Evelyn Marsh

by S. W. Clemens

  She awoke in the full light of day with a kink in her neck. That morning she opened all the blinds and walked around the perimeter of the house. There was no sign that anyone had been outside last night — no footprints or gum wrappers or cigarette butts. Nothing to suggest a stalker. It was just a crank call then. Ven ze cat iss avay, ze mice vill play. But it had rattled her, and she still felt troubled that her peace of mind could be so easily disrupted by a few silly words. “A friend,” the voice had said. Some friend. She called Howard again, and again the call went straight to voicemail. That was disturbing, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  She showered and ate. Then she checked Friend Finder. A map of Paris appeared on the screen. Samantha was in the Overstreets’ apartment on Quai Malaquais, beside the École des Beaux-Arts, on the left bank of the Seine, across from the Louvre. Evelyn tapped the message button and the dictation icon and spoke into her phone. “Text me a few photos of the apartment.” The words appeared onscreen, and she pressed Send.

  She was just getting ready to meet her father for lunch, when Howard came in with his overnight bag and briefcase.

  “I didn’t know you would be home so soon. I’m having lunch with Daddy. Do you want to come?”

  “No, I’m tired. I just want to relax.”

  “Why didn’t you call? I left messages. I even texted.”

  “Is Sam okay?”

  “She’s fine. There was a crank caller last night. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  Howard opened his briefcase, retrieved his phone, and looked puzzled. “Huh. I turned it off during the meeting. I guess I forgot to turn it back on. Yeah, here’s your messages. Sorry.”

  “I don’t know why you bother with a cell phone; I can never reach you.”

  “I’m on the phone all week as it is. Why would I want to be on call when I’m out of the office?”

  “Well,” Evelyn sighed with exasperation, “it might be nice if I could get hold of you when I need you.”

  Her father looked old and tired, she thought, or maybe that was just transference. In her mind he was a perpetual sixty, and she was still thirty-two. But when she looked in the mirror, or met with her father, the passage of time was all too clear. He was seventy-seven, and she would soon turn fifty. Maybe Howard was right. Maybe she shouldn’t be thinking about starting a business. She certainly didn’t need to make money. In fact, going into business might be a financial drain. What percentage of businesses failed in the first year? Why did she think she would fare any better? It was tempting to dismiss it as a foolish whim she had considered, but had in the end let pass.

  Then over lunch, she was once again sucked into her father’s enthusiasm for the venture, and she realized several things: First, she didn’t want to disappoint her father. He would be supportive, no matter what her decision. But if she let the opportunity pass her by, she knew he would be disappointed. To justify his faith in her, she didn’t have to succeed; she just had to try. Second, she really did get a kick out of sharing her work with the public. A painting her father had hung in an office, or given to a friend, didn’t give her half the satisfaction she got from a painting that hung in The Whitfield Gallery for the public to peruse, not to mention the charge she got when a painting actually sold. Becoming a professional conferred a different status to her work. Third, and perhaps most importantly, she wanted to prove to her children (and to Sam in particular) that she was more than a mere housewife with a hobby. She wanted more than their love; she wanted their respect.

  “I bubble-wrapped all of the paintings,” her father was saying, as Evelyn’s phone chimed. “Where are you having them digitized?”

  Evelyn looked down at her phone. “It’s a message from Sam,” she said. “It’s nine fifteen p.m. in Paris. She’s sent a photo of the café where they’re having dinner.” She held up her phone for her father to see. “Hold on.” She tapped Friend Finder, and a map of Paris showed them the location of the restaurant. “It’s called Le Brasserie de la Bourse.” The phone chimed again to announce another message. Evelyn read, “Out to dinner with students from the art school next to the apartment. Paris is great! Wish you were here.”

  “Isn’t that amazing?” Bill Hightower marveled. “Half the world away and it’s like she’s across the street.”

  It seemed crazy that she could know where her daughter was, and communicate as easily as if she were in the next room, and she never knew when Howard was on his way home for dinner, or had stopped off at the gym. If she knew, she could anticipate his arrival and have a hot dinner and a drink waiting when he walked in the door.

  That night, as Howard showered, she surreptitiously sent a Friend Request to his phone. The app on his phone asked, “Would you like to share your location with Evelyn Marsh?” She tapped Yes. A message pinged. It read, “Evelyn Marsh is now following you.” She deleted the message. It was as simple as that. After all, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, she thought at the time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Howard was having his mug of morning coffee in the kitchen when the cell phone in his briefcase began playing “The Buffoon.”

  “Crap,” he said, fishing out the phone. Evelyn raised her eyebrows, asking a silent question. “Marsh here,” he said cheerfully. He listened for a moment. “I don’t know. Hold on a minute.” He riffled a file from his briefcase and pulled out a paper. “No, not here. Hold on. Give me a minute to turn on the computer.” He picked up his briefcase and headed for the study.

  Evelyn cleaned up the breakfast dishes and poured the remaining hot coffee into an insulated commuter cup for Howard to take on his way to work. She checked Robert and Samantha’s Facebook pages, and Friend Finder, comforted that her daughter was sightseeing in Montmartre, where the day was getting long. She texted her, “Thinking of you. Wish I were there.”

