Even So

by Lauren B. Davis

  By the time she finished her second glass of wine, and checked her phone several more times, she had made up her mind. She pressed Deedee’s number.

  “Angela? Oh my God, honey, where are you?”

  “Hello, Deedee.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “So, you’ve spoken to Philip.”

  “Ed’s with him now.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t.”

  A sigh from Deedee. “He said he knew, honey. I thought he did.”

  “You didn’t think you should tell me? You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “I thought I was your friend, but since all this started, it’s not like you’ve reached out to me, either, is it? I can’t say I’m sorry he came to me. He sure needed somebody to talk to.”

  “You’re going to justify this? You can’t be serious. And what about me? Your friend. Didn’t I need someone to talk to?”

  “Darling, I’m worried about you. We all are. Philip is worried about you.”

  “Fuck off, Deedee, and if you call me darling or honey or sweetheart one more time, I swear I’ll reach through this goddamn phone and strangle you!”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Well, can you blame me if I am? Betrayed by my best friend?”

  Deedee’s voice was low. “I’m not the one doing the betraying, am I? Not really. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you, Angela, but I think you ought to turn that mirror around, I really do.”

  The rage was like burning coals held to the tips of her fingers. Peel back her skin and there’d be nothing but red.

  “My God,” she said, “you never knew me at all. All these years I thought you knew me, and you didn’t, you’re just like every other fucking Princeton matron with her head stuck up her hairless ass. To think I confided in you and you’re nothing but a —”

  “You take care, honey. You take care of yourself.”

  And with that, Deedee was gone.

  Angela thought of throwing the phone and the satisfaction there would be in the heave and shatter of it, but she could not throw the phone. She thought of throwing the wineglass and the delightful shriek it would make as it exploded in splinters against the wall. She put both the phone and the glass on the counter, carefully, softly, as if afraid they might fling themselves into oblivion. Her hands were shaking. She slapped them flat-palmed against the granite, hard enough to make her palms sting. Twice she slapped them and cried out each time — short, amputated, guttural noises.

  She picked up the phone again and picked up the glass and drained it.

  “Yes, hello?”

  “Carsten, I just talked to Deedee. You wouldn’t believe what she said to me.”

  “Can I call you back please, in a few minutes? I am with a client just now.”

  “Fuck.” She had started to cry. “Call me right back, okay?”

  “Yes, yes, in just a small while.”

  She needed music. That would help. She went into the living room, picked up the Bluetooth speaker from the bookshelf and brought it back to the kitchen. The press of a playlist and Annie Lennox’s voice filled the room, begging for the world to make it rain. Better. Angela would start to cook until Carsten called back. She opened a cupboard, meaning to find a mini-tart pan, but remembered there was no such thing in this kitchen. It was still, for the moment, a man’s kitchen, with only the basics. She would buy more cooking utensils. But for now, what to do, if she wanted to make these blackberry-and-brie tarts. The short answer was that she wouldn’t. She could make little galettes. She grabbed a cookie sheet. The dough was still frozen. She’d have to wait.

  She had nothing to do. Why didn’t he call back?

  She poured another glass of wine and went out the back door, carrying the speaker with her, to sit on the porch beneath the trumpet vine on one of the cast-iron chairs. The music changed. Patty Griffin. Let him fly, she sang. It was lovely here, in the shade. A hummingbird hovered above her head, dipping into the long, nectar-filled flower of the trumpet vine. She wondered if she could talk Carsten into putting in a small pond. A water feature would be wonderful.

  Why didn’t he call back?

  Maybe he was on his way home.

  She texted him. When are you coming back?

  Fifteen minutes later he had not texted back.

  Something told her she mustn’t bother him too much. He was, she knew, a man who did not enjoy drama. He enjoyed pleasure. She would join him in that. Take a bath. Unpack. Back in the kitchen, speaker tucked under her arm, she emptied the bottle of wine into her glass, took another from the under-counter rack and popped it in the fridge.

