“Whatever. You know the one, which is significant right there. Anyway, I found out her name today, and also that she’s the daughter of the contractor at the orphanage. And she’s always there with him.”
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, that faithfulness doesn’t have the ring of golden reassurance that it seems to have for others. There are so many ways a marriage can implode, is what I think; sexual infidelity is just one of them, and actually, not even all that interesting. More often, I feel, being unfaithful happens when about five hundred other safeties have failed. But I know I’m alone in this assessment. Ask the faculty wives. No one agrees with me.
“He told me her name!” she says. “In fact, practically the whole e-mail is about her—how her father is building the place, and she’s nineteen, and they’ve been playing double solitaire and so far she’s beat him by about six hundred and forty-five games to two, and so now he’s teaching some kids to play so he can brush up on his skills and avenge his honor.”
“So what?” I say. “He loves you.”
She reaches over and pulls her laptop off the bedside table. “Just look at this, will you? Read this and tell me you still think that!”
Nearly every day now I am required to read and decipher things in Whit’s e-mails, all of which seem to me to be deeply personal, loving e-mails that he would die if he knew I was seeing. I have to say, he writes great, sexy notes to her, each one like a big, wet, erotic kiss. He can’t wait, he writes, to be with her again, rolling around in their bed, to feel her nakedness underneath him … he goes on and on. Fascinating though these are, I should not be seeing them.
“Juliana!” she says. “If he’s telling me her name, that means she’s important to him. And look! Just look at her big eyes,” she says.
“So she has nice eyes. So what? And his mentioning her doesn’t mean she’s important to him. I think if he were cheating on you with her, he’d be less likely to tell you the woman’s name, wouldn’t he? He’d keep it a secret.”
“He’s playing double solitaire with her, Mom.”
“Sophie, honey, double solitaire is just a card game.”
“I freaking know it’s a card game! That’s not the point! The point is, why can’t he just wrap up the filming and come home, if he’s got so much free time he can play double solitaire with another woman?”
I look at her and purse my lips. “Don’t do this to yourself, sweetie. Why do you want to torture yourself with this?” I say. “I think you’re the luckiest woman in the world. You have a monogamous man, and you and he are having a child, but for some reason, you’re letting yourself turn into a paranoid maniac. You mustn’t let your imaginings get the best of you. You’re just tired. Have you drunk enough water today?”
She gives me a pitying look. Yes, pitying. “You probably don’t realize this, I know, but Whit is actually a very sexy man,” she says. “You think of him as a kid, but trust me: women look at him and they want him.”
I laugh. “You think I don’t know that about him? I can recognize a sexy man, even at my advanced age.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she says. “It’s just that you and Dad … Well, he’s not exactly … on fire.”
I look at the ceiling and the thought comes to me that I have somehow turned out to be just the opposite of my mother. My mother brought her sexual opinions and needs and wants freely into the daily conversations we’d have, even at the breakfast table. Maybe it’s because I was so allergic to these conversations that I have never once strayed into that territory with Sophie. I don’t think I have ever said the word orgasm around her. I’ve never alluded to any sexual thoughts whatsoever. What was wrong with me? I probably should have. And now, in her mind, it’s clear I have no sexuality whatsoever.
So I say very carefully and evenly, feeling as if I’m venturing into delicate territory, “You know, I think every generation thinks it invented sex. Your father and I—”
“Oh, don’t tell me he was ever wild!” she says, and laughs.
“He was … is … amorous,” I say.
“I mean, you and Dad seem like …”
“What do we seem like?” I say when she trails off. “Tell me what it was like being our daughter. What did you see?”
“I saw … lots of consideration, and good manners, and … fun, and, I don’t know, a traditional division of duties, I think,” she says slowly. “You were very much the head of the house, making sure everything ran smoothly, and he came home to play games and do things with us, but—well, he was distracted, too. And strict, always wanting us to do exactly the right thing. You were always the one paying attention, but it was like you had to keep reeling him back in. He did the peripherals, I guess. But he was the one we had to please. You were the easy one, the pushover.”
“Really,” I say. “So you’re saying then that I was the mom.”
She laughs. “Yeah, you were the mom, and he was the rock, I guess. The one who loved you and held you up, and you were the softhearted person who ran around trying to make sure everybody was happy.”
“And”—I pause, try to phrase this just right—“I take it we didn’t exactly radiate a kind of, I don’t know, married passion for each other. Like people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”
“I remember coming into the kitchen once and you were kissing,” she says. “I mean, really kissing, not just one of those peck-on-the-cheek things. But when you heard me, I remember, Dad sprang back and did this whole pantomime like he’d been caught at something. It made us all laugh. Do you remember that?”
I don’t. I have no memory of that at all.
“Know something? Whit told me that about a year or so ago, he walked in his parents’ den and they were—I shouldn’t tell you this. I’m awful.”
“Oh, no, go ahead. I insist.”
