by Merry Jones
As if catching a firefly, Tommy finally snapped his hands out, grabbed Annie’s wrists, and held on, snickering as if amused. Annie struggled for a while, but he just smiled until she stopped.
“You done?” he asked.
“Screw you,” Annie huffed.
“Be careful. You don’t want to make me mad. I can mail those babies out this afternoon. Now get out.” Tommy released her wrists and busied himself with his bug, dismissing them.
“This isn’t over. You’ll be sorry, you perv.” Annie stormed past Nora who hurried after her, apologizing, afraid of Annie’s rage. She’d never seen it before, didn’t know how to calm it.
Annie was fuming. “He won’t really mail those pictures, will he? Because my parents will kill me.”
“He won’t.” But oh God, what if he did? Annie would never speak to her. And what would Nora’s parents do when they saw the liquor? The kissing? Fuck Tommy. She ought to kill him.
Annie wouldn’t stay, wouldn’t talk anymore. She packed up her things quickly, silently, angrily. The air was so brittle; Nora couldn’t breathe.
At the door, Nora tried again. “Annie, please. I don’t know what to say.”
“I know.” Annie’s voice was flat. “I get why you never talk about him, and why Craig can’t stand him. Your brother’s a disgusting sicko. I feel sorry for you, having to live in the same house as him. But even if he’s your brother, I promise you he’s going to regret this little prank. If he does anything at all with those pictures? He’s done. I mean it, Nora. Toast.”
Nora watched Annie disappear around the corner. Then, she went back upstairs. Her eyes narrowed and her skin burned. What could she do to get back at Tommy? Break his framed
tarantula? Set his dark room on fire? In her room, she kicked at the wadded tissues scattered around the floor, and when she flopped onto her bed, crying, her pillowcase smelled like makeup.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018, 12:15 p.m.
C
ampaign headquarters was a storefront in a South Philly strip mall, once a large video rental store. Paul’s face was plastered everywhere. The walls were papered with larger-than-life posters of it. Desks were buried under stacks of brochures, bumper stickers, doorknob hangers—all advertising it. There were lawn signs galore. Whiteboards covered with marked abbreviations and coded numbers. A huge flat screen television tuned to whatever Congress was doing. A monstrous coffee urn, and a folding table laden with donuts, cold cuts, protein bars, bagels, apples and bananas. The room was buzzing. Staff members, mostly young and glued to cell phones, scurried about organizing volunteers, assigning tasks, wearing buttons with Paul’s face and name.
The limo driver guided Nora through the maze into a corridor, through a back doorway into the candidate’s private office. As Paul rose from his desk to greet her, a preppy young woman dashed in, reminding him that he’d have to leave for the Junior League no later than two. He thanked her, saying that he was not to be disturbed until then, and locked the door when she left because, he explained, “Otherwise, they’ll all be in and out and not give us a moment.”
Paul gestured at a sleek leather sofa, offering Nora a seat. She sat and surveyed the room. A glass-topped coffee table displayed an arrangement of succulents, the morning’s Inquirer, and a large crystal dolphin sculpture. Silver pendant lights hung from the planked ceiling. The floor was faux aged wood, partially covered by an ornate oriental rug. The walls were dotted with fine art—a Wyeth that looked real, and was that an actual Chagall? Nora stopped herself from gawking, even from commenting on the decor. She didn’t want to appear impressed. She hadn’t come by choice, but at Paul’s insistence. And she was there, not as an admirer or supporter, but as a spy. Still, she was stunned that just a door and a short hallway separated this tranquil space from the clamor and hullaballoo of the outer office. She strained but couldn’t hear even a whisper of the hubbub. Vivaldi played softly.
“Wine?” Paul asked. “I’ve chilled some Pinot Grigio.” A full bar lined the far wall.
“Not for me.”
“Coffee then? Cappuccino?”
“Cappuccino. Thank you.”
Nora slid back on her seat. The leather was smooth, the cushions oversized. If she sat all the way back, her feet wouldn’t touch the floor. She scooted forward, keeping her feet grounded and her back straight, and watched Paul as the Keurig whipped up her coffee. His hand lingered over her cup as if dropping something in.
