Without a Doubt - [74]

It’s just that our marriage was hollow at the core. I didn’t care if Gaby saw other women, as long as he left me alone. I got a clue to the depth of my own disengagement when a woman called the house one day asking for him. The tone of her voice made it clear that she was no business associate. I asked her if she wanted to leave her name, and she hung up. I had every right to be angry. Not only was he cheating on me, but he’d had the gall to give his girlfriend his home number. But I didn’t care. I truly did not care.

We had some good times left. After I took the bar exam, we treated ourselves to a trip to Europe. I’d been studying nonstop for two months and during that time we hadn’t even gone to see a movie together. Gaby wanted us to take a real vacation, as opposed to the usual backgammon jaunt. I’d been going to law school on a federally insured student loan and I had some of that money left over. We splurged on a week-long trip to Italy and France.

After those two months of sensory deprivation studying for the bar, I was exhausted and ready for a blowout. The sights and smells of southern Europe were intoxicating. I couldn’t do or see enough.

Gaby had a way of going up and talking to people. He could speak a little Italian, a little French. He regaled strangers with his backgammon exploits until they were eating out of his hand. Anyway, he struck up a conversation with the conductor of the sleeping car we took from France to Italy. He was a young guy with a sweet face and large warm brown eyes. When we arrived in Rome, the conductor took us home to have dinner with his mother. And he offered to act as our unofficial tour guide. On one outing he took us to a topless beach. I thought it was an absolute riot. I’ve never been the inhibited type. In fact, shortly after we got there, I shed my own bikini top. Gaby put his arm around my waist, and our Italian friend snapped the picture. I was happy and smiling in that shot.

When we returned from Europe, I withdrew into myself again. Gaby and I lived more or less separate lives. I got a job as an associate lawyer with the firm I’d been clerking for. And there I discovered the healing powers of work.

I like to think that having a real career awakened some semblance of self-esteem and an independent identity that gave me the strength to confront the truth. Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe it was just the growing-up process, which would have happened regardless of whether I’d found a profession. Whatever the reason, I grew stronger. More confident. I liked myself a little better. And I realized then that my days with Gaby were numbered.

I agonized about leaving him. I knew I should just pick up and go, but I was hamstrung by guilt. Just as my career was taking off, his fortunes were taking a downturn. The backgammon mania was subsiding. It became clear that gambling would not provide him with an identity-or even a living-very much longer. All he’d ever been was a backgammon pro. A teacher at best; a hustler at worst. His entire image of himself was built around being pretty and having a fast, flashy lifestyle. His looks were going. His money was going. He was depressed. We spent long nights discussing his childhood, his past, and his uncertain future. I knew that if I was ever going to find it in my heart to leave him, I was going to have to get him back on his feet. But I’d suffered from bouts of depression myself. And trying to deal with Gaby’s problems left me feeling overwhelmed.

Gaby needed professional help. I begged him to see a psychiatrist, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Then I remembered something from my days in Greenwich Village. The managers of the leather shop I’d worked for had been Scientologists. They’d talk to me now and then about their beliefs. The church gave them very specific suggestions for learning to be assertive and confident. A lot of that teaching struck me as pure common sense, but it seemed to provide them with a source of strength.

As it happened, one of Gaby’s star pupils was into Scientology in a big way. His name was Bruce Roman and he was one of the few genuinely good guys I met on the backgammon circuit. Bruce was a tall man whose athletic build and curly blond hair contrasted strikingly with Gaby’s dark good looks. When they went out together, women would stop dead in their tracks and stare.

Bruce was passionate about backgammon. He just couldn’t get enough. He initially gravitated toward Gaby in order to learn the game, but over time the teaching relationship grew into a close friendship. When Gaby refused therapy, I turned to Bruce for help. He’d already noticed the change in Gaby, though he didn’t realize the extent of his distress. At my urging, Bruce suggested to Gaby that he might look into Scientology.

At first, Gaby was reluctant. His attitude was basically “What can they tell me that I don’t already know?” I knew that he didn’t like the idea of being treated like someone’s crazy aunt. So I offered to go check it out with him. That idea appealed. He agreed to enroll in a few courses and we went together to sign up for the first class.