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“You seem particularly at ease today, Russell.” Dr. White was a keen observer of body language. Seldom was her radar more than a millimeter or two off base.
“Really?” Russell was still feeling a residual buzz from yesterday’s coupling under the pines. Is it possible, he mused to himself, that the good doctor is seeing a changed man?
“Any particular reason?”
“Not really.” Of course, there was a reason, a particularly significant one, and he was dying to trumpet it from the rooftops.
“Okay.” Intuiting Russell’s evasiveness, the tone of this “okay” conveyed her disbelief. “Have you done any thinking about what we talked about last week?”
“You mean...” Russell swallowed hard, “... have I thought about...” He dug deep, summoning up the gumption to say it aloud, “... coming out to Tess?”
“Well, yes,” Dr. White replied. “But, not about whether. We’ve already decided that needs to happen. Right?” Russell’s nod was nearly undetectable, as the color began leaving his face. “So, have you thought about a timeline, when you might do it, or what words you might use?”
The feeling of contentment and self-acceptance Russell had carried into the room was vaporizing quicker than a dew drop on a Joshua Tree at sunrise. A sudden tightening in his chest made it difficult to draw air into his lungs. Russell had entered the space knowing this would be today’s theme. While, over the course of the week, he’d taken a few, tentative stabs at imagining a constructive script, the specter of delivering such unwelcome and disturbing news to his wife painted a pitch-black funnel cloud across his horizon. Upon spying an approaching tornado, one’s first instinct is to hightail it in the opposite direction at maximum speed. Sticking around to face the approaching winds only meant pending disaster. “I...” Russell stuttered, “I...” His face was greyer than a buffalo nickel and his leaded heart was sinking into his belly. “Jesus!”
“Let’s just take a pause for a minute.” Seeing Russell’s discomfort, Dr. White instructed him to stand. Following her lead on a series of relaxation exercises — deep breaths, shoulder rolls, neck swivels, extreme yawns, shaking out his arms — Russell imagined himself as a kindergartener receiving a doting teacher’s special attention for separation anxiety. The silliness of this mental image resulted in involuntary laughter. Dr. White seemed to catch the giggles as well. “What?” she asked, between titters. “What’s going on?”
Russell plopped back down on the couch cushion. “I did something yesterday,” he blurted.
“Uh huh.” Two innocuous syllables asked for more information. She pushed back into her chair and crossed her legs, waiting for Russell to drop the next shoe.
After five interminable seconds, he had to fill the silence. “I... I don’t... I couldn’t resist.”
Several more tense seconds passed. “And, what was it you couldn’t resist?”
“Well ...” Once again, a short spate of laughter released some pent-up anxiety. “We were... in the woods.”
“Who, Russell?” Dr. White asked. The time had come to press for more detail. “You were with someone? In the woods?”
“I don’t know his name. He had sort of reddish hair.”
“Okay. And?”
“I kind of... went further than I’d ever gone before.”
“Kind of? Or..?”
“I definitely went further.” Russell’s utterance was barely more than a whisper.
“So...” While Dr. White was urging him to continue, she wasn’t asking for precise erotic details.
“I blew him.”
A veteran psychologist is rarely shocked. But Dr. White found herself disarmed by the bluntly unambiguous nature of this revelation. At a loss for a more custom-crafted response, she reached into her bag of tricks and came up with her profession’s most ripened chestnut: “How did that make you feel?”
Hearing his therapist, for whom he held ultimate respect, resort to this stock query re-tickled Russell’s funny bone. Breaking into peals of uncontrollable laughter, he snatched up a throw pillow and buried his face into the satiny fabric. Like a free diver coming to the surface after a record-breaking descent, Russell gasped for a lungful of air before screaming into the pillow with the shrillness and ferocity of a jackrabbit being chased by a pack of coyotes. Although Dr. White managed to maintain an outward calmness, her eyes revealed something else. This could be a pivotal moment in Russell’s progress, a major inflection point. Sessions like this required switching off autopilot and summoning up all of her training, skills, and experience. She’d been trolling the Caribbean, periodically feeling a tug on her line, and now she’d hooked a blue marlin. It would take strength, stamina, and sound strategy to reel in this prize catch.
“I’m sorry,” Russell muttered, dabbing his tear-filled eyes with a tissue. “It’s just...” He paused to blow his nose loudly, only to be once again overtaken by nervous laughter. Sharing something this revealing and explicit had left him feeling extremely vulnerable. Still, lifting the curtain on this reality also gave him wings. He suddenly felt buoyant, even giddy. “How did that make me feel?” The question bore repeating. “How did that make me feel?” He pondered for a few seconds, then grinned and shook his head in disbelief. “Happy,” he confessed. “It made me feel happy.”
“Happy,” the therapist repeated.
