The Harringtons needed to leave the house soon after dinner to visit their friend, Dale Myers, who had taken ill. Pat urged Debra to leave the dishes for her to do and to go on while it was still early. Debra took advantage of that, glad to be apart from the Paytons for a while.

As Ron drove, she hoped for a normal conversation with him about anything: Dale Myers, Ron’s cousin or the Paytons’ job search—anything. And that included talking about themselves. She silently admitted a wistful yearning to be fully one with Ron once again but couldn’t figure out how to make that happen. She recognized her inclination to be possessive and that it reflected more about her own needs than it did about him. Her worst fear was that her repeated accusations, valid or not, might one day destroy what remained of their marriage.

That godforsaken radio. Both the hateful voices and Ron’s suspicious behavior started about the same time. God, who are they and what have they done to me?

Glancing toward her, Ron must have seen her tears. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about Dale, I guess.” Debra knew that she needed to confront it again as both her jealousy and suspicion had swelled since the Paytons moved in.

I still love him. I know I do…I think.


Ron had never explained it to her satisfaction. She wouldn’t let him. At first, the hurt intolerable, no matter what he said, she wouldn’t accept it. As time passed, thinking he might have concocted an even more believable story, she wouldn’t allow herself to be conned. No, he’d violated their vows. Although she couldn’t bring herself to divorce him, she did hate him for it. She could never accept that it was innocent: that meeting, a coincidence. She just wouldn’t accept something he couldn’t prove.


Debra leaned her head back. There, as if unloading her burden to a counselor, she replayed it over again in her mind.


The voices almost destroyed me and, with Ron’s prompting, I started seeing a psychiatrist. For my third visit, having shown little improvement, Ron accompanied me. In the waiting room, I noticed him watching the receptionist: a cute, young woman with long, flowing, blonde hair and cleavage a mile deep. It irritated me, but I had no rational reason to be upset. Men, I thought.

The session did not seem productive and I asked if I could bring Ron in. With Doctor Crenshaw’s approval, I stepped back into the otherwise empty waiting room to see Ron standing at the receptionist’s desk. He was leaning over as he leafed through the phone book opened in front of her. Her face close to his, had he been staring down her blouse? I swear. She then fluttered her long lashes at him, ones about as real as those big breasts of hers.

Oh, hi, Hon, he said, as he raised back up. He must have seen the darts blazing from my eyes ‘cause he rushed to explain that she’d told him about her car troubles and he was just trying to find a reasonable group to service her problem. Yeah, that’s my Ron all right, always there to lend a hand. I may have acted a little rude, I guess, ‘cause I said nothing; only grabbed him by the hand and turned to lead him back inside to the couch.

I’ll try this one, Ron, and thanks, she called out. I looked at him. Isn’t Mr. Harrington the appropriate form for her to use, I asked? He didn’t respond and, with that on my mind, the rest of the session provided little comfort.

Okay, if the tables were turned and he saw me like I saw him, he may have thought nothing of it. He maybe would have ribbed me about a male receptionist calling me Debra and not Mrs. Harrington, but he wouldn’t have acted jealous. Would he?

But, the next day, I stopped for a cup of coffee at a Mini-Mart while on my way to class. I was surprised to see Ron’s car parked in front. Just as I opened my door, Ms. Receptionist sashayed out of the store. Dressed in a top that might have been painted on and shorts that she must have been poured into, she was carrying a small grocery bag. As I watched, she removed the contents and discarded the bag. She had purchased Ron’s favorite wine. At her car door, she paused for a moment or two, as though waiting for someone. She then stepped in and drove away.

Seconds later, Ron sauntered out empty-handed, a mischievous grin on his face. He didn’t see me, didn’t even look my way. Just slid behind the wheel and drove off in the same direction as her…toward our home. I was desperate to go back there and check, but I was running late for my class. I just hit the gas. Damn you, Ron.

I tried to rationalize it—to dismiss it. I did. But, when I went back to my psychiatrist for another session, the witch smiled at me and I knew. Some feminine instinct of mine had decoded that smile.

Dear God, I just can’t seem to hold onto the people I love.


Debra pulled herself together as Ron steered the car into Dale Myer’s driveway.