Chapter VIII Sara’s New World

CAUTION!! This chapter may require tissues.

. . . Look,” she said, patting the seat next to her so I would move over there. “We always thought you were a little, errr, different. You were always a little effeminate, you loved art, I don’t know. You just weren’t terribly manly.”

. . . What kind of a wife lets her husband turn himself into a woman? Couldn’t you satisfy him?

. . . But it still makes me really uptight to see you kissing a man,” she mumbled.

The next day, I called my parents, and made arrangements to drive into Manhattan to visit them. My father was a senior partner in a small investment banking firm, and they lived in a really nice, rather large apartment on the upper west side, which they had moved into once they had gotten me and my two sisters off to college. My mom was delighted to hear from me and wanted to go out to dinner, but I insisted that we meet first at their apartment and then decide what to do. *Good,* I thought, *word hasn’t reached them yet.* I could deliver the bad news in person.

I drove into the city early and spent most of the day shopping and trying to figure out what to say to them. No matter what I imagined, it turned out bad. My dad especially worried me. As I made my way, I picked up a few copies of the magazine that now held my picture. By the time I got to the apartment, I was dressed androgynously in a pair of tan women’s slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, with my fake crocodile women’s loafers on my feet, and my hair pulled back neatly, but no makeup. Underneath, I had on panties but no bra.

My parents met me at the door and I gave them a quick hello. They told me how pleased they were that I had decided to just drop by as we walked from the small foyer into the living room. You just had to stop as you entered that room. It was large by Manhattan standards, and the far wall was nearly all windows, which, even with gauze curtains over them for privacy, filled the room with light. A baby grand piano, which as a child I had considered as an instrument of torture as I failed at piano lessons, sat to the right of the entrance way. A brightly colored couch, like something out of the summer catalogue from Pottery Barn, only way more expensive, dominated the wall just past the piano. Several comfortable chairs and small tables faced the couch on the other wall.

But none of that really characterized the room. What did was on the walls. Art covered nearly every square foot of wall space above the furniture. Most of it came from one of two places: paintings from Cape Cod and pottery from the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, which is something you don’t see much of in New York City. My parents, who liked to vacation in both places, were, as it turned out, very astute collectors. Paintings that had cost a couple of hundred bucks when they were purchased on Cape Cod 30 years ago were now worth tens of thousands. Museums now displayed pottery purchased for a song from young potters in the Blue Ridge Mountain artist colony at Penland. Their collection filled the entire apartment, and as always, it startled me when I saw it again. I shook my head; no wonder I had become an artist.

But I couldn’t linger, as I loved to do, because I had business to attend to. I handed them the article and told them to read it while I “went to change.” They were perplexed, but just shrugged and nodded.

When I came from the guest room 15 minutes later, my hair was loose and fluffy because I had back-combed it to give it some volume. I had on full, though light makeup, with a pale blush and lipstick. A pair of brand new A cup forms (I didn’t want to scare them) were in a bra I had just bought to hold them, and I wore a soft, jade green silk camp shirt that draped fluidly. Two gold bracelets adorned my right wrist, a small watch my left, and I sported dangly, multicolored glass earrings and a matching pendant. Their color was perfect with the blouse. A pair of casual dark green pumps with a two inch stacked heel completed my outfit. I felt really pulled together. And scared to death.

“What’s going on here?” my dad asked the moment he saw me. Anger tinged his voice.

“Honey?” my mom said plaintively at the same time.

“Did you see the article?” I asked, in my normal voice. They both nodded studying me carefully, and with some alarm, as I stood before them. “Well,” I said, switching to my girly voice, “this,” and I held my hands out and did a twist from one side to the other, “this is going to be me for the foreseeable future.”

“I told you he was gay,” my father hissed at my mother.

“Honey?” my mother asked plaintively. “What’s going on?”

“Anyone besides me want a drink?” I asked, turning to head to the small bar on the other side of the room, so they could see how I walked. I heard a strangled noise come from my father, so I turned and gave him an expectant smile.

“Yes!” he blurted out. “Make me a martini — in one of the big glasses.”

“Arthur!” My mother said, aghast. “You know what Dr. Bernstein said.”

“Diane,” my father responded tartly, “If Dr. Bernstein was here she’d want one too.”

My mother just said, “Hmmphh.” And a moment later, “I’ll have one too.”

