The members of the cluster looked to her, and the loss of their attention momentarily cut Bob off. Amanda pinched her husband’s arm in the universal marital code that indicated, I’m ready to go.
Bob did not move. Instead he said, “Oh, this is my wife, Amanda.”
“Hello, Amanda. We haven’t had the chance to say hello yet this evening.” Brian Saunders, Christine’s husband, leaned over to kiss her lightly on the cheek. He was a pleasant, golf-shirted man with whom Amanda had never exchanged more than three sentences of conversation. He introduced her to the group, including the Fenshaws again, who all turned back to Bob, eager to hear him finish his sentence.
“I’m sorry, Bob, but I’m really quite tired. Do you mind? …”
“In a minute,” Bob replied stubbornly.
“I really think—”
“Oh, I’m tired, too,” announced Janet Fenshaw, with a knowing look at Amanda.
“About time we thought about heading out, too,” one of the men said to his wife, catching on. He began patting his pockets for his keys.
Bob saw his audience dissolve.
“Let’s go now,” Amanda insisted, and to her surprise Bob turned suddenly docile. He followed her to the front door, where their hostess was waving good-bye to the couples who had preceded them. Amanda thanked her, and Christine hugged them both. “Hang in there, Bob. We’re all rooting for you … except my husband, of course. He’s annoyed about the stock.”
“You better let me drive,” Amanda said when they reached their car. Bob surrendered the keys without a word.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you out of there.” She started the ignition. “You—you were going to say something you’d regret.”
“I’m not exactly the one with that problem, am I?”
Amanda absorbed the blow as she had the others. She pulled out into Christine’s quiet street and began navigating the familiar route home while trying out different retorts in her head. I wasn’t the one staring down Christine’s dress. No, that was not going to be helpful.
Bob switched on the radio and fumbled with the buttons until he found the news. Amanda never thought she would be so happy to hear a story about homicide. There was not a single word about Megabyte.
“Bob,” Amanda ventured slowly, hopefully, when the news was over and jazz music crackled through the speakers, “I’m as sorry as you are about what’s happened …”
She didn’t dare look at him.
“I know you blame me—and I agree, much of it is my fault, I accept that, but being angry with each other doesn’t help anything. We’ve got to get beyond our anger or it’s going to start affecting our marriage …”
Bob made no reply. They were approaching the entrance to the Beltway, and for the next minute or so Amanda concentrated on merging into the stream of cars.
“Look, I know you’re angry and you probably don’t want to talk about this right now, but I really think we have to—for the sake of our marriage, for the sake of everything.”
Amanda changed lanes and, when the road was clear, glanced sideways at Bob. His face was briefly lit by the oncoming headlights.
He had fallen asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Amanda was sitting in the back garden, watching the children splash in the wading pool, when she heard the screen door open.
“Daddy!”
Bob pulled up one of the deck chairs next to Amanda and greeted the children, not seeming to mind wet handprints all over his suit jacket. Amanda checked her watch—it was only two o’clock.
“What are you doing home?”
He waited until Ben and Sophie had returned to the pool before answering, “It’s worse than I thought.”
Bob unfastened his briefcase and brought out a copy of the current National Standard. On the cover was a cartoon of a saintly-looking Mike Frith lashed to a cross, with ghoulish caricatures of Frank Sussman, Jim Hochmayer, Senator Benson, the attorney general, and the president gathered at the base, rubbing their hands in glee. Just in case the symbolism was lost upon the casual browser, an accompanying headline read: the crucifixion of mike frith: why the administration is out to destroy megabyte.
“Oh no.”
“Look inside.”
She turned to the article—by Cathy O’Toole, naturally—and quickly skimmed the paragraphs. “… Administration captive of Silicon Valley donors, all of whom have an interest in the Justice department handcuffing Frith … abusing the antitrust laws to advance special interests. …”
“Middle column, first page.”
