I’d protect myself. And Carlton would protect me, too. He swore to it.

“Why do I love you so much?” he’d say, tweaking me on the chin.

“Just because I’m me,” I’d say, and we’d laugh.

Everyone made mistakes, I figured. And this was Carlton’s. His love was his Achilles’ heel. He’d been ashamed to tell me of his STD. That’s how much he wanted us to stay together.

So I forgave him.

That very week, the Carlton-Coming-Out-About-Herpes Week, I made an emergency appointment to see Cheryl, my gynecologist. In the waiting room I read all the pamphlets on STD’s, HIV, gonorrhea, syphilis. I read them all.

Apparently, if you have your pick of the litter, genital herpes is the way to go.

It’s the STD with the least amount of trouble. A minor offender in a roomful of felons.

I wait more than an hour for Cheryl. She’s a lesbian, my ob-gyn. And I know this because her life partner, Bernice, works in the office next to me at Henry’s marketing firm. She keeps Cheryl’s picture in a frame on her desk.

“How can you go to a lesbian?” Heather asks me.

“Because she happens to be
a doctor
,” I reply.

When Heather snickers, I say, “You know, Jewish people are supposed to be
liberal
.”

“You mean they vote Democrat?” she’ll say, with all the innocence in the world.

“That too,” I’ll say.

It kills me when Heather scribbles this in her book. The “How to be a Jew” logbook she keeps, filled with helpful hints, recipes for knish and latkes, that sort of thing.

Cheryl is actually the best gynecologist I’ve ever been to. When I finally see her, she tells me genital herpes is almost impossible to test for.

“You have to wait for a break-out. Then we test the open sore,” she says.

“How long until I have a break-out?” I ask. I’m up on the examination table, my feet in cold stirrups. On the ceiling is a poster with a cat dangling from a tree limb. “Hang in there!” the poster says.

It’s really bad.

Cheryl pokes and prods. Digs her fingers into my abdomen. “Could be years,” she says.

“If I’m infected, what happens to me?” I ask.

“The worst part of this disease is the social stigma associated with it. But you should know, Maddy, there is no cure—it’s a disease you have for a lifetime. But rest assured, people can lead normal lives with herpes.”

“All finished,” she says. “You can sit up.”

I sit up in my thin paper robe. The white paper crinkles underneath me. She takes her glasses off and lets them hang from a beaded chain around her neck. “There are topical lotions, and of course, pills, to control flare-ups. The only significant danger is for pregnant women.”

“How so?”

“If a woman gives birth during a flare-up, and the newborn gets infected in the birth canal, it can be fatal for the baby. Women with genital herpes are advised to have cesarean sections rather than risk natural childbirth.”

“How will I know if I’ve contracted it?”

She stands, walks to the sink. Washes her hands.

“You’ll know. The sores are often painful during the first flare-up. And you’ll most likely run a high fever. Come see me if that happens.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Maddy,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful who you sleep with.”

Before I can utter a word to Cheryl about being in a monogamous relationship with a beautiful man for the past several years, she walks briskly out, letting the door click shut behind her.

“Got it,” I say to the empty room.

It’s time to buck up, Maddy
, I tell myself. I practice smiling in the mirror, but it doesn’t feel right. My lips are lopsided. And kind of dorky looking. Like a person trying to smile.

I decide to shake off my depression with a good healthy dose of the outdoors. My tennis club is offering discount lessons. I figure I could use some work on my serve. Plus, since Carlton and I broke up, I haven’t had anyone to hit the ball around with. I’m rusty. Out of shape. And a tad flabby in the middle.

I could use a few hours outside, practicing my forehand with some individual one-on-one attention. So I sign up.

The next evening, I jog out to the court. It’s brisk and clear. A cool breeze sweeps across my cheeks and I glance up to a sky sparkling with stars. Perfect tennis weather, as my dad used to say.

I’m wearing tennis whites. My favorite white tennis skirt with pleats, a white Addidas sports top, and white shoes. My only playful item is my socks. Polka dot.