After I handed them their drinks and perched primly on one of the chairs, my father said, “So, Michael,” he emphasized the Michael quite emphatically. “What’s going on?”

“Will you listen?” I asked. “And let me finish before you start to respond?”

They both nodded.

As I daintily rearranged myself on my chair, they watched stiffly from the couch, something not terribly easy to do because it was big and soft and just swallowed you up if you sat back on it. When I had settled myself I told them my story - how I had always thought that I might be a girl, how I had always cross-dressed and how Rebecca knew and accepted it, although it didn’t thrill her. I didn’t tell them about Phillip, although I spent a lot of time explaining that I wasn’t gay.

“See, I told you,” my mom said smugly to my dad, as if it things had turned out okay since I wasn’t gay.

I went to great lengths to explain that the picture had been taken without my knowledge or permission. I apologized for surprising them and for any hurt this caused them.

“Okay, I’ve heard you out,” my dad said when I stopped. Now you hear me out.”

I had to admit, he had been a very good listener, something not usually in his behavioral repertoire. I nodded.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he exploded, jumping up and stalking towards me. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?” he went on gesticulating wildly. “You can’t just go around changing your sex whenever you feel like it. You’re not my daughter; you’re my son. I don’t want to see you like this.” He turned away from me, and paced to the piano. Resting his hand on it, he turned back. “I’m no fool; I’ve read about this stuff. And I’m not naíve. I live in Manhattan! But I will not permit it in my family!” And with that, he spun around and stalked out of the room.

I just sat there a little stunned by his vehemence, though not by his attitude. But my mother didn’t seem terribly concerned, so I had some hope for her being more accepting. “Oh don’t worry about him,” she said, waving her hand in the direction he had gone. “He adores you. Sometimes he couldn’t relate to your sisters at all, but you were always his son and that always made him so proud. He just needs some time.”

“Mom?” I asked, although I didn’t really know what I was asking.

“Look,” she said, patting the seat next to her so I would move over there. “We always thought you were a little, errr, different. You were always a little effeminate, you loved art, I don’t know. You just weren’t terribly manly.”

“That’s not true,” I objected. I played all sorts of sports well, and dated lots of girls, I couldn’t help it if some people looked at me questioningly.

“Be that as it may,” she went on, “look at you now. Even after you married Rebecca, we still wondered.”

“But she’s Jewish,” I said teasing. “You always said you wanted me to marry a Jewish girl.”

She looked at me as if I had just developed small pox. Perhaps joking wasn’t the best idea given the current circumstances. “Don’t worry,” she finally said, “You’ll figure it out. Once you see how lousy it is to be a woman, you’ll be happy to go back to being Michael again, and we can forget all about this.” She gave me one of those indulgent-mother smiles and then one of those hopeful but vacuous TV anchor nods, as if we had just discussed nothing more important than changing my hair color. But after a brief, pregnant pause, she rolled out the heavy artillery. “We’re still waiting for grandchildren, you know.”

With that, she tuned me out entirely, which is what she did whenever confronted with a difficult emotional situation. “Michael,” she said, putting her hand on mine, and then pulling it back suddenly, as if she had put it on a spider. “I just assumed we’d go out for dinner, so I don’t have a thing to eat. And I don’t think your father wants to be seen with you the way you are.”

Then she paused, which meant it was my turn to say something. It only took me a moment to figure out what she meant. I’d had years of training in reading her indirection. “Okay mom. I guess you’re right. I should get going.”

She nodded thankfully, and after quickly collecting my things, I fled.

I really didn’t want to drive back to Connecticut right then, so on a whim, I dialed the number of Phillip’s apartment. But the answering machine picked up instead of Phillip. I smiled briefly to hear his voice, but didn’t leave a message. Instead, I headed out of the city, disconsolate, but not totally defeated. At least my parents hadn’t actually thrown me out of their apartment, or told me they never wanted to see me again.

***

“So I guess that didn’t go so well, did it?” Rebecca said when I got home way earlier than either of us had anticipated.

“What do you mean?” I asked playing for time to see what she was getting at.

“Your mom called,” she responded flatly. “And Leah.” Leah was my older sister, a married corporate attorney, who, at 37, still didn’t have children, much to my parents’ oft-expressed dismay.

