There’s a square of loose-leaf paper folded many times. It reminds me of a note passed in high school study hall. The edges of the paper are ripped fringe. I unfold the paper and read:
My dear Jack: This has been the best summer of my life. Remember that I ♥ you. I’ll wait. Karen.
I fold the note carefully back into a small square, just as I found it. (Why am I doing this?) I’m numb. This note makes it real, right down to the heart she put in the word “love” where the “o” goes. I met Karen Bell. She was no rival! What would my husband see in her when he had me? My ego makes a valiant effort, but it’s not long before it gives way to despair and self-loathing. I feel the numbness leave me and the anger set in. I am so furious I could destroy this house, burn it to the ground and not look back. It’s dangerous for me to be inside. I have to get out of here.
I look around for my keys to the Jeep. I usually leave them on the front table. When I can’t find them, I begin to tear the house apart. I find myself ripping the cushions off of the sofa, then turning over the straight-backed chairs, then opening the cabinets in the kitchen, shoving out their contents—glass smashes, jars of jelly and cans of spices and boxes of rice shower the floor like rain. I go into my bedroom and rip off the coverlet, the sheets, and I tear the feather pillows apart; I’m sweating, soaked to the skin, and so angry that I cry out. I lift the mattress off the bed and shove it to the floor. What am I looking for? I am losing my mind. Where are those keys? I hear a deafening screech inside my ears, one so loud, I would stab myself to stop the noise.
“What are you doing?” A voice cuts through the pounding in my head. Jack stands in the doorway of our bedroom.
“You, you … I hate you!”
“What’s going on?” he says, his voice breaking. I’ve caught him, and he knows it.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth!”
“What are you talking about?” Now he has the look of a gentle person, a look that tells me he doesn’t want to hurt me with the truth or anything else.
“You … you.” I fish around my pockets—where did I put that letter? I find it and take it out and carefully, like a judge, unfold the clue. “Look. Look right here. You love this woman!”
“Ave. Listen to me.”
“Why? You’re a liar. You’re just going to lie to me. I want these mattresses out of here. You fucked her all summer right here in this room. In our bed. Where my children were. How could you do that? I will hate you until the day I die.”
I shove past him, out of the bedroom and to the front door. Suddenly, in the first moment of clarity I’ve had since I found that note, I remember where my keys are. I left them in the Jeep.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t talk to me,” I tell him. I run to the Jeep. I feel him behind me. I get into the driver’s seat. He reaches in and tries to pull me out of the Jeep. He has me by the waist. I swing my legs out and begin kicking him, and I’m grateful for my strong legs as I fend him off. He tries to control my kicks, but he cannot.
“You made your choice. Now go to her. Go on. Go!” He steps back. I turn the key and throw the Jeep in reverse. Before he can make another move, I am down the mountain. I don’t look back.
It’s a long drive to Knoxville, Tennessee. Even longer when you don’t have any money. I left my purse in Cracker’s Neck Holler. Thank God I have an emergency gas card taped to the bottom of the driver’s seat. As I pay the man for the gas, I ask him if I can charge some food on the card. He shrugs. So I go through the Quik Mart and buy pretzels and Diet Coke, two apples, a cup of coffee, and a bottle of Tylenol for my throbbing head.
The road to Knoxville is a straightaway into the hills of Tennessee. I am glad I don’t have to think too much as I drive. I go about eighty miles an hour. I hope a cop stops me. Have I got a story for him.
I feel oddly relieved after my tantrum, almost exhilarated. The pain and rage gave way to endorphins that pulse through my system, soothing me. Iva Lou was right. I had my defenses up; my lack of feeling about my husband’s affair was just a facade. There’s a lot inside me that I haven’t addressed. The worst part is the realization that my husband is not the man I thought he was. I thought he loved me so much that there wasn’t room for Karen Bell or any other woman to wheedle in and take him. How pathetic he looked when I told him I knew. There is no worse face in the world, the face of a man who gave it all away. I’ll never forget it.
My marriage is over. It’s sad, but it isn’t nearly as sad as losing Joe. I instantly compare the two, because now, and for the last three years, everything is measured against that loss. I can’t help it. And I realize that everything I’ve done since Joe’s death has been busywork. My strategy has been to keep myself occupied until I can be with my son again. I can fill up my life with work and games and trips and even have moments when seeing Joe again isn’t the only thing I think about; but as surely as I am diverted, the thought comes back. The ache of my loss never stops. It is as real to me as my breathing.
I find Theodore’s house quickly (I’m surprised; my sense of direction is usually terrible). It’s late. Thank God there’s a light on. I knock on the door. Theodore looks out the window; when he sees it’s me, he comes to the door and flings it open.
“What’s wrong?”
“Jack has another woman. That woman I told you about. From the Halloween Carnival. It’s all true.”
“Come in.”
The second I enter Theodore’s living room, I am better. I need to be around things that are familiar and someone I can count on. I love his home. It smells like him. The same albums that he had in his log cabin in Big Stone Gap line the bookshelves. The same couch. The same coffee table. The same easy chair. Nothing has changed. I enter a safe realm when I’m with Theodore, the one constant in my life.