Amanda read:
More evidence of Justice’s cozy relationship with Megabyte competitors emerged just last week. As the Washington Post reported, Bob Clarke—the department bureaucrat who is leading the charge against Frith—invited Jim Hochmayer to his house for dinner to plot strategy the night before Hochmayer’s testimony at the Senate hearings. According to the Wall Street Journal, sources inside Justice insist Clarke is a loose cannon driven by ideological hatred of Megabyte. Clarke is reported to be acting in cahoots with the famously loony Silicon Valley lawyer Sherwood J. Pressman, who has long pressured the DOJ to take antitrust action against his clients’ formidable competitor. But this explanation sounds suspiciously like department higher-ups trying to take cover. There is no way the Megabyte case could have advanced so far without support from the top: not just from Sussman and the attorney general, but also from the president himself. Jack Chasen, CEO of TalkNet, and Jim Hochmayer are golfing buddies of the president—and both of them contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars in soft money. …
Amanda looked up. “But they’re saying it’s not you.”
“Yeah, great. That really helps me. It’s only my boss, who is a pawn of big donors and the president, and who feels the need to trash me anonymously in the Wall Street Journal.”
“But Frank knows this is all partisan garbage! That they’re blowing the dinner out of proportion—”
Bob took back the magazine and rolled it up. “Yes, of course he does. I’m sure that’s why he told me to take the rest of the week off work.”
He stood, ignoring Amanda’s stunned expression.
“I better go change my clothes.”
Bob did not descend again until dinner. He wore a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. Amanda had set the table in the kitchen. She emptied a pot of spaghetti into a bowl and tossed it with some tomato sauce from a jar. Sophie and Ben began eating eagerly. Amanda helped herself before pushing the bowl over to Bob.
“Did you know, Daddy, that nobody’s ever seen a giant squid?” Ben asked.
“Really?” Amanda replied, when Bob did not.
“Yup. They live too deep in the ocean.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“From my Sea Monsters book.”
“That’s very good, Ben.”
“Daddy, guess what a giant squid likes to eat?”
Bob was picking at the pasta but not really eating it. “I don’t know, Ben. What?”
“Thpaghetti?” guessed Sophie.
Ben shot her a contemptuous look. “No. Dead sharks.”
“Huh.” Bob stood up. “I’m going to catch the news.”
“Thpagetti ith my favorite food.”
“Have some more, sweetie.”
Amanda’s eyes followed Bob as she cut Sophie’s second helping into manageable strands. It was one thing for Bob to be angry with her, but why must he take his anger out upon the children?
“Could you take us to the museum tomorrow, Mommy?” Ben asked. “The one where they have the giant whale?”
“Gosh, Ben, we’ve got some errands to do.”
“I’m bored of errands.”
A thought occurred to Amanda. “Perhaps Daddy could take you. He’s going to be home this week.”
“He is?” Sophie’s tomato-splattered face burst into a smile.
“Yes. Daddy is having a little summer vacation.”
She watched
her words carry over to Bob. He was on his way to the stairs, but he stopped to register them with a look that said, Thanks a lot.
“Could you take us swimming, too, Daddy?” Ben asked.
“Maybe.”
“Yay!”
Ben and Sophie charged off after their father, who was muttering that he’d missed the top of the news. Amanda finished cleaning up the dishes. She heard the children’s excited yells drown out the low intonations of the newscast, but she could not make out anything Bob said except for an irritated command to “stop jumping on the bed!” Amanda lingered downstairs after she had dried the last glass, reading a magazine until it was time to give the children their baths. This was usually Bob’s job, but when she didn’t hear the taps switch on by eight o’clock she went up to do it herself. Their bedroom door was shut, and Ben was playing with Sophie in his room.
