Addendum 2.6 – "Angela's Ex pt. 2"

February 1985 – Fairfield, CT

Angela was so nervous, she thought she'd burp as soon as she started speaking. She closed her eyes and tried to deepen her breaths as the phone continued to ring.

On the fourth ring, Angela frowned in disappointment, but then Grant's breathless voice came across the line.

"Hello?"

Angela's eyes opened in hope. "Grant?"

"Angela?" he copied back.

She smiled through her end, "Yeah."

"Hey," he said softer.

"Hey."

Neither of them said anything.

Interrupting the dead air that was very much alive, Grant's shivering voice reinitiated contact. "Are you okay?"

Angela tried to shake herself out of it. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I just-" she made a little laugh, "I was working on this Scrubbos account, and I've been banging my head against a wall. Every idea we've had is lousy, and we're meeting with them tomorrow…" Angela bit her lip. "I thought, maybe you could help?"

Grant didn't speak for several seconds.

"You're calling me because you can't think of a slogan for Scrubbos?"

A beat or two went by.

"Yes?"

Grant laughed a little, "Um. Okay… I guess I could try to brainstorm with you. Just a sec…" She heard some grunting and muffled smudges and banging.

Soon, he was back on, "Sorry about that. I was closing up my crawl space."

"Oh yeah, your pipes! Was it bad?"

"Well, the storm lifted, but when the cloud cover went away, the temperature dropped even more. So, the heat's out, and the plumbers are backlogged. But they're advising people to insulate their pipes with these foam sleeves and," Grant grunted miserably, "…I think the height down under the house is about 5 foot even." He laughed. "My back is killing me!"

Angela laughed a little, "Are you able to stay warm?"

The couple seconds Grant took to respond enriched his voice, "I've got the fire going."

Angela felt a tingle start at the bridge of her nose and shoot right down through her body. "Good," she finally managed to whisper, desperately trying, but not very hard, to not want to be there with him.

What am I doing!? She briefly started to tear before pushing it down.

Grant brightened up, "So, Scrubbos, huh?"

Angela could hear him clap his hands and blow into them. Instead of getting situated, herself, she imagined him sitting in front of the fire.

"Mm-hmm," she said, aimlessly.

"Uh, okay, well the problem with this is that I don't do a lot of dishwashing, myself. So, normally, in these kind of situations, I'd ask my cleaning ladies to try them out and tell me how they compared."

Angela smiled, and sat back in her chair, holding the receiver with both hands. Her voice still came out little, "That's a good idea."

A beat passed.

"Could you ask Tony?"

Angela shook herself free of whatever warm weight held her as he spoke, "Oh, um… He's not working here anymore."

"Really? That's surprising. You were raving about him last fall."

"Yeah. Yeah, Tony is great. It just- didn't work out."

Silence took over the next few seconds.

"Ah. Michael?"

Angela released an unfunny laugh. "…yeah."

More silence.

"Angela, what's going on with you and Michael? Or you and Tony? …Hell, I don't even know what's going on with you and me!"

Angela's breaths deepened considerably, and they stretched out her throat. She could feel herself start to cry again but bit down on her teeth to squash it.

"I don't know!" she squeaked desperately.

Now that the truth was given a tiny foothold, she couldn't keep back the tears. "I just know I needed some help and thought I could still call you."

That was low, Angela. You wanted to talk to him.

Grant sighed, "Of course, you can call me."

Angela started to breathe easier.

So did he.

Grant's voice smoothed out, "Okay, let's see. Washing dishes. Uh…" After a few seconds, he laughed. "How about somebody with rubber gloves on, chucking a Scrubbos sponge into a recently drained sink, and the voiceover going, 'Scrubbos – because you've got better fucking things to do than dishes!'"

Angela laughed away her nerves, "Well, if you can get me past the FCC, I'll take it!" Then she dropped her voice, "Or maybe they'd prefer the voiceover say, 'Scrubbos – because there're way more fun things to do in a kitchen than clean'."

Angela's face muscles were sore from the strength of her smile, but they eased with her quick-growing frown. Then everything else hurt.

It was a while, but she couldn't hear him breathe.

Angela closed her eyes for bravery, "That was a great weekend, Grant."

She started to hear him breathing again.

"Yeah, it was," he said quietly.

Nothing but faint breaths.

"Angela, what are you doing?"

She didn't answer him.

"Do you want to be with Michael?"

