Savage Lane

by Jason Starr

  Mark had heard a flush from the kids’ bathroom and music in Riley’s room, so Riley and Justin were probably getting ready for bed. Deb hadn’t come upstairs yet, but this wasn’t necessarily because she was still angry. She usually hung out downstairs late at night, watching TV or reading, and downing a nightcap or two.

  The comedian was talking about his divorce, making fun of his ex, and Mark laughed out loud a couple of times, and then he remembered Deb in the car, saying, “I’m done.” It had definitely been a fake threat. She’d told him just last month, “We’re stuck with each other, let’s face it,” and that was pretty much how he felt. Even when they were fighting, or just not getting along, things weren’t so bad. There was no violence or major problems. They had a good, comfortable life—a big house, country club membership, two healthy kids, some money put away, no debt. What more could you want? Yeah, maybe the sex wasn’t as good as it used to be, but it wasn’t bad. At least they still did it a lot—at least a few times a month anyway, which was more than a lot of couples Mark knew. But, most importantly, they were good parents. Riley and Justin were great, happy kids and, as far as Mark was concerned, things with Deb would have to become unbearable before he’d ever seriously consider putting his kids through the pain of a divorce.

  But, just for the hell of it, Mark imagined what it would be like if Deb hadn’t been joking—if she really did leave. He’d played these “what if?” games before; it was just harmless fantasizing. If his marriage ended, Mark knew he’d wind up with Karen. He’d move into her house, and the kids could go back and forth, right on the same block, how convenient would that be? It would be an easy divorce, there wouldn’t be any bitterness or drama; everyone would get along. It would be even better for the kids because they could be step-brothers and sisters with their best friends. Meanwhile, not only would Mark be with his best friend all the time, he could have sex with his best friend. Karen had looked so amazing at the club last summer wearing bikinis at the pool. How many women her age, forty-two, with two kids could pull off a bikini? She had perfect natural breasts and the sexiest arms and back. Oh, and he loved her lips. What would it feel like to kiss her? He knew she’d be incredible in bed; she had to be. Holding her hand tonight, her skin had felt so warm, so smooth; he bet her whole body felt that way. What if she was in bed with him right now—in that little blue dress she wore tonight; no, in the bikini, yeah, the bikini. They would’ve just got back from the pool, still wet. He’d kiss her—God, those lips, the way the lower one was thicker than the upper so it seemed like she was permanently pouting—and feel her smooth toned arms, her smooth fatless back, and then he’d undo her bikini top and let it fall off and then cup his hands over her breasts, feel her nipples harden against his palms. Then they would be in bed, he’d be on top of her, untying her bikini bottom, and licking the insides of her thighs, listening to her moan—Mark, Mark, Oh, Mark…

  “Mark.”

  He’d been masturbating under the covers, but it was dark in the room, the only light coming from the TV. Just in case, he shifted onto his side.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Were you sleeping?” Deb asked.

  “Um, yeah, just starting to.”

  “Can we talk for a sec?”

  Maneuvering again, he said, “Yeah, sure.”

  Still in the dress she’d worn to the party, Deb sat at the foot of the bed, and said, “I just want to say sorry for the way I acted in the car. I had no right to jump down your throat like that.”

  Mark could smell rum.

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No, it is a big deal,” she slurred. “I know we haven’t been getting along lately, but I don’t really think anything’s going on with you and Karen, and I won’t talk to her, so you don’t have to worry about that. I just… I just don’t wanna be like this anymore. Seriously, I don’t wanna be like this. D’you wanna be like this?”

  Mark imagined licking the insides of Karen’s thighs. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  With the remote he flicked off the TV. It was pitch dark in the room now.

  “Let’s go away somewhere,” Deb said. “A trip, just the two of us. The kid’s’re gonna be away at camp in July, let’s plan something. We never went to Italy. We said we wanted to go to the Amalfi Coast someday, let’s just do it, let’s go for two weeks, have a real adventure together.”

