I couldn’t believe they’d put all of us into this cramped basement room with stone walls and tiny windows too high to see out of, but maybe that was part of the therapy. A dozen people looked up from their chairs at Dr. Ward who stood on this little platform, jerking his arms like some sci-fi robot with a voice to match, that hitched up a notch every time he said the word “Gutsy Up.” A young woman walked back and forth behind him like her swaying Mennonite dress was part of the show. The assistant, like they have for magic shows, but no leg.
He stopped moving for a minute, and looked under his glasses at each one of us in turn. Then he banged his fist on the folding table so hard I thought it would fold up again, but it only wobbled. We all gasped. “You must demand something big from yourself. You are here to take a risk and if you do, these rewards will come to you.”
As advertised in the brochure, this was supposed to be a fast reset so you could get on with the beautiful creative life you were meant to live. The real work would be with your preselected partner.
I hadn’t told Gregor about this intimate pairing approach. All he knew is it was another group therapy thing. Meant to help couples with troubles. Not us, he’d said, but if I wanted to get some help, go for it. He was too busy anyway, with a new production at the Schubert of Fiddler, making fancy new sets of spare interiors of Golda’s kitchen and the barn for Tevye’s horse. Like I didn’t have a full rehearsal schedule for the premiere of my dark opus Fall into Winter for my dance troupe in Evanston.
I longed for a real conversation with him, like the ones we used to have when the whole night was not long enough for all that we wanted to share. It seemed like getting married was the beginning of the end of that, and now small irritations made Gregor go silent. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. But it couldn’t be all me. This had to change. So I got some one-on-one therapy, and tried a couple of group encounters. This one was by far the strangest.
The assistant, Miss Madeleine, began to circle around Dr. Ward but her skirt got tangled in the table legs and she spilled to the floor. Making it look like part of the act, she uncoiled to stand, freed her skirt, and with a brush of her hand smoothed her fallen locks into place. Beside him now, she picked up a clipboard.
On the questionnaire I’d written down my favorite color, movie, and candy bar, but couldn’t answer what I hid in my closet and refused to give away. So I didn’t have a lot of confidence in this matching process.
I was surprised when she began to speak, because I didn’t think a magic assistant was supposed to talk, but there she was reading in a low voice like she was trying to sound serious, the numbers we got instead of name tags, in pairs.
“Now go find your partners!”
Like slow horses at the starting line, all of us stood up with a grand scraping of chairs and enough chatter to make at least me feel normal again. But almost on the instant Dr. Ward shouted, “Wait, you are not to say anything yet, not to anyone. At this point you are only to find your partner and sit with him/her.”
Like deer caught in the headlights, we froze and looked at the source. Mad at myself for doing that, I wove a path between the statues till they melted. I found my 7, and couldn’t believe it. A good-looking young guy who shouldn’t be here in the first place, among all these middle-aged losers. He looked like a beer tourist with his sharp black beard and skinny jeans. With thin-lipped smiles we sat down and I tried not to look at him.
In every other group thing I’d been to, we had to chat with someone and then introduce them to the group, which forced us to be ultra-attentive and totally on edge about getting it right in front of the group. We got out of that, but this no talking thing was worse. When one woman whispered behind her hand to the man next to her, Ward frowned at her like some nineteenth century school master.
I snuck a look at my partner, and invented things about him while Dr. W droned on. Was he a North Shore snob who wanted to pretend he was near Northside? Was he doing research on oddball therapies for his doctoral work in anthropology? Did he have a wife or a husband? He might be wondering about me too, but I never caught him in a glance.
More from Dr. Ward, about the transformations that we were about to experience, that would give us a new sense of our vital centers we were to nurture for the rest of our lives. Or something like that, for a long time. So when bathroom break came I rushed to the lady’s room, along with all the other women. Turned out they all had brought other outfits. Two changed into tight shifts and heels so high they looked like they were walking on bound feet. Another emerged in a skirt with huge hibiscus flowers spread out all over it, her face upturned, ready to receive some favor from the gods.
