Even So

by Lauren B. Davis

  No. She wasn’t going to give him up. The very idea was like acid on her skin.

  She turned on her windshield wipers. They swish-swooshed across the glass, and the raindrops dazzled like crystal under the streetlamps. The road ahead was clear, in more ways than one. She was not, she now understood, a woman who would ever be happy living a quiet, passionless, cossetted life. She needed fire, and Philip was water. With Carsten she would burn, and he would consume her. She wanted immolation and saw herself as the phoenix, rising from the ash.

  When Angela got home, Philip was in his office, hunched over the computer. The only light came from the brass desk lamp. In the gloom, the burgundy walls, tartan couch and leather chair were studies in black and grey. She kissed him on the top of his head. His hair was thin, and his scalp smelled oily.

  “You’re late,” he said. “Everything okay? I was getting worried. Just about to call you.”

  “I went out for dinner with Sister Eileen, can you believe it?”

  “Who?”

  “The nun I told you about. The one who runs the Pantry. We talked a long time. I should have called.”

  How easy it was to lie.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Same. Markets are a mess. We’re diversifying. Just not the time to take big risks and clients are skittish, especially after the crash.” He squinted at the screen and began typing. “You don’t want to hear about all that.”

  He was correct. “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah, I ate the leftover chicken. Oh, and Deedee called. Said she tried calling your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

  Angela’s heart fluttered. “I’ll call her.”

  Philip put his arm around her waist and squeezed. “I’m going to be another hour or so.”

  “I’ll see you in bed.”

  “Going to wait up for me?” He grinned.

  “I’ll try.” She gave him a peck on the lips.

  “You smell of mouthwash.”

  “Had garlic for dinner. Nobody likes garlic breath.”

  He turned back to the screen. She doubted he even heard her. She went upstairs, flicked on the switch that lit up the silver reading lamps on the bedside tables, kicked off her shoes onto the Persian carpet and climbed onto the bed, pushing aside the pale blue raw silk pillows, which served no practical purpose. She wondered if it was too late to call Deedee. It was just ten. Deedee was a night owl.

  There was a text on her phone from Carsten. Did you get home safe?

  Safe and sound. Where are u?

  A moment later … Back in my lair of flowers. Thinking of u here, surrounded by peonies and tulips.

  His knowledge of words like lair surprised her. His grammar was so formal, and not always perfect, and these odd words crept in.

  She didn’t know what to say back. She would have to be careful about the phone. Erase texts. Not leave it lying around. She didn’t think Philip would go through her phone, but he might, were he to become suspicious. Am I cheating on my husband? It felt like she was, even without the final consummation.

  Bloop. Message. Until Thursday?

  She had agreed to go furniture shopping with him.

  Until then. Pottery Barn. 2pm. Night.

  At night??

  No, I mean “goodnight”!

  Ah. Night.

  They had agreed to meet at the store in Cherry Hill, not the one in Princeton, which had suddenly become an even smaller town in her mind. She imagined bumping into one of her neighbours, Janet, say, who sent notes around to everyone telling them they should water their trees more in summer heatwaves, or suggesting garbage bins be secured against raccoons. Angela could just see the arch of one of her painted-on brows. And who’s this? Have you gone into the decorating business now? Helping? Aren’t you kind? Such a helpful person. No, Cherry Hill was a better bet.

  She went into the bathroom and found a bottle of aspirin in the cabinet. A bottle of Xanax stood next to it. Her doctor had given it to her for anxiety and sleeplessness. She didn’t take it often, but now, the headache, which had been merely a slight band of tension across her forehead as she drove home, was throbbing. She didn’t think she’d sleep, not with images of Carsten’s face and hands playing behind her closed lids. She took three aspirins, a Xanax, and drank two large glasses of water.

  She called Deedee as she walked back to bed, shedding clothes as she went.

  “Angela!”

  “Hi, Deedee. Sorry I missed your call. Not too late, is it?”

  “No, it’s fine. Just watching a movie. I haven’t heard from you in a while and I just wanted to check in, see how it’s going.”

  “I had to sit down with the planning committee for the new neighbourhood garden,” she said.

  It was, in a way, true. It’s what she should have said to Philip. Why hadn’t she? Sister Eileen’s face popped into her mind. Her almost aggressive compassion. Oh, she sensed something, that one. She was guessing, but still.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Sure. Fine.”

  A pause. “How’s Philip?”

  “Fine. How’s Ed?”

  They talked about the beginning of golf season and being golf widows and horses and the kids and the upcoming prom, and then there didn’t seem to be much else to say and so, with promises to see each other soon, they hung up.

  Angela lay back in bed, slipped her feet under the covers, and waited for the Xanax to help her drift away from the aching, the longing, and that one tendril of guilt: she’d forgotten all about Connor’s prom.

  “MOM. MOM!”