“I’m sorry,” I said, brushing my hair off my face with a finger as my shoulders slumped. I could see that being outed would produce a lot of collateral damage, and that Rebecca would be the major victim. A bolt of white hot guilt shot through me, not just because of the pain it would cause her, but because I now clearly understood that even if I had known I would be outed, I wouldn’t have changed anything I had done. I had been just like a smoker, who intellectually understands that she might get lung cancer some day, but who manages to emotionally quarantine that horrid outcome in some kind of neuronal bunker that keeps it from her awareness.

“You better be.” she came back at me. “They’re both ready to blame me for what’s happened, either because I caused it, or because I didn’t stop it. You know what you mother said?”

I shook my head, afraid to guess.

“What kind of a wife lets her husband turn himself into a woman? Couldn’t you satisfy him? If you had given him children this wouldn’t have happened.” And she started to sob, something she must have been doing a lot of judging by the size of the pile of crumpled tissues next to her on the couch.

“I’ll set them straight,” I said a little hotly. It infuriated me that they would blame Rebecca.

“You’ll set them straight?” she replied angrily, looking up into my eyes with more questions than I could answer. “Who the hell is going to set you straight? Or me for that matter?” I sure as hell don’t know what happened.”

“Rebecca?” I pleaded. “What can I do? I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to happen?”

“No, you didn’t plan anything did you? And you sure as hell didn’t think about what might happen as you were out there having a grand old time playing party girl!” She spat her words out at me. “You’re a fool. A selfish fool. And I’m an idiot for letting you go as far as I did.” She paused for a second and looked down, her curls hiding her face. When she looked up, skewering me with her eyes, she added, “And you were irresponsible for letting me do it.” She glared at me, tears running from her red-rimmed eyes.

And before I could say anything, she added ruefully, “But you do look cute in that blouse. Does your mother appreciate what a great sense of style you have?” And she started to cry again. Then, as I moved to her side and sat down next to her on the couch, she said, “Michael, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know hon. I don’t know. But I do know I’m going to protect you. This is my mess. There’s no reason why you should have to clean it up.”

But I couldn’t protect her. As the weeks went on, and the world began increasingly to encounter me as Sara, everyone Rebecca ran into asked her what I was doing. At first, it was only business associates who had seen or heard about the article, but after a while, as the word spread, and more and more people saw me, and we started spreading the word ourselves, wherever she went, the dry cleaner, the supermarket, to business meetings, in her gynecologist’s waiting room, wherever, people asked about me. Although we had decided to tell everyone some version of, “He always thought he might have been a woman and now is the time to find out for sure, and yes I support her,” it was hard for her. I had some idea of just how hard because I fielded the same questions. But because of the guilt she felt, and her defensiveness about her own role, which I absolutely forbade her from revealing, she was not only assaulted with all kinds of painful inquiries, but was reading all kinds of hidden messages into what people were saying.

Rebecca heard them implying that the reason I had changed genders just had to be due to some kind of lack of nurturing, failure, or actual manipulation on her part. I mean, a real woman makes her man feel virile and manly, doesn’t she? What, then, had she done to me to make me feel all girly instead? When her morale ebbed, she interpreted this to mean that she had been a castrating bitch who drove me to it, though how she had managed to pull that off remained unclear. And just to be sure all bases were covered, there were the kind folks who just had to ask if my nascent femininity didn’t it threaten hers, which, actually, it did. That’s why she didn’t want me wearing breast forms at home.

And, of course, many wondered what kind of man would do this to begin with? I must have been a total sissy when she married me, and certainly a flaming faggot, and, needless to say, completely perverted in ways normal people couldn’t even comprehend.

Frankly, gay would have been a step up from what some people really thought of me. At least if I had come out “only” as a garden variety gay man, I would still be a man. Although it wasn’t true - lots of people actually were kind and accepting - it seemed that most people were either threatened by me or angry with me. To men, I seemed to represent the fragility of their own masculinity. And to women, who knows? I seem to have crossed some forbidden border to a land where men were not supposed to go. Or maybe, I liked to imagine, I simply made an attractive woman, rather more attractive and put together than most in fact, and they were just jealous. At least, that’s what I liked to imagine.

Of course, not everyone thought Rebecca had controlled things, some people, both men and women, assumed she had been victimized. She should have been outraged that I had hidden this from her for so long From their perspective, lying about my sexuality was as bad as having an affair Why, these people wanted to know, did she continue to stay with me? How could she possibly put up with it, my obvious and shameful betrayal. Telling them that they were wrong about all of that seemed to do little to change their minds.

