Between the Tides by Susannah Marren

of a surgeon’s wife, a chair of the department’s wife. The getup pleases him, the black sheath, the strand of pearls, the medium-heel Manolos, the angular face. Her hair, in a smooth knot at the nape of her neck, has an otherworldly sheen. Her lips are closed tight and I wonder, is she praised then vilified? A question that arises as I stereotype her husband, another overly confident, immensely important surgeon.
    Then my gaze shifts to the actual man. He is a husky, hunky, brainy man. That’s a first. A man I have imagined who has yet to exist. I smile the fervid Elliot smile that I know by rote. Charles holds out his hand to greet me and it runs right through me, an electric charge that ignites us. We have never been introduced before, not in this life. Lainie watches, her head tilted to the side, her eyes wide, perplexed. William radiates success at his latest conquest, who might be more appealing tonight than he was during the interviewing process. Lure those doctors out of the cities and make them yours at Elliot Memorial is William’s slogan. I’m too busy with Charles to care. I’m too stupefied to breathe.
    â€œShall we?” William motions. “We’ll have our other guests sent along.”
    It’s as if my husband is in some other country. I can barely hear him.
    We exchange superficial greetings while we meander as two couples into the cocktail reception, but it’s lost on me. Country club living has never been this perilous. At the bar Charles orders a Glenlivet and William follows suit. I need something very potent—I wish to be drunk for the foreseeable future.
    *   *   *
    Having tossed back two apple martinis during our cocktail hour, I find myself surrounded by wives. Wives who owe me for carpooling, invitations to charity luncheons and elite dinners that only I can arrange, discretion when it comes to their spending secrets, my ability to look the other way when their children have been unkind to others. Most important is how I “Henry Kissinger” the herd of women; at least once a week I play the role. Everyone sitting down bows to me and no one gives a rat’s ass that the most beautiful player has just landed, Lainie . Tonight she has this wild look in her eye—or is it simply that caged-bird demeanor of the ill-fated wife? Now she’s just like everyone else and she hasn’t anything special to bring to the party. There isn’t a woman at the event who exists as more than an accessory.
    Wind yourself up, Lainie, for the arm-candy duet. Ha, she can’t escape it any more than the rest of us. Husbands, houses, children. I imagine Lainie at the Y pool about to start her regime, Lainie at the Wintergreen Country Club, Lainie driving the curvy country roads in the rain—my topography.
    Of all things, William notices how I’ve guzzled the drinks and am about to order a third. He gives me a quizzical look that stops me. As soon as we are seated at the dinner, the band plays. A woman in an ill-fitting black skirt and tank top is the lead singer and she chooses a Karen Carpenter song, “Superstar,” as the first slow number. William, to my right, is robustly scouting the perimeters, taking inventory. Charles pushes back his chair and holds his hand out to Lainie. She stands up and follows without moving her mouth. They approach the dance floor, where she halfheartedly places her hands on his shoulders. Charles is facing me and I take his cue. William is sifting through the guests when I leave my chair and levitate toward the dance floor, solo. There is no playing nice or suggesting that my husband break in and dance with Lainie, thus producing Charles as my partner. It’s up to me.
    â€œMay I have this dance?” I ask. Lainie backs off; her arms, those swimmer’s biceps, go limp. Charles first puts his arms around me and then flexes his body into mine. It is stifling when he pulls me closer. I