  She looked up from her phone. Connor, home for the weekend, stood in the doorway from the kitchen into the greenhouse, where Angela was supposed to be tending to the orchids. The midday sun was too warm, and she’d opened the windows, but it was still steamy and earthy, and she noted a dusting of pollen on the workbench. No wonder she’d been sniffing and sneezing.

  “I’m right here. There’s no need to yell.”

  “Really? You’re worse than me with that phone these days. Who are you texting all the time?”

  “What is it, Connor?”

  “I have to get my tux. Prom’s like, two weeks away. All the good ones will be gone, and I’ll end up with some shitty thing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They don’t run out. Do you know what colour Emily’s dress is?”

  He frowned, and looked very much like his father, all bristle and entitlement. “Am I supposed to know that?”

  “Well, if her dress is going to be purple, you don’t want to get a tux with an orange cummerbund, do you?”

  He snorted. “Like I would. Jesus. Orange.” He was typing into his phone now, his thumbs a blur.

  Angela went back to her own texting. I’m not sure I can get away. Connor’s prom. It’s a big deal.

  I want you to see the bedroom & bath now that the painting is finished.

  I bet you do.

  I want to see how you look there. In the bath. I have candles. I have wine.

  They had painted the bedroom walls white, but not a bright white. In some light it looked almost violet, in others the palest stone. The floors were stained dark brown, and the bathroom was white, too, with tile the colour of a stormy sky. They’d been able to save the old claw-foot tub. It was big enough for two, even when one of them was Carsten’s size. Angela knew this for certain, which is how things had progressed. It was in that bath where they had first made love. And then in the bed. And then on the floor. And then in the bath again, when she leaned against his chest and he read the poems of Inger Christensen and Morten Nielsen by candlelight. They drank wine, although it was Carsten who intoxicated Angela. She pictured them in a snow globe, a state beyond the rules, beyond time and consequences, beyond outside influence and profane things like grocery shopping and laundry and zoning issues (for the gardens) and renewing one’s driver’s licence. Carsten read poetry to her. Philip couldn’t tell e.e. cummings from Elizabeth Bishop. Philip quoted stock tips.
She tried to remember a single time she’d talked about literature with Philip, or art, or anything she considered meaningful. She and Philip talked about Connor. They talked about dinner with the neighbours. They talked — or he did, she merely listened — about how Wall Street made the world go around. Honestly, she had nothing to say to that, but Philip loved her, she knew, and he loved Connor and he worked hard, at least in part to try and make her happy. He would never intentionally hurt her. Why wasn’t that enough?

  Carsten read to her from a Nielsen poem, “Death”: “As I fell and fell in a coldness without space/from holding a stranger’s cold hand in my hand …”

  And yes, she thought, yes, her marriage felt like that.

  “Black,” said Connor.

  “What? What’s black?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  “Hey! Don’t talk to me like that. Just who do you think you are?”

  Connor whipped around and disappeared back into the kitchen. “I’m your son, but you seem to have forgotten that!”

  I have to go. Will get back to u later.

  She found Connor with his head in the refrigerator, the natural habitat for boys his age. He didn’t appear to be actually looking for anything and she assumed he’d chosen the stance for its ability to project indifference.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to his back. “I’ve been preoccupied with this project, which is important, you know. It’s about feeding people and so forth.”

  “You might try feeding Dad now and then.” Head still in the fridge.

  She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean? Dad’s not even home and won’t be till Thursday. You know that. He’s in Chicago with clients. Connor, turn around. Do you want something in there or not?”

  He slammed the door and turned to face her, arms crossed against his chest, over a dark blue T-shirt. How large his biceps were. She wondered if he was lifting weights. Gone was the gangly, all-elbows-and-knees boy of just a few months ago, or so it seemed. He towered over her.

  “You just never seem to be around these days.”

  “Connor, I’m here now, in case you hadn’t noticed, and besides, you’re in boarding school. And, not that when I’m here or when I’m not is any of your business, but how do you know what I do when you’re not here?” She went to the cupboard and took down a glass. “I’m having lemonade. Do you want some?”

  “I guess.”

  She grabbed a second glass. Connor moved aside so she could get into the fridge. Lemonade was such a normal, homey thing. Cookies and lemonade.

  “You’re never home when I call.”

  “When? When haven’t I taken your call?”

  “I’m not saying you don’t take my calls, ever. I’m saying you’re never home. But okay, at least twice last week. Dad said you were out at meetings. You’re always at meetings.”

  “Yes, okay, I turn my phone off in meetings. Did you leave a message? I didn’t get a message.”

  “You can see I called. Why leave a message? What’s the point?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. If you can’t get hold of me leave a message and I’ll call you right back.”

  She put the ice in the glasses and poured the lemonade from the glass pitcher. What could be more nonchalant than pouring lemonade? “What was so urgent?”

  That produced a storm cloud on his face. “It doesn’t matter now. That’s kind of the point of urgent, isn’t it? That if it can wait it isn’t urgent.”

  “Smartass. But really, what was it?”