  Imagining how frustrating it would be to go away for two weeks and be so far from Karen, he said, “Let’s think about it.”

  “That’s what we always say, but we never go. Why not just do it?”

  “We already paid for the country club for the summer,” Mark said.

  “We always pay for the country club,” Deb said. “I’m talking two weeks, just two weeks. Come on, the kids’re older now—this is it, this is someday.”

  “I’ve got that big project next week,” Mark said, “people in from Hong Kong.”

  “That’s next week,” Deb said. “I’m talking about July. Will you look online with me tomorrow? Can we look together?”

  Just to end the discussion Mark said, “Okay, fine, we’ll look, we’ll look.”

  “Thank you.” Deb leaned over Mark and kissed him, and then she felt him through the blanket and said, “Ooh, I guess you really are excited about Italy.” She sat up again, turning her back to Mark and said, “Undress me.”

  More disappointed than excited, Mark unzipped Deb’s dress. Then she stood, kicked off her heels, and wriggled until she was naked. A few moments later, she was in bed with him.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  Mark kissed her, tasting rum. He couldn’t stop thinking about Karen in her wet bathing suit. He imagined pulling the knot off the bottom, how it would come right off.

  “Kiss me like you want to kiss me,” Deb said.

  Mark continued kissing her, using more tongue, tasting more rum. He closed his eyes, imagining he was kissing Karen. His hands would be on her ass—her smooth, firm ass.

  Then Deb got on top, but it was Karen. How would it feel to have Karen on top, riding him? He pictured her arching her back, her bikini top off, his hands over her breasts now.

  “Never mind,” Deb said and got off him.

  Mark had no idea what was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

  Deb was lying next to him, turned away, and pulled the covers up to cover her head.

  Now Mark was getting seriously paranoid. Had he said Karen’s name out loud?

  His pulse pounding, he asked, “Come on, what’s wrong? What did I do?”

  Deb was silent for a while, then he heard sniffling. Shit, she was crying. He must’ve said the wrong name. Why else would she be acting this way?

  “Come on, just tell me,” he said. “I have no idea what’s going on here.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “Everything’s so… never mind.”

  “Everything’s so what? What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Forget it, okay? Just forget it.”

  Frustrated, Mark turned away in the other direction. He was trying to picture Karen naked again, but it was foggy now. He couldn’t even imagine what her face looked like. He could see her eyes, her lips, her hair, but he couldn’t see her.

  He kept trying, though, until he finally fell asleep.

  WHEN DEB woke up, at the edge of the bed, turned away from Mark, hung over, exhausted because she’d barely slept, hovering over sleep for most of the night, she thought, I can’t take this anymore. She had no idea exactly why or how she’d gotten into this situation, but it was wearing her down, mentally and physically. She was stressed out all the time—bitter, edgy, paranoid. She was lucky she’d made it this far, but if she didn’t end it soon, find some clean way out, her life would turn into a full-blown nightmare.

  She remained in bed, ruminating, till the alarm blared at seven. Mark, facing away, stirred, then fell back asleep. As she stood, wooziness hit. Shit, mixing vodka and rum had definitely been a bad
idea. She could mix vodka and whiskey and be okay, but the rum always got her.

  She wobbled into the bathroom. A few minutes later, heading downstairs, she almost lost her balance and had to grab onto the banister. She should’ve made herself throw up last night or at least had some water before she went to sleep. She always forgot the water.

  In the kitchen, she filled one of Justin’s Sponge Bob cups with water from the Poland Spring tank, but was too nauseated to have more than a couple of sips.