Angela's throat tightened to where she couldn't talk even if she knew what she wanted to say.

"…Angela, this isn't you. You're tough and decisive and present - you don't let anyone take more than you want to give. Why are you letting him do this to you?"

Angela swallowed loudly, but still couldn't formulate a response.

Grant sighed again, but his voice came out patient and controlled, "Angela, I told you. You don't deserve this, and you don't have to keep doing it. Nobody's making you stay with him." A couple seconds passed before his panicked voice strained, "Are they?"

Angela's eyes shut and she smiled, reminded of her mother's inquisition after she got back from Vegas. "No," she said quickly. "Nobody's making me."

Grant's voice started to pick up an edge, "Then what the hell are you doing? I understand why you didn't want to be with me, and I don't even disagree."

Something heavy dropped in Angela's chest.

Grant's voice strained, "But is he really any better? He's the guy that's good for your son!?"

Angela finally answered him. Her voice was still small but clear. "Jonathan does love his dad, but I thought you didn't want to be around him."

Grant answered her the same way, "I don't."

Angela waited a couple seconds. The question that had bugged her subconscious for months fought its way to the surface.

"Why is that? We all want different things in life. That's no problem. But…" Angela could feel desperation lead her strike, but she stuck with it. "Honestly, Grant, I'm confused. When you look at me…I don't know. I feel like what you want is me. I feel like I'm worth your time, the trouble - or, I don't know, I'm even worth… everything. That's what I see. …Is that not what you meant?" Something felt immature and embarrassing, but it also felt true.

"Angela, it's not about that. I've already screwed up my own kids and I have no interest in doing that to anyone else's. It's nothing against Jonathan; I'm sure he's nice kid. But I am not the guy to have around. Though Michael's only around here and there, anyway, so I don't really understand the difference. But you said you wanted someone to be there for him. To be there for both of you. Is he?"

Angela's throat tightened again, and she didn't answer him.

"Shit. I don't like this game… but I do think I'm starting to understand the code."

Angela's brows scrunched in worry.

Grant paused before he spoke much softer, "Do you remember that first time, back in my room?"

Angela's face relaxed into a warm smile, and her thoughts followed his.

His throaty voice dipped lower and slower, "You were holding onto my back, looking up at me with those death row serious eyes of yours, and, uh…" He paused as he worked his way through the memory. "We were both out of breath and sweaty, but you still whispered up at me, begging me to give it to you harder?"

Angela's hand absently ran the side of her neck. "Yeah," she said quietly.

He exhaled a smile, and his voice brightened a little, "And I asked how hard you wanted it, and you said-"

"How badly do you want me?" Angela's soft voice finished for him.

Grant exhaled heavily, "I swear to God, Angela. I nearly nailed you to the floorboards."

"But you said, 'No,'" Angela continued dryly.

"Angela, at that point, I would've signed over my 401k to you, if you'd wanted it, but there was no way I was going to hit you that hard."

Angela was now leaning forward, her elbows on her desk, her dreamy face in her hand, "But you agreed to get close to that."

"If?"

Angela rolled her eyes through his parental prodding, "…if I promised to tell you when you were hurting me."

"Yeah," he answered, but she barely heard him. She closed her eyes to help her listen more carefully.

His next words came in loud and clear, and her eyes flew open. "Angela, you're not doing that now. As much as I want you, and," he exhaled sharply, "believe me, I do. You know this would hurt you. I'd want you more and more, and I'd get annoyed when you had to do things for your son. We've already been through that a little. And pretty soon, you're going to want your worlds to integrate, and I can't do that."

"Why?" Angela tried not to whine.

Grant answered soberly, "Because I don't want to."

Angela shut her eyes in pain and indictment. She felt so immature. He's right. He had exactly the awareness she'd requested of him months ago, and she felt like a brat.

"I'm not going to mess up your kid, too, with someone who just wants his mother. He deserves better than that. And so do we. …This isn't false humility, Angela! You can ask my kids: I'm a shitty dad!"

"Do you want to be?" he last voice of hope reached.

"For fuck's sake, Angela - of course, not! But I also don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I don't want to do the stuff I do know I'm supposed to do – like, hang around him. I finally got to the place where my kids don't need me for anything but bills. I'm almost there! I'm almost to the place where I won't be a constant disappointment and I can stop feeling guilty! I don't want to do this to anyone else, and I sure don't want to be staring at your kid and remembering all the ways I screwed up my own!"

