19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella

by Randy Susan Meyers

  The bed bounced as I collapsed beside him. “For years I scurried around this house like an indentured servant. Sometimes I was afraid to breathe the wrong way because it might throw you into a bad mood. I watched your face every time you walked into this house, so I could figure out what my night would be like.”

  He rolled over. “I’ve been thinking about all that. In the beginning, I couldn’t see straight enough to wonder why or how this happened. Hatred and hurt clouded everything, so I left.

  I faced him. “I don’t know how to find strong enough words to get this across: whatever I felt, I chose the stupidest and most hurtful route possible to deal with it. Again, I am sorrier than you’ll ever believe.”

  “I know. I heard what you said. And I finally began thinking about me, and my role in this mess. With a little help from my sister, I admit. She misses you.” He held up his hand to ward off my response. “Not that she put me up to this.”

  “What are you trying to say, Adam?”

  “That I became a real schmuck of a husband. A shitty friend. And I can almost, almost see what led you. . .why you did it. Not that I recommend or condone it. You were a real schmuck too.” He took his glasses off the nightstand.

  “Hand me a tissue.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  He scrutinized me, peering in the dark. “Tell me you’re crying because you’re so damn happy.”

  “This is so pitiful. Did I need to sin for you to see me? What does that say about me? Both of us?”

  He dropped his head on my shoulder. “We became idiots.”

  I wiped my eyes and laid my head on his chest. “I’m so sorry I hurt you so much. I never wanted to cause you pain.”

  “And I never wanted to make your life miserable. Let’s fix this. We’ll work everything out. I promise. I want to come home.”

  I reached across his stomach and curled my hand in his. “I need to be sure it will work. I need to think about all this, Adam.”

  I wasn’t ready to see him until the following Wednesday night. Saint Patrick’s Day. The relevancy was unclear, except maybe I could pour a shot of whiskey in my coffee if things got rough. The kids left for school, and I plunged into the mind-clearing meditation of cleaning.

  W.W.M.M.D. What would my mother do? That could be my bracelet, reminding me to do the opposite. Poor Babs, practically a wire monkey mother. I made her the bane of my existence all by myself. I built a prison and spent my life shadow boxing her when all I needed to do was duck. I looked down at the expensive rubber gloves she sent—the only way she knew how to give me something. Watching for signs of fading beauty was her legal tender. How odd that the ballerina, along with my mother, showed me the way. The ballerina with so much talent, but who gave up her agency—first to men, then drugs, and finally to God.

  How different had I been? I turned my decisions and my life over to Adam, able to rebel only by sleeping with a man for whom, in the end, I had no respect. Instead of fighting for my place within the family, I threw dirty little cherry bombs and then, when they exploded, I hid.

  The finish was going to be washed right off the counter top if I scrubbed any harder. I pulled the gloves off, left the sponge in the sink, grabbed a pen and journal from the drawer and began to write.

  When the bell rang, I capped the marker and took a deep breath.

  “I couldn’t figure out whether to use my key or not.” Adam unbuttoned his coat with tentative movements and I reached for it.

  “Is this going to be bad?” he asked.

  “It’s up to us.” I nodded as though he were company. “Why don’t you wait in the living room?”

  I prepared a tray of warm banana muffins I’d baked that morning. Strong French roast coffee swirled with liquor and cream. Habits don’t change, I suppose. Food still represented security.

  Adam’s eyes opened at the rich color and boozy aroma as I offered him the mug.

  “Celebration coffee,” I said. “With Bailey’s. But not quite for what you think.”

  He slumped in the chair. “For what, then?”

  I threw my hands open, taking it all in. “Liberation.”

  “From me?”

  “Funny. No. Maybe. I hope not. I hope so.” I took a deep breath.

  “If there’s any chance of us working, releasing ourselves from the past is essential.”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m trying to say. I want to come back and start over. Fresh.”

