If She Were Dead

by J. P. Smith

  “He called last night but I wasn’t in.”

  Amelie looked at her.

  “I called him back this morning,” Nina said, pushing some hair back behind her ear. “He said he’d called to say you were coming.”

  “But you already knew that.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Did he really think I wouldn’t let you know in advance?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nina.

  “I mean, really. Jesus,” Amelie said, and she felt like tearing the steering wheel off its column.

  “Slow down,” Nina said.

  “Let’s get some lunch.” Amelie pulled the car into a space. On the bumper on the car ahead of hers a sticker read Mean People Suck. She turned off the ignition and looked at her daughter. “What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, it’s something. Is it school?”

  Nina shook her head.

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  “It’s nothing,” Nina said, and she opened the door and got out.

  They had to wait ten minutes for a table. Nina stood with her mother and shyly waved at a man with a trim gray beard and a wife as they were just about to leave. He smiled and waved back and left the restaurant. Amelie and Nina were seated at his table. It was covered with bread crumbs and pools of salad dressing. “My English professor is a slob,” Nina said.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not all right.”

  “I’m just…” Nina said, letting it go.

  “I did a reading in town on Thursday.”

  Amelie remained shaken by what had happened afterward, an event she was still in the process of evaluating. She lived in a world of order and compartment: here she was a writer, here a mother, here a lover. Rarely did any of these intersect. Until now. And it remained troubling to her, like the onset of headache, an incipient pain just behind the eye that has yet to blossom into something disabling.

  The waitress came over and wiped the table clean. They ordered their drinks and meals.

  “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you,” Amelie said.

  Nina had always been a reliably good student, not in the way that some were, not because the correct answer or brilliant interpretation was there for the taking, on the edge of her mind, but because she worked through things slowly and meticulously.

  “I’ve been really busy,” Nina said. She seemed to hide behind her hair. Amelie reached over and pushed it aside and Nina nudged her away.

  “How’s your roommate?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not here anymore.”

  “She’s gone?”

  Nina shrugged. “She left last week.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She called her father, and he just picked her up and took her away.”

  “You mean she’s not going to finish her year?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Was she sick?”

  “Probably,” and she tapped her head with her finger.

  The waitress brought them each iced tea. Amelie removed the straw and drank from the glass. Nina sipped a little. She said, “How did the reading go? I really should have taken the train in and seen you.”

  “I would have liked that. You never used to like to go to my readings.”

  “But I should have gone.”

  In which case what had transpired afterward might never have occurred.

  “What did you do on Thursday?”

  The waitress brought their salads. She stood by the table looking at them. Amelie looked up at her.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the waitress said, and Amelie said, “No thank you, nothing,” and the waitress left them alone.

  “There’s this guy,” Nina said.

  Amelie said nothing.

  “He’s this guy I started seeing.”

  Amelie waited.

  “I’m not seeing him anymore,” she said.

  8

  Ben never talked about his wife. He never mentioned what she had been doing lately or what she wore, what she read, the music she listened to, where she wished to travel. Sometimes, in the early days of their affair, Amelie in her innocence wondered how Janet must have endured being so ignored by her husband, why she hadn’t grown instantly suspicious of him, only to realize that Ben was living two distinct lives, that when he was with his wife he was her husband, and when with Amelie her lover. Whom did he love more? Did he love each woman in different ways? Once Amelie sat up in bed and asked Ben what it was like making love to Janet. She demanded all the details, everything they did, what she said, how she touched him, how long it took.

  He said, “Come on, Amelie,” and she said, “Just tell me.”

  “Will it turn you on?” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that why you’re asking?”

  “I’m just curious. And I like hearing things put into words. Do you think your wife is pretty?”

  “Yes.”

  She was tempted to ask if he thought her more beautiful than she was.

  He said, “It’s a lot quicker with her.”

  “Because of the kids?”

  “Because of us,” he said. “Because of Janet and me.”

  He talked around his wife as if with his words he were forming the shape of her, the heft of her, the depth and the scent of her, and sometimes it seemed to Amelie as if her lover’s wife were in the room with them, silently watching as they pressed lips and touched each other’s skin. Would it have been better if he’d been more forthright about the matter, had he treated Janet as simply another part of his life, and that between both women was a thick and impenetrable wall, leaden and windowless?

  She knew that he avoided the subject because it would offend her, because she would have been reminded that it was Janet who lived with this man and not Amelie. It was Janet who had him to herself at night before sleep, and in the morning as they roused in the cool hour of dawn.

