Page 5 of Single-Minded
“You’re gay!” I yell. “Of course we’re getting a divorce. What did you think would happen? Tuesday: laundry day; Thursday: Costco; Saturday: gay sex orgy? You are out of your freaking mind, Michael. Also, this seems to be a bit of an afterthought for everybody right now with the shameful media frenzy and all, but youcheatedon me.”
“I just thought maybe we could somehow work it out…,” he says.
“You thought wrong,” I say. “As for ESPN, I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you, thank you,” he says with a sigh. “But think fast, the flight leaves at ten-thirty.”
I hang up without saying goodbye, which is juvenile and rude, and feels freaking amazing. Dialing Darcy’s number, I do pros and cons in my head—should I be going to talk to Michael’s bosses at ESPN? Con: Michael loses his job, and sometime in the near future I might possibly regret not being a better human being. Also, even though there is absolutely no reason to, I know I’ll feel guilty anyway if Michael gets fired. I guess that’s how all those political wives end up standing on the platform, next to their lying, cheating husbands—smiling tersely like first runner-up in some zombie beauty pageant. Pros: I’m an instant candidate for sainthood; if I weren’t agnostic, I’d be home free. That’s all I can think of, except that Connecticut is lovely in the fall—but that doesn’t really seem like a good enough reason to travel out of state to perjure myself.
Darcy picks up on the second ring.
“How are you holding up?” she asks. No hello. “Are you watching the news?”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Just tell me if it gets any worse, okay?”
“It will,” she says.
“I told Michael I wanted a divorce, which seemed like a big surprise to him. Michael wants me to go with him to Connecticut to tell his bosses at ESPN that we were separated when he started screwing Bobby Cavale. He actually believes this will keep him from getting fired.”
“It probably will,” Darcy answers. “If you two were married at the time he slept with Bobby, they can and will likely fire him for violating the ethics clause in his contract. If you two were separated, they can’t fire him—otherwise they’d be discriminating against him for his sexual orientation, which is illegal in Connecticut. Even if it wasn’t, they’d probably want to avoid the appearance of discrimination. Michael is talented, a rising star at ESPN. My guess is that the network is looking for a way to keep him. Which is where you’d come in.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable with lying.”
“I know you don’t,” Darcy says reassuringly, “but this is more a matter of spin, of perspective. Let me be practical for you right now, do a little crisis management. It’s my job, after all, and I’m good at it, and there’s no way you’re thinking clearly after your morning from hell. So here it is: Michael is gay, so you’ve always been separated, at least metaphorically. I don’t think you should look at this from the viewpoint of should you lie or shouldn’t you, because without context, the answer is, of course, no.”
“Even with context the answer is no,” I interject.
“Sure,” she continues, “but I think you should look at what you want to do here, and we can sort right from wrong later.”
“Spoken like someone who works in politics,” I say.
“Ha. Okay, think of it this way. Big picture—first, you’re going to end up paying the cheating jackass alimony because he screwed around and got himself fired. That’s a payment that’s going to burn like hell every damned month. And that one little white lie saves you thousands and thousands of dollars. Is that particular truth worth thirty grand a year for the next five years? Second, if you don’t help Michael keep his job, which is what we’re really talking about here, how will you feel about that next week after he’s fired? How would you feel about it on your deathbed?”
“By next week I’d probably feel terrible. Or completely justified. I’m not sure. On my deathbed? I’d hope I’ll have bigger things to worry about.”
“I think that’s your answer, then.” says Darcy. “A year from now, or ten years from now, you will hopefully have moved forward. Maybe acquired your own twenty-year-old basketball hunk. I think if you don’t help Michael now, your guilt will keep you stuck in this day forever. Let it go, let him go. Not to mention, if you do this, the stench of scandal goes away, and ESPN will do everything they can to kill the story. On the flip side, if you march in there like the wronged woman and tell them you learned that Michael was cheating on you with a college basketball player this morning, just like everybody else in the country, you’ll give this story legs, and it will take longer to die down. Upside—doing this will help you both move on. That’s my professional advice.”
“Clearly Michael is not having any trouble whatsoever with moving on,” I sulk.
“True. Right. Let’s not forget that Michael screwed around. Are you medicated? Or are you out in your driveway right now, torching his stupid yellow golf pants and those ridiculous Dennis Rodman action figures and dancing around the bonfire?”
“Medicated,” I say. “Tequila.”
“So what are you going to do?” Darcy asks.
“I want to do the right thing,” I say.
Darcy sighs. “Right is relative.”
4
I grab a quick shower, throw some clothes and toiletries in a bag, and meet Michael at the Sarasota airport for the ten-thirty flight to LaGuardia. My face burns with humiliation as we wait at our gate; the news of Michael’s sex scandal is blaring away on half a dozen televisions overhead. Now CNN has the story too. This isn’t even real news! Why can’t a seven-pound Chihuahua drag a fireman out of a burning building or something? Why hasn’t one of the Kardashians gotten a back tattoo of one of the other Kardashians? Where are the politicians taking bribes and naked selfies, and celebrities short-circuiting their ankle monitors to go street racing with Lindsay Lohan when I need them most?
In any Florida airport, at least half the travelers are over eighty, so at least I could count on a big chunk of them being hard of hearing. Or asleep. As for the rest, quite a few people in the gate area are looking at the TV and then checking out Michael, trying to figure out if he’s that guy on the screen. I scrunch down in my chair and pray for stealthiness, keeping my giant sunglasses over my eyes indoors, even though I’m certain I look ridiculous, like some wannabe movie star. Ifeelridiculous, especially while trying to read myPeoplemagazine through the ultradark lenses. I purchased a whole stack of glossy gossip magazines at the airport gift shop, so I wouldn’t have to think, make eye contact with other humans, or listen to Michael yammer on the plane.
The flight is terrible, and I wish I could nap but I can’t. My mind is razor sharp with betrayal and outrage, ruminating on how many days I have before running Michael over with my car would be counted by a jury as premeditated. Michael puts his hand on my arm, which makes my flesh crawl. I have to get away from him, and the first-class restroom has a line, so I make my way down the aisle to the bathrooms in the back of the plane. Squeezing into the tiny closet, I splash some water on my face, a one-handed challenge because the water only runs when I’m holding down the lever. My wedding ring sparkles in the unflattering glare of the overhead fluorescents. My face looks green. I need a vacation. Somewhere tropical. With cabana boys. Like Mexico without all the murder.
I stare at the reflection of my wedding and engagement rings in the airplane mirror—even though they’re obviously cursed, a symbol of my apparently fake marriage, they are picture-perfect, vintage platinum and aquamarine. I love those rings, I spent months picking them out myself—and I wonder if I could get away with wearing them on my other hand. Probably not.