Angela heard him breathing across the line and felt so much shame. Her heart hurt for him - and for her. She knew he was all twisted up, but she couldn't untangle him without forcing it.

That doesn't work.

Grant's voice came out small and hopeless, "Please don't keep asking me, Angela. I'm sitting here, alone, in a block of ice, staring at my keys, and thinking how fast I could make it down there. …I don't know how much longer I can say, 'No,' to you!"

"And that's what you mean..." she extrapolated.

"And so do you."

Angela leaned back in her chair and breathed, "Yeah…" She closed her eyes, "I'm sorry, Grant. You didn't deserve this. It's just… you were right," she shrugged and her voice broke. "It wasn't just hot sex. It was big. …And I had to understand why it wasn't enough."

Grant made a nauseated groan, "I'm gonna be sick."

"Grant?"

"You were right," he strained. "The hope is the worst part..." He breathed out an exit, "Talking to you again is torture. You have no idea how badly I've wanted you."

Angela let him hear her tears, "Try me."

He didn't say anything for several seconds.

"I got my dream job at 44 years old and retired 4 months later."

Angela's face crinkled, "What?"

Grant continued quietly, "I realized you'd become the reason I liked my job. I thought it was just the next logical rung on the ladder… and there were some exciting challenges with being the Chairman. But I couldn't celebrate my victories with you. I couldn't bounce ideas off you. I couldn't even dip my head in your door and say, 'There're donuts in the breakroom!' – which I used to buy just so I could see that gigantic, chocoholic smile of yours… We'd decided we weren't going to work, so I'd stayed away. But it still felt far too close. It wasn't fun anymore. It was just work – very painful work - and no spike in salary could fix it."

Angela angrily wiped away a tear, "Damn it!"

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Every so often, Angela thought she heard his fire crackle. At least, that's how she imagined it.

Then Grant's strained voice came through, "You're going to find somebody, Angela - and truth be told, I'm furious it's not me. But it's not. I can't go through the kid thing. Not again."

Angela shook her head and scrunched her whole face. She finally inhaled, "It's okay."

"Goodbye, Angela."

Angela let out a little cry, "Bye."

Click.


Angela stared out her bedroom window at the clear, white cold. Jonathan would be home soon. Angela needed to start making dinner, and she still had no idea what to do about the Scrubbos people. She couldn't work. She watched outside so intently, she could've sworn she saw the hoarfrost thicken on the bare branches of her elm.

But movement caught her eye: a black Bentley went passed her house. Angela got another shot of hope and fast-following disappointment. Even though it wasn't an uncommon sight her neighborhood, Angela had mostly noticed because she thought she'd seen it a few minutes ago. She'd hurt that time, too.

Grant has a black Bentley. Mrs. Randolph has a black Bentley. And that frigid afternoon, this car seemed like both Grant and Tony kept evaluating her and driving away. Again.

Okay, I'm sad, but I don't have to mope. All the address plates are frosted white and hard to see right now. That seemed far more logical than her ridiculous bout of self-pity.

They're probably just lost.

I know I am.

Ugh! I am so embarrassed. I can't believe how I acted. Grant kept trying to be assertive and mature, and I kept pulling on him like a whiny brat.

Angela tipped her head all the way back and squeezed her eyes shut.

This isn't okay. I can't be calling other men, wishing I were with them. Michael deserves better than that. Marriage, in general, deserves better than that. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she did, too, but she wasn't ready to give herself that yet.

Grant really cares about me. He's not just out for whatever he can get. She squinted into the harsh sun.

He left his job because of me? She didn't feel flattered. She felt awful. He's good at that job. He knows this company, and we needed him in there.

And all that stuff about not being happy at his job anymore… It was like he missed his friend.

Angela's eyebrows went up and down in self-deprecating acknowledgment. I've sweated through my share of blouses over the years, but I agree with him. The best part was getting to laugh with him and poke fun at each other every day, him smiling at me and telling me I did well… I miss it. I miss having a friend.

She didn't blame Michael for being upset she had that with someone else. But she was still angry Michael kept getting in the way of her having that with him. I wanted to be Michael's friend. But there's only so much hurt a person can take, and then it's not fun anymore. Ugh! …I was never honest about how serious that was until I was ready to blow a gasket.