  “Not just fresh. Brand-new. I’m not talking about sending our marriage to the cleaners; I’m talking ground-zero.” I savored a sip of coffee. A perfect cup is rare.

  I held up a journal and turned to a numbered page. “Now I have the list. I’m sorting out what I want from work. Part-time? Full-time? Either way, Charlotte promised to help. But no more working here, locked in the house. That you make enough money can’t determine my path.”

  “Is it about money? Did I ever threaten you with money? How could you think I would hurt you or the kids?” Adam looked so disturbed that I almost stopped to comfort him.

  But I didn’t.

  “You’ve been fine.” I thought of Ken’s ten thousand dollars and how glad I was that I returned the money, and hadn’t relied on yet another man. WWMMD. “This plan’s for me. I need to do more than sit alone editing books in the study. Because whether you appreciate my French toast shouldn’t rule my world.”

  “I thought this was about us.”

  “We’re the sum of our parts. I need to do more than troll Whole Foods and scrub counters. But I’m not ready to give up on us. I didn’t say I was leaving. Or staying. We need to figure out our new selves. While we’re dating.”

  “Dating?”

  “Yes. With or without you, I need to learn to be stronger. And with or without me, you should learn to be more tender.” I squeezed his hand. “Can you learn to be my friend?”

  “Dating,” he repeated. “How are we supposed to do that? Am I supposed to be competing?”

  I sat beside him and put my arms around his shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll be going steady. I’ll wear your pin. Or your white jacket. You can hang your drill around my neck.”

  Twisting around until I straddled him, I began unbuttoning his shirt. “In any case, you’re on the inside track, knowing my favorite flavors and all.”

  “We’re not dropping all standards.” Adam reached under my shirt. “Ice cream once a month, frozen yogurt the rest of the time.”

  “Negotiations are ahead.” I slipped his shirt down and nibbled his shoulder.

  “Some things are non-negotiable, though.” He pulled me tighter against him.

  “I guarantee a non-compete clause.” I locked my legs around his waist. “You set the bar as low and as high as anyone could. Could there be a worse present than that robe? Or one as good as your sister?”

  Once his shirt was off, I started on my own buttons. “And after all, I already had your children.”

  “God knows neither of us wants to face them alone,” he murmured.

  The fault, dear Brutus, lay in our entire family. Together and alone, we had a plethora of faults, but none so malevolent that laughing at our errors was impossible. Guy—or any other man’s—foibles would unquestionably annoy me more than my husband’s.

  After seeking my original Adam and sleeping with his pallid imitation, I knew the lesson. Go forth and heal thyself, Isabelle. Earn your life.

  Truth: Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

  William Shakespeare

  Randy Susan Meyers Novels

  We hope you enjoy the following samples from Randy Susan Meyers novels:

  The Murderer’s Daughters

  published by St. Martin’s Press

  The Comfort of Lies

  published by Atria/Simon & Schuster

  Accidents of Marriage

  published by Atria/Simon & Schuster

  The Widow of Wall Street

  published by Atria/Simon & Schuster

  20

  The
Widow Of Wall Street

  November 2009

  Phoebe never hated her husband more than when she visited him in prison. The preceding nightmare of ordeals—eleven hours hauling a suitcase by bus, train, and cab, her muscles screaming from the weight—were the coming attractions of the misery she faced the next day.

  She arrived at the grimy hotel close to midnight. Without sleep, exhaustion would lengthen every minute tomorrow. After wrestling her luggage to the bed, Phoebe thumbed through a small stack of folded sweaters, hoping they would withstand the raw weather. So many never-envisioned experiences: riding a dingy Greyhound bus; drowning ramen noodles in a hotel coffee maker; choosing clothes to wear to Ray Brook Federal Correctional Institution—and then envisioning her choice through her husband’s eyes.

  Each month, Jake became more of an albatross, and yet, even now, through tooth-grinding anger, Phoebe found herself still seeking his approving smile and the satisfaction of soothing his melancholy.

