Four: Stories of Marriage

by Nia Forrester

  Tracy sighed. Standing, she brushed her thighs, as though brushing away crumbs.

  “I’m going up to check on Layla,” she said. “There’s a plate for you on the stovetop.”

  Brendan knew he should probably stop her, so they could talk this through until they were both satisfied. But he was exhausted. On an average day, a day when he wasn’t tired, hungry, overworked and just coming in from making sure some crafty cybercriminal didn’t clean out his company’s accounts, he might have stopped her.

  But not today. Today, he was on empty.

  Reaching across the coffee table, he retrieved Tracy’s abandoned wineglass and downed its contents.

  “What you got planned for today?”

  Tracy looked around when Brendan entered the kitchen, and reached for the spatula, sliding an omelet onto a plate, and handing it to him. She was already showered and dressed in white jeans and an orange, sleeveless top. Her long hair was pulled back into ponytail at the nape of her neck, hanging straight and sleek to the middle of her back.

  On weekdays, she was up even before he was, showering, dressing then making his breakfast before he even made it downstairs. Sometimes, his meal would be sitting on the dining table covered and waiting for him, with a single glass of freshly-squeezed juice. And nearby, Tracy would be standing there, looking flawless, sipping from a mug of coffee, or casually flipping through a magazine, as though she’d willed the morning meal into existence, rather than made it herself.

  Only on Saturdays did Tracy sleep in, and Brendan took over, getting Layla up and dressed before they went out to get bagels or pastries from the neighborhood coffee shop. Sometimes they stayed out past ten and came back to find Tracy still in bed. If she was, Brendan brought her coffee and breakfast and kept Layla out of her hair to allow her some quiet time, reading, watching television, or gossiping on the phone with Riley and Robyn.

  He thought they had a pretty good rhythm in their life together. But last night, she made it sound like he’d been fooling himself. The idea that his wife had been long nursing some resentment about whether he was living up to his end of their marriage unsettled him.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the plate. “So, what’d you say you were up to today?”

  She directly at him for the first time. “I didn’t.”

  “Okay.” He elongated the first syllable. “Will you be here when I get home around six?”

  “Where else would I be, Brendan?”

  “Look, can we talk about last night a minute?” He grabbed a fork and cut into the egg. There were diced bell peppers, spinach, and a little cheese inside. His favorite.

  “Sure.” Tracy’s voice was impassive. She leaned against the kitchen counter and waited.

  “I do want us to have another baby. And I’m sorry I didn’t make it back. But we don’t have to choreograph everything, right? I mean, tonight we can …”

  But Tracy was already shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. Let’s just go back to the old way.”

  “The old way?”

  “Forget the timers and the tips and ovulation calendar and all that. We’ll just … whatever happens, happens. And if it doesn’t …” She shrugged.

  Brendan watched her closely, waiting for her to continue. There was no way Tracy was this casual about them getting pregnant again. It had to be a trick. But she stared back at him, giving nothing away.

  “It’s obviously stressing you out. And I don’t want you to feel that way. Not about this. So, we’ll pull back on all that. But …”

  “But …?”

  “I don’t want to go back to work. You know I’m happier staying home. And you’re right, I probably just need an occupation of some kind, so …” She stopped. And shrugged yet again. “I’ll figure something out.”

  This was not like her. Brendan had another bite of his omelet and searched her eyes, but Tracy still gave him nothing.

  “Here,” she said, reaching for the plate when he’d cleaned it. “You should probably go. I don’t want you to be late. I’m sure there’s still more to do after that thing with the accounts yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but …” Brendan hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” she said, nodding. “We’re okay. I promise.” Then she got up on her toes and kissed him. Just like she did every other morning as he was leaving for work.

  And so, Brendan told himself that it really, probably, was okay.

  6

  You really shouldn’t do this,” Riley told her. “I’m telling you. This is a mistake.”

