“And so?”
“I have to think. I need time.”
“Remember, I do not ask you to leave your husband.”
How could she forget? How much she wanted him to ask precisely that. “Which means what? That we’re supposed to carry on an affair indefinitely?”
“People do. Until they no longer wish to. Americans have a great need, I see, to talk about everything, to bring everything out into the open, as you say. But why? Can we not just see where this goes? It is your business, not your husband’s. Do you think that, travelling as much as he does, there are no other women now and then? You cannot be so naive, can you? But it does not interfere with your life together. These can be separate things.”
Philip? Sleeping with other women? Oddly, although it was easy for her to picture it, given how important sex was to Philip, until that moment she hadn’t really considered it. She knew, since now and then she packed his bags for him, that he kept condoms in his shaving kit. She had assumed they were just there, always, so he wouldn’t forget them when they travelled together. Or had she? Well, possibly not. Could it be that she was the tiniest bit relieved to think he was getting sex outside the marriage, hoping he would ask less of her? And, did she mind?
She suddenly remembered a young man she’d had a brief relationship with in her early twenties. A blond Venezuelan named Carlos. Very fiery and dramatic and always wanting to have long make-out sessions at parties, which she didn’t like. It felt like a public display of his prowess more than real passion. His possessiveness and proclamations of devotion, the (bad) poetry stuffed in her mailbox, and demands for her declaration of undying love rang false after a while and smothered her. She pulled away. But one night he came over to the crappy Hell’s Kitchen sublet that she shared with two nurses she hardly ever saw, over a loud Brazilian restaurant where the music and smells of feijoada and fried yucca seeped up through the floorboards. There was a bathtub in the kitchen and the window in her bedroom looked into the airshaft. They ended up on her futon for a few minutes of inglorious coitus. When he got up, she noticed long, angry-looking scratches on his back and buttocks. Not the sort of thing she did.
She giggled, hand over her mouth, pointing. “What’s on your butt?”
He grabbed his ass, swore, and then turned and threw himself on her, begging her forgiveness while she tried hard, and without much success, to quell her laughter. It had been a ploy, she understood, to make her jealous, part of the game he so loved to play. The fact she found the whole thing hilarious told her more than anything else that the relationship was over and even poor Carlos had to agree.
So, now, did she feel the same way about the idea of Philip sleeping with someone else? Well, she was annoyed, certainly, in this more complicated era of sexual diseases, but since she hadn’t been all that concerned with catching anything herself now that she and Carsten were intimate, it was impossible to fault him. Other than that, and what felt like hypocrisy, since she knew, or thought she knew, how Philip would react if he found out about Carsten, the fact remained: she didn’t care.
“I know what you’re saying, Carsten, but I just don’t think that’s me. It feels like I’d just be compartmentalizing my life into bits, none of which would feel satisfying. I want more from my life than that. I want, I’m sorry to spout clichés, but I want to be authentic, in all I do, everywhere, with everyone. God, my head hurts.”
“I have a remedy for that. Are you in bed?”
“Yes.” He was beginning to know her well. “But this isn’t the time. I have to think. I have to make some decisions.”
“Are you naked?”
“Carsten, please.”
“Get naked. You will think better when you are relaxed.”
She was uncertain whether he was right about the thinking part, but by the time they got off the phone, at least she was sleepy, and her headache was gone.
SHE DIDN’T SEE CARSTEN for the rest of that week (although the texts never stopped), and when Philip came home, they had sex and talked. Of course, she said nothing about Carsten. She told Philip she loved him, which was true, as a father to Connor and even as a friend — a distinction she didn’t articulate. She didn’t mention it was Carsten she fantasized about as he pumped into her. Philip whispered into her ear, “I’ve missed you. I feel close to you.” She smiled and hugged him. He was so easily confused by sex, mistaking it for something, on her part, more than the physical release it was, more than the guilty gesture it was. When he was done and snoring on his side of the bed she got up and took a shower, where the hot water hid her tears.