Amanda bathed the children and tucked them into bed. She ran a tub for herself and soaked for an hour in a fruity bubble bath, her toes idly fidgeting with the taps. By the time Amanda padded into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, the television was switched off. Bob was asleep in his shorts. His light was still on; a book rested on his chest. The tension had drained from his face, and he appeared far away, untroubled by anything but the brightness of the lamp, which caused him to twitch unconsciously. Amanda turned off the light and stole around the room like an intruder, removing her pajamas from a drawer and slipping into her side of the bed unnoticed. Delicately she removed the book from Bob’s chest and placed it on her table. So long as he lay still, she could bear to share the room with him. But she did not know how much longer she could stand to share the house with him awake.
“Christ, Amanda,” Bob complained the next morning. “I don’t exactly feel like going to the museum.”
He stood by the refrigerator in his robe, holding a cup of coffee. Amanda had risen early and was already dressed.
“You promised the children—”
“You promised them.”
“Well, they’re expecting to go. I’ve got errands to do. I’ve got to go to the grocery store. I was going to pick up the vacuum from the repair shop. A dozen stupid things like that. Frankly I’d appreciate the time without Ben and Sophie tagging along. It takes me twice as long.”
They were facing each other with about eight feet of space between them. Bob took a long sip from his mug, and said nothing.
“Besides”—Amanda proceeded cautiously—“I thought it might be nice for you to spend time with the kids. It might … be distracting. I know they want to spend time with you.”
“I’m just not up for their company, that’s all.” Bob turned his back to her to pour himself another cup of coffee. She glared after him.
“Then whose company are you up for?” Amanda exploded. “You’re not up for mine. Now you’re telling me you’re not up for your children’s company? Honestly, Bob, I’m at a loss. What else are you going to do around here all day except stare at the wall and feel sorry for yourself?”
Bob leaned on the counter, with the hand that had been gripping the mug now clenched in a fist. His body was rigid except for his head, which nodded in a knowing way as if to say, This is exactly what I expected from you all along.
At that moment the telephone rang. Neither of them made a motion to answer it. Amanda counted the rings until voice mail intercepted the call. But the rings only started up again—someone was determined to reach them. Amanda brushed past Bob to answer it, and a glimpse of his face told her that her decision had lowered his opinion of her one more notch.
“Amanda, thank God you’re there. It’s Susie.”
She had not spoken to Susie since “The Ear” incident. Immediately she regretted picking up the phone.
“Yes?” Amanda said neutrally, as if she were speaking to a phone solicitor.
“Look, can I come over this morning? I have to talk to you.”
“Today would not be good. I’ll be out.”
Amanda looked over at Bob; he was staring out the window above the sink.
“Where are you going? Maybe we could meet for a coffee?” Susie had not detected anything untoward in her tone, but that hardly came as a surprise.
“Possibly,” Amanda relented.
“What about the Coffee Hut near you? Ten o’clock?”
“That will be fine. Good-bye.”
Amanda gathered her purse and keys from the kitchen table. Her hands were trembling.
“I’m going now,” she informed the terry-cloth expanse of Bob’s back. “I’ll be home later.”
Amanda paused for a reaction, but when none came she carried on, out the front door.
Halfway down the walk, Amanda realized she had walked out without the shopping list. Well, she sure wasn’t going back in for it.
It was already blazing hot; the street was empty and quiet except for the rattle of cicadas. The heat from the interior of the car hit her face like a blast furnace. She rolled down the windows, expecting to see Bob come chasing after her. The front door remained shut. She drove the few short blocks to the Coffee Hut, feeling lighter and happier the farther she got from her house. Let Bob see what it’s like to be depressed and to have to entertain children. Let him for once have a taste of my life.
By the time she found parking, Amanda was as giddy as a sailor on shore leave. For once the day held unscripted possibilities. For the next few hours at least, she was unshackled—she’d shed the Velcro monkeys!