But in the end, even the interactions with people who understood or who were supportive, and they were by far the largest group, took a toll. It is of course better to have someone tell you that you are brave “to go through something like this,” but that carries its own costs, especially when people then started to share their problems, as if by having a transsexual husband, Rebecca had suddenly acquired some unique insights into the world.

So, over a period of about two months, I watched helplessly as my lovely, brilliant, tough-minded wife first became stressed out, then started to lose her self-confidence, and, finally, her joy de vivre, which by the end, seemed to be fading visibly on an almost daily basis. It was like watching Tinkerbelle die in Peter Pan, her light slowly fading. Only this time, simply clapping wouldn’t bring her back. Things were bad enough for me, with all the snickers and stares and disbelieving questions, but eventually, more than anything else, I just couldn’t bear the thought that I was literally destroying the one great love of my life.

***

Coming out to my parents was only the first of many explanations I was to give over the following months. I had to call Leah the morning after visiting my parents to confirm that my mother had indeed gotten it right and to castigate her for being unkind to Rebecca. Leah and I hadn’t been terribly close as kids. First, she had to baby sit for me, which cramped her style, but even when I got older, she just didn’t want her “creepy” little brother hanging around. She belittled me in front of her friends to make sure I wouldn’t hang around to bother them. But after we became adults, we discovered a real fondness for each other, and a new way to relate that had nothing to do with who we had been as kids. By now, we were comfortable enough to tease each other about who would produce the first grandchildren, thereby getting the pressure off the other.

“So,” she started off, right after I said hello, “does this mean the burden of grandchildren is solely mine now?” That little joke was the highlight of our conversation. By the time our conversation had ended, it was clear she no more accepting of me than my dad. While she hadn’t been as explosively angry, she was far more cutting and dismissive of my “choice.”

My younger sister, Courtney, who, for no justifiable reason, had always adored me, and who I, of course, had always taken for granted, was much more accepting, although she wasn’t quite sure the whole thing was for real. “This is a joke, right?” she started off, calling between surgeries. In the end, I had to promise to visit and hang out with her as Sara before she would pass judgment. But she lived in Chicago, working about a thousand hours a week as a third year surgical resident, so getting together would have to wait. But she had decided to go into plastic and reconstructive surgery and volunteered to do my face, if it came to that.

“How about my breasts?” I asked, only half joking. There was a kind of garbled noise from the phone, and then a moment of silence. “Ahhh…, I don’t think so,” she finally said. That would be too weird. And besides you should get a real expert. If you need help finding one, let me know. I’ll help you.” Then there was a long pause before she said, “I think.” At least she was taking me seriously.

The people at work were as easy going as Courtney. Of course, they had seen me gradually change over many months, so they knew something was up. Two of the women actually praised me in private for my courage, and promised to be “girlfriends.” Of course, I was their boss. Still, no one quit. Our clients, not surprisingly, were a different matter. We lost a few right away, and Rebecca got furious with me. “You see,” she shouted one day a week after my coming out, when two had called up to say they were looking for ‘other creative avenues.’ “You see what you’ve done?”

Actually, the magazine article helped us far more than it hurt, and we started to get more inquiries than ever before. Many of those who called expected to work with Sara, and only a very few changed their minds when I told them who Sara really was. And a second, smaller group of inquiries came from companies that called because they knew just who Sara used to be. So even though we were losing some clients, we actually gained more than we lost, and in the end, we were terribly busy trying to keep up with the work. This turned out to be my greatest blessing. Work became a refuge, a place where I could experience camaraderie, work hard next to people who liked me, wanted to protect me and took me at face value. Thankfully, it ate up most of the day. Still, it took months, well after the New Year actually, before we hit an even keel again and could turn those inquiries into paying clients. Over the short run, we worried that we wouldn’t have enough cash flow to keep ourselves up and running. We dug a little into our savings to keep all our staff,