  A moment later a reply came back: “Wish you were here, too. It’s incredible.”

  Evelyn texted back: “Take a picture where you are right now and text me.”

  A minute later she received a photo of the Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur.

  “Thanks for letting me tag along,” Evelyn texted back. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” was the reply.

  A few minutes later, Howard came back to the kitchen. He put down his briefcase and finished off his cold mug of coffee. Evelyn tried to show him Samantha’s texts and photo.

  “Not now,” he said, “I’m late. I’m going to run to the bathroom. Then I have to get out of here.”

  Evelyn saw him duck down the hall toward the half bath and thought that it was ridiculous for him to feel rushed; he was a full partner. He could come and go as he pleased. No one was looking over his shoulder (as her father had done for so many, many years), but leaving at eight thirty had become ingrained in his daily schedule.

  “Is there any hot coffee left?” he asked when he came back.

  “I’m way ahead of you,” Evelyn said, handing him the commuter cup.

  “All right, I’m outa here,” he said.

  He rushed out, and a moment later she heard the front door slam. She had just put a kettle on the stove when she noticed Howard’s briefcase on the floor. She snatched it up and sprinted for the front door.

  The black BMW was just passing the front walk as she burst out of the door. She called out. Howard stood on the brakes, then backed up to the walk. Evelyn opened the passenger door and put his briefcase on the front seat. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Honestly, I think you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on tight,” she said.

  She watched as the car plunged down the drive, then she turned back to the house.

  She’d just closed the door when she heard “The Buffoon” playing from Howard’s study.

  The phone stopped ringing as she entered the office. It lay on the desk beside the computer. She would have to del
iver it to the office. But in light of the fact that he’d taken an earlier call at home, which was unusual, she thought he might have urgent business. It might be important to return the call quickly, and he would appreciate knowing who had called. She would call ahead to the office and give Holly the number to pass on to Howard when he arrived. She pressed Recent Calls. It was, as she later reflected, the moment when everything changed. She would often think that life had been so much simpler before that damned phone rang.

  At first, she was confused. She recognized Connie’s number. She wondered, with a sense of foreboding, what business Connie could have with Howard. Then Howard’s phone pinged to announce an incoming text message. She tapped the message icon, and a list of text messages came up. There were a number of people on the list, including herself. The latest message was from CK: “Can’t make it tonight. Have a business meeting.” CK — It could stand for someone else, surely. Charles Krug. Curtis King. Chester Kavanaugh. She tapped his Contacts list. Next to CK was the phone number she knew by heart.

  She went back to messages and tapped the last one from CK. It opened a string of messages. It seemed he had never bothered to delete a message (perhaps he didn’t know how). She scrolled through thirty or forty. They were mostly prosaic questions, the scheduling of assignations and requests to bring a bottle of wine or something from the market — the sorts of texts you might expect between a married couple. Some of these were followed by emojis — smiley faces, winking eyes, hearts. But one was a photo attachment that took her breath away: a close-up, glistening twat shot that left nothing to the imagination, and the caption, “Come and get it!”

  She heard the black BMW roar up the drive. She closed the messages, put the phone back on the desk, and ran to the living room. She’d just taken up her paintbrush when the front door slammed shut. A minute later, Howard came in with his phone. He held it up in explanation. “Forgot my phone. Gotta run!” Then she heard the front door slam and he was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That turned Evelyn’s life upside down. She spent the entire day measuring the extent of Howard’s betrayal. It wasn’t so very unusual. Unfaithful husbands were a dime a dozen, a tired cliché. Conniving women were a cliché. The wronged wife was a cliché. But she had thought they were better than that. She had thought that, like her parents, they would remain bonded by a lifetime of shared experiences. Without her even realizing it was happening, their marriage had become a sham, a sick joke for others to talk smugly about.

  It was a shock to discover she’d been so clueless. There had been a day (When exactly? Six months? — A year since?) when Howard had violated their vows, had come home one day and looked her in the eye, and smiled at how easy it was to fool her, and life had continued on as she failed to recognize she’d been duped.

  She had only to think of Ramon to remind herself that no one was immune to longing. But it was one thing to fantasize and quite another to risk everything for a few moments of passionate abandon. Thinking about it now, his lack of desire in his own bed now made sense, for having spent his passion in another’s, he had none left for his wife. However, it really wasn’t the physical betrayal that struck her hardest. It was in the hours he must have spent in intimate conversation with that fucking bitch, hours he could have spent in conversation at home. And what had he said about her? What had they said about her behind her back? How had he justified his lack of self-control?

  That first afternoon every negative emotion boiled over. She was by turns angry, hurt, humiliated, indignant, disappointed, depressed, furious, filled with spite and seething with rage. Her heart pounded until it hurt.

  She left the house to walk and think, trying to step outside herself and consider how to respond rationally. She was tired of being used, tired of being underestimated. She walked the winding streets in a daze, all the way down to the beach, where she sat for two hours watching the waves roll toward shore, their susurrant rush calming her nerves.