  Upstairs, in the bathroom she had designed, she lounged in the tub. Opera arias spilled from the speaker. The air was scented with ylang-ylang and jasmine, from the bath salts she had bought. She noticed her toothbrush hanging in the holder beside the bevel-edged mirror over the sink and thought how silly it had been to bring her own. Of course she had a toothbrush here already. This was the home she had been making with Carsten, even if they hadn’t come right out and said such a thing to each other. Her taste. The furniture, the tiles, the bedding, even, that she’d picked out. She sank her head beneath the water and listened to the nothingness, besides the faint bass from the speaker (like a heartbeat). Her eyes were closed. She floated for a moment … then, broke the surface again like a mermaid, hair slicked back. Her hand ran along her thighs from knee to groin. Softly, feather touches in the water. No, she would not masturbate. She would save herself, her energy, for Carsten tonight. She imagined herself astride him, his cock deep inside her, rocking, his hands on her ass, her breasts …

  Oh, she had better get out of this water, and keep busy.

  She had left her suitcase in the bedroom. Now she berated herself for not having packed something sexy. Never mind. She drew on her jeans (no underwear) and pulled one of Carsten’s shirts from the armoire, holding it to her nose first to breathe in his scent. What, after all, was sexier than a woman in a man’s shirt with nothing underneath. It was best not to try too hard. She would be casual, a little bed-rumpled, and completely at ease. She flung herself across the sturdy oak bed, rolling, luxuriating on the top of the fluffy, white comforter. The fireplace with the original mirror above it on the mantelpiece made her wish it was winter. A fire, and her lying naked before it, would be the perfect way to welcome Carsten to their new life.

  Kathleen Battle’s voice came on the speaker, singing, Hush, hush, somebody’s calling my name … slow, swampy, sexy. She remembered being at one of her concerts at the Lincoln Center years ago with Philip. Battle sauntered onto stage in a curve-defining gossamer dress of peach silk. Philip, sitting next to Angela, whistled low and said, “Man, does she sing, too?” Angela had been younger then, and had laughed, not at all threatened by the beautiful, talented woman, secure as she was in her own allure. Now? At her age? She knew Philip was an ass to have said such a thing, but an ass she wouldn’t have to worry about any longer.

  She wanted more wine, rose from the bed, and noticed she was just the teeniest bit unsteady as she descended the stairs. Why not? Why not dance with foolishness and joy?

  Why hadn’t he called?

  She wasn’t halfway down the stairs. Back up. Phone, please. And speaker. Music was essential to the New Life.

  Down again … down, down. Kitchen. Wine. No. Why open a new bottle of wine when champagne was waiting? Fuck this cork. Thumbs and thumbs and pressure and … fuck this cork. Try again. Twist and turn and thumbs and POW! Oh, God! It left a mark on the ceiling. Just a small brown smudge, so surely no one would notice. Carsten wouldn’t notice. Forget it. She considered finding a champagne flute, but it was too much trouble. The wineglass, oh, such a pretty glass, would be excellent.

  And now, what music? She looked at the iTunes playlist possibilities. Tried hip-hop. Jesus. No. Tried “Sexy This Second,” a playlist by Victoria’s Secret of all things. She knew that one would be laughable. Then … “Sexy Smooth Voices.” S
ade. Erykah Badu. Corrine Bailey Rae. Women, sexy women. “Paradise.” Yes, that was it. She swayed around the kitchen as “Paradise” morphed into Badu’s “Window Seat.” Sway and roll.

  She checked her phone again. Come on, Carsten.

  She had to talk to someone sympathetic, and who was left? Which friend? Deedee? Ha. She could call her back, but for what reason? Would she humble herself? She would not. Champagne bubbles fizzled against her nose. Who? Who? Who?

  Sister Eileen. A mad idea? Perhaps. But hadn’t the nun practically begged her to confide? She had. And she was a nun. Spiritual guidance.

  She called.

  Voice mail. “Um, Sister Eileen? This is Angela. Look, I’m having a pretty scary day. I’d really love to talk. It looks like my life is breaking open. I’ve left Philip. Can you call me as soon as possible? Thanks. Really. Thanks.”

