by E. G. Scott
Then reality wallops you, and it feels like getting hit in the face with a sackful of nickels. The market crashes, construction halts, and you’re sitting there with your dick in your hand. The money dries up immediately, and suddenly you’ve got a dozen half-finished projects and no prospect of completion in sight. You’re no longer holding the sticks on which you were spinning all those plates. Through nothing other than bad luck and bad timing, you’re completely screwed. You’ve got a ton of money out and nothing coming in. Your ambition has come back to haunt you.
And there’s your ego, needling you. Your wife is understanding. She really is. She’s supportive, she’s compassionate, and she listens. But she can only listen to what you tell her, and you’re not telling her everything, are you? You’re not telling her what’s really eating at your guts, the stuff that’s keeping you up at night even as you lie as still as possible next to her so she thinks you’re sleeping soundly. You don’t want to burden her with all of that. Why would you need to? After all, you’re the fucking man. At least, you were.
You’ve been slammed into a different reality, and it stings like hell. Your beautiful, charismatic wife, who could sell wool to a sheep, is absolutely cleaning up at her job—not to mention taking full advantage of the pharmaceutical perks. At some point it strikes you, in a morbidly funny sort of way, that there might just be a connection. The economy is in the tank, and people can’t get medicated fast enough. Maybe fate does have a sense of humor.
You sit around the house, trying to figure out some way to revitalize your career. You scramble, you scratch, you reach out to whoever might take your call. You try to think of something. Anything. But you’re looking at nothing. And all of those gaudy, glistening trophies on the mantelpiece? They’re looking at you. Those testaments to your wife’s sales numbers and general dominance in her field? They’re looking down at you, judging you, pitying you. Asking themselves what kind of man you really are.
It takes a while to sink in, but the blow is no less harsh. Your wife is now handling shit. Because you no longer can. The woman you affectionately refer to as Madoo—your dove—has been left to take care of you, because you can’t be a man anymore. You’ve never been one to wallow, but you’re feeling pretty sorry for yourself now, aren’t you? And it’s grinding away at her, that’s for sure. You find yourself feeling relieved that you decided against bringing kids into the equation.
She would never let on, but you can see it in her eyes. She’s a little more tentative with you, as if she’s addressing your pride first. She lets you take the initiative more, and it feels like a concession. Whereas you two used to dance the dance fluidly, seamlessly, you can now feel her making a point of letting you lead. And when you do make love, she doesn’t look you in the eyes the same way anymore, and you can barely bring yourself to look into hers. There’s a rigidity that creeps into her body. She doesn’t open up for you the way she used to, doesn’t take you inside with the same abandon. It’s as if you’re drifting by each other.
You start to wonder what she’s still doing with you, why she hasn’t left yet. Her head is elsewhere, and you figure her eyes can’t be far behind. It gets to the point where you’re surprised at her having stayed, then disappointed in her weakness for doing so. Why wouldn’t she just go? You would have. What’s she waiting for?
You try to project the outward signs of a healthy, functional marriage: mutual respect, support, caring. And those things are still there. But something else has crept in, eroding the edges and eating away at the heart of your relationship. You feel it in your daily lives, and yet neither of you is able—or willing—to address it. And it certainly has put its stamp on your sex life. You’re now at the point where you’re not interested in making love with her anymore. You need something raw, more animalistic, to fill the need.
* * *
SHEILA WAS A MISTAKE. But I suppose things are only ever mistakes in hindsight. I never meant for it to happen, but it happened all the same. When we met, I was two years into my run of unemployment, still plotting my path back to success. My daily ritual of taking walks down to the bay with Duff both got me out of that prison of a house and helped focus my brain, bringing me closer to my next great idea, which was always just out of reach.
Sheila lived a few blocks away and would often be out walking her dog around the same time that Duff and I were stretching our legs. She wore her ash-blond hair in a loose bun and always looked effortlessly, casually put together. She was a few years younger and exuded an energy I found myself drawn to. I figured out her schedule, and after a few days of polite waves, I stopped to speak with her.
“Good morning.”
“Hi there. And who’s this big fella?”
“This is Duff.”
She leaned over to pet him, revealing a glimpse of lace trim where her bra crept out from the neckline of her shirt. “Hi, Duff! You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? And who’s this big fella?” As she looked up at me, her liquid blue eyes cast a mischievous radiance.
“Paul. Duff here’s the smart one. I’m the big dumb animal of the pair.” I did my best to return her look.
She smirked, her lip gloss catching the sunlight. “Well, at least you’re not slobbering, Paul. Give yourself a little credit.” She held my eye for a long moment, then extended her hand. “Sheila. This is Molly.”
She had a warm, firm handshake. The dogs had finished sniffing each other, and as I bent down to pet her black Lab, I noticed Sheila cover her wedding ring with her right hand. At that moment, something shifted in me.
