I don’t know why Gerald felt the need to lambaste me about the children in front of our visiting friends. To say it was humiliating is an understatement, particularly since I had made what seemed to me an innocuous statement. “They are spoiled,” I’d said, as if that was a surprise to anybody around that table. “You’re an idiot,” Gerald had responded and there I sat, my cheeks growing hot, wondering how awkward it would be to stand up and simply walk out of the restaurant. This was not, after all, the first time this had happened. It seemed lately that Gerald was shooting barbs in my direction on a regular basis when we were out with friends.
But once again I resisted the urge to confront him. Our friends were only in town for that day as it was and there was nothing worse than a couple wrapped up in themselves, oblivious to the needs of others.
But I felt truly miserable sitting there at that table, small and like the idiot Gerald accused me of being. Not because of what I’d said, but instead for what I did not – was not – saying.
Our friends noted all that transpired, there was no doubt of that, and to make it worse, I sensed they pitied me. Oh, how much that made it worse. I didn’t want people’s pity, though I felt pitiful. How absolutely spineless of me to sit there, silent and self-conscious, as if Gerald had just stripped off my clothes in that restaurant while I stood cowering, doing nothing.
Our lunch together proceeded and I did my best to laugh and smile and rejoin the conversation. Maybe I was being overly sensitive. Maybe no one else saw Gerald’s remark as hurtful or demeaning. Maybe I was just neurotic and needed a good therapist.
Slowly, the conversation shifted back to a regular pace and tone. I offered innocuous comments here and there and made every effort to focus just on our friends and their lives. Still, the pain felt alive, burning at the edges of my mind, stabbing and hot.
After our good-byes and Gerald and I were alone in our car, I turned to him and said, “If you ever talk to me like that again in public, I’m leaving.”
“If you’d been a little more sensitive, then I wouldn’t have had to say what I did.”
I studied my fingernail for a moment with meticulous care, the one that was torn to the quick. “Nothing I said merited you calling me an idiot. Our kids are spoiled. What possible difference does that make in the big picture?”
Gerald’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about our kids. I had been in the middle of a story and you high-jacked the conversation once again the minute I paused.”
“That’s why you called me an idiot?”
“Yes. Idiots don’t listen.”
“But this isn’t the only time you’ve done this,” I said. “In fact, it’s becoming a habit, these mean-spirited little jabs.”
“You might notice what’s happening just before I say what I say. It’s just that I can’t seem to get a word into a conversation before you take what I’m saying and shift it to suit your next boring story.”
“My next BORING story? There you go again. That is exactly what I’m saying. That is just mean.”
“I just want to talk every once in a while without you bringing up something else and shifting the conversation in a direction that suits you better. Is that possible?”
The sun felt warm on my face. I rolled the window down and listened to the traffic noises. Was what he was saying true? Did I do that or was he just an ass? “Okay,” I said, “I’ll try to listen more carefully, but if you call me a name again in public, I will leave.”
Gerald put the car in reverse and started backing out of the parking place. “Do what you need to do. Just listen for a change instead of talk.”
“I think you’re the idiot,” I said.
“I can be,” Gerald said, reaching over and touching my shoulder. “Just throw me a bone next time and let me talk.”
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