The court lights are on and I see a few people warming up. The instructor is dark-skinned, and thin. He tells me his name is Deepak and he’s from New Delhi, India. When he speaks, it’s in that exuberant, up-and-down singsong voice. I love the Indian accent.

The tennis class is filled with couples. Deepak pairs them together. I’m the odd man out, of course. The only single. So Deepak pairs me with himself.

I’m dismayed at first, but then I realize it’s good for my game to be paired with the tennis pro.

Deepak asks me why I’m taking lessons. “You do not need,” he says, generously, as I whap the ball to the corners. Give Deepak a little challenge. He saves face by hitting a thunderous ball down the middle. I swing for it and miss. A beginner’s mistake.

“Good game,” he says, chuckling. We each walk to the net and shake hands. Like me, Deepak is a tennis purist. He only wears white. Strict white. None of these crazy colors. Like Andre Agassi or Venus Williams.

I like Deepak and notice he’s wearing a gold wedding band. “Do you have kids?” I ask, as we gather around the cooler. I chug my Gatorade. Wipe sweat from my forehead. Deepak takes an Ozarka bottle and squirts water over his neck, then shakes his head, like a dog coming out of a lake.

“Two kids,” he says. “A blessing in many disguises. And you?”

I end up spilling the beans about Carlton. Telling Deepak everything about the break-up.

Well—not everything

“Do not worry about this man,” he says, in his deep, lilting voice. “We have a saying in India—What goes around—” he swings his arm in a wide arc to demonstrate a circle, “comes back around!”

“Yeah, but sometimes Deepak, you need more than Karma. You need a professional,” I say.

He laughs and says, “Good one.” He doesn’t realize I’m serious as a heart attack.

I thought quitting my job with Henry would be hard. Putting in notice and packing up my office, and so forth. But Henry makes things easy for me. He paves a smooth road, as they say. And turns my last day into a party.

He has helium balloons and cake and catering by Manny’s Mexican—my favorite enchilada people. Afterward, we pack up my office together and Henry takes small nips from a Jack Daniels bottle he’s hidden behind my desk.

“I still can’t believe I’m losing you to Forest Connors,” he says, flashing me his twinkling blue eyes. He’s wearing a pale, butter-colored suit today with a pink kerchief in the breast pocket. It’s a dandy—the kind of suit that only Henry can get away with. He loosens his tie and I can see he’s waiting for me to say something.

I debate whether to tell Henry the arrangement I’ve been forced into. The sweat equity, stock options–to-ownership, work-for-hire thing. It’s been such a nice day I don’t want to get him into a rant.

I decide to stick with the positive.

“I’m starting
my own
company, Henry. Can you believe it!”

“If anyone deserves it—you do, kiddo. Just remember what I told you about Mr.
You Know Who
.”

“I know, I know. I couldn’t even trust him to mow my yard.”

Henry lifts the whiskey to take a quick nip. He points the bottle in my direction. “Just make sure you don’t end up doing all the work and getting none of the reward.”

“Hey, I’ve got free reign to hire whatever employees I need. And plus, Carlton and I are splitting the workload.”

Henry raises his eyebrows in that clever, know-it-all, way. “I know what you’re capable of, my dear. As for Carlton…” he stops and shakes his head.

“Always the cynic,” I say. And I don’t mean to say it. But I do. Because sometimes Henry is a bit much.

“It’s never good to mix work-life with love-life,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“At least we’re not sharing an office,” I say. “Carlton found this amazing office space for a great price. Fourteen bucks a square foot and we get almost the entire floor! We’re moving in next week.” I say. “Organics 4 Kids is about to have a home!” I squeal and clap my hands. It’s something Heather would do, but I don’t care.

Henry laughs. “I bet this company will be more successful than you ever dreamed.”

I grab the tape and roll it across one of the boxes. “You know, our only competitor will be Giganto Foods,” I say. “But they haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of the organics food market. Especially for children’s food.”