  On the Find My Friends app, it looked like Carsten wasn’t any closer to coming home. What the hell was wrong with him?

  She checked to see where Connor was. It took a minute to load. Yes, there he was, in some town called Menthon St. Bernard, beside Lac d’Annecy. She wanted to see pictures. It dawned on her she hadn’t packed her laptop. This was a jolt to her gut. What was on the computer? Had she left emails for Carsten? She didn’t think so. Everything was on her phone. But she wanted to see where Connor was. Not on the small screen of the phone. Where was Carsten’s computer?

  Her phone rang and her heart leapt, but no, not Carsten. Sister Eileen.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Eileen. What’s happening? Are you all right?”

  She picked up the champagne and drank. “No, I don’t think I am, or yes, maybe I’m exactly as I should be, but it’s a mess and I’m alone.”

  “Where are you? I’m at the Pantry, but if you wanted to come over later, I’d love to see you.”

  “No, no. But it’s been a hell of a day and what time is it now? Barely after two.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Philip and I had a fight this morning and he knows about Carsten. I left him.”

  “You left him?”

  “I sure did.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “At Carsten’s.” That sounded wrong. It wasn’t just Carsten’s, it was hers, too. It was. “I have my things here. I’m going to stay here.”

  “But are you all right? You sound …”

  “How should I be? This is so confusing. I should be happy, right, but Carsten won’t come home, and he should, don’t you think? I mean this is big. It changes everything.”

  “It does. I agree. Where’s Carsten?”

  “He says he’s at work.”

  “Do you have reason to doubt that?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. Of course, he’s at work, but if it was me, I’d come right away. I mean, I’m hurt. I am. I know it was me who was having the affair, but it’s a big deal and I want support. He should understand that. I checked on my phone, you know that friend-finder thing, and he’s where he said he would be, but why doesn’t he come back?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  It was possible she wasn’t making a great deal of sense. It was possible she was slurring just a little. She wondered if she might ask Eileen to come over, but then what if Carsten came home, would he want a nun sitting around consoling her? Judgment, oh, judgment, how it scalded. The wren sang from her nest and the song was so exultant, so carefree.

  “You don’t have to worry about me. Or you do. But I mean, I didn’t have anyone to call and did I tell you it was my friend, Deedee, who told Philip? How does anyone deal with that kind of betrayal?”

  Even as she said this, she had a stab of insight. It was stupid, the betrayer complaining about being betrayed. What Deedee had said.

  “No, Eileen, that’s not what I mean. Well, I do, but it’s separate, isn’t it? I mean, I couldn’t live with Philip anymore; it wasn’t fair to him or me, but I don’t know what’s going to happen now. There will be so much paperwork and lawyers and I know it’s going to be awful.”

  “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself. Can you calm down a little?”

  “I am calm. More or less.” She held the champagne glass to her forehead. The bath had made her hot, and she felt flushed. The glass was cool.

  “You’ll have to take things one at a time, won’t you? You’re by yourself now, and maybe that’s not a bad thing. I think you need to be still. To centre yourself. You know the contemplative prayer practice, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Meditation? I did meditation at yoga.”

  “You sit, open yourself to God, consenting to whatever God has in mind.”

  The idea of sitting still for twenty minutes made Angela squirm. She drank more champagne.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I should do that now.” The nun wasn’t going to help her, with her talk of God. She got it, she got it. God in our hour of need, the guidance of God, the solace of God … but right now Angela was about ready to jump out of her skin.

  “Do you think you can do that, then? Connect with God and ask how you can best serve God’s plan for your good and the good of all? Pray for the freedom to choose God’s will?”

  Was there a hint in Eileen’s suggestion that perhaps prayer would cause her to return to Philip, to be the dutiful, self-sacrificing wife?

  “I was really hoping you’d be on my side here, you know? I mean, I was hoping you of all people wouldn’t judge me, would just support me.”

