by Janice Weber
She walked out.
That morning, delighted to be alive, possessed of a lovely and loyal wife, Ross Major strolled through the warm drizzle to work. He made several phone calls to clients, then told Marjorie he was going to run a few errands and would be back in an hour. After buying a dozen pink roses, Ross walked briskly toward Cafe Presto. He intended to stop in for a cup of coffee, say hello to Emily, give her a little moral support; after all, she would be terminating Guy Witten today. Ross wanted to hold her hand, suggest they dine out that evening. Then they’d go to bed early, as they should have done last night.
He was half a block from the cafe when he saw his wife hurry onto the cobblestones and begin walking swiftly away from him. His heart constricted: leaving work again? Had she told Guy off? Then he should catch up with her, help her celebrate; but something in her gait held him back. When she glanced quickly over her shoulder, checking if anyone were following her, all of Ross’s blood-sucking demons returned. He watched her go to the subway, make a brief phone call, and, nearly flying down the steps, run to catch the approaching inbound train. Ross ran after her, ducking into the next car, his heart pounding as deafeningly as the rap music from a nearby boom box. She changed trains at Park Street. Keeping a careful distance, he followed her to the Mass General stop. Without looking back, she walked to the marina that Ross knew so well. He watched her say a few words to the drunk in the sloop, hop aboard, and chug into the harbor. For a long time, stupefied, he waited behind a tree. Finally the old man returned to the dock.
Ross walked onto the pier. “Hello, Stanley,” he called.
“Hey! Your wife was just here. Said she had an important letter from you to Mr. Forbes.”
Ross could barely breathe. Nevertheless, he smiled; no need to distress the innocent. “Did you find him?”
“Sure, he hadn’t gone far. He’ll drop her off at the Water Shuttle after he signs all the papers.”
Years of good breeding did not desert Ross now. “I’m glad she caught him,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s something for your trouble.”
Stanley waved a hand. “Forget it. She already gave me a hundred bucks.” He tied his boat to the pier. “Care for a beer?”
“Maybe some other time. I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for your help.” Ross walked unsteadily back to shore.
2
God, I feel ill. My heart kicks, my head burns and whirls. She s ruined my life. To think that just yesterday I was a happy man, content to wake up and see her face next to mine, to cuddle her warm body, knowing that this was my wife. Wife! Partner, helpmate, confidante, lamb, home. Vve carved great holes in the mud, pulled skyscrapers out of thin air, because of her. She was the bedrock of my accomplishments. How nonchalantly she has destroyed it all. I will never trust a woman again. What fatal indulgence could have made me think that my wife was more honorable than anyone else’s wife? She’s nothing but an animal after all, wild and amoral, incapable of domestication. For fifteen years I have worshiped an ordinary whore. The slut took everything I had. Then she began fucking Dana.
Dana! We grew up together. We were in the same Cub Scout troop, the same fraternity.... I don’t believe he’s done this to me. Did he struggle at all, try to fight her? Or did it grow gradually and reluctantly over the years, and he just happened to find himself alone with her in an elevator late one afternoon, when the shadows got long? No matter: Lust is no excuse after all we’ve been through, all the midnight crunches at the office, the hundreds of times Vve saved Dana s ass since he was ten years old. Now he sleeps with my wife? His treachery is infinitely more galling than hers. I’ll kill him. At least I’ll go to prison with some dignity intact. Without my income, Emily will have to sell the house, move to a ratty little dump in the burbs. No more cabin in the country, no more weekends in Paris. No more nice clothes. She’ll have to fry hamburgers for a living, take the bus home at night stinking of grease and onions. And she’ll feel bad. Which of her friends will help her out then? Guy Witten? Ha, she just trashed him! Her sister? No way. Philippa’s publicist will squeeze as much mileage as possible out of my crime of passion; the moment Emily starts asking for money, Philippa will bolt with a new boyfriend.