The Bentley went by again, and Angela chuckled despite herself. She wanted to high five the driver for their symbolic relatability. Me, too, buddy.

She was sad.

She was sad Grant wasn't willing or able to see how much he had to offer a family. She was sad she had stooped to the level she did. She was sad it didn't work. And she was sad because she knew she couldn't keep doing this to Michael. But trying to gather the courage to be honest was making her sweat again. She wasn't just sad. She was lonely and scared, and courage meant giving up her fix.

She let out one more shudder of self-disgust.

Shaking her head, Angela turned to go make dinner. As she walked out of her room, the Bentley passed by one more time.


Michael came in the kitchen that evening and slowly put his briefcase on a kitchen chair. Angela was sitting on the counter where she always did, but she had an open container of ice cream in her lap. A stack of notecards was by her hip, and she was writing furiously on the top card with a pencil.

Michael came over to her and rubbed the outsides of her knees. "Hi, honey," he said quietly.

She looked up at him, her giant glasses at the tip of her nose. She pushed them back up. "Oh, hi, Michael." He leaned in for a kiss, and she gave him a quick peck before looking back down to scribble more on the card.

Michael made a sharp exhale and shifted his weight, "Am I bothering you?"

Angela looked up, confused. "What?" she lagged. "Oh, no- No, I'm sorry. I just have some ideas flowing for this Scrubbos account. I have to pitch it tomorrow, and I'm trying to get these down while the food is cooking – and before I forget."

Michael made a slow backward nod, "Ah." He glanced to the side, and then back to what was now the top of her head. She'd gone back to writing.

He sighed and dropped his hands. "I'm gonna hit the gym. Will you be available to talk when I get back?"

The irritation in his voice raised her head. Instinctively, her body clenched, and she tried to breathe through it. My head hurts.

"I'm sorry. I'm just really under the gun, and I can finally put two thoughts together about this campaign."

Michael made a flat smile and looked down before nodding, "Okay." He started to turn.

Pausing just a second, Angela piped up, "Actually, Michael?"

His eyebrows went up as he looked back at her.

Angela swallowed. "Jonathan is going to eat at Joey's tonight, and Mother's got a date… Can we have a quiet dinner tonight, just the two of us? We can talk?"

Michael stared at her for longer than seemed normal. She did, too.

Maybe the silence can lay a foundation. It certainly has up 'till now.

But when he didn't say anything after half a minute, Angela took another bite of ice cream while she continued to stare at him.

Michael's gaze dropped to her lap. He stared at the ice cream carton but didn't change his face. Angela felt the need to explain.

"I was getting antsy, and uh-" she made a nervous laugh, "quite frankly, I don't have high hopes for this casserole."

Michael's smile lifted slightly and he nodded back again slowly. "Well, thanks for trying," he said quietly, and Angela's smile tried to improve.

"I'll make it a quick run," Michael said as he turned and walked toward the door. Right before he went through, he looked back at her. She took another bite.

Nodding, Michael's blank face looked to the ground as he went into the living room.

As soon as he left, Angela took another bite of chocolate chip and put the container back in the freezer.

She snagged her notecards and ran upstairs to get ready, leaving the casserole to continue broiling at 500 degrees.


Angela zipped up her dress and walked into the bathroom. She retouched her makeup and reapplied her anti-perspirant. I'm going to get my money's worth out of this stuff tonight. She put the stick back in the cabinet and stared into the mirror. She looked just as vacant as she had the night of Michael's parents' Anniversary party. Honoring a dead marriage. Sounds about right.

Angela squinted into the mirror. A smear of chocolate chip was by the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away. Sweet Tony, Angela made a genuine smile at her reflection, always building me up. I really needed the encouragement today, and once again, he was here when I needed him. That circling, black Bentley must've been a good omen, after all.

Hours after her call with Grant, Angela was still mortified for how she'd acted. Skittish and ashamed, she'd tried to stay on the surface of all conversation - with Jonathan, her mother, and then with Tony - but Tony called her out of it. Just that small, honest inquiry about her work, and that was all it took. I'm dying to have an ally, someone who's on my side for no other reason than we want to see each other succeed.

She felt strengthened by Tony's bright countenance. He's always believed in me. Grant wasn't the only one who showed me what it was like to be supported. She dropped her chin to her chest and exhaled all the air from her chest. I really am aching for that.

I can do this.

Lifting her chin, Angela turned off her bedroom light and went to war.