“I knew what the risks were.” Russell was thinking aloud. “I knew the potential consequences. But, afterwards, I felt so... so incredibly... happy.”
“By consequences, what do you mean?”
“Oh, you know...” Russell cocked his head to one side. “I’d have to get tested again. For STI’s. I’d have to avoid having sex with Tess until I got the results.”
“So, to be clear, it didn’t make you more inclined to...”
“To come out to her?” As he completed her sentence, Russell was still oblivious as to the convoluted nature of his thinking. He’d left the previous session with a daunting homework assignment: to begin contemplating and planning his truth reveal. Logically, his acting out in the woods should have reinforced the urgency of setting the coming-out process in motion. Rather, his default thought process went directly to compiling everything he’d need to do to cover up his wayward behavior. For 22 hours, he’d luxuriated in residual delight. He knew this was a breakthrough. But he hadn’t fully considered how much of a game changer it was. In self-defense, he resorted to bitter sarcasm. “So, I guess I don’t have the right to be happy every now and then.”
“You don’t really mean that, Russell.”
Here was a rare instance of Dr. White’s finely tuned insight going slightly catawampus. In actuality, Russell’s expression of egoistic self-pity was absolutely sincere. He was feeling misunderstood and alone. Still, he pretended otherwise. “Nothin’ gets past you, Doc. Guilty as charged. Of course, I was joking.”
“This is nothing to joke about,” she said, quietly, but sternly. Feeling like a chastised child, Russell had to fight the urge to bolt up from the couch and make a quick escape, with the intention of never returning to this chamber of reckoning. Previously, therapy seemed a safe place to unveil his secrets and vent his pent-up frustrations. Now, the walls of the confessional were closing in. By volunteering too much, Russell had shot himself in the foot. This was the outcome he’d always feared, the very reason he’d so conscientiously avoided therapy, as any cautious, rational person would a nest of rattlesnakes. Honesty is a double-edged sword. Telling the truth can lift a crushing weight from a person’s soul. But that’s never the end of it. Once truth makes its entrance, accountability and appropriate action are there waiting in the wings, listening eagerly for their cues to join the ongoing drama.
“I was happy,” Russell reiterated. “I hadn’t felt like that in... I don’t know... like forever. I didn’t feel guilty... or... or ashamed, or scared. I was just... happy. Thinking about it still gets me all...” A thrill shiver through his shoulders completed his testimony.
“What if you could feel that way more often?” the doctor inquired. “Have you thought about that?” The leading nature of this question was intentional.
But, Russell’s imagination had already meandered down that path, only to be blinded by the view at trail’s end. “Yeah, right,” he said. “It would be great, wouldn’t it? If we could all have our cake and eat it, too.” He didn’t know if this remark was sardonic, or wistful. Maybe it was both in a befuddling, contradictory mishmash. Regardless, he was certain that he could (and would) never have it all, that he couldn’t possibly be deserving of family and marriage while, at the same time, openly satisfying his same-sex needs and desires.
“There’s only one way you’ll ever find out.”
Easy for you to say. Not only was the good doctor parroting the obvious, she wasn’t the one surrounded on all sides by multiple bogeymen. She wasn’t taking a mind-numbing multiple-choice quiz feeling the absolute certainty that any answer, A, B, or C would result in a bold red check mark. Till now, Russell had been savoring his bliss, squeezing every last, remaining drop of sweetness from the previous day’s encounter in the woods. But the happiness sponge had been wrung dry. As the doctor had correctly stated, there was only one way he could ever find out if true, sustained happiness was possible. And that meant owning up to Tess. “I guess you’re right,” he muttered, with sorrowful resignation.
“Okay, good,” the doctor said, softly. “I’m glad you agree. Next week, let’s start brainstorming on how and when.”
Russell felt a tear trickling down his cheek. He’d arrived at his therapy appointment still vibrating with residual joy. Over the course of 50 minutes, he had run the gamut of emotions, from ecstatic giddiness to sidesplitting hysterics. From there, he’d passed through peak anxiety, bitter exasperation, and on to sheer panic. He’d paid a visit to victimhood, made a pit stop at resentment, only to land in ultimate surrender. He would depart Dr. White’s office on feet weighed down by sorrow, and legs waterlogged with regret.
≈ ≈ ≈
The dinner party had completely slipped Russell’s mind. As he pulled into the driveway, two extra vehicles parked in front of the house reminded him that he had been assigned one simple task: picking up canned clams for the linguine Alfredo sauce. Choosing expediency over price, he raced to the corner market. There, he was pleased to find two small cans in stock. Both were dusty, evidently from a lengthy linger on the shelf. Brushing them off revealed that they were nearly a year past their recommended use-by date. He immediately set them back on the shelf and began striding purposeful toward the exit, feeling peeved over having to drive the additional four miles to Kroger’s.
