by Nancy Thayer
Daphne had been having a good chat with Pauline but she kept her eye on Laura as she talked, to see if Laura was hitting it off with any of the men. Otto and Sonya fortunately had not been invited, but several attractive single men had.
When Pauline went off to check on the caterers, Daphne went searching for Laura. Laura seemed to be on her way outside toward Joe, no doubt looking for Daphne.
This is ridiculous—Laura shouldn’t spend all her time with Joe and me just because she feels safe, Daphne thought. I must get her to mingle. She relies on us too much.
The backyard and patio were not lighted, because the evening was so chilly that Pauline thought everyone would want to stay inside. But several couples and groups were standing around in the dark, talking in low voices or smoking. Joe was leaning against the side of the house, looking out at the dark garden, drink in hand.
Laura, her wineglass in her left hand, approached Joe and slowly slid her right hand around Joe’s waist, up under his shirt.
“Hello, Asshole,” Laura said, laughing her low luxurious laugh.
“Christ, Laura, not here!” Joe said. He put his arm around her shoulder and steered her around the corner of the house, out of Daphne’s sight.
It was as if she had been struck by lightning. Daphne stood unmoving, both hands pressing against her belly, where the bolt of knowledge had speared in with its electric shock. She had dropped her drink, but the glass had landed on the grass at her feet and did not break.
There had been moments like this before, moments when she knew that from this point on her life would be completely changed. Horrible moments: when her father told his family he was dying of cancer. Miraculous moments: Cynthia’s birth. It was as if the physical absorbed the knowledge before the understanding could take it all in, and one was left with a numbed mind and a rubbery body, poor flash-struck thing, containing the jagged terror.
Was it possible that she had told Laura about Joe’s hemorrhoid? But, no. Never. Joe was such a privacy maniac that he would have been furious if Daphne had told anyone. Well, then, could Joe have told Laura, casually? He had scarcely been able to talk to the doctor about it; he couldn’t have told Laura unless they were intimate.
“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Hudson Jennings was standing next to her.
Daphne looked up at the tall, slender, elegant man with his beautiful brown long-lashed eyes. She must be giving off vibrations, fumes, sparks, she was so radically hit. Didn’t he notice anything?
“Yes,” she managed to say. “Beautiful evening.”
“But still a little chilly to be outside. How do you like teaching at the community college?”
Hudson was always so kind. “I like it very much.” What would Hudson think if she told him she was standing here in agony because she had just discovered her husband was having an affair with Laura because Laura had called Joe “Asshole”? She would have to explain it all, Joe’s hemorrhoid, his mania for privacy. A great bubble of hysteria welled up inside her. “Excuse me, Hudson, I think I’m going to be sick.”
She escaped from him and rushed into the house and to the downstairs guest bathroom in time to vomit out her drinks and food, but not, she realized, as she lay gasping against the door, not the terror and the grief that now spread through her body.
“Daphne?” Joe was knocking on the door. “Are you all right? Hudson said you were sick.”
Daphne crawled to her feet and opened the door. There he stood, her husband, looking so innocent, slightly worried, slightly annoyed.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sick. Please take me home.”
Joe reached out his hand to support her, but she shook it off and hurried on ahead of him. They went out the back door and around the side of the house, so that they would not have to explain their departure to everyone. As soon as they were in the car, Daphne said, “You are having an affair with Laura.”
Joe looked over at her, then back at the road. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Asshole,” Daphne said.
“What?” Now he was startled.
“She called you Asshole. In such an endearing tone of voice.”
“Christ, Daphne, and because of that you think we’re having an affair?” Joe exhaled angrily. “Look. I was home once, when you were teaching. I had to come home to get some papers, and I was feeling terrible, and she was babysitting Cynthia and she asked how I was and I told her. That’s all. That’s hardly having an affair.”
