Literary Lunes Magazine: November 2011 Issue

How do I tell Sarah that I have a daughter who turns eighteen in three days; a child born out of wedlock from a girl I knew in high school? A daughter I have never seen.

  I needed to talk to someone about this before I dropped the bomb on my wife. It had to be someone I could trust. I don’t have many friends and, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure if I could completely trust anyone with this most important secret of my life. But I chose Paul anyway.

  We had been suitemates in college, close, but I wouldn’t say fast friends. We hung out, especially on weekends. We’ve kept in touch, mostly by phone, meeting every month for drinks or dinner. I never told him my secret. Hell, I’ve never told anyone.

  I called him at his work. He was surprised. Usually I call him at home. But I didn’t want to get his wife involved.

  “I need to see you,” I said. “It’s important.” I’d never started a conversation with him like this.

  “Okay…,” he said. “Sounds serious. You kill someone?”

  “Nothing as easy as that.”

  Usually, given our busy lives, we scheduled our meetings a few weeks in advance. Now, his calendar was suddenly wide open. I guess I piqued his interest.

  “What about Friday?” he said. Today was Tuesday.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  He whistled. “ Jesus, you must have killed someone. All right, tomorrow. Where?”

  “Arnold’s Pub on Longworth. You know where it is?” I wanted someplace where we wouldn’t be recognized.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can meet you at six. But why all the cloak and dagger?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I see you. Just bring an open mind.”

  The next morning I told Sarah I was meeting Paul for drinks. She seemed surprised.

  “Didn’t you see him just last week? Really, Michael, I need you home. I have to get ready for Parent’s Night at school and Lisa needs help with her science fair project. You were going to bring pizza for dinner, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But Paul says he needs to see me. Some problem at work. I wouldn’t go except he’s been such a good friend over the years. Can’t you make things work tonight for dinner? I’ll be home in time to help Lisa.”

  She gave me a hard look then sighed. I knew the guilt trip signs all too well. But this time I wasn’t going to give in.

  I met Paul at Arnold’s Pub after work. I forgot it was Happy Hour. The bar was teeming with people and overloaded with noise. I cursed my choice. Even though Paul was seated right next to me, I had to shout to make myself heard. This wasn’t going to work; I didn’t need everyone in the room hearing what talked about.

  We ordered drinks, he, one of those microbrews that he always raved about and me, a scotch. He popped salted nuts from the glass dish in front of us as I complained in a general way that things never seemed to come together in my life.

  Paul listened to how loose ends always gave me fits. “You have a bad case of the Zeigarnik Effect,” he said.

  “Gesundheint,” I said.

  He laughed. “No, seriously.”

  It was difficult to hear him amid all the noise. “What the hell is the Zeigarnik Effect?”

  “It’s a strong need for closure, for things to resolve.”

  “And I have it?”

  “Everybody does to one degree or another. But you’re its poster child.”

  I leaned closer so he could hear me.” How does it work?”

  “I’ll give you an example,” Paul said. “You know anyone who watches soap operas?”

  I thought for a second. “Sure, my mother when she was alive. She was addicted to them.”

  “Why?” Paul asked. “What was their pull on her?”

  “She watched them every day to see what would happen next.”

  “Exactly," Paul said. “At the end of the show, they’d leave a character in some terrible predicament—about to come face-to face with her assailant or confront her cheating husband. But they’d end the episode right before that confrontation took place.

  “That,” he continued, “is the Zeigarnik Effect. Your mother came back to the show each day because she had to find out what happened.”

  “And that’s what I have?”

  Paul studied his glass. “You tell me.”

  I hated when he played analyst, answering a question with one of his own. Still, I was the one who had called to tell him my troubles, so maybe he was functioning as my therapist.

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” I said

  “Except with you the Zeigarnik Effect doesn’t mean watching soap operas. It involves your need to tie up every loose end in your life.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do about it?” It was so loud in the place now that I was almost shouting.

  “That depends on how badly you need closure and how dangerous those loose ends are.”

  I took a gulp of my drink. It tasted terrible. “It could be a deal breaker for my marriage.”

  Paul whistled. “Jesus. You want to tell me about it?”

  I looked around the filled room. “Not really,” I said. “At least not here with a bar full of people hanging on my every word. Besides, I owe it to Sarah to tell her first.”

  Paul emptied his glass. “Man, sounds like you have some heavy stuff to deal with; the Zeiganrnik Effect versus staying married. Which itch do you need most scratched?”

  “The sixty-four thousand dollar question,” I said. “I wish I knew.”

  I stood up and reached for the check, but Paul beat me to it. He took a twenty out of his wallet, put it on the bar and smiled.

  “Hold on to your money,” he said. “The way you’re talking you might need it for alimony.”

  I waited until Friday night to talk to Sarah, three days after meeting Paul. It was hell not talking about it. She noticed a difference in me—asked me more than once what was bothering me-- but I put her off.

  Friday night, Julie, our oldest, was at a Girl Scout camping trip and Allison, her younger sister, was sleeping over at a friend’s house. Sarah suggested we go out for dinner then take in a movie. But I argued for a quiet evening at home. Sarah was probably expecting a romantic evening followed by a night of lovemaking. But I wanted to stay in so that if she made an emotional scene it would be in the privacy of our own home.