Lightheaded, I lay on top of Jake with my skirt bunched around my waist. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He said, “I know... But I’m glad it did.”
His finger traced my face and lips, and I clenched it between my teeth and pulled it into my mouth. And as the canyon darkened beyond those tall windows, as fog drifted in from the Pacific Ocean, we found each other a second time.
18
I opened my eyes—I lay stretched beside Jake on the couch.
“You awake?” he asked.
“Um hmm.”
He played with my hair as I stared at the smudges in the piano’s slick varnish. The air conditioner clicked, and a breeze moved across the room, cooling my feet, and creeping up my shins until I shivered. Shadows draped across the cream-colored sofas. Po-Mo stuff. Stiff. Impersonal. Cold, like this room. “I should go,” I said.
He hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
We stood on his porch, unsure of what to say. Jake offered to walk me home, but I asked him not to.
“Get some work done,” I said.
He said, “I will.”
I headed down the hill, my skin clammy, my legs weak. So quiet out on Rockcliff Drive. No one jogged or walked their dogs. I glanced over my shoulder: Jake hadn’t moved from beneath the yellow glow of his porch light. He waved to me.
I waved back and continued down the hill.
Why did I do that?
Didn’t I love Truman?
How could I love him and betray him like that?
Would Jake and I pretend that nothing happened?
Would we do this again?
Did I want to do this again?
What would Jake do, what would he say if I told him that tonight was it?
I couldn’t fit the key into the door lock—my hand couldn’t stop shaking. My mind raced. Couldn’t stop thinking about Jake’s body against mine, about the way he said my name, how he kissed me, how my skin tingled…
In the shower, I scrubbed until my brown skin reddened. Dried off with a towel, slathered on scented lotion, and pulled on sweatpants.
I retreated to the living room couch and gazed out the large picture window. The sun had disappeared, and the moon blinked in nickel-colored fog. In the distance, cars and trucks sped towards their destinations. Red lights headed east to Downtown. White lights headed west to Hollywood and beyond. Picture frames, books, everything in the room had disappeared into the dark. I stretched back to turn on the lamp, but changed my mind.
The telephone rang on seven different occasions. Caller-I.D. droned, Baxter, Truman, Baxter, Truman. I closed my eyes as my husband’s name echoed throughout the house.
If I confessed to him, what would happen?
Would we divorce? Or would he give me credit for remaining faithful 99.9 percent of our time together? If I were him, would I forgive me?
Being with Jake had been a moment of weakness, a perfect storm of physical attraction, anger, opportunity and the need for petty revenge. This was no Bridges of Madison County love affair.
What would happen if I pretended nothing happened?
We could sell the house, move to Tennessee and I’d never see Jacob Huston again.
As the earth moistened, the house creaked and settled deeper onto its foundation. A night breeze rattled a window screen in one of the rooms…
The house’s phantoms had come home.
19
All night, I dreamed.
Truman picks up the ringing telephone. A muffled voice—Jake?—says, Do you know what Nicole did last night? Truman says, No. What? Then, he screams.
I lay in a hospital bed, in a room filled with flowers and balloons. Truman stands at the window, gazing out at the Santa Monica Bay. A nurse enters the room. She holds a baby wrapped in a blanket. Here’s your little boy, she says, then hands me the bundle. The nurse removes the blanket from my boy. He has skin the color of café au lait, and Jake’s whiskey-brown eyes. Truman looks at us over his shoulder, then opens the window, climbs up to the ledge, and jumps out.
After each nightmare, I lurched out of sleep, panting and tugging at my sticky tank top. Wide-eyed, I’d throw a startled glance across the room—no bassinet, no mulatto baby, and Truman, not talking on the telephone, but asleep and snoring beside me.
My heart raced as I lay there, but the rhythm of Truman’s heavy breathing and the soft whoomp of the ceiling fan urged me back to sleep.