“Joe, don’t lie to me,” Daphne said. “I’m not a fool.” When he said nothing, she went on. “I heard her tone of voice, Joe. I saw the way you touched her. And I know you. I know you wouldn’t tell her about your hemorrhoid unless it was because you couldn’t make love. Just as it kept you from making love to me.” Saying those things made them more vivid, and she cried out, “Oh, God!” and began to weep. “How could you, Joe, how could you?”
“Daphne, get hold of yourself. You’re imagining things. You’re imagining all of this,” Joe said. “Now, look, we’re home. Dry your face. You don’t want the babysitter to see.”
For a few moments Daphne was able to pretend normalcy in front of the sitter, but the moment Joe went out the door to drive the girl home, she flew, frenzied, into Joe’s study and began tearing through his drawers. She was looking for love letters, for signs of Joe’s affair with Laura. She pawed through files and letters and term papers, sobbing again, and did not know Joe was back until she saw him standing in the door.
“Jesus Christ, Daphne, have you gone mad?” His face was livid.
“Tell me the truth!” Daphne screamed. “For God’s sake, just tell me the truth! I can go on after I know, but I have to know the truth.”
“I’ve told you the truth, Daphne. You’re being ridiculous,” Joe said, and turned and walked away.
If he had crossed the room and embraced her, saying softly, lovingly, “Daphne, how could you even think this? You know how I love you,” perhaps she would have calmed down and believed him. Instead, she stood, shaking, listening to her husband go up the stairs. Joe had seen that she was in pain and had walked away. No longer her chivalrous knight.
Was she crazy? Was she imagining all this? She felt like a top spinning out of control, ready to topple and smash onto its side.
She raced up the stairs. Cynthia was sleeping calmly, and Daphne did not linger there. She was afraid her horror and anger would poison the air of the baby’s room. She went into the bedroom and stood looking down at Joe. He had undressed and was now on his side of the bed, turned away from her side. He was either asleep or feigning sleep, his breath low and steady. How could he fall asleep now? If he had wrapped his arms around her, if he had cajoled and comforted her, telling her he loved her alone in all the world, what would have happened then? And why hadn’t he done that, why had he responded with such cool anger? God, she hated him!—and yet she loved him, he was her husband, her lover, her life, and she knew she would not be able to come into this bed of theirs, this marriage bed, again, until she knew the truth.
Grabbing up her car keys, she raced downstairs and out into the night. It was only a few minutes’ drive to Laura’s. Daphne drove, not seeing the headlights on the dark road but Laura’s hand on Joe’s waist. At Laura’s house, she pounded wildly on the front door, hoping Laura was home from the party.
Laura peeked through the curtains to see who it was, then opened the door. She was wrapped in a light blue robe, and had creamed all the makeup off her face so that she looked bleached and shadowed under the overhead hall light.
“Daphne? What’s wrong?”
Daphne pushed her way into the house. “You are having an affair with Joe,” she said.
Laura pushed her hair away from her eyes. “So,” she said. “He told you.”
Now what had been suspicion was certainty, and Daphne thought she would die of the pain on the spot. Of course she didn’t die; she stood there for a moment, looking idiotic, not capable of speech.
“He tol
d me he didn’t want you to know. I wonder why he told you. Look, come in, let’s sit down and have some brandy.”
“How long?” Daphne said, standing in the hallway, her hand clenching spasmodically around her car keys.
“What?”
“How long have you been lovers?”
“Since Christmas. When you went to your mother’s with Cynthia. I invited him to dinner. You knew he came to dinner …”
Daphne remembered. Joe had called to tell her he missed her and Cynthia, and had said he was going to dinner at Laura’s that night, and Daphne had said, “Oh, poor darling.” She knew he didn’t care for Laura. “At least you’ll get a good meal,” she had said.
“… and things just happened. Please. Don’t look like that. Come have some—”
Laura reached her hand out to take Daphne by the arm, but Daphne backed away from the other woman with a violent repulsed move.
“You incredible horrible pathetic repugnant bitch,” Daphne said.
She went out of the house then, not bothering to shut the door, got in her car, and drove back home.