  Once, early in their affair, Amelie and Ben had made love and then fallen asleep in her bedroom in her house in the heat of the summer afternoon: a brief, delicate sleep on top of the sheets, her leg draped over his, his arm beneath her head. The sun streamed through the window, throwing bars of light on their bodies, and a breeze passed through the room, gently agitating the tiny blond hairs on her arms. It had been so hot that a tiny pool of sweat remained in the cup of her navel. He laughed gently to himself and this roused her. “What?” she said, laughing a little in her own way.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me,” and she reached down and touched him in a playful way.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  She poked him in the side of his ribs and he jumped. “Come on, Janey,” he said.

  She looked at him. “Who the hell is Janey?”

  He said nothing.

  “Who’s Janey?” she said, tightening her hand around his arm.

  “It’s what I call Janet. What I used to call her.”

  “You forgot my name?”

  “Where are you going?”

  He watched as she walked away from the bed, her bare back, her legs, her shoulders.

  “Damn it, are you angry?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said lightly, and slammed the bathroom door so hard that it splintered the jamb.

  9

  “His name is Peter,” Nina said, and then picked at her salad. She said nothing about how long they had been seeing each other, how serious she had been, what they had talked about, what she was going to do. Amelie watched her as she ate, looking at the top of her head, and their eyes only met once, when Nina said, “Guess who called me?”
>
  Amelie looked at her.

  “Rachel. You know. Her dad’s the architect.” She shrugged. “I forget what her mom does. You met them at school, right?”

  “Sounds familiar,” Amelie said.

  Nina said Rachel was going to Smith and had called her for no reason at all, just to say hello, maybe they’d get together one of these days, that sort of thing. They had been at the same private school ever since sixth grade and now they had gone their separate ways. It was how Amelie had met Ben: their daughters provided the excuse for the early course of their affair. Each parent had suddenly developed a passionate interest in school activities, joining the same committees, helping out at the spring workday. It gave them opportunities to be together, to have a public identity that implied hard work and selflessness, and often, when wantonly twisted into the sheets of her bed, they would laugh at this elegant turn of fiction they had created together.

  Now, with her daughter at college, there was no excuse for Amelie to be at the school, no reason to be involved, and she often thought of Ben sitting in his car at dismissal time, alone and waiting for his son, Andrew, the lusty eyes of other women turned on him.

  “What did she want?” Amelie said, and Nina stared at her because her mother’s voice had risen sharply above the din in the restaurant.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just curious. What’s up with Rachel?”

  “She likes school.” Nina said nothing more.

  Amelie called for the bill. There was a line at the front of the restaurant, students and some parents, locals and people who had come to shop for the day, waiting for tables. It was odd that Rachel had called Nina just like that, for no apparent reason, and Amelie began to play with the idea, to dissect it, just as she would a sonnet by Shakespeare in college, seeking out obscure hints, unexpected allusions. She wanted to whip out her phone and speak to Ben, to warn him, to ask him to question Rachel, and yet part of her also knew that it was perfectly innocent, Rachel calling Nina. It was what friends did, after all, they took out their phone and called.

  They went out onto the sidewalk. Amelie said, “Did you have enough to eat? Would you like an ice cream?”

  “Mm,” Nina said, indecisive.

  Amelie said, “Is there anything you need?” She gestured toward the window of a clothing shop. “That’s a nice shirt.”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  “Is there anything you want, then?”

  Nina shook her head.

  “Is there anything you’d like to do?” She wanted to hear more about what had happened to Nina, she wanted to comfort her in her heartbreak, to hold her in her arms, absorb her tears. They began to walk, saying nothing, looking at window displays, grimacing when a car drove by with its stereo blasting, and then the car moved rapidly into the distance and it was quiet again.

  She turned it over: Rachel had called Nina. Now Amelie’s mind began to move in another direction, a place of palaces and winged horses, of golden-edged clouds and libation bearers, for the fact that Ben’s daughter had called Nina meant that they might rekindle their friendship. It moved in steps: separation, divorce, remarriage. Then the girls would be half sisters. Their friendship would make it happen. And she smiled to herself, for it was a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, and suddenly Nina said, “I’m still hungry.”

  Amelie had been surprised to see her daughter had finished her salad. With her head bowed, fork moving from bowl to mouth, bowl to mouth, she had said little. Amelie noticed her hair had probably not been washed for two or three days.

  “You’re really still hungry?” Amelie said. Had a man broken off a relationship with her, she would have lost her appetite immediately, not just for food and drink but for all the pleasures of her life—writing, books, friends, travel, music, sleep, long baths, nice clothes, and, of course, sex.

  “Actually, I’d really like an ice cream,” Nina said.

  “All right.”

  They walked to a shop around the corner. Nina ordered some absurdly named frenzy of ice cream and fragmented cookies served in a huge cup. Amelie had nothing. At her age her figure could go at any time, and why, she thought, hasten the inevitable process now.

  They walked until they reached the park across from the town library. They sat and watched the geese as a woman and her child tossed pellets of bread at the creatures. They took the bread greedily, the fowl. They snapped their beaks and stretched their necks and screamed for more and ran about shitting eagerly and without discrimination, as if their digestive system were a simple tube running from mouth to tail.