In the meantime, it took me two weeks before I listened to the advice I got in my support group and wrote out my explanation in the form of a letter and mailed it to literally everyone I knew. At first, I wasn’t sure I felt ready to do that, but it only took Rebecca about 15 minutes to convince me that I had to do it, and to add a whole bunch of other names, those of her friends and family and all the people we did business with, to the mailing list. It must have taken me about four hours to write what turned out to be a one page letter. Walking into the post office with a large shopping bag full of letters almost did me in. Having done that, however, people knew what to expect when they saw me or Rebecca. I still got all kinds of different responses, from support to hostility, especially from some of my male neighbors, and I still had to explain why I did it almost every time I saw someone for the first time as Sara, but it did allow me to avoid that initial embarrassing moment when someone would look at me, trying to figure out how they knew me, and then become totally stunned when they did. For Rebecca, it compressed the time it took for the whole thing to play out, and it also lowered the emotional tone of her interactions with people. But still, our lives were incredibly stressful.

Like our personal and work lives, our social lives were in disarray. Some long-time friends shunned me, something I had seen once before when one of the couples we were friends with split up because the guy simply walked out. Others, close and not so close, came calling out of curiosity, the way people gather round to look at a bad car wreck. What worried me the most, however, was that I could feel Rebecca slipping away. We spent a lot of time talking, trying to figure out what we should do and what kind of relationship we could have. By turns, we embraced the deep yearning we both had for each other, and then vented anger and resentment at each other. Given the way the situation had developed, we each had plenty of ammunition to use against the other.

We still usually ate and slept together, and I tried to make sure Sara was never very femme when we were at home. But there were times we were so angry with each other that I would get really femmed up just to piss her off! On those nights, of course, I slept in the guest bedroom, not that I actually did very much sleeping, using the time instead to beat myself up for ruining our lives. So it just seemed inevitable that over time Rebecca would grew increasingly short and impatient with me. She didn’t want to discuss clothes or makeup, and stopped sharing the little observations and thoughts that make living with another person rewarding. She didn’t only stop making small talk with me; she eventually stopped touching me as well. Our relationship became cold and barren; our home stopped being our refuge and instead became a source of pain. I had put a huge amount of stress on both of us, and Rebecca was resentful as hell. Who could blame her?

But I also knew that she knew that she had to bear some responsibility for what had happened. So instead of being able to vent her anger entirely at me (and she did plenty of that), and be the victim some urged her to be, she was furious with herself as well. And so one night, five months after I came out, as she paced around the living room, ranting and raving, I made a decision. “Would you like me to leave?” I asked quietly.

“NO!” She shouted back, twirling around to face me. “What kind of stupid idea is that? What would it accomplish?” She glared at me for what seemed like forever, and then broke down in tears, kneeling by the side of my chair. As she cried into my lap I stroked her hair. Finally, she looked up into my face. “Yes,” she said tearfully. “I need a break. If we stay together like this, I don’t know what I might do.”

“I understand,” I said quietly. And I think I did. I had become like a splinter that had caused an infection. If you don’t remove the splinter, the infection never heals, and might even lead to blood poisoning. Leaving, I thought, created the best chance to save my relationship with Rebecca.

“Would you like me to leave tonight, or can you give me a couple of days to set something up?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she cried, as if I had proposed ripping her arm off. “I want you to live in my house and sleep in my bed.” That night I did, and I think we both felt wonderful holding each other. But I clung to her the way you might cling to someone going off to war, fearing in your heart, but not being able to admit it consciously, that once you let go, something horrible would happen. I slept fitfully, and each time I woke up, I grabbed hold of Rebecca, fearing it might be the last time I would touch her.

The next morning, I got up early, and got ready for the day. I put on makeup, blew out my now more than shoulder length hair, and dressed in a long sleeve purple top and long white cotton skirt. Then I made breakfast. When Rebecca finally made her way to the kitchen, she gratefully thanked me for doing it, and we sat together to eat. We kept looking into each other’s eyes, as if we would find something there other than the reality we both knew. Although both our hearts ached, we couldn’t find anything to say.

But before she left for the office, Rebecca did the most amazing thing. She asked me to sit on the couch, and then knelt down in front of me, scaring me to death. I sure she was going to tell me to never come back. Instead, she held out her hand to me palm up, saying, “Remember this?” It was the ankle bracelet inscribed, “Becca and Sara,” that she had bought for me the day of our last giddy date with each other, just before I first went out with Phillip. “Wear it for me please?” she asked, her voice choked.