Joe seemed to be still asleep. She turned on the lights, bent over him, and shook him awake.
“Wake up,” she said. “We have to talk. Now.”
“Jesus, Daphne, it’s one in the morning.”
“I’ve been to Laura’s. She told me the truth. You and she have been lovers since Christmas.”
“Goddammit,” Joe said. He pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed and buried his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled. “You weren’t supposed to know yet. I’m sorry.”
“Joe, how could you? Oh, Joe,” Daphne said, and the tears began to come. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you, Daphne. But I love Laura too. And … she needs me.”
“Why? Why does she need you? She was my best friend. Why couldn’t she have an affair with someone else?”
Joe looked up at Daphne, then down again. His voice was very low. “Because she’s in love with me, Daphne. She’s been in love with me for a long time. She’s not a frivolous woman, she’s not promiscuous, she couldn’t help how she felt. She didn’t want to do this. But you can’t help whom you fall in love with.”
Daphne backed off a few steps, as if she had just encountered something diseased or hideous. How smugly—oh, yes, smugly!—Daphne had passed Laura’s confidences along to Joe, as Laura all along intended her to do.
“Oh, God, I see it all now,” Daphne said. “Laura has orgasms with you, doesn’t she?”
“Daphne, don’t be so crude.”
“Answer me! Doesn’t she! She has with you what she’s never had with any man before, what no other man has ever been able to give her. Right? Am I right?”
Joe lifted his head. He was fighting a smile. “As it happens,” he said, “since you insist on knowing, you’re right.”
“Oh, Joe, you fool. You pitiful fool with your masculine vanity. Don’t you see what a sucker you are? What a sucker I’ve been? Jesus, God, Joe, Laura has been playing us as if we were marionettes!”
“Daphne—”
“Joe, Laura’s lying. She’s desperate, she’s cunning.”
“I know when a woman has an orgasm,” Joe said. “I think you would credit me with that much by now. I know when a woman loves me.”
The pain was so wrenching that it made Daphne bend double. For a few moments she could only stand, arms pressed against her stomach, huddled over herself, and she could not prevent the moans that came, in all their bestiality, from her throat.
“Daphne—” Joe said, his voice harsh.
She moved away. She knew she was not a pretty sight. The injured one is never a pretty sight. Still, she could not stop herself from crying out, because he was her husband.
“You’d better calm down or you’ll wake the baby,” Joe said.
His coolness made her angry, and that helped. Daphne crossed the room and sat in a chair, blowing her nose in a tissue while Joe, who slept naked, rose and put on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
“Do you love her?” Daphne hated the way her chin was quivering. Couldn’t she at least keep some dignity through all this?
“Yes.” Joe sighed. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked away, and then he looked right at Daphne. “Yes. I’m sorry, Daphne. I don’t know what happened. I love you too, still, but in such a different way. Laura needs me, while you … Christ, Daphne, you didn’t even suspect until tonight! I’ve even thought maybe it has helped you out in a way. You’re always so busy with the baby and your teaching. But Laura has time to listen to me. And she really listens. You always … because you work in the same field, you always seem to think you have to give an opinion or even argue with me. Besides, Laura loves cooking and keeping a house, and you hate all that stuff—”
“You’re going to marry her!” Daphne cried.
“Christ, Daphne. Let’s not get into that now,” Joe said miserably.
“No, Joe, let’s do get into it. I need to know. You’ve got to tell me. Are you going to marry her? Are you really going to leave me and Cynthia and marry Laura?”
Joe looked at Daphne. He said, “I’m sorry.”
Daphne’s last mainstays of dignity were swept away by a flood of grief. She bent her head into her hands. While she cried, Joe quietly, in his deliberate, unhurried way, packed a suitcase.
“I’ll come back for the rest tomorrow,” he said finally.
All Daphne had left now was fury. “Don’t,” she said. She stood up, letting her anger blaze. “By tomorrow the rest of your things will be dumped on the front lawn.”