We’d do it at her place, while her husband was out of town and the dogs were running around in the yard. We did things that Rebecca and I hadn’t done in ages, and with a heat and intimacy I hadn’t felt in years. Sheila looked at me, touched me, made me feel about myself the way my wife used to. And so I let myself believe that Sheila meant more to me than she did. And for a while, I really was convinced.
three
REBECCA
Before
I NEVER SET out to sleep with a married man.
I met Paul at an open house in Woodstock barely a year after I graduated from college. I wasn’t in any financial position to buy a house, but I would spend my weekends poring over the real estate sections of towns close enough to get to by train but far enough that I could step into a different life for a while. When I’d walk down a tree-lined country road or watch the ocean lap at the shoreline, I saw what my life could be: calm, secure, and happy. Days filled with family picnics and bike rides, building sand castles at the beach, a house covered in snow and Christmas lights. All the collected mental snapshots of the life I hadn’t had but wanted to. I was tired of waiting for it to begin.
I’d been walking the perimeter of one of his first major projects, listening to the broker list the amenities of the gorgeous alpine Craftsman, when he emerged from the trees in the back of the property. He glided across the grass with such swagger, I got a little dizzy. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen in real life. His head of thick brown hair showed no sign of quitting, and his warm smile revealed a slight gap between his front teeth, a feature that I found as sexy as a good body. Another thing he had going for him.
He swooped in and took me by the arm, leaving the irritated broker midsentence. My body began to crackle when he took my hand and threaded it through the crook of his right elbow.
“You looked like you needed rescuing.”
“More than you know.”
“Glad I can be of service.”
I waited for him to let go, and when he didn’t, I held on tighter, staking my claim. Never before had being touched by a complete stranger felt so electrifying. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could feel it through my muscles and skin and the fabric of our clothes. I waited for him to talk again. I was too nervous I’d say the wrong thing, and surprised at this stranger’s ability to bring out an unknown shyness
in me.
“So, what do you think? Are you in love?”
I blanched and started laugh-coughing. He nodded to the house. I composed myself. “Yes! I am in love. I do, I love it.”
“So, is your husband inside?”
“I haven’t been inside yet. Maybe today is my lucky day.”
“It seems to be that kind of day, doesn’t it?” His ease and confidence were catnip.
“I love the house. But . . .”
He exaggerated clutching his heart with his hand. I was glad he was still holding on to me with the other one. “But?”
“It is way too big for just one person.”
“You don’t strike me as just anything. But I’m glad to hear that you’re one person.”
I don’t know if he saw me watch him slide his left hand into his coat pocket. I’d already seen his ring. But with the way things were going, I didn’t feel like it was going to be much of a problem.
“So, what about you? Are you in love?”
“At first sight.”
He’d pulled my arm, and I winced.
“I’m sorry! Are you okay?” He was genuinely concerned, which only added to his attractiveness.
“Oh, it isn’t you. It’s a childhood injury that flares up now and then.” I held out my other hand, inviting him to pull that one in whatever direction he wanted to lead me in.
“I’m glad I didn’t hurt you. I would never forgive myself. I’ll need to spend the rest of the afternoon protecting you.”
When he kissed me, I felt my knees give out. He steadied me expertly, as if women swooning in his arms was something that happened to him regularly. He took my hand and pushed the stray hair out of my face. We walked toward the woods and away from the rest of the world. Without the smallest hesitation I let him guide me. He squeezed my hand every few feet like Morse code. I squeezed back.
* * *
LATER, AFTER EVERYONE had left and we made love in the house, he told me he’d come to hang the final touch, a small wrought-iron heart he’d forged. It was the signature to his projects. He’d make a metal piece significant to the people moving in. Yet, that morning he found out that the original owners’ marriage hadn’t lasted long enough for them to live in the house he’d built for them. Instead, he gave me the heart and said we could have their love since it was ours to take.
After
Paul’s desktop is so streamlined I know something is off. This is the computer of someone who is focused and organized. Paul might have gotten his mojo back for sales, but not for organization. Or so I thought. Part of me wonders if he’s had some help with this overhaul. Someone young and earnest perhaps. I push the thought away with a quarter of a Xanax, knowing well that I’ve lapped my maximum intake for the day at least twice. I never take this much in one day. Paul would definitely notice and disapprove. Although, today I don’t especially give a shit about what he would or wouldn’t approve of.
His desktop files are split into two columns: the left for his various contracting properties dating back from the beginning, organized by address; the right for his current properties. And one outlier folder with the Cold Spring Harbor address.
I do a perfunctory search of the files on the left, but I know there’s no money in them, ours or otherwise. I gulp back the champagne and disappointment, looking at the symmetrical icons, each with someone’s dream-home-never-to-be. I click on the folder for our three acres in Cold Spring Harbor. It is completely empty except for the property deed. I’m surprised by how much this absence of content stings.
Paul bought the land as a wedding present. The night we married, we pitched a tent on the property and giddily mapped out the floor plan on the pizza box that our dinner had come in. We vowed that any bit of cash we could scrounge would go into the joint account that Paul opened under both of our names. Forgoing the honeymoon was the first of many sacrifices for that dream.