The next night, she was back at Carsten’s. He took her against the stairs, not even giving her time to remove her dress. This was what she wanted, she thought as she moaned beneath him, mindless of the bruises she’d have on her back — bruises she’d have to hide from Philip. After that, they bathed and drank champagne in the bath, and he took her again, on the bed, with her arms pinned over her head. It was almost violent, the stuff of porn flicks. She loved it.
When she got home, Philip was already in bed, laptop on his knees, glass of Scotch on the bedside table. She could smell the Scotch fumes. When she came out of the bathroom his light was off and his back was to her. She noticed the glass of Scotch was empty, but the smell lingered. That smell. Full of heather and amber. She was hardly aware of her footsteps. She turned and walked downstairs, directly to Philip’s den, directly to the drinks cabinet. Three quarters of a bottle of Chivas. She picked it up and drank.
THE SNOW-GLOBE WORLD she’d created for her life with Carsten was cracking. Hadn’t she promised herself she would put an end to the relationship, or at least put it on hold? She couldn’t. A day. Two days. After that initial break, when Philip was in Chicago, she never managed to get past three days without diving into Carsten’s arms again. At night she dreamed of him, of being together, completely free; the two of them swimming in a great, sometimes turbulent ocean, diving deep, naked as fish; of kneeling on the ground next to him, clawing at the dirt, trying to unearth something. She dreamed of making love with him, of course. She began keeping a dream journal, transcribing these images, referring to him as V for Viking, in case Philip found the book. She wasn’t seeing friends, hadn’t seen Deedee in weeks and weeks. She went to Connor’s graduation and dinner at Elements afterward, but she went to the bathroom three times to text her lover. She took Connor to the airport when he and Emily set off for a vacation to France, and from there she drove directly to Carsten’s.
Her thoughts were full of Carsten’s clove-and-leather smell, the mole on the inside of his upper arm, the raven tattoo on his left shoulder, the taste of him, the strength in his arms, the muscles in his stomach … Connor slid into the shade cast by her desire. She could barely make him out in the shadows. She told herself he was a grown-up now, with a life of his own, that this was her time. She had earned it. Connor flew away to France with a pretty girl, and Angela barely kissed him goodbye. She left him at the security gate with nary a backward glance. And where was Philip? At work. As always.
Later, she would remember only the broadest details of saying goodbye to her son but recall exactly what Carsten was wearing when she reached his house: jeans and a white T-shirt with smudges of earth across his chest, because he was working in the garden. He was barefoot. She would remember how he dusted off his hands and wiped them on his thighs before he embraced her, and that she brushed an ant from his neck. She would not remember what Connor wore that day. Later, it would occur to her that she hadn’t taken a photo of Connor and Emily, even though they were embarking on such an important journey. It didn’t even occur to her. Evidence, she would understand eventually, of the strength of her obsession.
Deedee was concerned. She’d been sending emails and texts, which Angela answered as briefly as she could. I’m fine. Really busy. See you soon! She kept catching Sister Eileen looking at her. One day the nun patted Angela’s hand and said she was keeping her in her prayers. Angela laughed, an
d said, “Always happy to have more prayers, Sister, but whatever for?”
“That we don’t lose you,” the nun said.
“I’m not going anywhere. The Pantry and the garden mean a lot to me.”
“Yes, well,” said Sister Eileen, “I’m happy to hear it.”
Angela
Angela finally gave in to Deedee, who called and said they were overdue for a long chat and she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Lunch at a local restaurant in town. College kids as servers, with their glossy locks and blue nails and high heels. Four different kinds of kale salad and a dozen sorts of toast. Toast with salted cod. Toast with pickled beef tongue. Toast with goat cheese and fig marmalade.
“When did toast become a thing?” asked Deedee.
“Well, it is artisanal,” Angela said.
“Ah, that explains eight dollars for a slice of bread and Nutella.”