The hell with Emily. What about me? I can’t just move out like some pussy-whipped coward, can’t just let her off the hook as if screwing my partner was all right because I knew him so well. And I have no evidence; all I saw her do was go to his boat. Maybe she really was delivering something. Maybe they were planning a surprise party for me; I’ll be forty-five soon. And maybe I should tear the house apart, searching for letters and jewelry. Dana is very generous with his screwees: pearls, roses, diamonds if they’re truly outstanding. I’ll check the safe, root around her lingerie drawer. How many times has she changed the sheets recently? I haven’t noticed. Christ, why should I? I was happy! I was confident, too. Was. Maybe I should murder both of them. Stanley could take me out to the boat at once. No, no, I don’t want to kill them in bed, allow them to exit this world in each other’s arms. They’d wake up together on the other side.
Dana’s boat is just a speck on the water now. Are they already naked? Or are they sipping an aperitif first? I wonder if they talk about me. What could they possibly tell each other? Between the two of them lies my entire existence, silent and exposed as an open book. Why recite to each other from that? They already know all the words! Oh God, I’m so jealous of the sparks, the secrets, between them. Do they care about excluding the only man on earth who loves them? Of course not. They prefer me out of the way; like the crotchety schoolmaster, I wreck all their fun. Dana was always big on fun. Emily was always big on fulfillment, whatever the hell that means. Maybe it means fun now.
Stanley s beginning to stare at me. I’ve got to get back to the office. Marjorie’s got people calling, meetings planned. How long did they think they could get away with this? Emily has to realize that Ardith will claw her eyes out. Did she think I would do any less? Did she think she could just come home tonight, smile sweetly at me, cook a cozy little dinner, snuggle up to the dumb Old Man ... No, I’m not going home tonight. I’m not in control of the situation; the sight of her would put me over the edge. I need a few days alone to think, to plan. Ah, incredible, I don’t believe this is happening to me. How quickly, permanently, life can go down the tubes.
After leaving Guy’s office at Cafe Presto for the last time, Emily got her sister’s red raincoat and made one final pass through the kitchen. “Bye, Bert,” she called. “Remember to collect your fifty bucks. I just quit.”
“You what? How could you do this to me just before lunch!”
Had he said something like “That’s awful,” she might have stayed to help him. Now she just smiled and left. From a phone booth near Faneuil Hall, Emily called her husband’s office.
“Hi, Marjorie.” In the background, she heard angry voices. “Is Ross in?”
“Not at the moment.” The secretary didn’t even try to mask her impatience.
“Any idea when he’s getting back?”
“None at all.” Marjorie’s voice rose from alto to sopranissimo. “Mr. Busey! Put that umbrella down, please! Do not go into Mr. Forbes’s office!”
“This is a bad time,” Emily said. “I’ll try later.” What was that all about? She’d learn soon enough: Ross always discussed the day’s misadventures at dinner She wished he had answered the phone, wished she could have heard his reassuring voice; only he could make the knot in her stomach go away, Emily hung up and wandered along the old wharf buildings. She felt odd out here at midday; normally she’d be up to her eyeballs in the noon crush at Cafe Presto. What to do with herself? Lunch at the Ritz, to celebrate ... her outstanding integrity? Pfuiii. To initiate her crucifixion. Emily cabbed over. She sat alone near the drapes and ordered a dozen oysters in memory of Guy, who claimed she tasted like this succulent, squiggly shellfish. Well, he would taste her no more.
Emily was on her second martini, last oyster, when a wom
an wearing a large blue hat approached. The lady could have been anywhere between sixty and eighty, depending on the skill of her plastic surgeon. Two diamond rings, each the size of an animal cracker, sparkled on her blue gloves. Emily noticed the gold fountain pen just a moment too late.
“I know you,” the woman said. “You are Philippa Banks.”
“Emily Major.” She swallowed the last of her martini. “So sorry.”
“Nonsense, I know Philippa Banks when I see her. Those are the sunglasses you wore when Roger Farquet raped you in Pebble Beach.’ The woman proffered her gold pen. “Please sign my menu.”
“I will not,” Emily snapped. “Go back to your seat.”
A waiter tiptoed over. “Hines,” the woman intoned, “bring Miss Banks an iced vodka with four dried cherries. It is her favorite drink.”