  Advil, she thought excitedly, as if she’d just come up with a brilliant idea, and found some in the cabinet. She swallowed two capsules, then, wanting to feel better faster, took one more. She made a cup of coffee in the Keurig machine and then rested at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. She still felt like shit, but it wasn’t just the alcohol in her system—it was everything. Sometimes life seemed so exhausting and overwhelming and, worse, she knew she was responsible for making it this way. Seriously, how many forty-four year-old women would kill for what she had? A four-bedroom house in Westchester, a successful, hard-working husband, two amazing kids. Maybe she was bored, maybe that was her whole problem. She used to work for a market research firm but had quit when Riley was born. She didn’t want to go back to her old career, but she’d always wanted to paint. She used to have talent, had taken a couple of art classes in college and loved it. She could go to art school in the city a couple of days a week—she’d already checked out the Art Students League online—and she had plenty of space to make an art studio in the basement. It would be amazing to live a creative lifestyle, meet new, interesting creative-type people in the city. All she had to do was take the first step, register for a class, but she had forgotten how to be proactive, how to do things for herself.

  She heard a vibration and then spotted her second cell phone, the one with the prepaid calling plan, on the kitchen table. Shit, she must’ve taken it out of her purse last night when she was drunk, looking for Advil. She was usually careful not to leave the phone in the open, but what about him? How many times had she told him not to text at all unless he was absolutely certain that she was home alone? What was he doing, trying to get caught?

  She checked and, sure enough, there was a message from Owen Harrison right there on the front of the screen: Can’t wait to fuck the hell out of you today!!!

  “Jesus,” she muttered, deleting the text. Having the second phone was a good precaution, but it didn’t protect her entirely. Even if she was careful about deleting every call and text, she wasn’t sure how she could explain the phone itself if Mark found it. She could say a friend gave it to her, or she found it, but any explanation would be flimsy. She couldn’t take this stress anymore—living on the verge of catastrophe, fearing that Mark or, God forbid, the kids would find the phone or see a text that could ruin the rest of her life, was way too stressful.

  Then, hating herself, she responded: Oooo, you’re so naughty!

  This was how it always went with her and Owen—she couldn’t stick to what she wanted. There were times she tried to end it, but she was weak, impulsive, and made the same stupid decision again and again. The worst decision had been getting involved with him at all, putting her whole marriage, maybe her whole life, in the hands of an eighteen-year-old boy.

  An eighteen-year-old boy.

  Sometimes the whole situation seemed surreal. Owen had been sixteen when the affair began, which made her an adulterer and a rapist. Yep, Deb Berman was a rapist. Not somebody else, not a stranger on the news—her. She’d had moments like this before over the past two years. She’d be having a normal night at home with her family, sitting at the dinner table, or helping her kids with their homework, and she’d think, I’m a rapist, and she’d shudder, feel lightheaded and weightless; this couldn’t possibly be happening. It was as if she’d been inserted into an alternate reality where she was still Deb Berman, but she was a different Deb Berman, someone in the news she’d look down on: How could she actually do that? How could she be so sick, so perverted? She wished she could go back and be the high-and-mighty Deb Berman, that she could be the judger instead of the judged.

  Another text from Owen: I’m so horny right now, I want you so bad

  She knew she should feel repulsed, disgusted—she wasn’t so far gone that she’d forgotten how she was supposed to feel. She knew this was wrong, that she had to stop being so selfish. This wasn’t about her, about filling whatever void it was filling; it was about her family and about his family. Owen was just two years older than Riley, for God’s sake, and Riley and Owen had known each other for years, had friends in common. While Deb wasn’t friends with Owen’s mother, Linda Harrison, they were friendly. For years they’d run into each other around town—at school pickups, at the mall, at soccer games. What if Linda found out? How angry and devastated and vindictive would she be?

  Deb had to explain this to Owen, not some other day—today. She had to make him understand that they couldn’t do this anymore, hurt the people they loved. She’d remind him that they’d already had a couple of close calls, like that time they were in his car in the high school parking lot and those kids walked by and almost saw them. Or the time they were having sex in Owen’s bedroom that afternoon, when Linda and her husband Raymond—Owen’s stepfather—were supposed to be at work, and Raymond came home unexpectedly, and Deb had to hide in Owen’s closet, like a character in a movie, a slapstick comedy, but this wasn’t a movie, and it certainly wasn’t a comedy. This was the real world where there were serious consequences so they had to do the smart thing, the right thing, and forget about each other, go on with their lives.