They ordered kale salads and grilled-cheese sandwiches. Fontina with sage-accented sautéed mushrooms. Nothing so plebeian as cheddar.
Deedee ate her sandwich with a knife and fork, cutting it into tiny, bite-sized pieces.
“So, darling, I haven’t seen you in ever so long. What on earth is going on, and don’t you tell me ‘nothing.’”
Angela wasn’t so dainty. Two hands. Too big a mouthful. She chewed, swallowed. “Lots,” she said. “Connor’s prom took up a ton of time.”
She told Deedee about the shopping, and Connor’s anxiety over getting his look just right, getting Emily’s wrist corsage just right. They talked about the prom buses and how only a few kids ended up drunk and puking — not Connor, thank God. They talked about Annecy, the town in France where Connor and Emily had gone, and the family of the nanny who’d practically raised Emily with whom they’d stay before heading off with train tickets through Italy, Switzerland, and back to Paris. A last careless, responsibility-free vacation before going to college.
“Are he and Emily going to stay together when the fall comes?”
“I think they’re going to try, but you know how that goes. She’s in one city, he’s in another … things happen.”
Deedee put her elbows on the table and tucked her hair behind her ears. She looked about fourteen. She said, “Speaking of things happening … I can’t help but ask … What’s up with the Viking?”
Angela considered lying. She had never felt so bonded to someone. She had never felt so alone. She had never felt so free, so sparkling with life. She had never felt so caged. It was the best of times, it was the most terrifying of times, to paraphrase, but even terror was a kind of thrill.
Deedee, she realized, was looking at her as though she’d begun to spit frogs.
“Oh my God! I can tell by looking at your face.” Deedee glanced quickly around to make sure no one they knew was within earshot and dropped her voice to a near whisper. “Honey, what are you doing?”
Angela put her elbows on the table and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I don’t have any idea.” She looked up at her friend, met her eyes, which took considerable effort. “I’m not proud of myself. I don’t want you to think this is easy.”
Deedee took her hand. “Angela, I’m not judging you. I’m worried.”
“So am I.”
“So, you’re actually …”
“Yes. I’m having an affair.”
“Is it a fling, or is it, I don’t know … serious?”
Was it serious? What did serious mean? Carsten was a force. Her submission to him was her power. The desire never waned, and just thinking about it aroused her, made her flush. She pressed her lips together, trying to hide the involuntary smile. She raised her eyebrows, shook her head.
I want you. I need you. I love you. He had said these words. They had stopped her breath. She had told him she wanted him, but nothing more. Did she love him? Maybe, but she wasn’t ready to say so. Was it serious? It was. Did that mean she would leave Philip?
“I don’t know.”
“Does he suspect?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s miserable. Even more miserable than usual, so I don’t know. He’s always been droopy. He knows something’s wrong, but no, I don’t think he has any idea there’s another man.”
They had stopped eating.
“Okay, Angela, I’m going to give you the only piece of advice I will ever give you on this subject. Well, two pieces. The first is that if you’re going to leave Philip, and I have no opinion on whether you should or not — you’re on your own with that one — but if you do, leave him clean, meaning you all go ahead and separate and do what you have to, but give yourself a year, a full year, four lovely long seasons all by yourself before you take up with the Viking. Let yourself end one relationship before you start another. Give yourself time to grieve and figure out who you are all by yourself before starting up as another couple. I have learned that, by the way, from any number of family members who seem to think marriage is something you do as a kind of amusement ride, like you stay on it as long as it’s exciting and doesn’t cause tummy upset, but once it does you dash off to the next one … and then the next one … without ever giving yourself a chance to stop getting dizzy. Did I tell you about my aunt Millie? She’s on her sixth, honey, her sixth marriage. Bless her heart.” Deedee screwed up her lips, as though willing herself not to speak, but then went on. “But I understand you probably won’t take that advice. No one ever does, although I have offered it on so many occasions it might just surprise you, and it is very good advice. However, if you, like most everyone else in the midst of it, can’t manage to keep your hands off each other, let me offer the other piece of advice. And that is, if you want to have any sort of self-respect by the time this is all over, and if you want your relationships with Connor and Philip to be even partially intact, try to be kind, darling. Kind to Philip, kind to yourself, and kind to your Viking.”