20
Sunlight splashed across the kitchen, and colored the silver appliances copper. Another strange-weather day in Los Angeles. I sat at the breakfast bar, coffee cup to my lips, eyes on the television. On Good Day L.A., host Jillian Barberie announced that temperatures in Los Angeles had already reached a humid eighty-eight degrees. I glanced at the refrigerator for the fifth time that morning, but nothing about it had changed. Truman had left the house before I had awakened and hadn’t left a message on the door.
I poured my coffee into the sink, then turned back to the refrigerator. I studied the magnetic words there until a message formed in my mind.
Light crackles blue when I dream of you
Love rockets fly twirl soar
You light my sky with languid magic
As I stood in the driveway, I heard the thump-thump of Jake’s running shoes. Usually, my heart soared knowing that at any moment, I would see him sprint past. On this morning, though, I held my breath as I listened, and hoped that the runner would be another man in size 12 Nike Airs.
No luck.
Jake jogged around the bend, and slowed as he neared my house. “Mornin’.”
“Hey.” That one word sounded strained, and I cleared my throat, then jangled my keys.
“Guess you’re not used to awkward morning-afters.” He stepped closer to me. Heat rolled off his body. He smelled like the canyon—smoky, green and wild.
“Guess not.” I shivered even though it was eighty-eight degrees.
“What happened between us last night… It wasn’t some random thing to me. I really care about you, Nicole. I don’t go around sleeping with people’s wives for fun.”
I bit my lip, unsure of what to say.
“Nic.” He touched my chin.
I jerked away.
His eyes darkened, and he dropped his hand. “I couldn’t sleep last night because I knew you’d freak out on me. We’re not awful people. That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
I turned my head, and said, “I betrayed someone who loves me.”
“A man who’s neglected you and continues to fail in his commitment to you and—” He stooped so he could see my eyes. “I don’t care about hurting Truman, to be honest with you. He deserves whatever heartbreak is coming to him. I care about you, though. I care that you hate this house. I care that your last therapy session with that Tremaine woman was a bust. Does he even know that you’re seeing another shrink?”
Tears burned my eyes—I didn’t know. “Still, Jake. All of this, even standing here with you right now, makes me nervous.”
He said nothing.
I gawked at him. “You don’t care what his reaction would be? What he’d do if he found out about us?”
He laughed, then leaned against my car. “I wish he’d say something to me, but he won’t. He’s not a stupid…” He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Oh. Crap. Do you mean…? You think he’d hurt you?”
I coughed—his question a punch to my gut. Through my choking fit, I said, “No. Truman? No. He’d never—” I grabbed my clammy neck and caught my breath. How could I lead anyone to think something so horrible? “Truman can be an insensitive jerk sometimes, but he’d never hurt me. He’s not like that.”
“Would you tell me if he was?”
I blinked at him. “Did you just say that?”
“Do you know how many pro bono clients I have who beg me to believe that their guy is all sweetness and light? He’s an angel, they tell me, but I’m sitting there, looking at his anger on her busted lip.”
�
��You’re being an ass right now, Jacob, and it’s pissing me the hell off.”
He exhaled, then placed his hands on his head. “You’re right. I believe you. Truman’s not that guy. But you know I’d do anything for you, anything to protect you, Nicole. You know that, right?”
I covered my face with my hands, and said, “This is way too intense a conversation for 7:30 in the morning.”
Jake thought about that, and his shoulders relaxed. “I’m sorry. It’s the lawyer in me. I can become a little irrational in my defense sometimes.”
In the distance, a weed whacker buzzed, and the thwap of blades against wild grass echoed throughout the canyon. A garbage truck rumbled down the street, and I realized that Truman hadn’t rolled out the trash cans. I sure as hell wouldn’t haul out a week’s worth of garbage wearing a Calvin Klein linen pantsuit. Maybe on an Ann Taylor separates day, but not today.
Jake took my hand, and said, “Let’s talk about this at a villa in Tuscany or Provence. You won’t ever have to come back to this house again. I’ll gladly give you everything he’s not.”
