Chapter 6 continued

Jeff Anderson was on the phone when his secretary showed me into his office. “Sara is very upset with you, Paul,” he said as he put the phone down.
    “Are you guessing? Or do you know something I don’t know?”
    “Stow the sarcasm. This is serious, Paul. I tried to get her to agree to a trial separation, but she’s adamant about going ahead with the divorce. I’ve agreed to represent her so you’ll need an attorney.”
    “I’m not going to contest.”
    “I told you this is serious. You should have your own counsel read the terms. I can recommend someone.”
    I waved away his offer.
    “This really saddens me, Paul. I’ve known you and Sara for ten years. You’re like family.”
    “Let’s get this over with, Jeff.”
    “We don’t have to rush into anything. I can delay for a couple of weeks. That will give both of you a chance to cool off.”
    “It’s not going to change anything.”
    “Speaking as a friend of both you and Sara, and not as an attorney, I think your marriage can be saved.”
    “For the sake of the children, I suppose?”
    “I never advise staying together except when it’s best for both spouses.”
    “Let’s hear your theory.”
    “No theory. Fact. You have to clean up your act.”
    “Meaning?”
    “One, stop your womanizing. I’m surprised Sara has put up with it as long as she did. Who’s your latest prey—Ben Sachs’ girlfriend? Sara said this woman is half your age.”
    “Oh, and Sara’s innocent? I have an eyewitness who says she spent the night with Derek Somers at the Hotel de Lion.”
    “She denied they are having an affair.”
    I shook my head. “Okay, I stop my extra curricular activities. What else?”
    “Two, revise that novel you’re writing, and sell it. And no more talk about quitting.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yes. You scared Sara when you told her something happening to you yesterday in Saint Matthew’s. Tell her what happened, Paul. She needs to understand.”
    “I don’t understand it myself.”
    “Okay, you have an alternative here. If you can’t talk to Sara about it, then take her suggestion and see a psychiatrist.”
    “Forget it. I’m ready to sign.”
    “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for this—what’s her name—Maria? Personally, I think you’re having a garden variety mid-life crisis, and you’re doing a terrible job trying to tough it out on your own. Let a therapist help you through this.”
    “I’m not having a mid-life crisis.”
    “Then you need to give yourself a good talking to. We can’t have everything we want in this life. Understanding that is what separates adults from children.”
    “Spare me the lecture, Jeff.”
    “Sara said your Jesuit friend is in town. Discuss what happened in Saint Matthew's with him, and we’ll put this off until Monday.”
    “No. Show me where to sign.”
    I used the phone in Jeff’s outer office to call Maria. I wanted to tell her the divorce was official, but she was in conference and her assistant wouldn’t put me through.

Ben had tickets to a university production Friday evening. I met him at the campus theater and we had coffee at the concession before the curtain.
    Ben gave me a reproachful look. “What’s this grandstanding nonsense about your quitting?”
    “It’s a done deal.”
    “C’mon, pal, Wednesday you were all fired up to write the Final Story.”
    “Something happened between then and now.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    I shook my head.
    “This is Ben you’re talking to, pal. I’m the guy you can say anything to.”
    I shook my head again.
    “Look, maybe I was too hard on you Wednesday. Try the Final Story again. Give yourself a couple of months. If it doesn’t work out…”
    “I’ve seen the light. There is no Final Story.”
    “That’s no reason for you to quit, pal. When one Power Fiction goes sour, you replace it with another—ad infinitum.”
    “I’ll never make sense of the world again after yesterday.”
    “Paul, I can’t help you unless you tell me what happened.”
    An usher announced curtain in five minutes. Everyone began filing into the theater. I didn’t move. I felt a tightening in my chest and numbness in my left arm followed by an excruciating pain. It was as if all the muscles on my left side cramped at once.
    “You don’t look good, Paul. What’s wrong.”
    “I feel nauseous.”
    Ben helped me as I walked unsteadily to the men’s room.
    “You’re sweating like you just ran the three-minute mile. Are you in pain?”
    “My chest…down my arm.”
    “You could be having a heart attack. Let me get a doctor.”
    “No…no…it’s tension…a muscle cramp. Let me rest against the wall for a minute.” I stared ahead without seeing, paralyzed by the pain.
    Ben took a paper cup from the dispenser, filled it with water, and offered it to me. I took it with my right hand and gulped it down.
    “I’m going to see if there’s a doctor in the house.”
    “No, Ben. Don’t. I’m feeling better. The water helped.”
    “I’ll call off the discussion for Monday evening.”
    I nodded.
    “Promise me you’ll see a doctor first thing Monday morning, Paul.”
    “No doctor can fix what’s wrong with me.”
    “Then talk to a priest. Talk to Michael. Talk to somebody, pal.”
    I crumbled the cup and threw it into the waste can. I doused my face with water from the tap. “Enjoy the play, Ben. I’m leaving.”
    “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
    “No, stay. I’m okay now.”
    But Ben insisted. The last thing he said to me as I entered the hotel was, “You’ve got to tell somebody what happened, Paul. It’s not healthy to hold it in.”
    Ben was right. Everybody was right. I needed to talk about what happened in Saint Matthew’s. I lay awake trying to figure out how to talk about something that, if I did talk about it, would confirm I was losing my grip. Around 4:00 a.m. the obvious occurred to me. I would talk about it indirectly, and the discussion on Monday evening was the perfect forum.
    Who to invite? It was essential that Preacher John and Michael be there as well as my sister, Elaine. I also wanted to include Indira Chowdury from the university because she was conducting a seminar on the great cycle theories of history. That mix should yield a lively discussion, and might help me gain insight into what happened in Saint Matthew’s.
    Fortunately, I was able to phone Ben Saturday morning before he left for San Francisco. I told him I had fully recovered, and had a discussion topic for Monday evening, but wanted it to be a surprise. He promised to invite Indira Chowdury. Since I planned to meet Michael and Elaine later in the day, I began my recruiting effort with my most important guest, Preacher John.

Chapter 7