“Well, they were, you know, actually doing it. Like, ewwww. And it was such a weird thing, he said, really the last thing he was expecting to see, that he couldn’t even register it at first. He said he just stood there staring at them, kind of in shock, like his eyeballs had gotten burned or something, and finally his dad turned around and said, ‘Do you mind?’ and so Whit backed out of the room and closed the door and that was that.” She wrinkles her nose and giggles. “You’ve got to admit, it’s a disturbing image, the Bartholomews doing it. The other day when we were with them out for lunch, it was all I could think about.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say, laughing. “Now when I see them next, it’s all I’m going to be able to think about, too.”
“And his dad with that saggy belly—ugh!” She shudders.
I’m about to say something like, “Sex is not just for the young and beautiful, you know,” when she looks down and starts picking at the tufts on the bedspread and says, “You know what I wonder? I just wonder if Whit can be a father like Dad, when he didn’t get to experience, you know, the whole pregnancy thing with me. I’m going to be a mom when he gets back, and … Well, is he still going to love me?” Her eyes well up with tears.
“It’s an adjustment, that’s for sure. It is for everyone. But you just do it. You’ll both figure it out as you go along. That’s what marriage is.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“He’s such a passionate guy, Mom—more like a boyfriend than a husband, you know? There’s this way that he’s not domesticated yet, and now he’s been free and when he comes back … Oh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
I know what she’s trying to say. I tell her the thing I truly believe—that sex and love and parenthood and complications can coexist, that you can be happy even when sex is something you steal away for once you’ve gotten the last of the dishes washed and the kid with the fever to finally go to sleep. But then my throat is suddenly clogged up with so much sadness and longing and regret that I think I will choke. It’s because of today, because of all the jumbled stuff Jeremiah stirred up in me—memories of that raw, yearning sexuality that Sop
hie is talking about, that youth and passion that she has no idea I even know about.
I won’t have that again.
That’s the truth of it. It will not come again, not in this lifetime. I was standing there on the street just hours ago, and I was laughing and free, kissing Jeremiah on the street like we were a couple of teenagers—and why did I feel the need to run away? When maybe what I was being offered was a chance to feel something again. To feel something that has to do with me, just me—not in relation to Grant or Sophie or Nicky. Just me, Annabelle Bennett McKay. Don’t I deserve to feel that again?
I had this, I lost it, and what I got instead was … what? The right to be in this room listening to my daughter. And that’s good. But why can’t I have it all—passion and motherhood and family?
After a while, the shadows lengthen in her bedroom, and I get up, stretch, and go in the kitchen to cook some spaghetti for our dinner, and she comes into the kitchen, too, wearing the bedspread like a giant cape that trails on the floor, and she sits on the stool wedged in by the brick wall, and when I look over at her, she smiles.
I’M IN the market a few days later, holding a cardboard container of blueberries—Sophie’s latest craving—and trying to make up my mind about whether I’m really willing to spend five dollars on a half-pint of them, when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
I see that it’s Jeremiah. For one difficult moment, I consider not answering it. But by the time I make up my mind to press the button, my heart is beating faster.
“Oh!” he says. “You answered. I was just getting ready to leave a voice mail.”
“I can hang up and you can call the voice mail back if you want,” I say, and he laughs.
“No, no. This is better. I’m actually calling to see if I can tempt you to come see me. I have something I think might be of interest to you.”
I laugh. “I’m sure you do, but I thought we made it clear that we’re not doing that anymore.”
“Ah, yes. So you claim,” he says. “But I notice that you’re still taking my calls, so that gives me hope.”
“Well, a sane person probably wouldn’t take your calls, it’s true.”
“Most sane people don’t,” he says. “Um, where are you right now?”
“I’m out buying blueberries.”
“Is this a pregnancy craving, by chance?”
“It is. But they’re outrageously expensive, so I’m standing here debating whether they’re worth it.”
“Unless they’re four thousand dollars, they’re definitely worth it. Pregnancy cravings have to be indulged. Don’t you remember?”
I love this, the way he has always been able to make me laugh, the sly manner he uses to bring me back to myself. So when he says, a moment later, “Of course I never knew you pregnant, but as I recall, even as a non-pregnant person, you had some pretty strong, awesome cravings,” I am almost light-headed.
“I want to see you,” he says. “Please tell me you’ll pack up your blueberries and come to my apartment.”
I try to protest. I do protest. I tell him I can’t come to his apartment, I don’t think this is a good idea, it can’t come to anything, blah blah blah, but I’m laughing because he keeps groaning as I talk, and anyway, we both know I don’t mean it the way you have to really mean something like this, and when I finally run down and stop talking, he says, “I’ll come to meet you, then.”
“But—”
“No, no. This needs to happen. Now where are you? Tell me your exact whereabouts.”
“Union Square.”
“Great—Union Square. Meet me at the northwest corner. I’ll be there in ten minutes, eleven at the most.”
“Jer—”
“No, no. You are to wait, motionless, until you see me. Think no bad thoughts while I’m on my way to you. Then, once I’m there, we’ll figure out what we’re going to do with this newfound insanity of yours.”
I can’t stop myself from laughing.
“Promise me. No bad thoughts until you see the whites of my eyes.”
“But I really don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go to your apartment,” I say.