  Phoebe worried how long she could, would, continue making the long trip to this prison in upstate New York. One hour further and she’d be in Canada. To stop visiting required strength she hadn’t yet found—loving and worrying about Jake had been her default for too long—so she agonized about everything from prison conversation to the choice between wearing a cardigan or crewneck sweater.

  “Why won’t you stay longer?” She dreaded hearing those words Jake repeated every visit. “Other wives come Saturday and Sunday, not for a measly few hours.”

  She’d stare just as she had before. Silent, hoping her eyes might express the command she couldn’t speak: Screw yourself, Jake. Her husband, once a titan—a god—now whined like a child.

  What she said: “A few hours is plenty.”

  What she didn’t say: Two days would kill me.

  What he said: “Getting out after three hours must be nice.” What he probably meant: I hate you for being free.

  What she said: “Staying here must be hard.”

  What she didn’t say: Leaving is deliverance from you.

  Then she’d change the topic—a difficult task with a world of off-limit issues: The kids. Jake’s guilt. Her lack of money. Her not knowing this man; this fraud of a husband who steamrolled over her desperation to unravel the tangled skein of their past.

  She held up first a soft white turtleneck, and then a subdued blue cardigan, and finally a camel-colored blazer. Jake liked her to dress sharp. Even in prison he demanded that she reflect well on him. How ironic. Yet, after building her life on pleasing Jake—even after him swindling her and everyone else in his life—she couldn’t shake the habit of following his orders.

  Phoebe also needed to please her other husband, the new authority in her life—the Federal Bureau of Prisons—and adhering to the prison’s rules for visitors meant dressing to its standards.

  “Visitors are held to a dress code before being admitted into the institution.”

  Stark divisions outlined her life. Before, she would wander through the highest-end stores clutching fabric from an old Caribbean-blue dress, a shade that brightened her eyes, to match that color in a sweater. After . . .

  “Visitors wearing transparent clothing, dresses, blouses or other apparel of a suggestive or revealing nature, halter tops, short shorts, miniskirts, culottes, or excessively tight fitting clothing will not be admitted into the institution.”

  Too tired to concentrate, she placed her wardrobe choices on the extra twin bed. In the morning, when she knew the temperature, she could make her decision. And November temperatures in the Adirondack Mountains often fell below freezing.

  After brushing her teeth and covering her face with motel lotion, she carried her laptop to bed. Her closest relationships were with her sister and her Mac; lately she had started Googling “average life of Apple laptops.” Imagining life without her electronic connection petrified Phoebe. Thoughts of spending almost two thousand dollars for a replacement provided equal amounts of panic.

  Messages from frightening strangers stuffed her Gmail in-box. The distraught and inflamed found her no matter how many times she changed her email provider. Her encrypted email account—Hush-mail—the sole communication method she managed to keep private besides her cell phone, contained only one new message, from her sister. Deb wrote daily, always cheerful. Today a long-ago picture of the two of them climbing on iron monkey bars in a Brooklyn playground accompanied her note.

  No word from the kids. Occasionally, Kate sent updates about Amelia, Phoebe’s granddaughter. Noah wrote monthly emails filled with agony and anger.

  After dashing off a quick note to Deb—“Everything is fine! Weather holding up—more tmw”—she opened Etsy, her online Xanax. Phoebe daydreamed of having an anonymous work life there, building friendships with a community of crafters who appreciated one another only for their dedication to the perfect quilt or ceramic mug. She could sell handmade recipe books devoted to cupcakes. At night, as she struggled toward sleep and fought against memories—and giving in to sleeping pills—she invented pen names: Mimi Appleby. Yoshiko Whisby. Gianna Gardner.

  Phoebe tried holding back, but finally, pressing her lips hard together, unable to resist, she opened PrisonMessages.com. Within moments, she found herself captured by Karlgirl’s question: “Would you be angry if your man showed off your sexy pics?”

  Phoebe couldn’t conceive of any man wanting photos of her, sexy or otherwise, but still, she slipped into the world and wondered about Jake in that situation.

