by Merry Jones
But the other boy, the shorter, not-so-cute one with gelled hair and a smattering of forehead pimples, had taken her hand. His palm had been damp, and Nora’s breathing had become rapid and shallow, rabbit-like, as if her body was standing beside this boy but she was out of there, gone, having left it behind. She’d hoped that that feeling—of exiting her body—was a sign that she was going to faint. Not that she’d ever fainted before, but she’d wanted to, because if she had, then that sweaty hand would have let go of hers. People in the mall would have noticed her passed out and come to her aid. The guy—his name had been Anthony—would have backed away.
Anthony had smelled dizzyingly, cloyingly, sickeningly of the ocean, of geranium, a blend of salt and sweet. He led her out of the food court to the adjacent long hall near the restrooms. Into a corner, where he’d pressed her against the wall and said,
“Welcome to the neighborhood, Nora from Maine.”
He’d clasped her butt, tightly, painfully, and at the same time crushed his lips stiffly against hers. The smell of cologne had mixed with his lunch (Chinese food?), and his tongue had jabbed her mouth, tasting of half-digested egg roll and something with soy sauce. Nora hadn’t been able to breathe. She’d turned her head for some air, and he’d snickered.
“What? Come on, little frosh. Nobody likes a tease.” He’d laughed then, revealing silver braces with tiny yellow chunks of food caught in the wires.
“I don’t feel well.” Nora had gasped and pushed him away. She’d hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room where she’d huddled on a vinyl upholstered sofa for an immeasurable time, shaky and sickened, not sure when it would be safe to go back out. Where had Annie gone with Rick? And how was she supposed to reconnect with her? Should she just forget Annie and go home? And how would she ever get rid of the smell of Anthony’s cologne, or the feeling of his wormy tongue, or the taste of his Chinese food?
Nora was filling water glasses when her father walked in, announcing that there had been a detour on his drive home. He’d had no idea they were digging up Old Gulf Road. Her mother pecked his lips and said she hadn’t either. But never mind, he was just in time for dinner.
Nora steeled herself for a meal with her family. She’d act as if nothing had happened. Well, in a way, nothing had. It wasn’t as though she’d been mugged or mauled or kidnapped. But her face still hurt, a reminder of how she’d scrubbed to wash off that kiss.
She wasn’t sure how Annie had found her. Maybe Anthony had told her that Nora had run to the bathroom, sick. Or maybe Annie had just wandered in. Either way, Annie had appeared in the ladies’ room, unconcerned at finding Nora with soap suds across her mouth and soggy used paper towels all over the
countertop.
Annie had laughed, not waiting for an explanation, and kind of danced toward Nora and the row of sinks. “How cool was that? They really believed we were in high school!”
Her lipstick had been smeared, her hair and shirt disheveled. She’d made no apology for stranding Nora with Anthony, the butt groper with braces, no excuses for claiming Rick, the tall good-looking one that Nora had been talking to. Annie had not hesitated, had just led him away as if Nora hadn’t been in the middle of telling him about winters in Maine and how she loved skiing. But it was no big deal. They’d just been goofing around, playacting that they had boobs and were freshmen.
Tommy shoveled chunks of beef and potatoes into his mouth, lips smacking with each bite. Her father helped himself to seconds, asking Nora to pass the green beans. She did. He asked how her day was. She said fine. He asked for the salt. Marla and Philip exchanged news of their days. Everything was like always, except for Nora. She chewed the pot roast, still unable to re-inhabit her body. She’d ventured into territory where she hadn’t belonged, and from which she couldn’t quite return. She felt sullied. Stained. Worse.
But she was overreacting. She needed to move on and forget the whole thing. Really, it had been nothing. Neither she nor Annie would ever see those boys again.
Still, she couldn’t stop reliving it, replaying what had happened. The revolting wet tongue. Annie stranding her. And worst of all, Annie stealing Rick from her without a thought or apology, on a whim, for no reason. Just because she could.
Saturday, August 11, 2018, 1 a.m.