I withdrew my hand. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
He laughed. “It wouldn’t be fair? Not, Jake, I love him, or Jake, he loves me. But it wouldn’t be fair? Romantic.”
I couldn’t say any of those things—I love him, he loves me—because those things didn’t matter right then. And it would be ridiculous to claim “love” after having slept with another man less than ten hours before. This did matter: Truman had put up with me for thirteen years. For ten of those years, he had been the best husband in the world. It wasn’t fair of me to throw that away and travel the world with another man who hadn’t done any of the heavy lifting.
“Think about my offer,” Jake said. “Weigh your options. The pros and the cons. Think about how we feel about each other. How we feel when we’re together. Then…” He grinned, certain that, in the end, he would win.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I’m starting to sound like a Prince song. Do U want him R do U want me, babybabybaby.”
I smiled. “I love Prince.”
He blushed, then tugged at his sweaty T-shirt. “So, I stink, and you’re being polite about it.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You’re not too bad. Pungent but not offensive.”
“We’ll talk later?”
I nodded.
He kissed my cheek, and then, dashed up the hill.
21
It wasn’t some random thing. Didn’t matter if it was random or not. I knew I’d tell Jake ‘no.’ And I would say nothing to Truman about the affair, or Jake’s offer to leave the States, or any of it. I would cook, clean and swallow all dissatisfaction about Truman’s work schedule and his hobbies without comment. I’d develop an ulcer from all of this repression, but I could afford bottles of Maalox. Maybe Truman and I could see Dr. Tremaine together for marriage counseling. She had been awful during our first “chat,” but maybe she had had a bad day.
If I deserved a second chance, Dr. Tremaine deserved one, too.
But for counseling to work, I would have to confess. Or could I talk around the affair, my secret attempts to conceive? Could I ball all of that up into one load of dirty laundry?
Because I did love my husband. I missed him when he wasn’t with me. I enjoyed his company when we weren’t fighting. I wanted to forsake my firm abs and thighs to have his baby. That had to count for something.
By ten o’clock, I had finished an endocrinology report and had started on a draft about recent advances in nanomedicine. Truman hadn’t called to apologize, and I hadn’t called him. This silence, this opportunity to breathe and to think clearly, left me torn. I had been relieved that no one [i.e. Jake] had called to threaten me with the truth; on the other hand, the quiet was too quiet. The kind of scary-movie quiet that always ended with screaming, chainsaws and bloodshed.
Jake had sent me a vase of Casablanca lilies. The bouquet had been waiting for me on my desk, and now sat on my credenza. As I re-read the card, I didn’t know how to feel.
Babybabybaby, I’m crazy about U and I want 2 please U.
Someone knocked on the door.
I looked over my shoulder—Truman stood in the doorway. My pulse exploded, and I jammed Jake’s card into my slacks pocket. “Hey.”
“Thought I’d come over the hill and surprise you.” He closed the door behind him, then said, “It’s been pretty bad between us. Scary-bad.” He wore khaki-colored shorts, a Body Glove T-shirt and his fading blue Vans. Ocean-wear.
I grunted again, then plopped back into my chair.
He wandered to the credenza and touched the lilies’ petals. “These are beautiful. You bought them?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of us spoke. The muted roar of the copy machine down the hall filled the silence.
He squared his shoulders, and said, “Nicole, do you wanna keep doing this?”
“What is ‘this’?” I asked. “You mean our marriage?”
He nodded, then sat in a chair on the other side of my desk.
“See, that’s a problem,” I said. “You talk about being married to me like it’s a death sentence. Like our marriage is a wart on your ass that needs to be—”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “What do you want me to do? Go to counseling with you? Go to church? Attend some workshop where we talk about our feelings and hit each other with pillows?”
I spun my chair to face a wall filled with pictures of Truman and me on our last Caribbean vacation. Clear turquoise waters. Sea rays brushing against our calves. Rum cake.