But that was ridiculous. What was he going to do, poison her? Drug her? Right here in his campaign headquarters? No, she’d imagined it. Ice clinked. Paul returned with her foamy coffee and his scotch on the rocks.
“What did we do before Keurig?” He sat beside her, close enough that their knees bumped. He grinned and his teeth glistened, eyes twinkling. He really was spectacularly handsome. “Thanks for coming, Nora. I know you were hesitant.”
Nora was uncomfortable. She crossed her legs, but that was worse, so she uncrossed them, leaned forward and sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter. But of course it did. Coffee was bitter. Bitterness didn’t mean arsenic or a roofie—isn’t that what they called those date rape drugs? Still, she faked taking another sip, then held her cup on her lap, reluctant to swallow more. Oh God. What was she doing there? Why had Paul wanted her to come?
Don’t look for trouble. Don’t rock the boat.
Paul set his drink on the coffee table without using a coaster. He had no concern that his glass would leave a mark. Paul moved with ease, with entitled confidence, gliding fluidly from spot to spot, pose to pose. Practiced, like a dancer. A Broadway star.
Stop ogling him, Nora scolded herself. The man had caused Barbara’s purple arm and swollen eye.
Paul sighed and met Nora’s gaze. “So. You’re wondering why you’re here. There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it.” He paused and cleared his throat, watching her as if assessing whether she was strong enough to hear what followed. “Nora, my wife and your husband are having an affair.”
Nora didn’t move. Her coffee cup jiggled in the saucer. She swallowed. “I’m sorry?”
Paul nodded, then repeated. “They’re having an affair.”
Nora knew that wasn’t true. There was no affair. Dave had sworn it. As had Barbara. Paul was wrong. She set her cappuccino cup on the table and shook her head. “No. You’re mistaken. Barbara would never—”
“Oh, but she would. And so would your husband.”
“No.”
“No? I suppose there’s only one way to convince you.” He went to the bar, unlocked a drawer, pulled out a manila envelope. “As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been so worried about Barbara that I hired someone to keep an eye on her while I’m away.”
Nora took a breath. Of course. Paul’s private detective must have seen Barbara with Dave and assumed they were having an affair. She almost relaxed, almost smiled, but didn’t. Because what if the detective had found out that Dave and Barbara had been arranging for Barbara to leave? What if the detective had found bank withdrawals or stock sales?
Paul handed her some photos from the envelope. They’d been taken from odd angles, at stealthy distances, in lighting that was too bright or too dark. But what they showed was clear. Barbara and Dave in a dimly lit booth, heads together, his hand on hers. Dave holding Barbara, her head against his chest. Dave and Barbara putting boxes in her car. Dave coming out of Paul’s house, hugging or kissing Barbara, holding her tight. There were dozens of the same ilk. Nora went through them, one by one. They seemed incriminating. Paul had reason for his conclusion. Just a few days ago, she’d reached the same one. But now she knew better.
“Drink this. It’ll help.” Paul handed her the cappuccino. Watched her. “Go on.”
Nora needed time to think. Why was Paul watching her so intensely? Why was he pushing her to drink her cappuccino? What did he want from her? Uneasy, she held her cup to her lips and feigned another sip.
“Pictures don�
�t lie. There’s no doubt what’s been going on.”
Even with Dave’s explanations and denials, Nora felt stabs of jealousy. Hot, sharp ones. She eyed a shot of Dave with Barbara in his arms. His eyes were shut, as if he was savoring the embrace. Why was Dave pressing himself against her?
She could imagine his explanation. “Oh, come on, Nora. It was nothing. I was comforting her.” She was crying/scared/worried/overwhelmed/something-that-would-justify-a-big-too-close-hug.