A bolt of lightning shot through my heart. My brain melted, my eyes teared up, and I my throat closed tight. Even if I could have spoken, there wasn’t an articulate thought in my brain. All I could do was nod at her dumbly. So she gently wrapped the slender gold chain around my right ankle and clicked the clasp closed . Then she rotated it so the thin gold plate holding the inscription rested on the outside of my ankle. “There,” she managed to splutter out through her own tears. “Now everyone will see it and know you’re mine.”

I started crying, but I put my foot on the floor, fell to my own knees on the soft carpet grabbed her for all I was worth. We sat there hugging each other for many minutes, before she cleared her throat and started to disengage from me. “Now we have to redo our makeup,” she said, almost sounding as if she might be teasing. But I understood what she meant, and we both managed to get up, still blubbering, but no longer uncontrollably. Forty minutes later, we couldn’t even get a word out as she gave me a warm hug and lingering kiss. Neither one of us had the heart to mention that I might not be there when she got back.

After cleaning up, I called Phillip on his cell. I knew he would help me. A couple of weeks after the magazine article outed me, on the day that turned out to be the second anniversary of our first date (he remembered, not me), we went to dinner. We just planned a quiet meal in a small Italian restaurant that was short on ambiance - straw covered Chianti bottles on tables covered with vinyl table clothes printed with images of olives - but which had a brilliant chef who was well known among local lovers of Italian food. After we had finished eating, while we were sitting there fiddling with perfect cannoli and sipping cappuccinos, he told me he couldn’t see me any more. “Sara,” he said, his eyes looking so sad I first thought he was going to tell me he had fatal cancer, “I need to stop taking you out. Being seen with a famous transsexual wouldn’t be good for my reputation. It could ruin my business.”

I just ducked my head, crushed my cannoli with my fork, and nodded sadly.

I started steaming, but didn’t want to make a scene in the restaurant. Instead, I waited until we had seated ourselves in his car. Then, as soon as he had settled into the driver’s seat buckled his seat belt and started the car, I really unloaded on him. I turned to face him, my own seat belt trying to haul me back to my side of the car as if it didn’t want me to do it, I shouted, “You selfish son of a bitch. It was okay for me to take the risk of going out with you as Sara to protect your precious reputation as Mr. Macho, but as soon as there’s any risk to you, you drop me? What kind of person are you?”

For a moment his mouth just opened and closed as he tried to find words. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that. “Sara?” he half pleaded. “This is my livelihood we’re talking about. I thought we both understood while we were going out that it was just a game. I mean, anyone else who had been out with me as often as you, would have been in my bed many times, but I never pushed that on you.”

“What did you say?” I screamed into the nearly soundproof environment of his new 750Li. Now I was really seething. Startled at my own anger, I lowered my voice, but let the intensity stay. “Is that what you expect? A quid pro quo? Well, you already got it buster! You got the safe date you wanted, one you could relate to, and who wouldn’t be running any scams on you. Surely you didn’t forget about that? And look at what it’s cost me! I’m trapped in this now and have been publicly humiliated!”

“Sara, Sara, okay already,” he pleaded, raising his hands defensively. “That was stupid of me. I didn’t mean it. Really. I was feeling defensive. Forgive me, please?” And he looked at me with such a pained, apologetic expression, that my heart went out to him.

“Alright,” I said, somewhat disgustedly, “I’ll forget about that last crack, but it still doesn’t excuse you from dropping me just because I might tarnish your precious reputation. That’s just chicken shit. And besides, lots of people already know you’ve been out with me. Some have even seen us more than once. All you need to tell them is that you knew I was TS, but that you thought I made one gorgeous babe. I bet they see you as courageous, rather than anything else. Probably make you seem even more macho. Who,” I asked sarcastically, “but someone who is really sure of his masculinity would risk going out with a transsexual?”

“I don’t know,” he replied dubiously. “Let me think about it, okay?”

“Well you better think about this while you’re at it. What kind of a person drops a friend because she all of a sudden becomes a little inconvenient? Someone who would do that is no friend at all. He’s a user, a manipulator.”

I could see by his expression that the idea deeply wounded him, so, despite the fact that I was hyperventilating and on a total adrenalin rush that wanted me to close in for the kill, I managed to keep control of my breathing and my mouth. I settled back into my seat and straightened my skirt and coat. Then I just sat there silently.