  “Angela, I do support you, of course, and I’m not trying to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, only that, well, can you give some space and consideration to what God might want for you? What God wants is always so much more wonderful than what we want for ourselves.”

  “Okay, sure. I’m going to go pray now. Honestly. No problem. Look, I’ll call you back later, how about that? Tonight, or tomorrow.” Or never, Angela thought.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Completely. I’m actually quite excited about my new life. I hope you’re excited for me.”

  “I love you, Angela.”

  Angela hung up. What had she been thinking calling a nun for support with something like this? Surely Carsten would be on his way home by now. She checked the friend-finder app. He hadn’t moved. What the hell was he doing up there? An image of Carsten flirting with another woman popped into her mind. The way he ran his finger along his lower lip when he listened, his head tilted. Was that something he did only with her, or with other women, as well?

  She finished the champagne. She was being ridiculous. She was the one with her extra toothbrush in the bathroom holder. She was the one who’d picked out the furniture, who’d helped him renovate the place that was now theirs.

  Suddenly she felt quite tired, which was understandable. She looked around the kitchen, noting the pastry dough was thawed. It felt soft and cool and a little sticky under her fingers as she prodded it. No rolling pin, of course. Something else for the list. She fished the empty wine bottle out of the recycling bin and used it to shape the dough on the granite counter. She forgotten to sprinkle flour on the counter first, so it stuck. Didn’t matter. She took a drinking glass out of the cupboard and used it to cut the dough into rounds, then folded an overlapping edge around each one, trying to make them look pretty. She turned the oven on and waited for it to heat up. While she did, she poured herself another glass of champagne, knowing she shouldn’t, but the waiting was making her crazy and it calmed her. She unwrapped the lamb chops, put them in a pan and mixed a marinade of red wine and mint and garlic, then put the meat in the fridge.

  She called Carsten.

  “Angela, I am just about leaving.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour or so, depending on traffic. You are okay?”

  “I will be when you get here. I’m making a fancy dinner. I’m drinking champagne.”

  “Ah, champagne. Well, save some
for me.”

  “I love you.”

  “I will be there soon.”

  And he was gone. Okay. Perhaps she should take a little nap before he got home. She had drunk quite a bit and she should eat something. A peach yoghurt and some bread would do it. She ate and finished the glass of champagne. The oven was ready for the pastry and she popped it in. She would take a nap. Halfway up the stairs she realized she’d forgotten to turn on the timer. Jesus, that would be bad. Burn the house down on the first day she moved in. No way to start their new life. She set the timer on the phone, but it wasn’t long enough for a nap. She’d finish the tarts and then nap.

  Back downstairs. She’d left the back door open, too. Couldn’t do that in this neighbourhood, even if it was the nicest neighbourhood in Trenton, it was still Trenton! She was, she thought, probably more upset that she realized. She closed and locked the door, set the timer, and took it with her into the living room where she lay back on the white tufted sofa and admired the red Beljik rug, which they’d found in a second-hand shop. A simple room, clean and yet already with a lived-in look, a bit wabi-sabi. The rooms of her new life. She would be happy here. She began to drift away but the alarm pinged, and she rose, reluctantly, and returned to the kitchen to finish the tarts.

  Cool the pastry, add the bits of brie, the dab of blackberry jam. Oh, they were pretty things. According to her phone, Carsten was about half an hour away, maybe less. No time for a nap, then. It was midafternoon. The sun had shifted to the west, but the kitchen was still bright and now smelled delicious from the pastry. She realized she had to eat more as her stomach rolled and she quickly fixed some granola and milk. Something to sop up the booze. She should have bought flowers, she thought, and went into the back garden to pick some hydrangeas. Oh, beautiful things! Some blue, some pink. She gathered an armful and put them into a big old ceramic vase, setting it on the island. She realized she’d drank more than half the bottle of champagne. Well, that was all right, but she wasn’t sure she wanted Carsten to know she’d also drunk the partial bottle of wine in the fridge. She took the bottle out to the recycling bin standing in the laneway.