Fine. He’d been comforting her. He’d had a legitimate reason for the hug. But really, had he needed to enjoy it so much? She pictured Barbara’s enhanced breasts against Dave’s chest and clutched the cup and saucer so tight that her knuckles turned white. She simmered. Nora was fine with Dave secretly helping Barbara, but the pictures showed more than mere help. They showed them constantly touching. A hug here, a peck there, a hand on a shoulder or an arm or the small of a back. And it wasn’t just the touching that bothered her. It was also the way they looked at each other, the familiar, comfortable, private gazes they exchanged. The photographs jostled her, almost made her forget her purpose in being there. Almost made her believe Paul’s assertion of an affair. They certainly made her understand how hurt and angry he was.
Paul stood, refilled his drink. “In fairness, with me being away so much, it’s understandable that Barbara would be lonely and seek companionship. Especially since she struggles with
depression.”
Depression. He’d mentioned it before, but Barbara never had. And she hadn’t seemed to be suffering from it. Then again, married to an abuser, Barbara might well be depressed.
Paul kept talking, but Nora was distracted, still looking at the pictures. Dave’s wedding-ringed hand on Barbara’s back, too close to the curve of her butt. Her highlighted hair against his cheek. She had to stop, take a breath. She set the photos and her cappuccino on the coffee table, envying Paul’s scotch.
“Are you all right?” Paul watched her, sitting again. Again, too close.
“Of course.” She was, wasn’t she? She blinked, wishing he’d sit farther away.
“You don’t need to pretend,” he said. “Not with me.” His stare was fixed on her. “Finish your cappuccino. You’ll feel better.”
Nora glanced at her cappuccino cup. Why would he care if she finished it? Had he actually drugged it? No, of course not. Why would he? She shifted in her seat, avoiding his gaze. She should leave. She’d done her job. In fact, she’d found out more than she’d needed to. She’d report to Dave the good news, that Paul had no clue about Barbara’s plans to leave, and the bad news that he’d been having Barbara followed, and had a stack of photos that seemed to implicate her in an affair with Dave.
Behind Paul’s desk was an exit leading directly to the parking lot. She’d go out that way, avoiding the hullaballoo of the front office. But what could she say to draw the visit to a close? What would a woman do in a situation like this, having just been told that her husband was cheating? Would she faint? Cry? Run away? Nora wanted to seem credible.
“I can’t believe it.” She intended to go on to say that she wanted time to think, that she needed to be alone. But Paul interrupted.
“Nevertheless, here we are. The victims of cheating spouses. Pathetic, aren’t we?” His smile was twisted, more of a grimace. “You don’t know me well, Nora, but be assured that I am a man of action. I don’t tolerate being crossed by anyone. I asked you here in part to share information. In part because I’ve determined what I believe is an appropriate way to proceed.”
Proceed? To where? Paul used too many syllables. Nora had lost his meaning, tried to concentrate.
“Am I right in assuming you want your marriage back?”
Back? The question bothered her. Her marriage wasn’t gone. She tilted her head, confused.
“Nora, believe me. I want mine back too. But I won’t tolerate being lied to, let alone betrayed. Not in business. Not in
marriage.”
Paul’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowed like some sleek, blue-eyed predator. A wolf, maybe. Or a fox. Did foxes have blue eyes? She repeated his words in her mind, but they passed her by, like breezes, like strangers. Present for a moment, then gone. What had he said again? His eyes were so blue.
“Nora, you and I have a mutual problem. By cooperating, we can achieve a mutual solution.”
Nora had no intention of cooperating. But she would listen, for Dave. For Barbara.
“Honestly, I don’t see how Barbara and I can move forward. Infidelity isn’t something one can simply forgive. There have to be consequences. A broken vow must incur some kind of
retribution, don’t you agree?”
Retribution? As in punishment? Like getting spanked? Or grounded? Or going two weeks without a cell phone? Or beating Barbara to a pulp?
She nodded, yes, pretending to agree with him. She was a spy, after all. Spying on Paul, who was still talking and seemed to be closer to her than before. When had he moved?
“For example. Say your husband came home and said, ‘So sorry, Nora. I cheated on you, but the affair is over. Let’s move on.’ What would you do?”
Well, actually, he’d done just that. Five years ago. Dave had made his tearful confession, and she hadn’t told anyone. Paul was speaking purely hypothetically, didn’t know anything. No one did. Unless Dave had told Barbara and she’d told Paul. But no. Why would Dave do that? He wouldn’t.