  “I talked to Dad. It’s handled. Nothing for you to worry about, Mom.” He took the lemonade and drank a little, then stared into the glass. “I don’t think Dad’s happy.”

  “He’s under a lot of pressure from work is all. He’ll be fine. Why, what did he say to you?”

  “It’s not work. It’s you.” Her son’s eyes were lit coals.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dad says you’re never home. He says he never sees you.”

  “I’m here. I’m not the one in Chicago. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He says he’s worried about you.”

  “This is not a conversation you should be having with your father. This is not a conversation you and I should be having.”

  “Well, then, maybe you better have a talk with Dad.”

  “Oh, I will, believe me.”

  “Don’t tell him I told you, okay? I think he’d had a couple.”

  “Was it Wednesday?” She shook her ice cubes in the otherwise empty glass.

  Connor drained his glass. Like his mother, he never sipped, he guzzled. “Yeah. Like, about nine-thirty.”

  Wednesday. She had come home just before ten. With the corrosive lie on her lips. Another meeting, another squabble with the planning council, another chat with Sister Eileen. Whatever she’d said. She found Philip sitting in the dark, drinking Scotch, getting morose and unmovable in his leather chair. Nice of you to come home, he’d said, and she’d told him he should be happy she’d found something to give her life meaning. He should be supportive. That had brought a bitter laugh. He opened his arms wide, to take in the house, the garden, the cars, the greenhouse, all the techy gadgets, and the clothes on her back, she supposed.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little support myself,” he said, raising his glass. “Here’s to my wonderful, supportive, devoted, loving wife.”

  She turned on her heel and went to bed. Two Xanax ensured she didn’t hear him when he came up.

  Now, she tried to keep her face passive as she looked at her son. It was a terrible thing to make a child worry about his parents.

  “Sweetheart, don’t worry about anything, okay?” She came to him and put her hands on either side of his face. Children turned into adults as you watched, quick as a turning tide racing up the Bay of Fundy, and nothing could stop it. She said, “This is the best time of your life. You’re about to graduate, you’ve done brilliantly, you’ve been accepted to the college of your choice, you’re seeing the nicest girl … the only thing I want you to think about is whether you want a pale blue tux with ruffles, or a purple one with stripes, okay?”

  He smiled. “I was thinking of going Goth. You know, white makeup and purple lipstick, all black with a few chains. Maybe a raven on my shoulder.”

  “Sounds brilliant. I’m sure Emily will be thrilled.” Angela tucked her arm through his and bumped him with her shoulder. “Dad and I are fine. Everybody goes through ups and downs, it’s normal. You let me take care of Dad, okay?”

  He agreed, although Angela wasn’t sure he believed her. Smart boy.

  She didn’t see Carsten that night. She texted him and said things were complicated with Connor and he needed her attention. She’d call him when Connor left for school. The conversation with her son had shaken her. As the kids said, this shit was getting real.

  IT WAS AFTER NINE on Sunday night when Connor went back to school and Angela crawled into bed and called Carsten.

  “Are you coming over?” he asked.

  “I can’t.” How boring her bedroom looked. How bluely bland or blandly blue. The room of a woman who thought buying a new duvet and matching curtains would fix her life.

  “I thought your husband was out of town, no?”

  “He is, but, look, Carsten, I’m not sure … I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Ah?”

  She told him what Connor had said about Philip. She said she was confused and guilty. “Maybe we should just stop this while we can. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “No, of course not.” A tiny barb buried in the words.

  “I don’t want to hurt my husband, or my son, but I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

  “I did not begin with you thinking this would happen, intending to make your life unhappy. I just thought how smart you were, and yes, okay, you are beautiful, this is not new to you. But you are perhaps, right. We might be friends. I want you to be happy. If I do not make you happy, you should of course n
ot see me.”

  Tears. “You do make me happy.”

  “Always I told you, I do not want to be trouble in your life. You have had a different path than me. You are a mother. Your family, house, friends, your life as a lady of Princeton —”

  “Oh, fuck off. I’m not some suburban soccer mom.” How the flames flared at the idea of this. In the pause, she imagined him shrugging. She was practically wailing. “It’s not how I am; that’s not who I am at all.”

  “It is the life you are living, my musling.” His little mouse. “I cannot interfere.”

  “That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I mean don’t you think you’ve already interfered, as you put it?”

  “I understand that if we agree I seduced you, if we agree I stole you away, you will be able to believe you are innocent.”

  She slammed her hand down on the bed. “I know I’m not innocent!”

  He chuckled and if he had been in front of her, she would have slapped him. “Are we having our first fight?”

  “Don’t be a jackass, Carsten.”

  “Then, you must be a grown-up, Angela. You must be a woman, not a little girl standing in front of a broken vase pointing the finger at your little brother. What we have, what we have been doing, is as much because you wish it as because I do. You cannot deny this, is that true or not? Because if not, if it is only me …”

  “You know it’s not.” She drew her legs up and rested her forehead on her knees. “You know that. I am alive with you. I’m dead here.”