After a few moments, in a whisper so soft that the very quiet whoosh of the car’s heater almost obscured it, he said, “I don’t manipulate people.”

I tried to restrain myself, but I was still furious, though more under control than a few moments ago. So matching his quiet tone, I replied, “It’s one thing to talk the talk, it’s another to walk the walk. When you figure out which you plan to do, please be so kind as to let me know.” My anger was still so hot I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, though I cringed when I heard myself.

I felt defeated. There was only one thing that could be done at this point. So I said, “But in the meantime, just take me home.” I tried to settle myself in the slippery leather seat, believing that I had just severed our relationship. In the darkness of the exquisitely appointed car cabin, the smell of new leather filling my nostrils even through my sniffles, tears began to wind their way down my cheeks. I didn’t try to stop them or wipe them away.

The restaurant was only about 20 minutes from our house, so he slipped the car into gear and headed off. The winding two lane roads of Connecticut, which require a lot of attention in most cars, slip by silently and smoothly in a big BMW. But the tension between Phillip and me seemed huge. Instead of being relaxing, the quiet ride of the car now became oppressive, like a weight pressing down on me. It reminded me of when I had been a child and desperately wanted to say something to my father while we were at Shabbat services, but because it was during the silent meditation that preceded the Torah reading, I had to hold my tongue. I didn’t really know why, but the powerful silence that surrounded me kept me mute.

After about ten minutes, panic started to overtake me. What would I do if I lost Phillip as well as Rebecca? The silence became too much; I couldn’t take it any more, “Philip,” I said, my voice first catching in my throat, and then finding a way to come out gently, “I’m doing something really hard. I need all the friends I can get. I thought we were friends. I don’t really have anyone else. I need you.”

He glanced over at me and nodded, but I had no idea what he was thinking. My heart became heavier by the second. By the time we pulled into my driveway, I had just about given up hope that he would ever speak to me again. I tried to imagine how he would end it: would he be straight-forward, or would he behave like a typical man and tell me he would call, only to disappear forever.

*Why?* I cried in my mind, *had I ever been so foolish as to attack him like that. Now he hates me.*

As the car came to a halt and the sound of the gravel crunching under its wide tires disappeared into the trees by the driveway, he finally said something. Turning to me, the left side of his face illuminated by the security light over the garage, he put one hand on the back of my seat and the other on my thigh. I didn’t expect that and it felt huge and hot. But before I could even begin to consider what it meant or how to respond, he said, “Sara. I am your friend, and I won’t abandon you. We’ll go out and play racquetball and do the other stuff just as before. And if anyone ever tries to knock you down again, physically, like that first time we played, or metaphorically anywhere else, they’ll have to answer to me. Will you let me do that for you?”

“Ok..kay,” I replied, stuttering over the word as my throat tightened up and tears started to flow freely yet again. I had prayed for this, but didn’t even dare hope for it. I put my left hand over his on my thigh, and sort of spluttered through the tears that were now fully formed, “Phillip, you are the sweetest man. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“And you Sara Cohen are a terrific, talented woman. It breaks my heart to see you and Rebecca go through this, and I will forever be ashamed of what I tried to do this evening. I don’t know what go into me.” Tears glistened in his eyes.

What could I do? I sat there for a long moment, savoring the feel of his hand on my leg his words in my mind, and then reached up, put my right hand on his cheek, pulled him closer to me, and gave him a warm kiss on the lips. It just felt like the right thing to do, and it felt right doing it.

“Thank you,” he said, graciously pulling away from the kiss before it could develop into anything more than a thank you. “I mean what I say. You can count on me. I was a fool to have said what I did. I’ll always regret it.”

“Thank you,” I responded, before leaning back to him and giving him another short kiss. I thought I knew what kind of man you are, and now I’m sure. Please call me every so often, okay?”

“Sure babe, he responded, dropping into a rather bad, though recognizable, Humphrey Bogart imitation. “If you need anything just, whistle. You do know how to whistle don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow.”

“Hey,” I responded huffily. That’s supposed to be my line. It was Bacall who used it, not Bogart.”

“Sorry dear,” he teased back, “I got to it first.” And turning back towards the steering wheel, he went on. “I gotta go. You take care, okay?”

“It’ll be easier now,” I replied, serious again. And then I reached for the handle and got out of the car.

