Bradley hated Scrabble, yet he played with us because he was a joiner like his father. He didn't want to be excluded. And he was better at the game than he realized. He thought of words I would never think to assimilate on my tile rack. Defense. Tackle. Touchdown. (That one was on the triple word score.) He collected medals and ribbons and trophies on his bedroom wall on a special shelf put up by his father. (Same for William, only different sorts of prizes.)
I didn't have a single medal, certificate, or plaque in my possession. I'm sure I received them. I got good grades, but my mother had never been one to boast, and while she probably had them tucked somewhere in a chest in the attic to give me before or after she died, we didn't make a big deal out of winning. “It's how you play the game,” she had told us a thousand times. We often unconsciously repeat the words our parents put in our mouths from our childhood, and when I said those words to our sons, Joel would shake his head, and add, “But it is important to do your best. There's nothing wrong with winning.” So he was verbally sort of agreeing with me while physically disagreeing with me. I hated when he did that.
If being an overachiever is a downfall, then I'll take it. It was much better than so many spousal issues. He still made time for fun. If life was a game, then he played it very, very well.
Monica had been just like him. Even in her glossy magazine article, I could tell she was still on the overachiever track. She was a partner in her law firm and had collected all the rewards of her pursuit of riches and fame. Happiness, I wasn't so sure. Why else had she begun to pursue Joel again when she was married? My own journey meant our roads had to converge. I was building up the courage to confront her, but had not yet figured out a way that I wouldn't sound like a total idiot. I began to understand the phrase, “bury the hatchet.” (An American English colloquialism meaning “to make peace.” Borrowed from the figurative or literal practice of putting away the tomahawk at the cessation of hostilities among or by Native Americans in the Eastern United States. Weapons were to be buried or otherwise cached in time of peace.)
Still, I had to know. I would never achieve inner peace without it.
People like Joel can think of an idea and have a plan formulated in a matter of minutes and then, as the Nike slogan goes, just do it. People like me have to dip their toe into the water first. We do our research. Cover our bases. And then, at a snail's pace, proceed.
Thus far, I have done the research. In my grief binder, I have written both the work and home phone numbers, e-mail addresses and physical addresses for Monica Blevins. I have pulled up her corporate web site and read and re-read her bio. I don't know what I was hoping to find. It was a very bland, lawyer-type bio, packed full of the kind of achievements achievers like to add to such. The fourth time I read it I noticed something: a clue. Top 40 Under 40 class, three years ago, same as Joel. There had been a reception and Joel had asked me if I wanted to go, but I usually declined his corporate schmooze-fests and besides, William and Bradley had pizza night at Cub Scouts. I'd take a greasy slice of pepperoni and rowdy kids to a boring business function any day.
I tried to recall that night. I'd seen the plaque. He'd handed it to me when he got in that night.
“It's late,” I'd said. 10 p.m. Well, late for married people on a school night. Late I thought for a business reception. “How did it go?”
“Fine,” he'd said. “Nothing special.”
“Nice plaque. It's even got your name engraved on it.”
“I'll live in infamy,” he'd joked as he planted the kiss in the middle of my forehead.
“Smells like you had wine.”
“You've got a nose like a bloodhound.”
“And perfume.” Our eyes had locked. “You must stop hugging all the ladies, darling.” I 'd been joking.
He had laughed. I was never very good at jokes. Joel and Bradley were the good jokesters in the family and William could hold his own where sarcasm was concerned, but Joel had only retreated to the bathroom to brush the wine from his teeth and toss the perfume-scented clothes in the hamper. I hadn't thought it had been anything other than my husband's proclivity to hug his associates-yes, guys, too. It wasn't very PC (you are supposed to do “side hugs” in the office), but still.
It was two weeks after that Joel mentioned he was up for a bid on a new big law firm project. I had been finishing the crossword puzzle. (Joel got it first, answered the ones he knew-typically sports- and business-related items-and then I finished it off, usually two-thirds, not that I'm boasting.) “Oh, yeah. Which one? Don't tell me, it has a bunch of people's last names in it. Like Swarovski, William-Sonoma, Crate & Barrel. Right?”
“Close. Stevens Blevins Polanski.”
“Like Roman Polanski.” I was always looking for ways to link words, make them familiar to me, place them in the Rolodex of my mind. But the name Blevins had not rung a bell until much later.
A month later, Joel's firm had been awarded the project, and he had been busy in his studio drawing up the designs. “My best work yet,” he said, same as he did with every new project.
I recalled breakfast meetings and lunch meetings and even a couple of late-night dinner meetings. This was not altogether uncommon for big projects when the decision makers couldn't carve the time into their day to meet with the architects, so they got creative and involved food. Even so, there were a few more of those meetings than was typical. But when I found out which partner he was meeting with, who was leading the project and sharing breakfast, lunch, and dinner with my husband, I went ballistic. Monica Blevins. Beautiful, my-first-love, ex-fiancée Monica Blevins. Married, but still. Come on.
Then came the fights. You don't trust me. How can you possibly think I'd cheat on you with her after what she did to me? Did you know how much I loved her? How hard it was for me to love again after what happened? Do you know how humiliating it was to tell our family and friends there would be no wedding after everything they'd invested? How many friendships were ruined because they had to pick sides? Come on, Ramona. Please. Have some faith.
But I hadn't. I couldn't. My mind raced with the words I thought could ruin us. But it wasn't the hint of adultery that nearly ruined us-it was the crumbling of the faith that could have led to our demise. In fact, I think the more that I obsessed over it, the more he probably considered having an affair. I had demanded too much. What did you talk about? What's her husband like? Are they happily married? Did you talk about me? About the kids? Do you still have feelings for her? On and on, I'd gone like an idiot missing a shut-off switch. With each question, I had dug us deeper into a hole. For Joel, faith was never an issue. He believed in me, in us. He believed in God and believed he would go to Heaven. He believed you could forgive and be friends with someone who broke your heart. I didn't. I believed eros could never fully be erased from one's memory-its magical dust so tiny on the soul, it could never be cleansed. He didn't have to tell me he still loved her. I knew deep in my bones.
He had done what good husbands do and gave the project-his blood, sweat, and tears and drawings-to another partner and said, “Fine. If you can't be mature about this, then I won't see her again.” And he died two weeks later.
