knew where this interview was leading: from not terribly personal queries to the carnal questionnaire—if ever, when, with whom, how did I like it, and, worst of all, how did I feel?
By way of answering, I opened my menu. Finally, when I looked up and saw he’d held the same stare of cross-examination, I tried, “Your bad news? Can we discuss that instead?”
He took a sip from his water glass, swallowed, bit his bottom lip. “Stop me at any point if this gets too uncomfortable for you. But my wife, Mary? She had a boyfriend.”
“When?”
“When we were married! For the whole time, in fact. Some guy she worked with.”
I said, “I never asked you what she did.”
“She was assistant manager of the Kinko’s near Northeastern. But you’re missing my point, which is that I’m devastated.”
I asked how he’d found out and he said, “From my former sister-in-law.”
“That doesn’t sound right. Why would anyone besmirch the memory of her dead sister, especially after the fact?”
“Because it was eating away at her all these years—that Mary was cheating on me and thinking she was getting away with it.”
“But why now?”
“Because she has a big mouth and I was talking to her on the phone and I told her I’d met someone—actually I might’ve said I was in love with someone—and out came the whole ugly truth, which I think was her way of encouraging me to move on.”
I said, “Even if it is the truth, what does that change in the here and now?”
“Everything! I visit her grave and I go to church like clockwork. Do I continue in that vein—Mary the saint—or do I get to the bottom of what Bernadette told me?”
“This Bernadette’s no friend of yours,” I said. “Why would you take anything she said at face value?”
Ray leaned toward me, his voice even. “Because it has the ring of truth.”
“Well, just forget about it,” I advised. “Order some food and a glass of beer and we’ll change the subject.”
“I don’t think you get it: This isn’t some little piece of gossip that has no bearing on anything. This is a huge piece of news. Throughout my marriage, for the entire three years we were together—”
Now it was my turn to look up from my menu and stare. “Did you say three years?”
“We knew each other for three years. We were actually married for sixteen months, which I’d always looked back on as one long extended honeymoon.”
I said, “I guess I assumed—”
“Because of how shaken up I was? And how saddened I was for a whole year since her demise?”
I pointed out that sixteen months was hardly a lifetime, so if Mary had been cheating over the course of the entire marriage, it was a relatively short period of infidelity.
Ray took a paper napkin from the dispenser and blew his nose. “I took my marriage vows very seriously and I’m a little surprised that you’re taking Mary’s side.”
I said I most certainly was not taking Mary’s side. I was just trying to examine all facets of the situation. “Maybe she had no choice,” I offered. “Maybe it was sexual harassment.”
“Baloney! Sexual harassment. Mary was as tough as nails. No one messed with Mary if they didn’t want a boot in the groin.”
Another mental adjustment was needed, this time from docile wife and mother of Ray’s future children to extremely tough cookie. I asked how old Mary was when she passed away.
“Twenty-eight,” said Ray. “She liked older men. This guy, Patrick, from work? Would you believe fifty-two? She had a father thing, but I didn’t care. If I had fifteen years on her and that’s what she liked—hey, why not?”
A waitress was finally at our side. “I’m going to have the burger with Muenster and caramelized onions, no lettuce, no tomato,” said Ray. “And whatever you have on draft.”
A dozen breweries and seasonal batches were described before he heard the right name.
I said I’d have nothing now; maybe a piece of pie later.
“Nothing to drink?” asked the waitress.
“She’s a doctor,” said Ray. “No drinking when she’s on call.”
“We get a lot of doctors here,” said the waitress, and cocked her head in the direction of my hospital.
When she’d gone, I said, “I’m not on call. You don’t have to make up excuses.”
“You know why I do that? I’m just so friggin’ proud that you’re a doctor. I guess I look for any occasion to announce it.”
If it weren’t for his previously announced emotional distress, I might have said that I took exception to his use of the adjective proud—that it was a word for parents, for teachers, for mentors; for one’s own self to admit in the privacy of one’s head. “We’ve discussed this before,” I said, “but maybe I need to say it again: I’d prefer that you didn’t lie.”
“Lie?” he repeated. “Because I tell the waitress you’re on call? Isn’t that true? Don’t you work around the clock? Didn’t you work all day today and aren’t you going back there at dawn?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Okay. That’s settled: no lie.” He smiled as the waitress delivered his frosted mug. “After the day I’ve had, you wouldn’t believe how good this looks,” he said to her.
She said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of day did you have?”
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