Henry nods. “Maybe you should bring your idea directly to Giganto. I bet they’d pay a fine penny to hire someone like you.”

I stop and look at him. He’s eyeing me in that way where I can tell he wants to say something.

“C’mon. Out with it,” I say.

Henry pulls a white envelope from his pocket and thrusts it into my hands.

“A little going-away present,” he says.

I feel my eyes beginning to tear up. “I—I can’t accept—”

Henry raises his finger to his lips and goes, “SHHHH! You’re the best employee I’ve ever had, Madeline. You’ve made this company a whole lot of money and kept my clients very satisfied. And you knocked it out of the park with the Meyers account. Take the envelope, my dear.”

Henry grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Promise me something, kiddo.”

“What?”

“Don’t spend it. Just put it in a savings account for a rainy day. You never know when you’ll need to break open the piggy.”

“So this is my ‘break glass in case of emergency’ money?”

Henry slaps his palm against the desk. “Exactly.”

I look down at the envelope, and turn it over in my hands. I don’t open it because I know it’s a significant amount of money. And I don’t want to cry.

After all these years working for Henry, on my last day, I want to be all smiles.

“Thank you, Henry. I don’t know what to say.” I walk over to him and give him an awkward sideways hug.

Henry chuckles and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“I have a little something for you, too,” I say. I walk over to my desk and pull out a finely crafted, leather-bound keepsake book. Over the past few months, I’ve constructed the interior of the book, by carefully pasting together all of the newspaper articles, glossy magazine photos, and client confessionals—every single mention of Henry Wrona since the company’s inception. I’ve created something Henry would never create for himself. It’s a book of his accolades, his accomplishments, his lifetime of success in the business.

“What’s this?” he asks, almost in a whisper. He sets the book on the table and begins flipping through it, slowly. Taking it all in.

“This is a gift for a man who taught me almost everything I know about business. A man without an ego. And the best boss anyone could ever ask for,” I say, quietly.

Henry looks up at me, and his eyes are filled with tears.

“Did you hear the one about the Polish loan shark who loaned out all his money?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“He had to skip town,” I say.

Henry smoothes back his streaked white hair and wipes his eyes. “I know I’ve got a joke you haven’t heard.”

“I doubt it,” I say. I grab my portfolios and slip them in a box. Grabbing a black magic marker, I label the box “Important!”

I’ve arranged all of the client work I’ve done over the past fourteen years in several black, bound portfolio books. I made the portfolios in case I ever needed to interview for a big firm. The Big Firms require portfolios. So I spent years working on mine. I crafted them during grad school and updated them with all my new work every year.

Henry watches me as I put the box with my portfolio books on the top of the stack.

“You mustn’t lose your portfolios, Maddy,” he cautions. “They’re the gatekeeper to the entire industry.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t let these babies out of my sight.”

Henry helps me lift a few boxes and we walk toward the office door. I turn and give the place one last look.

I feel my heart drop into my stomach.

Henry notices, so he says, “Why don’t Polish women ever use vibrators?”

“Henry!” I say, slapping him playfully in the arm.

“Because it chips their teeth!” He throws his head back and laughs up at the ceiling.

“You’re right,” I say, shaking my head. “I haven’t heard them all.”

He claps me on the back and we both buzz out the door.

I have a theory. And here it is…

Breakups are better in winter.

Yes, it’s better to break up in the winter than in the summer. Let me share my logic. In the summertime, people are outdoors, the sun is shining, and you look like a big fat loser if you’re sitting alone inside your house moping on a beautiful day. But if it’s wintertime, you can watch Blockbuster movies and sit inside and eat pizza after pizza and complain about the weather.

The problem with living in central Texas is that even in February, it almost always feels like summer. The sun is always shining. I mean, it’s not New Jersey here.

And therefore, I’m not getting the benefit of the winter break-up. I mean, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and here I am, moping around my house, wishing for a freak ice storm.