  She returned home physically and emotionally exhausted, slept three hours, and awoke sweaty and dull-witted. Then she took a long shower, during which she decided against confronting him immediately. This was something that had obviously been going on for some time, and there was nothing to be gained by letting her emotions get the better of her. It was in her best interests to confront him when and where she chose. Accusations and screaming recriminations wouldn’t change what had already happened, and it wouldn’t be to her benefit. Howard would simply justify his betrayal by pointing the finger at her — she hadn’t fulfilled his needs; she was dispassionate in bed; she was no fun anymore, yada, yada, yada. Didn’t the guilty always justify their misdeeds? She had no doubt even Hitler thought he was merely misunderstood.

  How long had it been going on, she wondered. Had Howard and Connie been lovers (the image of them coupling made her cringe) when Connie had approached her asking to represent her work? And why, now, had Connie done her best to talk her into committing to a new business? Presumably to keep her occupied while Connie diddled her husband, or perhaps to soothe Connie’s conscience, if she had one.

  Evelyn shouldn’t have been surprised, given Connie’s background, and now she had to ask herself why she hadn’t been disapproving when Connie had stolen Albert Katz away from his first wife. The sad truth was that Evelyn had never liked the first Mrs. Katz, Jean Katz. A childless public relations professional, she’d made the mistake of dissing Evelyn’s parenting style at a company Christmas party. Evelyn was only too happy to see her go.

  Did Connie think she was going to steal Howard away? Economically it didn’t make good sense. She was collecting alimony from Albert Katz. If she were to marry Howard, the alimony payments would stop, and Howard would begin paying alimony to Evelyn — altogether a poor business proposition.

  And what of Howard? Could she stay married to a philanderer, knowing she could never trust him? Did she want to? She had to admit the sad fact of the matter was that her life would probably not change much if they divorced. Yes, he would move out and she would be alone in the house. But she was already alone in the house from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. The only real change would be no sex Sunday mornings, and as it was, that was no great loss. But she still thought it unfair that he should walk away with a younger, more vibrant woman to drool over, while she was of an age where the only men who would be interested in her were geriatric divorcés and widowers looking for a last Viagra-fueled fling before kicking the bucket (the occasional Ramon notwithstanding).

  What would she do with herself, now that her children were grown and her husband no longer wanted or needed her? She had always been so swallowed up in the minutiae of day-to-day existence that she didn’t have a clear vision of the future. Until today, the future had been a bright place, a hopeful place, a place where they would grow old together, enjoy watching their children progress with their own lives, and have grandchildren to dote over. Now it would be awkward. How were they supposed to celebrate holidays and birthdays? Where did the children’s loyalties lie?

  She was well aware she’d lived a coddled life, and was unprepared for life outside of the house. She’d often felt like a stage manager, facilitating the lives of her family, preparing them for their entrance onto the big stage, herself an unseen player in their dramas. That evening she played the dutiful wife, while plotting how to take her place on the big stage.

  Howard came home early, a bit disgruntled.

  “I thought this was your gym night,” she said.

  “I’m too tired. What’s for dinner?”

  “Lasagna, with ground beef, spinach, ricotta and mozzarella. It’s on the table with your martini.”

  “You’re too good to me.”

  For once, Evelyn agreed with him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Evelyn parked at a meter across from The Whitfield Gallery. She fed the meter and opened the trunk. Then she took a moment to compose herself. She took a deep breat
h, put on a bright, friendly, guileless face, picked up a stack of bubble-wrapped paintings, and crossed to the gallery. Brooke saw her struggling to open the front door and ran to help.

  “Here, take these,” Evelyn said. “I have another stack in the trunk, and two big ones in the backseat.”

  When the last of the paintings had been delivered, she said, “I was hoping Connie would be here. I’ve brought these to be scanned.”

  “She’ll be back in a minute. She just went to the bank. Has your daughter left for Paris yet?”

  “She’s there now.” Evelyn fished in her purse for her phone. She called up the Friend Finder app and showed Brooke where Sam was staying.

  “That’s so cool. I’ve been having such fun with it. I added my parents and my brother, and my boyfriend, and you, of course. I’m glad you consider me a friend.”

  At the sound of Brooke’s voice pronouncing “...a friend,” Evelyn was almost struck dumb by the recognition, but she managed to say, “I don’t have many friends, so the ones I do have are important to me.” Then she smiled and hoped it didn’t look false, for now she thought she knew who her crank caller had been, and why the voice had seemed familiar when she’d said, “A friend.” Brooke knew. Ven ze cat iss avay, ze mice vill play. Howard had been away, but it suddenly dawned on her — Howard wasn’t the cat. She was the cat. Howard and Connie were the mice.

  “It’s so fun to keep track of your friends,” Brooke said.

  “Do you have some scissors? Let’s cut off this bubble wrap.”

  Brooke kept up a nonstop patter about the gallery, about some of her favorite new pieces, and asked questions and made notes about each of the paintings they unwrapped. “I’m not talking too much, am I?” she asked apologetically.