Women Who Stay, 5

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

________

This time around at the Somerset Diner, Janie arrived before I did. Sheila gave me a friendly wave as I pushed open the heavy glass door and brought me a coffee, unprompted. Unexpected.

Janie and I exchanged pleasantries as I pulled the tools of my trade from my bulky pleather purse. Today, she wore a blue cardigan over a calico dress. I thought I smelled mothballs, but it was hard to tell over the diner's drifting scents of coffee and frying bacon.

"Do you mind if I tape our sessions?" I asked, tapping my sleek black recorder.

"Please do. But if you don't mind, I'd prefer you put that notebook away."

I frowned. "But all my questions --"

"Oh, you won't need those. I know exactly what we're going to talk about today. And I'd like to look one another in the eyes while we do."

"Look, Janie, I don't know what you're expecting, but this isn't how I work. I need to establish the framework of your story, and the only way I can do that is by asking you these questions." With a quick flick of her wrist, she snatched my notebook from the table and started riffling through its pages. "Hey!" I exclaimed. I tried to snatch it back, but she leaned away.

Sheila popped up, scowling once again. "Problem here?"

"No, no, we're just fine, dear," Janie said, waving her away. "We'll just have the same as last time. Thank you."

"Actually, I'd like the pie instead," I said, but Sheila was already walking away, and I didn't think she cared.

Janie tossed the notebook back to the table. "A good start. But irrelevant, for what we'll be discussing today."

I sighed. "And what will that be?"

"You're correct, we need a framework for our conversations. We certainly need to do that before we get into anything more... salacious." She sniffed. "We need to speak the same language. For example, when I say marriage, what do you think?"

"Um, love, church, white dress --"

"Wrong," she interrupted. "If I'd said 'wedding,' perhaps. But marriage is none of those things."

"Ok, then why don't you explain it to me?" I clicked on my recorder and set it beside my coffee. I tucked the notebook in my purse and looked her in the eyes. She nodded approvingly.

"Marriage is, at its heart, a contract. It's an agreement on mutual terms, spoken or silent. Do you agree?"

I shrugged. "Sure, but if that's true, it seems your terms with Antonio were... unorthodox."

"We're not talking about him yet," she snapped. "We're talking about the concept itself. Think back to your series. What were the consistencies in those dozen marriages that survived the man's imprisonment?"

I sipped my coffee while I thought. My mind was so steeped in her story it was difficult. "Well, they all seemed to feel that the promises their partners made to them hadn't been broken."

"Yes, precisely. For most women, I suppose that contract includes fidelity. Passion. Affection. What we need to establish, first and foremost, is that I am not most women. I only had three requirements: financial stability, children, and to be left alone."

My fingers itched for a pen. "And by that, do you mean sexually?"

"Nothing so singular. You see, in all my early days, I was surrounded by men who pushed. Who exerted their will over me. Father, pastor, teacher. I was sick of it. Don't you understand, odd duck?" She tilted her head, allowing her drooping gray-blonde curls to touch her shoulder.

I nodded. We were speaking the same language.

________

Read on to Chapter 6