Competition was the major motivating force for both our savings and our sex life. If Paul contributed two hundred dollars one month, I would go without a new pair of shoes or get a chain-salon haircut to be able to kick in two-fifty. Often, he would up the ante the following month. The growing account was the tie that kept us tethered. Neither of us had grown up with money, so being able to earn it and squirrel it away was a new feeling of power and control.
We shared the desire to do better, earn more, have measurable progress. The first years of the joint account were celebratory at every milestone. The bigger the number got, the stronger our marriage became. At least, it felt that way at the time.
I click into our bank account for the third time in as many hours. The diminished balance confirms that the nightmare of today is real. Had we really gotten so far away from each other that I’d stopped looking, and Paul knew I had? Time had passed in the intangible way that it does when you aren’t paying attention. I didn’t see the tether fraying to such a precarious degree.
There was a point when Paul was busy with work all the time. The money was coming in more rapidly and going into the account in larger amounts. I’d never seen him so driven, so motivated and successful. In moments, his confidence bordered on hubris, but it was a turn-on. If he said out loud that something was going to work, it always did.
I look at my phone to see if he’s called. He hasn’t. I should call him and confront him, but I need more information.
I open the back door and Duff bolts inside, running around in circles for a treat, which I give him with shaky hands. His ears perk up and he lets out a bark before darting upstairs to the bedroom.
Suddenly alert, I pull the fireplace poker from its stand and follow. I’ve left my phone on the couch with the laptop and immediately regret my decision to investigate the noise over leaving the house and calling the police or Paul. But neither course of action would be wise. The last thing we’d want is for cops to be nosing around our bedroom. Less risky, but still not ideal, is calling Paul. But I haven’t figured out how I want to deal with him or how I’m going to tell him about my job. So calling him is off the table.
Duff has pushed open the slightly ajar door. I can’t remember leaving it open; it’s something we don’t do during the day, to keep him contained to the main part of the house. The Xanax is doing its job, because I’m able to step over the threshold of the bedroom, weapon in hand, with some degree of calm.
The bedroom is empty and as we left it this morning. The only out-of-place thing I can see is that one of the bedroom windows has been left open, and the sash from the curtain has come loose and is being tossed against the windowsill by the breeze. Perfectly rational explanation. I relax.
I move to close the window and return the sash to its hook, when I see a MAC lipstick tube on the newly laid carpet, sticking out from under the chair. I pick up the tube and see that it isn’t one of mine. I remove the cap and think I recognize the bright red shade as hers. I cap it and look at the name on the bottom. Lady Danger. I tell myself it has been there all along and I missed it when we replaced the rug. I put the tube in my pocket, call Duff out of the room, and shut the door behind us. I’ll leave that particular worry behind closed doors for the time being.
Back on the couch, I root around on his laptop and the knot in my stomach grows tighter with each click. I know that I’m looking for evidence of another woman as much as I am for the money. My insecurity disgusts me. All along, quietly, I felt like the lesser catch in our marriage. Now that old anxiety reverberates. I initially doubted my ability to become the woman he wanted me to be, the girl he thought I was when we met. I pushed the fear down as deep as it would go and locked the bulkhead tight.
My phone vibrates. Paul’s calling.
“Hey, you.” My voice sounds ten times steadier than I feel.
“Hi, honey. How’s work?” In Paul’s universe, his wife still has a job. I straighten up when I realize that I haven’t spent much time thinking about
how I am going to conceal my new unemployment status. Since my plan of leaving the country is a nonstarter, I need to come up with a new one. Better that Paul thinks everything is status quo in the interim.
“It’s fine. Not too busy. Mark’s being a bit of an asshole, but that isn’t anything new.”
“Yeah, that guy is more than a bit of an asshole. I’m sure even more so now that Sasha’s MIA. Sorry you have to deal with him.”
“I wonder where she’s gone. I hope she’s okay.” I couldn’t care less, but I am curious how much thought Paul’s given to her whereabouts today.
“I’m sure she’s fine. More than fine. She’s probably off spending Mark’s money and getting off on the idea of people looking for her. She’s always been about the attention.” The affectionate amusement about how Sasha “had always been” stings.
“You would know better than me.” The bitterness in my voice is subtle, and I feel myself edging toward a fight we don’t need to have today. Luckily, he doesn’t take the bait and changes the subject.
“Listen, the detectives showed up at the open house. I wanted to call sooner, but they were hanging around until people started arriving.”
My blood runs cold. “After coming by this morning? What did they want?”
“They wanted me to come to the station and answer some follow-up questions.”
I’m careful about anything I say on the phone. I know Paul is as well. We’ve seen enough Dateline NBC episodes to know better.
“Did you tell them that you would?”
“Of course. But I told them not until I get back from my trip with Wes.”
In the chaos of today, I’d completely forgotten that Paul was due to be out of town for two days for a brokers’ convention in Florida, leaving tomorrow morning. A well-timed excuse for some beach time as a write-off. I’d opted not to join him for a number of reasons, the main one being that I hadn’t been invited.