Emily tossed thirty dollars on the table. “Try martini with two olives.” Damn! She should never have exchanged clothes with her sister! Emily left the Ritz and began walking down Commonwealth Avenue. No one would notice her crying here. After a few blocks, she felt better, nobler. Perhaps it was the scenery. This beautiful promenade left no doubt that once upon a time, Boston had indeed been the Athens of America. Architects had built its shoulder-to-shoulder mansions in an age when wealth had had no relation to guilt. Today, of course, the magnificient homes were diced into basement think tanks and apartments with too-high ceilings; great chandeliers now illuminated hot photocopiers. Poor America! No wonder Ross rarely walked along this orgy of granite, copper, and leaded glass without remarking that he had been born a century too late.
Emily turned on Dartmouth Street and called her husband again. Perhaps he could join her for coffee, dessert, and a tacit confession; she needed to tell him that she loved him. This time, however, an exasperated assistant told her that Ross was away, Marjorie was at lunch, and there were no pink message slips handy, so please call back later, click. Emily saw a movie, ate too much candy, and went home with a bottle of champagne. She made a Key lime pie because last time she had made one for Ross, about three years ago, he had said it was one of his favorite desserts. She cleaned house and took a long shower. Then she went to the balcony overlooking their steep backyard and read a book, waiting for his return. The light slowly faded and she got hungry; at eight o’clock the phone finally rang.
“Emily,” said Marjorie. “Ross asked me to leave you a message. He had to go to Montreal tonight. I think he might not be home until Sunday.”
“What? Is something wrong?”
“Everything possible went wrong today.” As usual, Marjorie furnished no details.
“Where’s he staying?”
“He didn’t know. He’ll call late tonight.”
“Call whom, you or me?”
“You, I presume.” It was the only polite thing to say. “This all came up at the last minute.”
“Thanks, Marjorie. Let me know if you hear anything.”
Emily uncorked the champagne before going to the bedroom closet: His overnight bag was gone. His pile of shirts was a little disheveled, as if he had hastily pulled one from the middle. When, though? Emily had been home since four; Ross must have come home before then. Hardly a last-minute emergency. No notes, no messages? She went to the answering machine: three hang-ups. Maybe he had tried to call while she was at the movies. Unlike him to leave no parting word, though.
Emily returned to the balcony with the champagne and, as the stars pierced the cantaloupe smog, thought about the million tiny, daily details that caused her to love her husband above any other man. The essential virtues—industry, intelligence, humor—didn’t qualify him for special distinction since Emily would not have involved herself with any man not possessing them. What set Ross aside was his silence; not the silence of indifference, but the silence of trust. Women who bitched about their husbands not talking to them had never tried to live with a man who needed to know all the mundane and unbrilliant details, who had to talk, talk, talk about feelings and reactions embedded in the genes or in childhood, and there, immutable, for life. Emily preferred the strong, silent man who could live with a few loose ends. Too much talk was a sign of insecurity, a misguided desire to bare all in the forlorn hope that another human being would understand, forgive ... no way, of course.
Then the pale moon crept up to the clouds and Emily had to consider Guy, the blip in her theory. She hadn’t gone looking for him, in fact, hadn’t even felt a necessity for him until there he was, water to a suddenly pernicious thirst. Ross had not caused the thirst, no no no. Time had. In retaliation she had gulped and bathed; now she was stepping away from that mysterious fountain because she no longer felt thirsty. Not tonight, anyway. Strange; the older she got, the less water she needed. Like a cactus. No doubt it had to do with survival in a vast, childless desert.
Emily put the champagne away and went to bed. Ross did not call and she worried, thinking the problem involved architecture.
Emily’s phone rang as first light was graying the bedroom furniture. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Didn’t sound like him, though. And he didn’t apologize for waking her.
“Where are you, honey? Why didn’t you call?”
“Couldn’t get to a phone.” Ross cleared his throat but the tone remained black. “I’m in Montreal.”
“For how long? Want me to come up?”
“No.”
His clipped, hard voice was beginning to frighten her. She immediately knew that Ross’s trouble wasn’t work related. “What’s the matter?”