“And is this because, for the first time ever, you’re frightened of my overpowering animal magnetism? Or are you just worried that I’m going to force you to live there with me and be my love slave?”
“I—”
“Look,” he says, and his voice takes on an edge. “What is this? I’m not trying to lure you away from your life. We can’t sit down in a quiet apartment and talk about our lives? We’re adults, Annabelle. We have a past. We care for each other, but that doesn’t mean you’re in any danger. This can’t be you talking.”
“Okay, listen to me. I promised Grant I’d never talk to you again. That was part of the deal for getting back together with him. All right? Now do you understand?”
There’s a silence, and then he explodes in laughter. “You had to give me up? For all time? Wow. I’ve never been a bargaining chip before.”
“Yeah, well—”
“I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m seeing myself in a whole new way here.”
“Could you just please—”
“Also, Annabelle, honey, I hate to point out the obvious, but surely you’ve noticed that you’ve already broken that promise, ah, twice now. Is it going to be that much more awful for him if you see me a third time?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. Maybe you’re right.” He is right. Of course he’s right. I’m being ridiculous. I’m a grown woman; I have my own life, apart from my life with Grant. And—well, I deserve to be able to look back at my past. This feeling, these longings, are not going to go away without my truly examining them. Even Ava Reiss would agree that you can’t truly move forward until you’ve been brave enough to know who you really are.
“You and I both know that people shouldn’t make those kinds of promises—or worse, even ask somebody to do that. Jesus. That’s like promising not to feel anything for the rest of your life, and the woman I knew twenty-six years ago would have never made that kind of promise.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m coming to meet you. We’ll take it from there,” he says and hangs up.
I call up Sophie and tell her about the blueberries I’ve bought and that I’ll bring to her soon. “Are you doing all right? Because I just got a call from Jeremiah, that old friend of mine we saw the other day …”
“Yeah, Mom. I remember Jeremiah,” she says and laughs. “That just happened, you know.”
“Well, he’s in the neighborhood and wants to meet me for another quick cup of coffee. So if you don’t need anything, I thought I’d do that. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” she says. “I’d be shocked if you didn’t go.”
“You would?”
“Mom. Come on. You take care of everyone. It’s what you do.”
• • •
HIS APARTMENT turns out to be a smaller Upper East Side version of the one we all had together, up three flights of stairs, with high windows, wood floors, and lots of light. He even has most of the same furniture as before: his desk, the bookcases, and the kitchen table are all the same. All around are stacks of books and magazines, papers, open file cabinets with manila folders spilling out of them. There are big, splashy, messy paintings on the walls, a wine bottle and one lone glass out on the counter. Stacks of mail. His laptop is on the couch next to a blue knit throw that I remember. I used to play with the fringe on that thing when I read to Brice and Lindsay.
He says, “So this is it—the palace,” and smiles. He takes off his black leather coat and waits while I remove my coat and hand it to him, and then he hangs them both in the closet and turns back to me, and there’s one of those awkward silences as if there isn’t a thing in the world that we can talk about. Which is weird because all the way here, he’d been telling me about his trips abroad, the lectures he’s been giving at universities, and the way that the world of museums has ch
anged—all reassuringly dull topics that had allowed me to calm down, even to the point of feeling a little bored.
“So how long have you lived here?” I say. It’s such a Jeremiah space—the cooking smells, the casual disorder, the artwork—all of it exactly like it once was. Minus Grant and Carly, of course. And the twins. It strikes me that this might be like the home we would have made together.
“Oh—what is it now? Ten years, I guess. We lived in Germany for a bit after the twins graduated from high school, and when we came back to New York, we moved here.” His eyes twinkle at me and he takes my arm. “You should look around. I bet you’ll recognize most of the furniture. I have a tough time throwing anything away, you know.”
Except me, I want to say. That you did rather brilliantly.
He walks down the hall toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Would you like some tea?” and when I say yes, he says, “Really. Make yourself at home.” I walk around, peeking into the tiny, black-and-white tile bathroom and then into the bedroom, which is right next to the kitchen, and is large and dim and with a disheveled bed right in the center of the room. His bed was always a mess, now that I think of it; we’d be practically in cardiac arrest we were so frantic for each other, and yet we always had to stop and remove clothing and books and papers from his bed before we could fall down on it and make love. And—well, here we are. This room is so much like the old room, it even smells the same. Here are his clothes, dropped everywhere, and I could go over to the bed and pick up his pillow and hold it close to me. I could stretch out here and close my eyes, and no time at all would have passed.
He’s talking to me from the kitchen—patter that I know is meant to put me at ease, but I’m barely listening because suddenly I have to sit down. I’m sitting on his bedroom floor with my head in my arms, flattened by emotion. Everything hits me at once: his voice, this place, the way he looks at me, how he can make me laugh, and yes, the awful way he left me. And then there’s sheer wanting. I want him. I look up at that bed with its covers all in a wreck, and I’m so scared that we two will soon be in it, rolling around just as if twenty-six years didn’t even matter.
The Stuff That Never Happened Page 26