S
o. It was Barbara. For a while, Nora didn’t move. She stared at the phone number, redefining memories and reinterpreting moments. Barbara had complained at book club that she had no time for herself. Had she meant that she had no time to sneak off with Dave?
Nora stiffened, tightened her jaw. How long had Dave been lying to her? He knew she couldn’t bear lies, had sworn he’d never lie again. But how many late meetings had been with Barbara instead of clients? How many “tennis matches” had been preceded or followed by a traitorous sexual tryst? Had they met at Barbara’s while her boys, Colin and Harry, were in preschool and Paul was out campaigning? Or had they gone to a hotel? Nora hadn’t noticed room charges on their credit card, but Dave would surely have been more careful, charging the rooms to his firm. Which hotel? The Hilton on Columbus Boulevard—no. The Ritz Carlton. Had they laughed about their secret while tangled up in the sheets of a plush, king-sized bed? Mocked her for trusting them? For being so profoundly clueless? Had they made fun of Paul for being so easily duped?
Nora pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, imagining Dave caressing Barbara’s shoulders and back, his wedding band glowing, molten. How did the ring not sear his skin? How could he wear it while touching her? And what about her? Were Barbara’s breasts freckled like her nose? Did they feel real? Oh God. What about that announcement Barbara had made at book club? While they’d been discussing that television show instead of their book, she’d yelped and breathlessly laughed, “I just had an orgasm.”
She’d explained that, at Paul’s request, she’d gone to the spa and had a wax—not just on her legs. She’d bragged, lowering her voice to add that now, sensations were much more intense, so that walking—even sitting with her legs crossed—could cause a climax.
Nora had laughed along with the others then. But now, as she pictured Dave’s hand between Barbara’s smooth waxed thighs, she clenched her teeth, no longer amused.
She swallowed scotch, censored the image. Honestly, she needed to stop. Barbara and Dave? The idea was absurd. Impossible. Barbara’s husband was not just the best-looking man in Philadelphia and possibly the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania; he also adored his wife. Plus, he was nearly a U.S. senator, far ahead in the polls. Why would Barbara cheat on him? She wouldn’t. And if she would, why would she pick Dave? He wasn’t even close to the caliber of Barbara’s husband.
And for another thing, Dave wouldn’t cheat. Not again. He wouldn’t. There had to be another explanation for the texts.
Nora struggled to find one. Her fingers fumbled, touching icons on the phone, punching up texts, scanning them. On Friday, they’d made plans to meet at Barbara’s at noon. The day before, Barbara had sent him a link to Paul’s campaign schedule. Then she had asked if Nora knew anything, and Dave had assured her that Nora had no clue.
Of course she didn’t. She was clueless, as dull as a cabbage. Predictable, plain, old, boring Nora. No one special. She was, after all, Tommy’s sister. You’ll always be the same as me: a misfit, an oddball, a freak.
She read on, the knots in her stomach tightening with each text. There were dozens, going back weeks. Finally, she made herself stop. She’d seen too many, couldn’t stop seeing them. I’ll make time for you, Nora has no clue, Paul’s still away, Come by this afternoon.
She didn’t remember leaving the kitchen or climbing the stairs, but somehow, she made it back to her bedroom where she was standing over Dave, watching him sleep. Nora knew all about his sleep, the rhythm of his breathing, the warm, dusky smell of his skin, the harsh cracks of his snores, the peace on his face. How could he sleep so deeply, not troubled by his deceit? Not bothered by her absence, not even noti
cing that she wasn’t in bed? Who was this man whose jaw hung slack, who looked like, slept like, and smelled like, but somehow wasn’t her Dave?
Nora’s whole body hurt. Each breath felt as though razors were slashing her lungs. Dave’s face was untroubled and at ease. She had to be mistaken. Maybe she could erase the last hour, climb in bed beside him and wrap herself in his arms. Pretend she’d never looked in his phone.