  “Because I’m going to lunch, and to look at art in Fort Greene?”

  “With a man who’s married to one of Brendan’s employees, Tracy. And that’s only part of what’s wrong with it.”

  “Jesus, Riley. The way you’re talking, it’s like I’m about to meet him in a motel room or something.”

  “You could have at least told Brendan. I think you should. Before this man sends his chauffeur or whatever over to get you, call your husband and tell him where you’re going, and who you’re going with.”

  “I’m angry with Brendan right now. I don’t feel like telling him anything except what he absolutely needs to know.”

  “And if you ask me, this little outing you’re about to go on definitely falls into that category.”

  “One, I didn’t ask you. And two, I disagree.”

  “You’re being childish.”

  “I’m being childish? Riley, he knows I want another baby. He says he does too, and then he cooks up all these reasons to never be here when we’re supposed to make one. That’s what’s childish. If he doesn’t want another kid, he needs to just …”

  “Now you’re just being silly. Brendan would love another kid. He even talks to Shawn about when he has a son. When do men ever talk to each other about babies? But he does. He is all into the idea of more kids. But you’re so damn spoiled, you want everything when, and the way you want it.

  “And another thing, that situation with someone hacking into So Def’s server? That was no small deal. I heard Shawn on the phone with Brendan talking about it early this morning. So, he didn’t cook anything up. It was an actual crisis.”

  “You’re always on his side,” Tracy said dismissively.

  She scooped up her hair and twisted it into a coiled bun at the crown of her head. She liked wearing her hair this way because it gave her height. And come to think of it, today was a good reason to wear heels. On most days, when she was with Layla, she wore ballet flats, or loafers because they did a lot of walking. Heels always made her feel beautiful, and consequential. She liked the no-nonsense sound they made on hard surfaces, and the way they accentuated her calves. So today, she would wear them.

  “And you’re always so bratty when you don’t get your way. But I’m telling you, the way to make your feelings known is not to go on some weird date with some strange Swiss guy who’s married to one of Brendan’s co-workers.”

  “It’s not a date. Are you kidding me? I would literally puke if some man other than Brendan ever laid a hand on me.”

  On the other end of the line, Riley sighed.

  “I’m putting you on speaker,” Tracy said. “I need to do my eyeliner. The car’s going to be here any minute, and I want to be gone before Layla gets back from the park with that girl.”

  “I love how you call Lay-lay’s sitters ‘that woman’ or ‘that girl’. Like you resent having them there at all, even though they’re helping you take care of your kid.”

  “I do resent having them here. I don’t want my daughter’s memories of the person nurturing her to be of a stranger.”

  A brief silence fell between them, and Tracy knew that Riley was treating the comment as an indictment of her choices for her and Shawn’s two kids. They had rotating nannies. Both were on call, all the time, just so Riley could remain flexible for her work, and because Shawn’s hours were still—despite him no longer performing—sometimes unpredictable.

  “The standards you have for yourself ar
e ridiculous, Tracy, but what’s worse is that you set those same standards for everyone else around you. And that’s not just ridiculous, it’s unfair and destructive.”

  “You’re not even subtle anymore with your little psychoanalysis.” Tracy pressed the icon that put the call on speakerphone. “I know you’re talking about Brendan again. And by the way, expecting him to come home when he says he will isn’t setting an unrealistic standard.”

  “It is when you know his schedule. He doesn’t even go to the club anymore unless it’s with you, and …”

  “He has no business being in a nightclub when he’s a married father.”

  “He co-owns the club. I think that’s a little different.”

  “You’re just mad because Shawn has to go over there more now that Brendan doesn’t go as often.”

  “I’m not mad at all. I’m too busy with my own stuff, and with the kids to be overanalyzing whatever Shawn’s up to.”

  “Uh huh. And how’s that working out for you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that as much as I might be the needier spouse in my marriage, Shawn is the needy one in yours. So, I would take care of him if I were you.”