Perhaps he tried to clear his throat again. “We’ll talk about it later. I have to go now.”
“Wait! When will you get back?”
“Monday maybe. Marjorie will know.” He hung up.
Ross had never been cruel to his wife before; the effect was devastating. Oh God! Had he found out about Guy? Emily stared at the bedroom ceiling as guilt seeped from head to stomach. Morning coffee did unpleasant things to her digestive tract. Three hours later, she could still barely talk. Finally she called Ross’s secretary at home. “Good morning, Marjorie. Did I wake you? I wonder if you could tell me where Ross is staying. I didn’t quite catch the hotel when he called this morning.”
“I haven’t spoken with him since he left.”
Damn! “Was this a consulting job?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Marjorie paused for effect. After a few seconds, realizing she might have overplayed her hand, she added, “It could be a big project.”
“Thanks.” Emily hung up, finally aware that she was staring at a bottomless weekend, and that spending it alone might ruin her. So she called her new employer at Diavolina. “Ward? You’re working early.”
“This is Saturday, dear. Every Romeo’s big night out.”
“Would you like me to come in today? My weekend plans just changed.”
“Hey, new blood in the kitchen! I’ll warn the troops.”
Emily showered and scrutinized her face in the bathroom mirror, wondering how to present the best first impression. Today the raw materials were not promising. Her eyes looked wrinkled and small, like an elephant’s. Skin positively yellow, and the frown lines appeared to have been installed by machete. Applying too much makeup to this façade would be like wearing a bad toupee; fakery verging on the comic. She curled her hair instead.
This was no morning to ride the torpid, bacterial subway. A haze redolent of carbon monoxide and dead fish already enveloped Beacon Hill: as Emily crested Joy Street, she realized that this was the hot, sunny weekend that she and Ross had been waiting for all summer. Once the sun cleared the Hancock Building, the faces of bypassing joggers deepened from pulsing, tomatoey red to a brownish purple. Even the most self-conscious pedestrians were beginning to take off their jackets and sweaters.
Ward stood at the bar polishing glasses as Emily arrived at Diavolina. Her hair looked less anarchic today but she wore a pearl in one ear and a gold ball in the other. Blood vessels furled like subcutaneous earth
worms along her biceps. “Hello, Major.”
“Water,” the new chef croaked, slumping over the oak counter. “Air-conditioning.”
Ward slid over a glass of water. “So what happened to your weekend?”
“My husband had to work,” Emily replied tersely, emptying the glass. She stood up before there could be any further questions. “Okay, where’s that kitchen?”
“First things first. Zoltan! Get over here!” Ward shouted.
A black-haired man emerged from the kitchen. Across the dining room, he looked a hale forty. With each approaching step, however, he aged a few years. By the time he reached the bar, Emily guessed she was staring at an eighty-year-old with a scalp full of shoe polish. It was possible he spent half his time as a vampire bat. “I am Zoltan,” he announced. “The maître d’ You are Emily.”
“He’s been here for centuries,” Ward said. “Knows everything. That doesn’t mean he’ll tell you everything, of course.” She tucked her service towel under the counter. “Feeling brave?”
Emily stood up, nodding curtly to Zoltan, who was definitely wearing mascara and orange-tinted makeup. The effect was oddly menacing, “Bombs away.”
“I told them to be on their best behavior today,” Ward said, leading Emily into a clean, modern kitchen, “Attention, animals! This is our new head chef, Emily Major,”
Five men and women in white aprons looked up from their worktables, A young Caucasian with a crew cut, one earring, and gender-aspecific tufts of blond facial hair stepped over. “Chef is really a sexist term, Ward. I thought we had agreed on food service manager.”
Emily smiled coolly. “I prefer Chef Major, if you don’t mind. What would you like me to call you?”
“Chess.”
“Short for Francesca,” Ward cut in. “She takes care of fruits, vegetables, and Martians.” Taking Emily’s elbow, Ward proceeded to a rotund black man. “This is Mustapha, our pastry chef.”
Someone tittered in the corner. It was the murine fellow who had brought Emily’s food to the bar the other day. “Mustapha,” he muttered. “Last month it was Dwight.”