Either Tess hadn’t noticed that Russell was 25 minutes late, or her impatience had been dulled with libation. It was always evident to Russell when Tess had reached her ideal blood-alcohol level. Having imbibed approximately a glass and half of wine, she would invariably be floating a few inches off the carpet, with a rosy blush in her cheeks, exuding an effortless charm. In truth, she thought she was being charming. Russell, however, saw right through this act. Not only did he consider the slightly tipsy version of his wife disingenuous. He had come to find her booze-affected persona borderline obnoxious.
“Oh, look!” Tess squawked from the sunken living room, sloshing her half-full schooner of vino in Russell’s direction. “I gave my honey his honey-do, and my honey did it! How lucky am I?” She was acknowledging the two containers of canned clams Russell was setting down on the kitchen counter top.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to send Josh back for something he forgot to pick up.” Russell hadn’t met the woman sharing this mundane anecdote. Lean, dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, with a sharp, axe-blade nose, and slender wrists, Marlene appeared the perfect image of the woman a man’s 40-ish wife would befriend in yoga class. As he positioned the first can of clams in the electric can opener, Russell sent a smirk and a finger wave from the kitchen, past the dining table, and into the sunken, carpeted area where Tess was socializing with the two couples she’d invited for drinks, pasta, and snappy repartee.
Mary Ann poked her head out from behind a corner to send a thin-lipped grin in Russell’s direction. For the last nine months, Russell and Mary Ann had been sharing their most intimate secrets with one another. Seeing her standing in his living room felt wrong. Selfishly, Russell had hoped the gal-pal bond between Tess and Mary Ann — burgeoned so spontaneously during last December’s office Christmas party — would peter out. Instead, side-by-side sun salutations every Wednesday morning had only served to solidify their ongoing friendship. And tonight, Mary Ann, along with her boyfriend du jour, were in his house, sipping wine, bantering, and opining about everything from laundry soap to politics.
This same afternoon, Russell had experienced a meltdown in his psychologist’s office. How could he possibly relax and interact naturally in the presence of these two women? One, who knew about his queerness and his surreptitious same-sex pursuits, had been unreserved in her opinion that he must finally be honest with the other. Add two presumably straight men and a straight woman he’d never met to the mix, and the hours to come hovered overhead like an ominous cloud, threatening an impending deluge.
An unusually tall, gangly fellow ambled toward the kitchen holding an empty wine glass. Russell, executing a quick hand wash at the kitchen sink, turned off the spigot to hear the glug-glug sound of wine being poured from bottle to glass. He snatched up a dish towel to dry his damp hands, took a deep breath, pasted a smile on his face, swiveled around and extended his right hand. Before he was able to articulate half of “Hi, I’m Russell,” his forehead met the jagged corner of an open cupboard door. The pain was immediate and intense. “God, fucking dammit, Tess!” he howled.
More times than he could count, Russell had felt a twinge of anger after nearly colliding with a kitchen or bathroom cabinet door carelessly left ajar. Over time, he’d taught himself to take a deep breath and shake off his exasperation. After all, what good would it do to blow an all-too-frequent, but relatively insignificant act of thoughtlessness out of proportion and, by doing so, turn it into a major bone of contention? Tonight, however, Tess’s penchant for failing to close kitchen cabinets had resulted in a worst-case scenario. The emotional rawness Russell carried into the house had left him unprepared for superficial socializing. Then, upon his entrance, Tess’s semi-inebriated zeal had grated against his eardrums like a jackhammer on blacktop. Add those irritations to her barging into his friendship with Mary Ann. Now, due to her chronic neglect, Russell’s head was throbbing and blood was streaming into his eye and down his cheek. He wilted onto the kitchen floor, pressing the dish towel to his wound.
“That’s not a good idea.” The tall man snatched the towel away and lobbed it into the sink. “There’s gotta be a ton of bacteria on that thing! Real good way to get a serious infection.” He grabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter, tore off several sheets and handed them to Russell.
“Thanks,” Russell responded, applying the more sanitary compress to his gushing wound. “As I was saying, I’m Russell.”
“I figured as much,” the man said, folding his lanky, praying-mantis limbs, and crouching down to take stock of Russell’s condition. “Tommy,” he replied. “You’re probably going to need stitches.”
“Not Josh?” Russell asked.
“Nope. Josh is Marlene’s husband. I’m here with Mary Ann.”
“Hmmm...” Russell was picturing how ungainly this angular, bony stork of a man would look while having sex with Mary Ann. “I don’t know Marlene.”
“Let me take a look,” Tommy said, extending his hand to lift the blood-soaked paper towels.
“Fuck, that hurts!” complained Russell.
“I’ll bet.” Tommy grimaced. “Wow. You’ve got a heck of a gash there.”
“You and Mary Ann been dating long?”
“Not really. A couple-a months.”