But she couldn’t. The texts wouldn’t allow it. They flashed in her head in neon red, the evidence stacking up against Dave, showing him to be a liar. A cheater. She wanted to pummel him, tried to make fists but couldn’t because she still held the phones. Tossing them into the folds of their comforter, she clenched her hands and stared at him until her eyes burned. When finally she looked away, the room had drifted out of reach, intangible as a memory—the mahogany bureaus, the velvet divan, the moonlit windows, the fluffed pillows, and the half-naked liar, cheater, heartbreaker, marriage-destroyer husband.
She ought to kill him.
The thought volunteered on its own, unsolicited, offering an outlet for her shock and rage. She could slam the lamp base against his head. How many hits would it take? She pictured the impact, the spattering blood, warm on her nightgown. Dave’s eyes opening in shocked confusion. The satisfaction of hearing bones shatter, of whispering into his ear as he died that, guess what: Nora had a clue.
Dave stirred and rolled over, his back to her.
Nora watched his sculpted shoulders, the slope of his back. Her life hung in shreds. Killing him would accomplish nothing unless he knew why she was doing it. She ought to wake him up, demand to hear the truth, and kill him afterward.
“Mommy?” Sophie was beside her. When had she come in? Her eyes glistened in the dim light. “I heard a noise.”
Nora knelt to meet Sophie’s eyes. “Sorry. It must have been me walking around,” she whispered. “I can’t sleep.”
Sophie’s head tilted. “Did you have a bad dream? Is that why you’re crying?”
Crying? Nora touched her face. Indeed, it was wet.
“It’s just a dream, Mommy. Don’t be scared. Know what I do when I get one?”
Nora took Sophie’s hands. “You come and get me?”
Sophie nodded. “And sometimes, I climb in with Ellie.” She furrowed her little eyebrows. “Mommy, why don’t you climb in with Daddy?” She hesitated, then smiled. “Or, if you want, you can climb in with me.”
Oh my. Sophie was mothering her. Nora had become so pathetic that a not yet five-year-old felt compelled to help her. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and thanked Sophie, giving her a kiss. Actually, it was a good offer. If she went back to her own bed, she’d stay up all night staring, thinking of ways to murder Dave, maybe even doing it.
So she led Sophie back to her room and cuddled up beside her. She lay still, watching a kaleidoscope of images: ants in a farm, spider parts in a tissue, Barbara in her flashy BMW, Tommy in his coffin, Dave with a freshly smashed skull. She held on to Sophie through the night, as if her child’s warm scent and deep, steady breathing could sustain her.
Sunday, August 12, 2018
W
hile birds were first chirping, Nora slipped away from Sophie and went back to her own bedroom. The phones were where she’d left them. She picked them up and sat on the side of the bed, still aching.
Nora’s grip tightened around the phones as she stared at her sleeping husband. His breath was a steady rumble. Knowing what she knew, aside from killing him, what could she do? Yell at him? Stop cooking for him? Run up credit card bills? Her options were laughable. At best, they would irritate him. They certainly wouldn’t rip Dave’s heart to ribbons the way he’d ripped hers. No, Dave held the power. He was in control.
It had been better not to know. If only she hadn’t looked at the texts. On cue, her mother whispered, I told you not to look for trouble.
Dave snorted and turned over, sprawling his legs across her side of the bed.
She ought to try to sleep. She wouldn’t be able to think or figure out what to do unless she had rest. She climbed into bed but couldn’t relax. Instead, she turned onto her side and imagined what she would say when Dave woke up.
The moment he opened his eyes, Nora would be ready.
“Dave,” she’d say. “I know.”
He’d blink a few times and rub his eyes. Then he’d pretend to be too groggy to comprehend. “What time is it?”
She would hold up his phone.
He would be confused, not understanding why Nora was awake or why her face was so grave. His first coherent thought would be that something was wrong with the kids. “The girls?” He’d start to get up.
“The girls are fine.”
Dave would settle back against his pillows, rub his eyes again.
That’s when she’d slam him. “I know about Barbara.”
“Huh?” He’d stall, probably look at the clock. “It’s barely five o’clock.” He would say this as if the time explained everything. As if it justified his affair.
