Runaway Mama

Thank you for seeing me, Alex. I don’t want to bother you, but I really do need your help,” I said, and my eyes filled with fresh tears. He closed the door, pointed to a chair, set the box of tissues next to me, unobtrusively looked at his watch and sat down. Feeling a little intimated, I took a deep breath and began.,“Alex, what am I going to do?” I said as tears started again. I grabbed a tissue and blurted out . . . Clifford had an affair with a twenty-two year old. It’s that simple. You’ve got to help me. I don’t know what else to do! I want a divorce!” “Now just wait a minute, Kate,” Alex grimaced. “Let’s be sensible about this.” He stared at me over the top of his glasses and asked, “How long have you been married?” “Too long,” I snapped, and blew my nose again. “I see,” he said, discretely checking his watch again. He walked to his desk, sat down, looked at me over tented fingers and let me tell my story in my own time. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, making prison bars on the carpet. “What will happen to me?” I asked, when I had regained my composure. “I’m not trained for any decent job, and . . . oh, Alex . . . What about our children?” He stood up, paced back and forth, oblivious of the lines on the carpet. I felt foolish. He’s probably heard this kind of thing many times before. “I must look a sight,” I sniffed, dabbing at my swollen eyes. He tilted the blinds, disposing of the lines on the carpet and walked toward me. “You look just fine, Kate; everything’s going to be all right, you don’t have to worry.” I stood up. Was that all he was going to say? He was about five inches taller than me, and I had to look up to see his eyes. They were kind, understanding eyes. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Kate, do you really think some thoughtless indiscretion on Clifford’s part could end a marriage as secure as yours?” “But Alex, he made love to a twenty-two year old! Where does that leave me?” “It leaves you the same fine person you’ve always been, married to the same fine man.” We stood close, so close I could feel his heart beating, or was it mine? I looked up and he smiled, leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. My breathing. His lips were warm and soft, and I knew I should have pulled away, but I didn’t. He fumbled in his pocket, then with his zipper. I could hear his breathing as he gently eased my skirt up. Why aren’t I stopping him! Why aren’t I backing away? Why don’t I say no, and leave? What happened next went so smoothly I almost thought I imagined it. He gently pulled me close. I stifled a gasp; my heart was beating in sync with his, and I mentally whispered, don’t stop; please don’t stop! And he didn’t. I could hear the typewriter tapping out words on the other side of the door, an angry car honking from outside, his secretary humming softly as she pulled the paper out of the machine. And above the beating of our hearts, the hushed sound of Alex’s zipper, this time going up, then the closing of the outer door as his secretary evidently left the office. My own heart was still pounding as Alex handed me a wad of tissues. I turned away and adjusted my skirt. He walked over to the windows, tilted the shades open, and stood staring at me. “Now tell me, Kate,” he whispered as he walked toward me, “is your marriage over because of what just happened?” “Why no!” I hesitated. “Of course not! I mean . . . that was just . . . well . . .” I didn’t quite know what to say. He put his hands on my shoulders, opened his eyes wide, and said with a slight grin, “You mean your world hasn’t come to a tragic end?” “Don’t be patronizing, Alex,” I said, pulling away from him. “What just happened, well . . . it just happened! That’s all. It had nothing to do with my marriage!” He shrugged, smiled and shrugged again. “Well, Kate, you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you?” He rubbed his hands together and shook his head. “You don’t need a divorce, Kate. Now go home to Clifford; bake him a pie; forgive him, and tell him you love him!” I hesitated, grabbed my purse and mumbled a quick ‘thank you’ as I eased out of his office and closed the door. I stood there, running my hands through my hair, straightening my clothes, thinking of what had just happened, wondering if it really had happened. Through the closed door I heard Alex’s phone ring. His leather chair squeaked and the phone rang once again before I heard him sigh, clear his throat and answer . . . “Reverend Alex speaking, how may I help you?” As I drove home, I thought over what had just happened. Will I ever be able to tell Clifford? Would it really even the score? Or would telling him just make our situation worse. Somehow my anger dissipated. I felt relaxed, more in tune with my life. I had been yanked into the skewed morality of the Washington scene; he must have known what was going to happen the minute I told him my story. What he didn’t know was, in the deep in the recesses of my mind, I had seen it coming, too, and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.