  “I haven’t read your new book yet,” Nina said.

  “There’s plenty of time. You have your studies.”

  “But I want to read it.”

  “I know you do, baby. Look, I’m sorry about what happened. About this boy and you. Did he hurt you in any way?”

  Nina looked at her.

  “I meant did he hurt you physically. You know.”

  Nina shook her head.

  “He didn’t try to do something you didn’t want him to do,” Amelie said, more statement than question, and again Nina shook her head.

  “Do you want to tell me about this Peter?” Amelie asked, realizing at once that it was a mistake to inquire, that if Nina wanted to say anything she would do it when she was ready.

  At first Nina said nothing. Then she said, “I feel really bad about it.”

  Amelie put her arm around her. “I know you must. It hurts, doesn’t it.”

  “It’s not that, it’s—”

  Amelie looked at her.

  “I just feel really bad for him.”

  Amelie said, “Why?”

  “I mean it just wasn’t going to work out. I mean he’s a nice guy and he’s smart and all, but I just didn’t think it was going to work out.”

  “You mean you broke up with him?”

  Nina looked at her as though her mother were incredibly stupid. “What did you think happened?” she said.

  10

  Two evenings earlier, the room had been filled to capacity for Amelie’s reading. The person in charge of these events at the store told her that people had called in advance to reserve places and also to make sure there were books available. “And the reviews have been very nice,” he said.

  The early reviews had been better than very nice; they had been exceptionally positive. She was already at number eight on the Times bestseller list, and she had sold foreign rights to nine countries. A week earlier one of the Boston papers had run an article on her along with a photograph, and it was this piece that had brought in the large audience.

  She and the events coordinator sat in a little alcove an hour before her scheduled time. “We’ve ordered two hundred copies, and of course after you’re done, people will want to buy books and have you sign them.” He smiled and nodded to a desk that had been set up for her. On it were stacks of books, a carafe of water, a glass, and a pen, though she always brought her own Montblanc. A few shoppers moved quietly from table to table, one or two of them looking her way as she tried out the lectern, adjusted the height of the microphone. He said, “Is there anything else you’ll need?”

  A large vodka might do the trick, but she only said, “I don’t think so.”

  He looked at his watch. “There’s still some time. There’s a café upstairs if you’d like some coffee, or…” and she said she really needed to get a proper meal. He suggested a restaurant a few doors away. She was sorry she’d forgotten to bring something to read. She went down to look at the new releases and bought a paperback of a novel she’d been interested in.

  When she entered the restaurant the people who were sitting at the bar, mostly men in suits, turned and looked at her. Most seemed young enough to be her sons. A man with silver hair sipped bourbon and brazenly smiled at her. Had she not had Ben
in her life, would she have been promiscuous, would she have spent her days and night at bars like this one, and would she have become addicted to dating apps, haunted the nightclubs, stood on street corners, grown desperate in her solitude, died at the hands of Mr. Goodbar? But for Ben. He would always be there for her. Late, as always, but there, and she smiled at the thought of him. And smiled, too, as she thought of the bourbon sipper looking her way.

  Which meant what, that a part of her was still outside the bond of Amelie-and-Ben, that she was, one, always keeping an eye out just in case, or, two, that she needed to be flattered, to know that men other than Ben appreciated her? It wasn’t as if she needed the occasional dose of self-esteem. She was content with her looks, and more than happy with the work she produced, and maybe it was just that tiny bit of risk she missed. Risk other than, of course, having an affair with a married man. But risk had always been an underlying subject for her: her characters often took risks, and yet the consequences were moral ones, a sustained fracture in a family unit, an emotional breakdown that left permanent scars. Or it resulted in a prolonged regret, the idea that the character could have done something differently. They were risks that most people of her generation understood, and she knew this was what drew her readers to come back for more with each title released. These were the familiar valleys to their shared suburban life.

  She just sometimes wished she could create a protagonist who could break the curtain of civility as she had never been able to do in life. Having an affair was a consensual joy; murder was its frontier.

  A woman greeted her. “Table for one?”

  Soon, eventually, sometime in the future, she would no longer be one. She looked forward to when she would be able to carry on with certain parts of her life in public, to be able to sit across from Ben in a restaurant such as this, to have a drink with him and eat dinner and maybe even spend the evening at the theater or a movie. Like a normal couple, in fact.

  The waitress said, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Amelie slipped on her new glasses and looked at her watch. She would like a drink, only one, for to have more would be to court danger at her reading. There would be slurred words and uncontrollable giggling and she imagined she might even doze off in the middle of a paragraph. Of course she could play it safe and order a glass of wine. “And the ladies’ room…?”