“You look like a banshee.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“What?”
“I don’t have my purse.”
“You just left?”
I nod.
“Does Jack Mac know where you are?”
“No.”
“We should call him and tell him you’re safe.”
“I don’t know Karen Bell’s phone number.” I burst into tears and throw myself on the futon.
“That’s her name?” Theodore hands me the box of Kleenex. “That’s a crappy name.”
The way Theodore says “crappy” makes me laugh. Great. I’m laughing and crying, just like the head case this whole ordeal has turned me into. “I’m not calling him.”
“But what about Etta?”
“She’s spending the night with her friend Tara. It’s Tara’s birthday.”
Theodore picks up the phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling your house. Okay? Just let me call your house.”
I’m too tired to put up a fight. I hear Theodore tell Jack that I am here, and then there’s a long time when Theodore listens and doesn’t talk. Great. Jack is telling him the whole sordid tale. Is my husband including the fact that his girlfriend coats herself in Man Tan? She is inappropriately bronzata in seasons that she should not be. Theodore hangs up the phone.
“Well, now I know his side.”
“I left the clue in the house!” I tell him, sitting up.
“What clue?”
“The letter. She wrote him a letter, told him she loved him and was waiting for him.”
“Honey, you found a letter she wrote—not one he wrote. That’s her side of things. She may be in love with him, but he’s not in love with her.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“And you believe him? Wake up. He has a girlfriend. He’s had her a long time—and he spent the summer with her. How much proof do you need?”
“I know. I get it. It sounds like the plot of a bad Connie Francis movie, not that there ever was a bad one. Let’s say your husband had an affair this summer, and now it’s over. Now, I don’t know what ‘affai
r’ means to him—maybe they just talked about it, or fooled around a little, or maybe even a lot. But that doesn’t matter now. It’s over. He wants you to come home.”
“Just like that.”
“Well, not ‘just like that,’ but yeah, he wants you to come home and work through this with him.”
“Theodore, why are you so calm?”
“Because you’re a lunatic.”
“What? Excuse me, please! Could somebody be on my side? I’m the one who’s been cheated on!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Poor you.”
“Theodore!”
“You tore up pillows—he’s spent the past four hours trying to gather up goose feathers.”
“Too bad.”
“You love him. Why put yourselves through this?”
“Because I’m right. I’ve been true.”
“Let me tell you about men.” Theodore sits down next to me.
“I don’t want to talk about men.”
“All right, then, let’s talk about the Man. The American guy over in Italy that you were dancing with. And then you spent how many day trips with him. And meals and so on. What about him?”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“I resisted!”
“Really?”
“Yes. I have morals. Principles. I could’ve done whatever I wanted, but I didn’t—out of respect for my marriage!”
“I’m so impressed. So you’re rolling around the Alps with a guy from New Jersey. And your husband is home because he disinvited himself and you didn’t beg him to reconsider; and he reaches out to someone while you’re gone—and you’re mad at him?”
“How many times do I have to tell you: I didn’t have sex with Pete!”
“But you wanted to.”
“That’s not the same as doing it!”
“Thank you for that clarification.” Theodore gets up and goes to the kitchen. I follow him. “Now, we don’t know if Jack had sex with Sharon. Karen Bell.”
“My husband likes a lot of sex. Okay?”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“And we haven’t been having any. I got back from Italy and nothing. Nothing. I mean nothing.”
“Let’s put this in perspective, shall we?” Theodore sounds like the professor that he is. “You’re tired. And you’re hurt. And you’re angry. And you’re—”
“Betrayed.”
“Betrayed. But what you aren’t is honest.”
“What? I am so honest!”
“You’re not. You think that you’re allowed to go off and have a summer romance, consummated or not, and that’s your own private domain. But you expect Jack to stay home and do the chores and be loyal and wait for you to go through whatever it is you’re going through, and then you come home and he gets the great privilege of being your husband again. If he didn’t have a Karen Bell, you would have to leave him.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t have a man at home. You’d have a doormat. You want to cut off his balls, and then when you do, you’re mad at him because he’s not man enough.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How dare you treat him poorly for years and expect him to take it? I’m surprised he hasn’t slept with half of Big Stone Gap. At least he chose a woman in Coeburn—it’s hard for gossip to travel uphill. He tried not to embarrass you, and whatever he did, he ended it when you came home. So what do you want?”
“I want …”
“You don’t know, do you?”
I don’t. (But I damn sure know that if I ever rip up the house in Cracker’s Neck Holler again, the last place I’m coming for comfort is here.)
“You know, that wedding ring doesn’t have magical powers. It doesn’t give you license to be cruel, and it can’t keep you faithful. You believe you’re allowed to act in whatever ugly way you choose because you have a lifetime guarantee that he’s not going anywhere. You can abuse Jack, but by God, you’re married for keeps. You think you’re a woman of substance and commitment and high morals, but you’re the worst kind of phony.”