“Jesus! What the...?” Tess, having finally lollygagged over to see what was happening, was understandably alarmed at the sight of her husband sitting on the kitchen floor with one side of his face smeared with blood, and the crimson-stained paper towels in Tommy’s hand. “Are you okay, Babe?”
“What’s it look like?” spat Russell.
“What happened?” she asked. Russell pointed to the still-open cupboard door. “You gotta walk around those things,” she teased.
“Yeah, next time you leave a cabinet open,” he responded, “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Oh,” she shot back, “so, this is my fault!”
By now, Tommy was helping Russell to his feet. “He needs to go to the emergency room,” Tommy stated.
“Drama, drama, drama.” Tess wasn’t convinced. “Let’s have a look...” A quick glance at the laceration confirmed Tommy’s prognosis. “Holy shit, Babe! You really did a number on yourself.”
“Yep,” Russell muttered. “Dumb-ass me!”
The irony of her husband’s self-deprecation evaded Tess. “Well,” she admitted, “It would probably be ill-advised for me to drive you.”
“First sensical thing she’s said since I got home.” Russell directed this snide remark toward Tommy, implying a wink.
“Okay,” Tommy responded, with another grimace. “I really don’t wanna get invol... you know...”
“No,” Russell interrupted. “Sorry, Man. You’re right. I shouldn’t have... I just thought, you’re a guy, and...”
“I guess,” Tommy interrupted, steering the conversation away from the disconcerting bickering of his hosts. “I guess I could give you a lift.”
“We’ll take him.” It was Mary Ann. “I can drive. I’ve barely had a sip.”
“I thought you were a Chardonnay girl.” Tess was suddenly having rare doubts about her hostessing prowess.
“Not really,” Mary Ann responded. “I’m more into the reds. Pinot Noir. Merlot.”
“I feel horrible,” Tess whined. “I usually have a nice red on hand.”
“I’m okay with a Chardonnay or a Sauvignon Blanc,” Mary Ann explained, “but...”
“Jesus Christ!” protested Russell. “Are you two really gonna stand here bantering about wine all night while a man bleeds to death?”
≈ ≈ ≈
“So, how bad does the other guy look?” The jocular ER doctor was snipping thread, having just finished the fourth stitch.
“Oh, she looks great.” Russell was only half joking. The doctor’s brow furrowed. If this was a case of domestic violence, he might be legally obligated to report his suspicions to authorities. “It was a cupboard door,” Russell explained. “My wife doesn’t seem to understand how they work.”
Okay, the doctor was thinking. Here’s yet another wrinkle in the “I walked into a door” gambit. Still, as the victim in this case was the husband, he decided to keep the banter light. “From my experience,” he joked, “it’s best to use one’s hand to close a cabinet, and not one’s forehead.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” parried Russell.
The doctor snapped off his vinyl gloves and tossed them into the wastebasket. Before making his exit, he blurted a quick list of post-op instructions before instructing Russell to make an appointment with his primary care provider in 10 days to remove the sutures. “You probably shouldn’t drive for a day or so,” the physician advised. “Someone taking you home?”
“Yeah,” said Russell. “At least, I hope my friends are still here.”
Russell was still feeling woozy as he negotiated his way through the waiting area, sidling past moaning patients, coughing children, and tiptoeing around scattered toys, fast-food sacks, backpacks, and handbags. “Ready to head out?” Mary Ann was standing by herself, next to the exit door.
“Sure thing,” Russell answered. Stepping into the humid evening air, he inquired, “Where’s the Jolly Green Giant?”
“Tommy?” she replied. “He’s waiting at my place.”
“Seems like an okay guy.”
“I guess so. Yeah. But don’t get any ideas. He’s definitely straight.”
“What do you think? That I’m always cruising? That, every time I see a good-looking guy, I have no other thought but to...”
“Honestly, Russ, I don’t know what to think.” Her vocal inflection expressed a blend of emotions: one part exasperation, two parts surrender, wrapped in a shell of dead seriousness. There was a pause in the conversation long enough for them to cross the pedestrian bridge.
“Yeah.” Russell’s voice cracked. “I don’t know either.”
“Sorry?” said Mary Ann.
“I don’t know what to think, either.” This admission wavered with emotion. “I don’t have a fucking clue. I’m a fucking disaster, a mess. I honestly don’t know what...” Russell’s throat was constricting to the point that he was straining to get the words out. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”
“That’s good,” she said, with a tender, empathetic smile.
Russell wasn’t prepared for this response. “Good? What the hell are you saying?”
“Well,” she posited, “maybe you’ve hit rock bottom.”
“Oh,” he wondered aloud. “And that’s a good thing?”
“Sometimes, that’s what it takes. Only one way to go from here.”
“I’m about to explode my whole world,” he announced.
“Whoopee!” Mary Ann giggled. “It’s about damn time.”