  The man she thought she’d married would have gouged out the eyes of any man trying to see her naked. Today’s Jake would likely sell pictures of her to the highest bidder.

  Like a man vowing to stay off porn sites, she slammed her laptop closed

  The Widow of Wall Street is published by Atria Books/Simon & Schuster

  Buy The Widow of Wall Street

  21

  Accidents of Marriage

  Maddy ran her tongue over her teeth, imagining the bitter taste of a crumbling tablet of Xanax. After a gut-wrenching day at the hospital, nothing tempted her more than a chemical vacation. Nothing appealed to her less than cooking supper. Churning stomach acid—courtesy of work—coupled with anxiety that Ben might come home as frenzied as he’d left—made a formidable appetite killer.

  She could bottle it and make a fortune.

  Each morning she spun the wheel on the Ben chart, hoping the arrow would hit happy husband, or at least neutral guy. Today his arrow landed on total bastard, holding her personally responsible for Caleb’s tantrum, which—oh, horror!—had cost Ben twenty minutes of work.

  She considered taking a pill, but the rites of family happiness demanded her attention. Gracie and Caleb sprawled on the rug, recovering from their day at camp: seven-year-old Caleb, half asleep, rubbing his cheek with his thumb; nine-year-old Gracie’s glazed eyes fixed on the television. Emma, her oldest, a day camp counselor at fourteen, would be home soon.

  Sluggish inertia kept Maddy stapled to the couch despite her long list of waiting tasks. Chop vegetables, pay the mortgage, and catch up on laundry before the kids ran out of socks. Find a stamp somewhere in the mess she called her desk so she could mail the electric bill. Give her children feelings of self-worth. Plus, since she and Ben had fought that morning, he’d need soothing. Fellatio came to mind.

  Indestructible fabric, the sort bought by parents with children prone to transferring their sticky snacks to the upholstery, prickled against her bare arms. She lusted for air-conditioning as she’d once longed for peace, justice, and her husband. Each suffocating Boston summer their badly wired Victorian became more hateful and Ben’s warnings about global warming swayed her less. According to Ben, her environmental ethics turned situational with each drop of perspiration.

  Pressing the small of her back didn’t ease the permanent knot lodged deep and low, nor did shoving a small hard pillow against it. Her stomach growled despite her lack of desire for food.

  Fish sticks would be easy,
but she couldn’t bear turning on the oven.

  The back door slammed. Emma banged her backpack on the table. Her daughter’s way of saying I’m home. “Emma?”

  “What?”

  Maddy struggled up from the couch and headed toward the kitchen. “Just making sure it’s you.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?” she asked.

  “It could have been Daddy.”

  “Right.” What an all-purpose word right had become in their family, their polite way of saying, I am acknowledging you have spoken, but am choosing not to engage in any meaningful way. Lately, they used it all too often.

  Newspapers they’d tried to read at breakfast covered half the table. Emma stared into the refrigerator as Maddy gathered the papers, unsure whether to recycle them. Had Ben finished reading the Boston Globe? The New York Times?

  “There’s nothing to eat,” Emma said. “In Caro’s house—”

  The sound of breaking glass followed by Caleb’s scream interrupted before Emma could specify just how superior a shopper Caro’s mother was.

  “Mom!” Gracie yelled. “Come here!”

  Emma followed as Maddy ran to the living room.

  “Jesus, what happened?” Maddy crouched next to Caleb, her stomach dropping at the sight of blood pouring from his foot. Shards of glass surrounded him, liquid droplets of milk clinging to the pieces, a larger white puddle pooling on the wooden floor. She grabbed a wadded-up napkin to staunch the blood, crouching awkwardly to avoid cutting her knees.

  Gracie’s mouth trembled. “I just got up, that’s all, and I knocked over his milk glass. He got mad and screamed, then he stood up and kicked the glass and it broke. He stepped on it. It wasn’t my fault!”