Did “Gutsy Up” also mean “Gussy Up?” How did I miss that memo? All I could do was take off the purple bandana I used to hide my hair and tie it around my neck, which did a little to set off my plain yellow shift.
Now we went to small tables with our partners, waiting for instruction. Still no talking allowed. My partner had this way of looking sideways that I must have missed before, and that made me mad because it was a turn-on.
Dr. In Charge paced around the tables, like some guru deep in thought, “If you’re feeling uncomfortable right now, good, that’ll make you ready.” He stroked his chin, too much.
They should have billed this as a lesson in control. Control freak that is, watch how it’s done. I was onto this guy. Dr. of what? Those letters after his name that looked like degrees, ha. He’d keep us guessing and then tell us to do something awful. Assistant girl moved around him as before, with the smooth face of a thoughtless angel.
I should get out right now, but every time my butt started to leave my chair, it came right down again. Guess I wanted to see what would happen next.
Just as well Gregor didn’t come, he would have hated this. No interest in therapy, he knew what he thought. Sure, go on with a dysfunctional relationship because he knows so much. He was too busy anyway, with a new production at the Schubert of Fiddler, making fancy new sets of spare interiors of Golda’s kitchen and the barn for Tevye’s horse. Like I didn’t have a full rehearsal schedule for the premiere of my dark opus Fall into Winter for my dance troupe in Evanston.
I didn’t see her do it, but Miss Madeleine rang a little bell, very pure in tone. We all looked up, though my salivary glands at least, did not begin to spill. Dr. If-He-Really-Was-One had gone to his throne on the dais, and sat like Oscar Wilde, with elbow on knee and spread-out knuckles against his cheek. It would have worked better with some greatcoat instead of his Freudian tweed.
He spoke, “And now it is up to you my friends, here is your assignment.”
It was not a short speech, but I paid attention, long enough for the punch line. “I challenge you to a real adventure of exploration. Find out about this other person, be open, and no matter what, by the end of the session commit to this one thing, a true and loving intimate encounter.”
Gasps of every pitch from all around.
Then Ms. Assistant gestured to a door, for the first time smiling. In a voice too deep for her wisp-like stature she told us that it led to a hallway with rooms off it, that any of us could use as long as we came in pairs. Now she told us, we were allowed to talk to our partners, but no one else.
“All are free to leave,” Dr. Ward said, “this is not a prison.” But he must have known the shame that would entail. I was not going to fall for that and stood up to go, but my partner brushed my shoulder with his hand, like a gentle request, and I sat down again.
Only one person actually left, the one I thought least likely to do so, the woman in the hibiscus skirt. This left her partner, a man with a mustache and balding hair, alone. Ms. Madeleine led him aside, where Dr. spoke to him before she ushered him out. Ward explained to all that he would be guaranteed cost coverage for the next class.
I couldn’t let my partner down like that.
And that was that. We had to figure out what to do on our own. Names, that was easy. Milo from Southside because he liked gritty, publisher in a small press for mystery books, whodunits. Liked adventure of all kinds, so he was drawn to this workshop, also to tall buildings that he climbed as long as they weren’t totally made of glass. Sure, he could say anything. So could I.
“I’m Shannon, a singer in clubs downtown, torch songs mostly. Also a writer looking for a place for my novel, Grass and Leaves. Love to hang out at Oak Street beach when it’s most crowded.” I did however say one true thing besides my name, that I was a dancer.
“Family?” he asked. He put one hand on the table, like he was moving a chess piece without one actually being there.
“None to speak of,” I said. “Used to be married but gave that up. One kid who’s a neurologist, makes sacks of money, but I haven’t seen him in three years.”
Since he’d made a couple of gestures already, it was my turn, so I put my hand on the table, fingers close to his but not touching. It was maybe the smarmiest thing I’d ever done, so it was surprise when he lifted his hand to cover mine, like a roof. I didn’t move. Prickles crawled around my neck at the hairline.
