Rusty, September 2, 2008
Anna is already there when I arrive at the Dulcimer. She is nervous, fingering a highball glass full of bubbles, but beautiful. Her life in private practice has given her a sleeker look, a better coif and nicer clothes. I sit beside her on a tufted banquette in the
bar.
"Cut your hair?"
"Less to take care of. More time to work." She laughs. "Confessions of a high-priced slave."
"It's very becoming."
My compliment leaves her briefly silent until she mutters, "Thanks."
"What are you drinking?" I ask.
"Fizzy water. I have something I need to finish at work."
My heart sags: She is going back to work. I say nothing. She moves her purse so it's in the open space between us.
"Rusty, I don't know how to say this. So I think I just have to come out with it. I'll try to explain. But the point is that I've started seeing Nat. I mean, I haven't, but I'm going to. I'm going to see him today. And I don't know where it will go, but it's pretty serious already. It's very serious already."
"My Nat?" I actually blurt. For an instant I can feel nothing inside myself. And then what surges forth is rage. It storms out of my heart. "This is insane."
Looking at me, Anna's green eyes are welling.
"Rusty, I can't describe how hard I tried to avoid this."
"Oh, for Chrissake. What are you going to tell me about now? Fate? Destiny? You're a grown-up human being. You make choices."
"Rusty, I think I'm in love with him. And that he's in love with me."
"Oh, my God!"
She is crying by now as she holds the cool glass to her cheek.
"Look, Anna, I know you want to get back at me. I know I disappointed you. I know all is fair in love and war. I've heard every crappy expression. But this is impossible. And you have to stop."
"Oh, Rusty," she says, sobbing. "Rusty, I did everything the right way. I was so good. I wish you understood. I tried so hard to make this not happen."
I want to think. But the dimension of this is unimaginable. And I can feel my arms and hands shaking in fury.
"Does he know? About us?"
"Of course not. And he never will. Never. Rusty, I know this is crazy and difficult, but you know, I have to try, I really have to try. I don't know if I can handle this or you can handle this, but I have to try, I know I have to try."
I rear back in the chair. I am continuing to experience difficulty catching my breath.
"Do you know how often I've longed for you and stopped?" I ask her. "Made myself stop? And now, what? I'm supposed to watch you parade around my house? This is sick. How could you do this to me? To him? For God's sake."
"Rusty, you don't want me."
"Don't tell me what I want." I remain angry enough to slap her. "I know how this adds up, Anna. Don't preach sincerity to me. You're tightening the screws in the shittiest way imaginable. So what's my choice? Get rid of Barbara now, right now. Is that it? Get rid of her or you'll literally destroy my home?"
"Rusty, no. It's not about you. It's about him. That's the whole point of what I'm trying to tell you. It's about him. Rusty, Rusty-" Then she stops. "Rusty, I never felt like this about"-she stumbles-"about anyone. I mean, maybe I should be a case study in some psychiatric journal. Because I'm not sure if this would have happened without it. Without us. But it's different, Rusty. It really is. Rusty, please let us be."
"Go fuck yourself. You're crazy, Anna. You don't know what you want. Or who you want. Psychiatric journal is right."
I throw money on the table and hear her muffled outcry behind me as I bang out of the hotel, striding in outrage down the street. I seethe in the oldest, most elemental way. I go several blocks. Then stop suddenly.
Because one thing is clear. No matter how angry I am, I must do something. I must. There is no clear path. I will think and think and nothing will be right. But I must do something. And the mystery of that seems as large a thought as God.
What will I do?