home from our marriage counseling sessions. I’d invented our tango lessons so that I didn’t have to tell her we were trying to fix our marriage.
“Great. How were the kids?”
“Super good! They’re such cuties. And you know, I think it’s super cool that you guys are learning the tango. I wish my parents weren’t such fuddy-duddies about stuff like that. Get out of their comfort zone? Forget it. They’d rather just sit there watching TV.”
Whether or not we were doing the tango up there in Glastonbury, we were definitely out of our comfort zone. But it was worth it. We did repair things. For quite a while, actually. Becoming less accusatory of each other lessened the tension. We practiced better teamwork with the twins and the house stuff, better listening skills, worked on more open communication. Hey, I’m a psychologist; it’s not like I didn’t already know a lot of these strategies. But knowing how to advise others in dealing with their shit doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to tackle your own without having to check in with a third party once a week. And besides, my patients range in age from eighteen to about twenty-one, twenty-two. Their relationships are more about managing the drama than maintaining a marriage. Suzanne likened the latter to servicing a car you love and want to last. Listen to the engine, rotate the tires, check the oil. Things got better for us intimacy-wise, too. I became more patient. She became more communicative about what she wanted. She had more orgasms than she’d ever had before, and damn if I didn’t enjoy giving them to her … I mean, it wasn’t happily ever after, not by any stretch. She was still distant sometimes, both in our bed and out of it, and I still overdid it sometimes, work schedule-wise. But it definitely got better. Our “tango lessons” went from once a week to once a month, and then to once every three months. Marriage as car maintenance: I was a little put off by the metaphor at first, but as it turned out, Suzanne knew her stuff. Things were much better for Annie and me. And then she got pregnant again and they weren’t …
“Their skin is covered with small toothlike scales, so they’d be virtually unaware that they’re being embedded,” Dr. Skelly is telling the Mad Hatter. “These tags use satellite technology, so that lets us—”
“Like a GPS system?” the Mad Hatter asks.
“Uh-huh. Pretty much. If we get lucky and the tags stay embedded, we should be able to track the animals’ migratory behavior. Which would be fantastic! In other parts of the world, great whites have been tracked successfully, so there’s a good deal known about their migration patterns. But that’s not the case here in the northern Atlantic. Great whites in these waters have always been a bit of a mystery.”
“Well, Dr. Tracy Skelly, thanks for a fascinating discussion. And good luck tracking those great whites. Time once again to check on news, weather, and traffic. But stay tuned, fellas, because when we … two of the self-described ‘guidettes’ who will … in MTV’s latest … Jersey Shore, debuting next …” Mercifully, the Mad Hatter is finally fading away.
I’m goin’ to the market now, Miz Anna. Anything else you need?”
“What?”
“At the market. Anything else that ain’t on your list?”
“No, I guess not. Maybe a pack of cigarettes.”
“Marlboro Lights?”
“Yes, please. Do you have enough money? Here, let me get my purse and give you another twenty just in case. You can keep the change.”
Last month, Viveca reprimanded me for giving Minnie an extra hundred dollars. “Sweetheart, once you start that, they start expecting it,” she said, as if I were a child who didn’t know better. As if Minnie were a dog I got caught feeding scraps to under the table. I kept my mouth shut, but I was pissed. I’m pissed so often lately. It’s nerves, I guess. It’s not that I’m not committed to Viveca. I am. But I’ve already been a bride. And I’m just not comfortable about being married back in Three Rivers … But okay, I’ll get through it. It’s one weekend, that’s all, and I’ll have some time with my daughters in the house where they grew up; I’m looking forward to that. And once we return from Greece, I’ll go back to my studio and Viveca will go back to her gallery and her various charity fund-raising initiatives and things will return to normal.
I’ve slipped Minnie more money since Viveca’s reprimand—hundreds by now probably, although I haven’t kept track. “Our little secret,” I say whenever I press the tens and twenties into her calloused hand and squeeze.
Minnie’s more guarded about her personal life than Hector is, but she’s been opening up little by little, more so since Viveca’s been away and I’ve been staying home instead of going to the studio. We’ve started eating our lunch together, Minnie and me, in Viveca’s study because there’s a little TV in there and Minnie likes to watch The Jerry Springer Show. I’m not sure why, because day after day, it reinforces the worst stereotypes. All the black men on Jerry Springer are dim-witted dogs who cheat on their women. And when Jerry brings out the brazen women these men have been cheating with, the betrayed wives rush them, slapping and punching, yanking off their wigs while the mostly white audience cheers them on. Minnie shakes her head and chuckles and thinks these fights are funny. Doesn’t she realize how racist it is? That it’s staged? I’m at a loss to understand what it is about Springer that appeals to her so much. But hey, I sit there, eating my yogurt and watching it with her.
Minnie smokes at our apartment, which Viveca would be furious about if she knew. But she’s discreet. When she goes into the spare bedroom for a cigarette break, she sits in front of the open window and blows the smoke through the screen. When I walked in and caught her that time, her eyes narrowed—looked more defiant than apologetic—and she said, “You gon’ tell Missuz I been rippin’ smokes?” I told her I wouldn’t and smiled. Asked her to please call me Annie. I thought she’d be pleased by my overture, but she just nodded, not smiling back. She hasn’t called me Annie yet. To Minnie, I’m still Miz Anna, the woman who’s going to marry Missuz.
Since Viveca’s been gone, I’ve been smoking, too. The first couple of times, I bummed cigarettes from Minnie. Then I went down to the market on the corner, the one with the ATM, and bought myself a pack from that effeminate Korean cashier with the bad attitude and the Velveeta-dyed hair. He wears women’s tops and pants some days—size zero, I’m guessing, because he has the narrowest waist I’ve ever seen. He’s over-the-top hostile—resentful when you go up to the counter and dare to interrupt his magazine reading because you want to buy something. He sighs long-sufferingly, slaps his magazine down on the counter, and rings you up with a roll of his eyes. The other day, I got so fed up with his bad attitude that, when he went to give me my change, I grabbed his wrist, looked him in the eye, and told him that whoever or whatever he was so angry about, he didn’t have to take it out on his customers. I watched his expression change from defiance to fear. He was suddenly a scared and miserable little boy, and I knew that, somewhere, in some way, somebody had abused him. I felt bad and looked away—looked down at the counter, at Oprah’s beaming face on the cover of O magazine. He’d dropped my change when I grabbed his wrist and there were dimes on Oprah’s boobs. They looked like pasties. When I looked back up at him, his mask was back on and he looked as ornery as ever. But it was too late. I’d already seen his fear. I can use it if I need to. It’s part of what makes me powerful: I can sometimes figure out what other people’s