“How can you say something like that to me? You know me.”
“Right. I know you, and you didn’t have sex with that Pete character because you were afraid you weren’t good enough. You knew he’d have sex with you and figure out that you’re just like every other lay with a smart, good-looking woman—it’s lots of fun in the moment but no staying power beyond the thrill. You wanted him to want you, and you led him on, with no intention of delivering the goods. You owe that guy an apology too.”
I curl up into a ball of shame on the futon. Theodore is right.
“Now I’m tired. There’s a nightgown in the top drawer of the bureau in your room. You left it here last time you visited. Go to bed.”
Theodore goes off to his bedroom and closes the door. I hear him turn on the television. A panel of light under the door flashes and changes as the muffled voices and canned laugh track play through. I stretch out on the futon on the floor and cry. I won’t sleep tonight. I don’t want to.
The ride back from Knoxville goes way too fast. I stay within the speed limit. I guess I’m trying to drag out the trip. I wish it would take a week to get home. But it doesn’t. It takes me exactly three hours. Since I left at dawn, I will be home long before Etta returns from her sleepover this afternoon.
Jack’s truck is parked in its usual spot next to the house. I park the Jeep and sit in it for a while. I hear the creak of the screen door. Shoo the Cat has pushed the door open and comes running out onto the porch. He lifts his head and sniffs the breeze. Then he looks over at me like I’m crazy for sitting in the Jeep. He’s never seen me do this. You park and get out. But he’s never seen Ave Maria the Coward before. I’m not mad at Theodore for being honest with me, but maybe I didn’t want to own up to what a terrible person I’ve been. Shame is keeping me in this Jeep.
Maybe I thought my life would settle down and take care of itself naturally. Iva Lou’s words ring in my head: “What’s your plan, what’s your plan?” I should have known I needed a plan. I have to work for everything I get, normalcy and routine included. So I throw my legs of lead out of the Jeep and climb the stairs and go in.
The house is orderly. I can still smell the spices I spilled all over the kitchen floor; the scent of cumin and cinnamon lingers in the deep cracks of the old wood. I walk into the kitchen, which has been put back together in perfect order. I turn and look into our bedroom, which is neat. The bed is made, with the exception of pillows. There are no pillows. I’ll have to buy new ones. No way to put the old ones back together again.
I go through the kitchen and out the sun porch and into the field behind our house. Jack is there in the yard, stacking firewood in that way he does, where it looks artistic, like a latticework fence. He looks up at me. He stops his work. I know I have to make a decision, and whatever I do in this moment will determine the fate of our marriage. Now that I have been honest with myself (thank you, Theodore), there is no turning back. I have to be clear. Other lives are involved here. My daughter’s. My husband’s. Our extended family.
I wish I had a picture in my mind of what I think marriage ought to be. The old movies never helped; those people were always happy. And my mother and Fred Mulligan’s marriage was so cold, I knew long before he wasn’t my real father that mine should not be like theirs. And for a girl, now a woman, who never thought she’d marry, to be in the thick of one is surreal.
I realize now that I have not chosen this. Jack MacChesney chose me; and never once, in all these years, have I chosen him. Of course, I said yes when he wanted to marry me. But I said yes because he asked, not because I really chose. How must it have been for him, all these years of trying to please me? Of hoping every day that this would be the one that Ave Maria would choose him? But I never did. I loved him, no question. And his babies came through me and into the world. But never once did I choose him. Not really.
This field that used to
overwhelm me looks like a small patch of grass. The mountains shrink back into small mounds of dirt that disappear into the wet earth. And the sky, tacked up like a pale blue sheet, looks temporary. The only eternal things are what we choose. The things we would die for. What would I die for? My children, yes. But would I die for Jack MacChesney? I walk across the field to him. He looks at me. I sit on his pretty fence of firewood. I rehearsed so many ways to tell him what he means to me on the ride back from Knoxville, but now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.
“I’m sorry I trashed the house.” This is my opener?
“I had a hard time getting up the rice. It took me the better part of the day to sweep it up. How was your trip?”
“Weird.”
“Ave, do you want to know what happened?” Jack is speaking of Karen Bell, I assume.
“No,” I tell him.
“I can tell you,” he offers.
“No, honey. That’s yours. That’s not mine.” The only strategy I have, the only one I know for sure I must stick to, is that I mustn’t have real pictures of the two of them together in my mind. Those pictures would make it impossible for me to go forward. This much I know about myself.
My husband sits down next to me. We sit there a very long time.
“Jack. What should we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“Well, I guess most of the time, I wish you could take my pain away,” I tell him.
“I can’t do that.”
“I know.”
“If you want me to go, I will. You can have everything. This house. But I want Etta half of the year. That would be the only thing I would want,” he says quietly.
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“Because I can’t bear to see you like this.”
“You really love me, don’t you?” I take his hand.
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s always been amazing to me, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“That love you’ve always had for me. I never could quite believe it.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I never thought I deserved it. And maybe because it’s easy for me not to feel. It worked so well for me all of my life. You married a real cold cookie.”
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