Sometimes you’ve got to pull yourself out of the funk. So when Sunday rolls around, I treat myself to a Day of Maddy. First, the do-it-yourself spa. A fabulous three-dollar Noxzema facial, complete with sounds of howling monkeys and screeching birds in the background. I have to admit something here. I ended up buying the rainforest “inspired” CD, so I figure I should get some use out of it. It’s an indulgent afternoon, me taking a long bubble bath in my glorious tub, but I figure I owe myself.

Afterward, I eat lunch at my favorite pit-stop. Manny’s Mexican. I order the chicken enchiladas with extra cheese and extra Guac.

“You want hot or mild salsa?” the Mexican waiter asks.

I say, “Surprise me.”

He brings me the hot stuff, surprise, surprise.

I read the newspaper. The Sunday
New York Times
. From cover to cover. (Well, almost. I skip the Arts and Entertainment Section. I don’t need art. And I don’t need entertainment. What I need is a gun. Ha, ha.)

But seriously. I’m on my own. For the first time in almost four years.

I consider calling Henry. Begging for my old job back. Especially now that I’m sitting in Manny’s Mexican—it reminds me of the big going-away party he threw me. And the big going-away check. My “Break Glass In Case of Emergency” check that I’m now living on.

Good ol’ Henry. He was right all along, and I guess, deep down, I knew he was right. I don’t mind conceding the point, but it would be awkward. When I was working at Organics 4 Kids, I never kept up with him like I should have. I was always busy. We had a few lunches together, exchanged e-mails, that sort of thing. But our relationship, during my stint at Organics, fizzled.

Now that I’ve got so much free time on my hands, I feel the loss. And it’s an acute pain. I know I’ll call Henry one of these days. Let him know the scoop. And then I’ll have to listen to a big, fat “I Told You So,” speech.

But not today. Today is Maddy Day.

I decide to take a nice stroll.

I walk to the Public Library. The Park. And the Museum District. There’s a new exhibit about the Constitutional Congress. And I’m somewhat of a Revolutionary War buff. So I figure, what the heck?

I walk inside and realize it’s been a while since I’ve set foot in a museum. It’s a shame, really, because I love museums. They make me feel as though life is so fleeting, that our time on Earth is so precious, that we’ve really got to live it!

Yes, museums make me hokey.

The exhibit is neat. It starts with letters from the Founding Fathers. A sign on the wall reads:
Welcome to the National Archives Experience.

I peruse some of the letters. The museum feels cold. And a little dark inside. “Probably to preserve these letters,” I think.

There were fifty-five delegates to the Constitutional Congress, but only thirty-nine actually signed on the dotted line. I stroll around the glass cases reading letters by our Founding Fathers: Alexander Hamilton, George Washington, Patrick Henry, and Benjamin Franklin.

The usual daddy-o’s.

All of the letters appear with a typed, translated version, in case me olde tyme English is rusty. The translated version is helpful.

I stop at the letters from Abigail Adams to John Adams. Abigail is the only female writer in this exhibit, as far as I’ve seen. She’s written a letter to John Adams for his journey to the Continental Congress. I peer down at the letter. It’s magnified and under glass. And it starts with:

“Remember the Ladies.”

Letter to John Adams in Philadelphia. Braintree. March 31, 1776.

I straighten my shoulders and stare off into space.

All men would be tyrants if they could?

Wow. You got that right, sister.

I leave the museum with my head in a fog. The museum lady says, “Have a nice day,” as I amble out the door. I wave to her, absently.

On my way home I consider my role in Carlton’s crimes against me. If anything, I was certainly an accomplice. I mean, what did I do to protect myself? Nothing. And in the end, I suffered.

I did it. Me! Carlton never put a gun to my head. He simply asked, cajoled, persuaded, and gave me the type of mind-boggling sex that made my head spin and my eyes roll back. But in the end, wasn’t I to blame? Didn’t I put all my eggs in the Carlton Basket? And watch, as a mere bystander, a sniveling victim, while he crushed those eggs, not one by one, but with one swift kick?

I consider this. And I consider Abigail Adams. For a woman of her time, Abigail Adams had some spunk.