A moment after I got into the house, feeling quite heartened, but emotionally drained, Rebecca called out, “That was quite cozy. Are you two becoming a hot item now that you’re done with me?”

“Rebecca, what are you talking about?” I responded as I walked towards the kitchen. She was standing by the sink, which had a clear view of the front yard and driveway.

“That looked like a pretty hot make out session to me,” she replied hotly, turning on me as she did.

“It was two little kisses, that’s all,” I said angrily. “And what were you doing spying on me?”

“Two little kisses my ass,” she shot back. “And I wasn’t spying on you. I came into the kitchen to get a drink just before I heard Phil’s car pulled in. After a while, when you didn’t come in, I looked to see if it really was you. And sure enough, there you were, with him draped all over you and you leaning in to kiss him.”

“Oh shit. That’s not what happened.” I responded despondently. “Can I please explain?”

“Explain what?” she asked angrily. “You think you can convince me that I didn’t see it?”

“No,” I said evenly, trying to control my voice so this stupid argument wouldn’t escalate. “But I can tell you exactly what did happen, and then maybe you’ll have a slightly different take on it.” Her face remained hard. “Please?” I pleaded.

“Oh, alright,” she said, with a little less edge on her voice. Then she turned and headed for the porch, saying, “Bring me a glass of wine. This oughta be good.”

A half hour later, while Rebecca cried, appalled at her behavior and the way she had jumped to a totally wrong, though in some ways not entirely unexpected conclusion, I sat next to her, one arm over her shoulder, and the other holding her hand. “But it still makes me really uptight to see you kissing a man,” she mumbled.

“It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” I replied quietly. “It wasn’t sexual. It never will be. I’m not attracted to men and I never will be. Remember when you taught me how women could be intimate without it leading to sex. I guess I’ve learned to do that with Phillip too.”

She just nodded, looking defeated.

“C’mon,” I said, “Lets go to bed. It’s been a hard day.”

“Every day’s a hard day,” she said sadly, turning to look at me to see if I was still mad at her, and giving me a small smile when she saw only concern on my face. I helped her up and we went upstairs hand in hand, she in her jeans and sweatshirt and me in my heels, flirty skirt, and twin set.

***

Although out of town for a while, Phillip immediately agreed to let me use one of the spare bedrooms at his corporate apartment in Manhattan. On the one hand, I was relieved to have a place to stay. On the other, I was crushed because now I really did have to move out. In my mind I understood that I had to find a place to stay so I could give Rebecca the space she needed. But I had hoped it would take longer so I didn’t have to leave right away. Of course Phillip couldn’t know that, and as a good friend who couldn’t read my mind even though I tried as hard as I could to let him, he did what I asked, not really knowing the pain in my heart.

Feeling I had no other choice, I packed my bags and loaded the car. I backed out of the driveway with tears in my eyes and by the time I got to the highway, five minutes later, I was was so disconsolate I had to pull off the road. I stopped on a bare, rocky stretch of ground next to the ramp where I had often seen trucks parked, and tried to get control of myself. As cars and trucks sped round the curve past me, I cried and blew my nose, and sobbed and blew my nose some more. When I had cried myself out, I looked as horrible as I felt. My eyes were rimmed in red, and my nose was as red as Rudolph’s. I tried to cover the mess with makeup, took a deep breath, pulled carefully back onto the ramp, and headed for Manhattan.

Before I knew it, the bellman had my bags stacked in one of the spare bedrooms in Phillip’s apartment and was handing me a key. I gave him twenty bucks, I knew I was going to be there a while and wanted him to be my friend, locked the door and burst into tears again. An hour later, I called Rebecca, but she wasn’t home yet. I left a simple message telling her that I would be staying at Phillip’s so she wouldn’t worry, and then felt totally lost.

For my first evening alone in a strange apartment, I changed into warm socks and a soft cotton, eyelet lace nightgown that went all way to my ankles. Then I went to look for something to drink. All Phillip had was a collection of very expensive single-malt scotches. Normally I wouldn’t think of drinking someone else’s expensive whiskey by myself, and I certainly wouldn’t have loaded up a glass with ice. I had always thought it a sin to ruin the exquisite taste of an aged scotch by diluting it more than just the little bit you needed to let the taste open up. But nothing was normal tonight. I consumed almost half a bottle of a 12 year old McCallan before getting drunk enough to pass out.