“And you’ve changed, too,” he said. “You’re always pissed at me. You barely let me touch you. You’re not... interested in me anymore.”
I muttered, “And it’s still all about you.”
He hadn’t been around to talk to, to watch television with, to play Guitar Hero even though he had promised. He never asked me about work, or about the book on my lap, or about my thoughts on anything. How could I have sex with him? Most times, I was too pissed off to orgasm.
“I’m so tired of this,” he muttered. “Why come home when this is all you do?”
I considered him with narrowed eyes. “All I do? I like arguing nonstop with you? I wait until you decide to pop into our marriage so that I can pick a fight? I’m now some nagging hag bitch of a wife who doesn’t understand?”
“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “And I’m tired of trying to make you understand.”
“Make me?” My love for this man was melting like ice cream beneath a hot sun. It was still there, but if we kept going in this direction, kept having these types of arguments, that love would soon be a sticky used-to-be. And I didn’t want that. “If you don’t want to be with me—”
“I want to be with you, okay?” He rubbed his face, then released a long sigh. “I love you, Nicole. I’m stressed out. Can’t you see that? I know I’m not spending time with you but you have to understand that I’m doing this for the both of us. I’m supposed to be at the pier right now, but I’m here with you because you matter to me.”
I smirked. “What time’s your dive?”
He hesitated, then said, “Two-thirty.”
I chuckled—such a sacrifice—then gazed at the lilies on the credenza. Has Truman come over the hill for lunch? No. Not once.
“I’m trying,” Truman said, weaker. “Can I get ten points for trying?”
“Ten points for fitting me into your busy schedule?” I asked. “Sure. And thank you.”
He either ignored my sarcasm or did not pick it up, and continued: “And I’m sorry about Saturday night.” One side of his mouth lifted into a weak smile. “Most of those people who came to the party don’t care about me. Not really. And I know that. Most of them only give me the time of day because of my job title. Including Elvia.”
“Elene,” I corrected.
“Elene?” He grimaced. “You sure?”
Truman wasn’t being funny. He probably
didn’t remember the skank’s name. As the Historian, Parliamentarian, and Secretary of our union, I remembered names, dates, directions, and the places we parked the car. As President, Treasurer and Sergeant-at-Arms, Truman made the most money, checked the locks at night, and killed the bugs.
He walked over to me, and pulled me to my feet. He leaned forward until our foreheads touched. “You’re the only person in this world who’d never intentionally hurt me. Who loved me when all I did was study ratings and statistics all day. I don’t wanna do anything stupid enough to make you leave me. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, really sorry.
“And I’m sorry for the prisoner remark. I don’t feel that way at all. You’ve never forced me to do anything, and I shouldn’t have said that. And I do enjoy going to restaurants with you. I was just angry and I wanted to hurt you.”
I dipped my head and clamped my mouth shut. I felt a confession coming. Felt like that tickle on the back of your throat before you cough.
“Let’s do better, all right?” he said. “I’ll do better. I promise, Nicole. Don’t give up on me yet. We put too much into this to throw it all away, right?”
I nodded, relieved that he didn’t want to leave me, relieved that I was relieved. Because I didn’t want a new life in Provence, or in Tuscany, or on the moon with another man. I’d take Truman in a hut in the Outback over Jake in a villa near Versailles.
I had screwed up. Plain and simple. No excuses. I had been attracted to Jake, and I wanted him and I had him—it didn’t help that I had been pissed at Truman, but Truman hadn’t forced me into another man’s arms.
I’ll tell him about the affair when he comes home from the dive tonight.
He’d be pissed at me. Beyond pissed. He’d shout, curse me out, all of that. He’d leave the house for a day or two, but he’d come back because he knew my heart. We cherished our marriage. Even more, we cherished our friendship.
Truman and I walked to the parking lot in silence. We didn’t bump into my co-workers, and so we didn’t have to pretend that we hadn’t just ended two days of angry and uneasy silence.
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