Free Magnolia Wednesdays by Wendy Wax

wife?”
    “Respect.”
    It was Ruth’s turn to snort.
    “And a little understanding of why I put so much of my time into the business.”
    The therapist opened his mouth to pursue the subject. Ruth raised a hand to stop him. This was their sixth marriage therapist in as many years—Miriam Youngblood, half Jewish, half Native American, and former goodwill ambassador of both the Temple Sisterhood and the Cherokee Nation, had been her personal favorite. She knew what was coming better than the therapist did.
    “Perhaps,” Ruth said smoothly, striving for the professional nonjudgmental tone all six of their counselors had used, “you could tell us why you feel so compelled to work eighty-hour weeks when you no longer need to?” She smiled and cupped her chin in the palm of one hand like Miriam Youngblood, the Jewish Medicine Woman, used to do.
    Ira looked down at his watch. He sighed a long-suffering sigh. “We’re paying this guy a fortune,” he said. “Let him talk.”
    “All right, Mr. Melnick,” the psychologist said in the same tone as Ruth had. “Why do you feel compelled to work eighty-hour weeks now that you don’t have to? Wouldn’t it make sense to take it a little easier, spend a little more time with your wife? Enjoy the fruits of your labor?”
    Ruth shot Ira a “take that” look. They rarely achieved anything substantial in counseling, but there was the occasional validation. And she’d always been afraid of what might happen if they just gave up and stopped going.
    “Look, I love my wife,” Ira said. “I wouldn’t have stuck around for fifty years if I didn’t.”
    Ruth’s mouth gaped open at the left-handed compliment. “Lucky me,” she said. “I feel so honored.”
    “I don’t run around. I’m not looking for some little chickadee on the side.” Ira continued addressing his comments to the counselor as if Ruth hadn’t spoken. “I work because that’s what men do. And because there is no such thing as too much financial security, especially in today’s environment.”
    He turned to Ruth now. “And I’ve never heard my wife complain because there’s too much money in the bank. Or because she can buy too many clothes or tchotchkes for the house. Or give too much money to charity or to the grandkids.”
    He paused and Ruth knew exactly what was coming next just as she knew how he liked his oatmeal in the morning and what he preferred in bed.
    “I built and run a successful bagel company. I am the Bagel Baron. And I’m tired of hearing her complain about it. What am I going to do on some cruise ship out in the middle of the ocean? Or on some tour of drafty old castles in England, for chrissakes? I’m only seventy-five, which I hear is the new forty. Am I really supposed to move to Florida with all the old altakakas. Or sit around the house all day making chitchat with a woman I’ve been talking to every day for the last fifty years?”
    “Poor you!” Ruth said. “Your horrible, demanding wife expects you to spend some time with her when you’ve been generous enough to stay with her all these years. Where do you want me to pin the medal?”
    “Now, let’s just calm down and try to . . .” Dr. Guttman’s tone was both reasonable and conciliatory as he began to lay out how they might proceed. Ira was looking at his watch again, impatient to get back to the thing he cared about most. And that thing wasn’t her.
    For the first time Ruth saw the futility of expecting someone else to solve their problems. What were the chances that someone else, even a trained someone else, could convince Ira to notice her again? They’d been having this same conversation for years and it had gotten them nowhere. She was tired of being reasonable. She’d had it with understanding.
    “You know what,” she said to the two of them. “I’m done with this.” She scooted away from Ira’s familiar bulk. “You’re a nice boy,” she said to Dr. Guttman. “I’m sure your mother’s very