He’d get up and use the bathroom. When he came back, he’d rustle his hair and sit on the edge of the bed, looking half-asleep.
“So, what’s wrong?” He’d act as if she hadn’t mentioned Barbara and ask again why she was up so early. He’d reach for her hand, and that’s when he’d finally notice what she was holding in it. His brows would furrow, and his gaze would linger on the phone as his mind began scrambling to figure out how much Nora knew, how he might slither out of trouble.
Nora would bring up the texts from Barbara about Dave coming over, about Paul being away. “Tell me about these.”
Dave would squint at the screen. The delicate skin around his eyes would twitch.
“Tell me.” She would want to throw the pillows at him, tear the sheets out from under him. But she wouldn’t risk waking the children.
His eyebrows would rise, his hand would rustle the soft hairs of his chest. His head would tilt with a question the way Sophie’s so often did. His gaze would travel from Nora’s face to the phone. He would realize there was no escape; he’d been caught. But, being Dave, he wouldn’t surrender or apologize. No, like a cornered animal, he’d attack.
“What the hell, Nora. You’ve been reading my texts?” He would steer the conversation straight at her, mowing her down.
“That’s your response?” Nora would hiss. “You’re screwing my friend and you’re pissed—”
“I’m what? That’s crazy!”
“—that I looked in your phone?”
“You bet I’m pissed.” Dave would stand, gesticulating as though he were arguing a high-profile case. His nostrils would flare, righteously indignant. “I use that phone for my practice, Nora. It contains privileged conversations—”
“It sure does.”
“Give me the phone.” Fully awake, Dave’s would switch to his stony, unemotional lawyer voice. “Nora. Now.” He’d hold his hand out.
“Tell me the truth,” she’d insist. “How long have you been fucking her?”
“The phone.” Dave’s eyes would be ice.
Nora would plop the phone into his palm, unable to speak. Her throat would have clamped shut. She would sit stiff and wordless, aware that she had accomplished nothing, learned nothing, that all she’d managed to do was admit she’d been prying.
Dave’s jaw would ripple as he scrolled though the messages about Paul being away, about meeting Barbara secretly, about not letting Nora know. But he would not admit anything.
“I’ll change my password,” he’d growl. “And don’t ever even think of looking at my texts again.” He’d glare at her as if the rage in the air belonged to him.
That’s how it would go.
By Dave’s logic, the snooping would be the issue, not the affair. He’d counter every charge Nora presented as if he were speaking to a jury. He would insist that the messages not be admitted into evidence since she’d had no right to see
them in the first place.
Nora closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead. No. Confronting Dave about the text messages was a bad idea. He was a professional arguer. He knew how to dodge, deflect, defend, distract, and maneuver. Having been caught, he would deny everything. Isn’t that what he advised his clients? Deny deny deny.
Nora flopped onto her back, stymied. Would she really let him dismiss her that way? Not even addressing her suspicions or feelings?
She got up, put the phones on the dresser and got back in bed. Dave’s face was smooth and unlined, as still as a mask. Nora shivered beside him, not knowing what to do with her limbs or how to position herself.
See? I warned you not to look for trouble. Now that you’ve found it, let it go. Don’t rock the boat.
“Nora?” Dave’s face crinkled as he squinted at her. “Can’t you sleep?” He blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes.
She shook her head and hugged herself, still shivering.
“Come here.” He reached for her, pulling the comforter up so that she could slide closer to him.
Nora’s belly churned. She ached to rest her head against Dave’s chest as if she’d never read a single text.
He watched her. “You okay?”
She nodded. Fine. Peachy. Perfect. Nora was tired, her mind groggy. She should just ask him about Barbara and give him a chance to explain. But would she believe his answers? Damn. Trust was a circle.
I told you. I warned you. Don’t rock the boat.
Dave tugged at her. “Come on, Nor. We can still grab a couple hours.” His eyes were soft, his voice warm. She took a breath, aware that it might be her last before life as she knew it collapsed. Then, she asked him what she wanted to know.
Sunday, August 12, 2018