“Daphne—” Joe began.
But she interrupted him. “I hate you,” she said. “I hate you, and I hate Laura. Laura is a slut. She is a shark, and you are a sucker. God, Joe, you’ve really been taken! I’m so embarrassed for you!”
“Don’t be,” Joe said. He turned his back on her, left the bedroom, and went down the stairs.
Daphne stood at the head of the stairs looking down. “I will never forgive you!” she called. “I wish you nothing but evil! I hope your hemorrhoid is really cancer. I hope Laura gets breast cancer and dies. I hope—”
But the front door was shut on her words, which were only air, and Daphne was left to face the rest of her life.
10
Daphne left work to go home early. After all, it was Christmas holiday for the college, and although she and the other secretaries dutifully showed up as they were supposed to, not much needed doing. The wild scramble had been in the weeks just before Christmas, when several professors were desperate to get their papers ready for the conference on American history being held in San Francisco the last week in December. The new wild scramble wouldn’t start for another week, when the college opened for its month-long winter term and then again when second semester started at the beginning of February.
It was too bad she had had to come in today. She had hated leaving Cynthia alone. Cynthia would be leaving the third of January to go back to high school—and her father. Daphne would not see her again until … When? No one could say. Cynthia would leave for Europe at the beginning of the summer with Joe and Laura, and they would tour the Continent, and finally settle in London, where Joe had a visiting professorship and Cynthia would try to get into an acting school.
To make it as an actress, one had to start as young as possible; of course, London was the place for her, not this idle backwoods burg. Daphne understood all that. Besides, what a wonderful adventure for a young girl, a summer in Europe! And of course Laura, who spoke fluent French as well as German, and had friends and relatives everywhere, would provide deeper and more meaningful experiences than any ordinary tour.
Who would not want such things for her child?
At the base of the Vermont hill, where the paved road became dirt, Daphne pulled to the side and let the old Jeep idle. She leaned her forehead down onto the steering wheel. Would she ever in her life
be free of pain? She was the Seven Sins Incarnate. Pride, Envy, Covetousness, Gluttony, Wrath—Wrath, Wrath. … Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “Anger hurts you more than the person you’re angry at; it eats away at you and makes you bitter and mean, while the person you’re angry at lives most of his life unaware of that passion.” Yes, Daphne thought as the snake of bitterness flicked away inside. Her mother had been right. Joe, Laura, they could not be touched by her anger now, not in any way at all. They never could be. They had the power to hurt Daphne, through Cynthia, but although they were guilty, they were also free, unpunished, untouched. Right now they were in Idaho, spending their Christmas vacation skiing—oh, where was the justice in that? Where was the justice in anything? How could it be that Joe, who had given nothing to Cynthia for the first sixteen years of her life but the basic child support the courts ruled necessary, who had not remembered his daughter at Christmas or on her birthday, who had not written letters to her or telephoned her or visited her on his trips back east—how was it that he, with a snap of his fingers, a flick of his whim, could summon his daughter into his life? How could Cynthia have gone? Daphne understood it from an intellectual point of view—Cynthia’s need to know that her father loved her; her hope of being “discovered” if she lived on the West Coast; her desire to get out of the overly proper, stifling atmosphere of the small New England college town—yet Daphne would never understand in all her life how Cynthia could have left her, left her. She hated her daughter for her easy desertion. She loved Cynthia, and wanted her happiness, but still, there was that hate, born of betrayal.
Daphne lifted her head. All around her the countryside was deep in snow. The trees that lined the road dipped beneath the weight of snow that glossed their branches. It was not five yet, but the sun was almost gone and shadows laced the ground into a latticework of gray on white. No birds sang, but tiny rabbit tracks crisscrossed everywhere, and suddenly Daphne envisioned an entire colony of rabbits, white rabbits with pink noses and ears lined as if in pink silk, dancing in the snow, weaving in and out of the shadows, “Keeping time, Keeping the rhythm in their dancing, As in their living in the living seasons …”