She looked like a tiny, slightly sun-wizened oracle, someone who’d already seen behind the veil of time, to the blood on the asphalt and the tears on the pillows. Angela wanted her to stop talking, but she didn’t.
“It is bound to get all sorts of messy and unpleasant, and people say harmful things that just can’t be rescinded.” Deedee held her hands up. “I have to repeat that no one has ever taken my advice.”
“So, outside your family, I mean, you’ve known other women who’ve been through this sort of thing?”
“Honey, you would be surprised what goes on in a Southern town, and even what goes on in buttoned-up Yankee Princeton. I seem to recall F. Scott Fitzgerald had all sorts of fun writing about this town.”
“I feel like everything I’ve believed about myself, everything I thought I wanted, was just a lie, but, at the same time, I feel like I’m finally myself.” Angela started to cry. “How can this be happening to me?”
“I don’t know. But it isn’t happening to you, Angela. You’re making choices. And Philip’s not such a bad guy, is he? I mean he really does love you.”
“You’re taking Philip’s side?”
“Is there a side? I didn’t think there was. I’m not judging you, Angela. I’m just saying maybe don’t be so hasty. This might be an infatuation. It might pass. Philip and you … you’ve been together a long time. There’s Connor. You’re a mother first and foremost.”
“Am I? Is that what I am. A mother? A wife?” Were they, she wondered, really having this conversation, in the twenty-first century? “When do I stop being a mother? Connor’s gone. He’s away, then off to college. I doubt he’ll ever live with us again.”
“Don’t be so sure. They come back these days. But even if he doesn’t, your behaviour will still affect him, you know. You don’t ever stop being the boy’s mother.”
So, after all that talk about how Deedee wasn’t judging her, she was. Well, who wouldn’t? Angela thought. She judged herself. But she needed a friend, and not a conscience. The choice was hers, Deedee had said, but was it? Angela assumed Deedee meant the choice to be moral or not. T
o behave in a “kind” way or not. And just like that, Angela slammed the door. That was the choice she made. Either Deedee was with her or she wasn’t.
She pulled back in her chair. She bit into her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “Choices? Yes, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m making choices. All mine for better or worse, as they say.” She picked up her fork. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Tell me about you. What’s happening with the horses? Are you in competition this summer?”
Deedee said nothing. She just looked at Angela, her eyes blue as a clear but distant sky. She blinked, and for a moment something flashed over her face, and Angela knew she had hurt her, but Deedee, mistress of manners and discretion, only picked up her fork and cut into her now-cold artisanal grilled-cheese sandwich. The lines around her mouth were slightly more rigid than usual, but her tone was cheery, and her back was so straight one would think she wore a corset. Angela listened to her babble on about horses and barns, feed and farriers, and the upcoming dressage tournament, and all she wanted to do was run out of there and drive to Carsten’s house.
IT WAS EARLY JULY. The gardens were finished. The plants were in. The volunteers — some clients of the Pantry, some from churches in the areas — were working well together. The Pantry’s refrigerators were filling up with fresh lettuce, beets, radishes, cucumber, carrots, and the first tomatoes. Sister Eileen had started cooking classes in the basement of the Catholic church on Broad Street. There was no longer any need for Carsten to come by, and for that Angela was grateful. It was easier to keep their relationship hidden from people at the Pantry if they weren’t trying to tamp down their hormones in front of others. Even Sophia and Gladys, two of the regulars, had started teasing Angela about having a crush on the big handsome Dane.
One day they’d been out weeding, and Carsten had popped in to see how the boxes were holding up and to plant a maple tree. Angela was bent over a bunch of radish plants and he’d touched her shoulder as he went by.
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