I didn’t dare look at his face, even when he leaned forward to place his cheek on his hand and look up at my downturned face. I wanted to jump up but made myself stay still. It was one of my skills as a dancer, know when to move and when not.
Slowly he lifted his head off his hand and disturbed the hairs on my fingers with his own as he slid them away. It was a struggle now between wanting to put my head down on folded hands like my second-grade teacher told us to do when she needed a break, and wanting to see what was in his face.
Curiosity won out, and luckily he had his head turned sideways, and didn’t see me stare. I could hear the other pairs talking, some softly, some sharply, but others were silent like us. We were all rabbits in a cage with someone poking sticks into our soft parts.
Discomfort was the beginning of getting unstuck, Ward had said. Also, that time was on our side.
Not for me. I squirmed in my seat and when I spoke my voice was scratchy, so I cleared it. “Do you think they paired us up as similar or as opposites?”
“They probably want us to wonder and find out. Maybe there was no intention at all.” He turned to me with an ordinary stranger face, smiling for social glue. “So let’s do that.”
For a while we chatted like people who’d met at a bus stop, easy, on the surface, no risk, knowing the bus would end it.
Then Milo said, “This is BS don’t you think? How can you enforce intimacy?”
“It’s like the white coats are watching us to see what happens. They probably think we’ll all go nuts or kill each other, then they can write a paper.”
“We could prove them wrong.”
Back to deep discomfort. No, I wanted out. There was nothing to hold us together. Unless I changed my mind about his black beard and too young eyes, and sexy hands. I could choose to like him. Why not?
“What do you think, relax and play the game. Could be fun.” He massaged his neck and twisted it back and forth, then put his hand on my shoulder with a smile like Pan. “OK?”
This wouldn’t last forever. “Fine, let’s get this over with.” I’d had enough time in the theater to manage that game.
He stood up and took me by the hand, and we walked like that around the tables of other couples, nodding to anyone who looked up. In no face did I see ease. “We wish you success on your journey,” Milo said to one woman, who laughed because she probably found it as corny as I did, but I kept a straight face and so did he. To a man he said, “I’m as stuck as you, but there’s hope for us all.” It was a parody of Ward, so good that this guy laughed too.
I didn’t get into it till the second lap. “Does anyone need to go to the bathroom?” Several looked up at that, but I said, “Sorry no bathroom passes.”
Groans all around.
Milo leaned over to whisper, “You’re raising the level of discomfort.”
We kept on walking, now lapping in the other direction.
The man who liked the Ward parody tried one of his own, “When you’re ready for the next step, find the magic door.”
Milo glanced at me with a look of feigned rapture, right out of musical theater, and I did the same. The next lap I pushed through the door to the hallway that Ms. Madeleine had showed us, and I led Milo through.
The door closed and we were alone in the hall. Oh no, this was a mistake. I dropped his hand and rushed back to the door. Milo did not follow, but let out this gentle laugh that made me pause. “C’mon,” he said, “that’s not the next step.”
So it would be OK. I came back and we entered the nearest room, a dismal cell with an old-fashioned double bed from the time when most people were thin.
I sat down and tried to bounce on it, but it didn’t spring back.
“You’re a dancer, right?”
I’d heard that before, from guys who thought positions. “You know that’s a turnoff for a dancer.”
“Sorry, just wanted to lighten the mood.”
He took off his vest and slung it into a corner, then started to unbutton his shirt.
“You too Shannon.” It was the first time he’d used my name.
“Milo is it? What kind of a name is that?”
“The one I chose, because I hated George.”
I untied the straps of my shift and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in bra and panties. That’s as far as I went before I slipped under the cover, a bedspread of the old knobbly type, and claimed one side of the bed so close to the edge I half spilled over it. He climbed in after me and kept to his side too.
Did he think I was attractive? I’d kept my performer body, but I was probably fifteen years older than him.
So as the more mature partner I should start. In the semi-darkness I reached for some place high on his body and found his chest. How smooth his skin was, and not hairy. How could he have a beard and not be hairy on his chest? He found my hips. What was he thinking about them? Too bony?