“Would you say, ‘Fine, dear,’ and simply move on? I’m betting that, no. You wouldn’t, because one can’t simply forgive such a thing.”
But she had forgiven it. At least, she’d tried. Eight months pregnant with her second baby, she’d ached to believe Dave when he swore that he’d never lie or cheat again.
“I know I can’t. The trust is broken, the betrayal too deep. So how do we move on? I’ll tell you how. We restore the balance.”
Nora had lost the thread. Paul’s reasoning was almost but not quite rational. Her mouth was open, but she couldn’t feel her lips. She licked them, but no. They were numb. When had that happened? Those photos. Had they affected her more than she’d realized, sent her over the edge? More likely it was the coffee, but she’d had only had a sip. Was that enough? Had he actually drugged her? She pressed her lips together, felt a dull, sensual throb. Wow. What if she’d finished the drink? Would she have passed out? Paul’s words were clumping together now, and the edges of his face blurred. Nora was definitely woozy. Was she going to be sick?
“Paul, I really should go.” Her enunciation seemed slow. She shimmied forward on the leather cushion, grabbed her bag, and attempted to stand. But Paul, rich, aloof, suave, sexy Senate candidate Paul, with his blurry square jaw and over-bright, gleaming blue eyes, eased closer. He didn’t smell like Bobby Baxter. His scent was unfamiliar, saltier, harsher, and more aggressive than Old Spice, except for his breath, which smelled like scotch.
“Not yet, Nora. In order to restore equality, it’s clear what must be done.” His lips grazed her neck.
His hand was on her knee. Nora moved to push him away, but Paul’s hand proceeded under the hem of her culottes and slid up her thigh.
“Stop—” She swung to slap him, but his free hand simply grabbed her wrist and shoved it away. “Don’t!” She squirmed and wriggled, but Paul pressed on.
The hand not occupied in her culottes cupped her breast. She tugged at it, tried to remove it, but he leaned onto her, pushed his mouth against her deadened lips. She resisted, turned her head to escape his tongue. His cologne burned her nostrils.
Paul released her breast to hold her closer while his other hand persisted, pressed up her thigh. His lips snaked into a smile, and he hissed into her ear. “This ain’t the minor leagues, Nora dear. If a man dares to have his way with my wife, he’d best believe I’ll reciprocate.”
His fingers darted beneath her underwear and jabbed into her body, invading, violating her. Thrusting, digging, twirling.
�
�Stop—” she roared. She arched her back but couldn’t pull free. “No!”
“Don’t resist me, Nora.” His breath tickled her neck.
No, this couldn’t be happening. She had the sense of exiting her body, watching from above, maybe from that light dangling from the ceiling. She saw more than heard Paul’s words, their fiery colors. She felt their scorching heat.
“This is going to happen, so you might as well relax.” His fingers moved inside her. “After this, you won’t be a victim anymore. You and your husband, I and my wife—we’ll all have committed the same betrayals, the score will be even. Balance
restored, our marriages can move forward.”
He pressed Nora backward into the sofa. When had his shirt buttons opened? Or his pants unzipped and lowered around his hips? His free hand was at her chest, and the buttons to her linen shirt, the one with the ruffle, came open, one by one.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018, 12:20 p.m.
E
ven overpowered, Nora raged. She struggled to resist Paul, but he swatted her attempts like harmless house flies. When she tried to strike him, he flung her arm away so hard that it propelled onto the coffee table, knocking his scotch glass into her delicate cappuccino cup, breaking it. While Paul fumbled with her waistband, she felt around for anything she might use as a weapon, fingering objects on the coffee table, measuring weight, shape and girth, identifying the crystal dolphin. She strained to grip it. Lift it. Bash Paul’s head with it. Nora mustered her strength and willed herself to heft it an inch, just one tiny inch off the table, but couldn’t. The thing was too heavy, wouldn’t budge. Her forearm lacked the strength, and her fingers failed, dropping limply into the puddle of spilled scotch and cappuccino, onto the slim, jagged edge of the cappuccino saucer.