  Then Deb sent: I’m so horny for u 2!

  She hated herself for being so weak, so pathetic. She had to text him again, tell him she wouldn’t be able to see him after all, and that they had to end this now, today.

  She typed, Actually I really don’t think, then deleted it, telling herself that breaking up by text was an awful idea. For an eighteen-year-old, Owen was level-headed and mature—if he wasn’t that way she wouldn’t have been attracted to him at all—but she had to make sure he understood, really understand, that this was it, she was ready to move on.

  She still felt nauseated and her head was killing her. After making sure she’d deleted all the texts she’d sent and received, she switched the phone to silent mode and put it away in her purse. Then she heard Casey clacking down the stairs and a few moments later he came into the kitchen, panting, and went right toward the sliding screen doors. She let him out and then, watching the happy dog sprint toward the backyard to do his business, she thought, Dog, hair of the dog, that’s it, and she got a glass, went to the liquor cabinet in the dining room, and poured some vodka—not much, just a half a glass, enough to get back.

  As she was putting the vodka away she heard, “Hi, Mom.”

  Justin’s voice startled her, and she nearly dropped the bottle.

  “I didn’t know you were up, you scared me,” Deb said.

  “I don’t feel good,” he said, holding his stomach.

  Thinking, Join the club, she said, “You’re probably just hungry. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and watch some TV, and I’ll make you breakfast?”

  When he was gone she drank the vodka in one gulp. At first, it made her feel even worse, and she thought she might throw up, but after a few moments she felt better. Well, less sick anyway.

  In the kitchen, Justin was at the table, already gripped by Pokémon on TV.

  “How about some pancakes for that hungry stomach of yours?” Deb asked.

  “Okay,” Justin said, staring at the screen.

  As Deb got busy making the pancake batter and greasing up the pan, she felt great—not only because the hair of the dog had had its full effect, but because she was back in her mommy role. This was what she had been risking for a fling with a teenager. She was so glad she was ending it, that she’d woken up from this nightmare.

  She served Justin the pancakes and after a couple of bites he said
his stomach felt better.

  Later, when she was clearing the table, Mark came down to the kitchen in boxers and an old T-shirt, grunted, “Morning,” and went right to the Keurig.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He remained with his back to her, waiting for the coffee. Although Mark’s behavior wasn’t so unusual—they never said much to each other in the morning—today it obviously had to do with the fight in the car and all the tension last night. Deb knew she’d made a mistake, making a big deal about him and Karen. While it was incredibly obvious that they were at least contemplating an affair, Deb knew that confronting him about it and threatening to tell Karen was a bad idea while she was still involved with Owen. The only reason Mark hadn’t found out about Owen yet was because he was so preoccupied with Karen and, besides, what right did Deb have to be upset about anything that Mark did?

  “Can we talk about last night?” Deb asked.

  The coffee was spurting into the mug.

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  Typical Mark, preferring to let things stew than deal with an issue head-on.

  “About yesterday in the car.” She lowered her voice to make sure Justin couldn’t overhear. “I still feel bad for attacking you. That was wrong of me.”

  “Whatever,” Mark said, still staring at the coffeemaker. “It was no big deal.”

  Deb noticed Mark was holding his iPhone. This was normal too—well, normal lately. He seemed to carry his cell around with him all the time and sometimes he’d say he needed to “get some air” or make excuses to drive to get gas or milk or whatever else he could think of.

  “Also about what happened in bed,” Deb said. “I don’t know why I freaked out like that. I guess it’s just been a while since we—”

  “Do I have to go?”

  Justin had just entered the kitchen, still in his pajamas.