I squirmed to find a comfortable position, he came closer and I felt his heat. Bodies on a bed. I’d had more physical contact than this with men on stage, like when I balanced on another dancer lying chest to chest, simulating the graceful waves of a slow coitus to Bolero.
“We can do this, is it alright Shannon?”
“Do you have a condom?”
He actually gave me a real hug. “Help me get ready, and I’ll pull it on.”
So I did the things that Gregor used to enjoy, and found out that Milo liked most of them, except kissing on the ears. Too loud he said.
In the closing session, only three out of the six couples were left.
“Congratulations on your achievement,” Dr. W said as Ms. Madeleine put leis around our necks, all that color so out of place in the dingy room and my drab yellow shift. “You’ve proved something to yourselves, and I hope you all feel stronger for it.”
Milo and I exchanged contact info, but it felt like a polite formality. We did embrace though, before parting at the door. Nothing like “Have a nice life,” or “See you around.” It wasn’t like that at all.
“You play a good game Milo.”
“It was more than that and you know it.”
When Gregor asked me how it went, I told him it was just a lot of gobbledygook like he said it would be, but he gave me this strange look as though he’d seen a change in me. Like an actor not yet warmed up at an improv, he spoke towards the window, about a set that fell apart today. A shred that I grasped onto. Poor thing I said, that must have been awful. And he kept on with the details, the need to repaint, to anchor with guys to the fly space. I was so drawn to the bowed curve of his back, I came to him and melted over him. I was so thirsty. We wept that night, and began to talk again.
The next night he came home with outfits from the costume shop for us to play with. “Shannon my love, thought these would be more fun than Fiddler drab.”
He could still look amazing in a gladiator kilt, and I ramped it up with a Roman fantasy chemise, and bit grapes off the cluster he dangled in front of me. We took our time, he slipping my dress off my shoulder, me unbuckling his kilt, at last sliding into bed, with wine glasses on the bed stand. Then more talk, as though it was foreplay. What was I wearing in my show Fall into Winter and could he see rehearsals? I wanted to know how he made Tevye’s milk cart work with only a human pulling it instead of a horse.
Milo texted me a time or two, and asked to meet me, but I made cheery excuses. I worry about him though, he didn’t have anyone to go back to. If he keeps trying, I’ll consent as long as it’s only lunch. We could joke about Dr. W and his offer to us graduates to come back for a refresher course with our workshop partners.
No way, it was so damn uncomfortable the first time before we knew a thing about each other. That was the point of course, but once past that, W insisted we could climb further mountains of self-discovery as we learned more about each other. What crap! The guy just wanted our cash we’d say, to buy Ms. Madeleine a real assistant outfit like for the women who get cut in half.
I’ll wait though, to see if Milo tries again. But only for lunch.
Mary Lewis has an MFA in creative writing from Augsburg University, an MS in Ecology from the University of Minnesota, and she taught in the Biology Department of Luther College in Decorah, Iowa. In 2023 two of her stories have been nominated, one for a Pushcart prize, another for both the 2023 Best of the Net Anthology and the Best American Series. A sampling of journals where her work appears: Allium, Antigonish Review, Blue Lake Review, Book of Matches, Boomer Lit, Cleaver Magazine, Evening Street Review, Feels Blind Literary, Inscape, Litbreak Magazine, Map Literary, Nonbinary Review, North American Review, Persimmon Tree, Rivanna, RiverSedge, r.kv.r.y. quarterly, Rundelania,Sensitive Skin, Sleet Magazine, Superstition Review, Taj Mahal Review, The Spadina Literary Review, The Woven Tale Press, Thieving Magpie, Toasted Cheese, Valley Voices, Wilderness House Literary Review and Wordrunner. Forthcoming: Euphony, Flora Fiction, Ginosko, Main Street Rag, Minerva Rising, The Opiate. marylewiswriter.com
Euphony Journal 