Her spirits were dampened only by the sight of Susie slumped over a cappuccino at a tall round table at the back of the café. As Amanda stood in line, waiting to pick up a coffee for herself, she realized that she had only begun to reckon how furious she was with her so-called friend. Amanda had heard from Susie only once during the turmoil of the past week—a perfunctory phone message left the day of “The Ear” column, in which Susie had expressed surprise that the reporter had written a different item from the one Susie expected. But she had not apologized. She had not even expressed any interest in how the item might have affected Amanda and Bob. Amanda suspected, in fact, from the edge of defiance in Susie’s voice, that Susie was inwardly quite pleased; the item had, after all, achieved exactly what Susie wanted it to achieve, which was public acknowledgment of her relationship with Hochmayer.
Amanda half hoped that Susie’s urgent call today had been prompted by belated remorse. But as Amanda approached Susie’s table, she saw immediately that her friend was cocooned inside her own bubble of misery. She barely looked up when Amanda sat down.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So what’s up?”
“I—I needed to see you. Oh Amanda, it’s just been so bad.” Susie raised her eyes piteously, and had Amanda not been so exasperated she might have warmed with sympathy. But Amanda’s first thought was how tired and drawn her friend appeared. Susie’s beauty for once provided no protective mask against her inner distress. There were fresh, small lines around her eyes and mouth. Her usually golden complexion had gone flat; she had pulled her hair back into a limp bun rather than bother with styling it.
“Yes, it has been bad. For everyone.”
Susie went on, heedlessly. “Jim’s not returning my calls. He left town after the hearings. I tried him on his plane, his cell …”
“You didn’t call him at home?”
“No—” Susie hesitated. “Well, I did, but he wasn’t there.”
“Who answered?”
“Just the housekeeper. She said they had gone away for a couple of weeks.”
“Thank God. Is it possible he didn’t see ‘The Ear’?”
“Somehow I doubt it. I’m sure someone would have brought it to his attention. It’s not like Jim not to call or return my messages or—not to tell me he’s leaving town. What am I going to do?”
“What is there to do?”
For the first time Susie seemed to register Amanda’s impatience. But rather than grow defensive, which was her customary reaction to anything le
ss than total agreement, Susie simply looked wounded.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I should write to him, to let him know how I feel—and remind him of some of the things he said to me.”
“Amanda returned Susie’s hurt look with one of amazement. “And what would that accomplish?”
“He might call.”
“Or not. And I think the likelihood is not. Susie, don’t you see that he doesn’t want to call you? That by making this public you embarrassed him? He obviously didn’t want his adultery exposed—”
“Don’t call it that,” Susie replied, eyes flashing. “That’s such an ugly word. And it wasn’t like that. Jim—Jim said he could honestly imagine falling in love with me. That he was falling in love with me.”
Amanda was too disgusted to enter into a debate over the nuances of Hochmayer’s feelings. She only felt foolish for being drawn—once more!—into Susie’s emotional shell game.
“Okay, call it what you like. But I’d appreciate it if you could manage to leave other people out of it this time.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean like us. Bob and me.”
“You? How does this affect you?”
“Susie, where have you been? Have you thought at all about what that ‘Ear’ column did to Bob? Did you see the Wall Street Journal editorial? Did you hear Mike Frith’s testimony at the hearings? It’s on the fucking cover of the National Standard!”
“I don’t read that magazine.” Susie took a sip of her coffee and glanced about as if she were afraid Amanda was making a scene.
Amanda lowered her voice. “Well maybe you should—this week anyway. Bob might lose his job.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Susie said, disbelieving. “There was nothing in that ‘Ear’ column that could possibly cause that. I’m the one who’s been hurt by it.”
Amanda traced a pattern of swirls on the table in a bit of spilled foam. “Yes. Yes, you have been hurt by it. But so have we. And so has Jim. And so has his wife. Why don’t you think about her?” She slammed her hand down. “I’ve got to go.”
For the second time that morning, Amanda found herself walking out on someone.
Amanda Bright @ Home Page 20