  “Or what? He’ll wind up going to look at art in Fort Greene with someone and not tell me?”

  “No. Believe me, he’ll wind up doing a lot more than looking at art,” Tracy snorted.

  There were a few beats of silence on the other end of the line, and Tracy paused, eyeliner in hand, frozen in place.

  “Riley?” she said after a few more moments passed. “I didn’t mean …”

  “No, I know you didn’t. It’s just …”

  Tracy sat at her vanity and picked up the phone, taking it off speaker. “What? Is something … happening with you and Shawn?”

  “No. It’s just … Don’t try to distract me. We’re talking about you, remember?”

  On the other end of the line, Riley laughed, but it sounded hollow. Something was up.

  But one thing Tracy knew about her friend, was that she could not be coerced into sharing anything she wasn’t ready to share. She had to marinate on a thing by herself first. And then she would release small bits of it before finally, eventually, telling the whole story.

  Every weekend, she, Riley, and Robyn had lunch, or brunch either on Saturday or Sunday and that was when they unloaded all their stuff. Robyn’s gripes were always professional in nature, since apparently Chris Scaife had morphed over the years into the perfect spouse and father, go figure. Tracy’s stuff was always familial, and Riley’s was always … murky.

  Though it was in her nature to be a caretaker for her friends, she rarely asked anyone to play that role for her. Riley spoke of her marriage and children only in immediate terms—Cullen isn’t loving school these days, or Shawn is really testy since he came back from that trip—and tended not to draw broad, sweeping conclusions the way Tracy did.

  Tracy was more likely to say, I think Brendan doesn’t find me sexy any more than she was to simply say, we haven’t had as much sex lately as we used to. That was probably why Riley and she were best friends—Riley pulled her back when she was apt to spin off into pointless speculation or reach unfounded conclusions.

  Riley, on the other hand, might not even tell Tracy if she was the one on the ledge. She was stubborn that way, and self-sufficient.

  Before Tracy could say anything further, she heard the chime of the doorbell.

  “Is that him?”

  “Crap. Probably.” Tracy reached for her eyeliner again. “I have to go. I’ll call you when …”

  “Wait,” Riley said. “What’re you wearing?”

  “What am I wearing?” Tracy repeated.

  “Yes. It’s nothing too … cute is it?”

  “Everything I wear is cute, Riley.”

  In the brief silence, Tracy imagined her friend’s eye-roll.

  “Don’t flirt with him,” Riley said finally.

  “I don’t do that. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t …”

  “Right. You don’t want anyone but your husband. Even that is an unrealistic expectation.”

  “Not for me,” Tracy said.

  “Maybe I’m just not sophisticated enough to know what I’m supposed to like.” Tracy laughed as Thierry refilled her wineglass.

  “I don’t know you well enough to say all the qualities you may lack,” Thierry responded. “But I do know you well enough to say that sophistication isn’t one of them.”

  Some men were so good at this, Tracy thought. The tossing out of casual compliments, and meaningless flattery. She was used to it, and it no longer increased her pulse, even the slightest. Too many years of genuine appreciation from her husband had spoiled her.

  She and Thierry were at a small bistro she’d found online, which was supposed to be one of the new, hip places everyone wanted to go to. They had spent more than an hour in the artist’s studio which was a bright, airy space with unfinished wood floors and large, glass windows. The art was bright, bold, and impressionistic, reminiscent of that which lined the roads in the resort towns that Tracy and Brendan sometimes visited for short getaways to the Caribbean. And though they had a certain finesse that came with formal training, while they were there, Tracy admitted to Thierry in a low voice that she wasn’t sure she liked them.

  The artist was a young woman with extremely long locs pulled atop her head and shaved on the sides and in the back. She wore a tank top with overalls, and was a little obnoxious, and affected, like she was mimicking the temperament of an artist that she’d seen as a character in a Woody Allen film. Tracy supposed, she was somewhat talented as well. But she stubbornly refused to explain her work and seemed sullen about the fact that she needed to sell it. Ultimately, Tracy didn’t buy anything anyway.

  Thierry bought two small pieces which, he told Tracy when they were in the car, he had done only to make himself feel the trip was worthwhile. He joked that he would put them in his and Simone’s apartment’s guest bathroom.

  “She isn’t bad,” Thierry said now. “But so derivative. There’s something of Basquiat in her work, obviously. And in her. Even with the hair …”

  “Well, even I know who Basquiat is,” Tracy said.

  “See there, you’re not a complete Philistine.” Thierry’s steely eyes narrowed as he smiled.

  “No, not completely.”

  As she gazed down at her mussels in squid ink pasta, Tracy noted a little fuzziness at the edges of her vision. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking so early in the day, but Thierry had asked for the wine list, and become excited when he spotted one of his favorites. He insisted she try it, so she gave in.

  “In any event, I’m glad you were able to accompany me,” he said. “Philistine, or not.”

  “My friends Riley and Robyn are art patrons,” Tracy offered. “If you’re really interested in American artists, I could put you in touch with one or both of them. Like you, they’re incredibly wealthy, so …” She stopped and smiled at him. “I’m only teasing.”

  “I guessed you might be,” Thierry said. “But you Americans do like to talk about money.”

  “And you Europeans like to talk about Americans.”

  Thierry laughed, leaning in. “We do. You provide such rich material for conversation. And make us feel superior.”

  “It’s completely fine to feel that way,” Tracy returned. “Just so long as you realize it’s all a delusion. And that you’re not actually. Superior I mean.”

  Thierry smiled, lifted his glass, and took a long slow sip. Putting his glass down, he moved his plate aside. He had chosen the campanelle with roasted butternut squash and pancetta. Their portions were so polite in size that Tracy felt she could not only clean her plate, but his as well. Pasta was not something she generally cooked at home, and she missed it like a long-lost lover.

  “That was a very kind offer. But I would not want to have your friends show me art,” Thierry picked up the loose thread o
f the conversation. “I like to discover things on my own. Little gems hidden among the weeds.”

  His eyes met hers and held for a few moments too many.

  “So, are you bored in New York?” Tracy asked. “While Simone works?”

  It was a device she had learned to employ when she suspected that men who were attached might be hitting on or flirting with her. With one casual remark, or question, she reminded them of their attachment, be it a wife, girlfriend, or fiancée. Most men had the decency to back down at that point, literally leaning away from her, or creating physical distance in some way. But a brazen few only smirked, smiled knowingly and continued the pursuit.

  Thierry leaned back into his chair.

  “Are you?” he returned. “Bored while your husband works?”

  “No,” Tracy said. “I have a daughter to look after. A house. Friends. Activities. I used to think I’d be bored, but I’m not. I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

  “You like being … how do you say it here? A stay-at-home mother?”

  “Yes. I love it.”

  “And you’ll have more children?”

  “I hope so. Very much.”

  Their eyes met again for a second and then Thierry pulled his plate toward him once again.

  “I would love for us to meet again,” he said.

  “For more art and culture?” Tracy asked.

  “If you like.” He shrugged. “Or just for the wine and conversation.”

  And it was then, for the first time, that Tracy considered that Riley may have been right and maybe she had made a mistake. ‘Wine and conversation’ was a date, and there was no point pretending otherwise.

  “Absolutely. We should all do dinner soon,” Tracy said, pretending that that was what Thierry had been implying all along. “All four of us.”

  Thierry smiled and lifted his wineglass to his lips once more.

  “I went to lunch and to look at art this afternoon,” Tracy said.

  Brendan looked up from his dinner, obviously momentarily puzzled by the announcement. She had made him jerk chicken and rice and beans—recipes she learned online after a trip to Jamaica during which Brendan seemed to want to have that meal at least once per day.