The Affair

by Debra Kent

  October 30

  Tomorrow is Halloween, and as usual, Pete still hasn’t picked out a costume. First he wanted to be Captain Hook, so I ran out and bought a pirate costume at the party supply store and even found a stuffed alligator I’d planned to rig to his pantaloons. Then last week he decided that pirates weren’t cool and he’d rather be a policeman. So I ordered a cop costume from the Lillian Vernon catalogue, paying extra for overnight delivery, but when he put it on, inexplicably he started to cry, so I shoved the whole damn costume back in the plastic bag and told Pete he could go trick-or-treating stark naked for all I cared, which only made him cry harder. Now he wants to be a pepperoni pizza. I’ve just spent the last two hours on my knees in the garage trying to cut a giant circle from a refrigerator box I pulled out of the Dumpster at Sparky’s Appliances. I’ve painted it, I’ve glued on construction paper pepperonis, and I’ve devised an elaborate harness so he can wear it and walk without tipping over. And if he decides he’d rather not be a pepperoni pizza after all, I will have no choice but to strap the damn thing on and go trick-or-treating myself because I will, most assuredly, need the chocolate!

  ’Til next time,

  November 7

  This morning I found a red velvet heart hanging from a branch of the ficus. It had to be from Eddie. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. “I see you have an admirer.” It was Diana Pierce, the Center’s comptroller and, as it happens, an old college buddy of Roger’s. I always suspected Diana had the hots for Roger. She’s divorced, testy, flamboyant, always on the offensive. “It’s that studly plant guy, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?” I tried to sound confused.

  “I’ve seen him hanging around your office. I mean, how much time can it possibly take to water a plant?” Diana threw her head back and cackled, her mouth opened so wide I could count her fillings.

  “Diana, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” (At this point I’m wondering if I look as guilty as I feel.)

  She reached out and chucked me under the chin. “Baby, I love it when you lie.” She started for the door and then turned around. “By the way, how’s Roger?” She left before I could answer.

  I spent my lunch hour with Eddie. We grabbed hot dogs and found a green spot four blocks from the office. I kept expecting Diana to pop up from behind a bush. He hinted at a stagnating marriage (he mentioned that his wife is usually asleep by the time he gets home), and I hinted at my own (I told him about Roger’s obsession with his play). When we got back to the building I asked him to take a different elevator. “You know, so people don’t start suspecting things.”

  “What kind of things?” he asked, his eyes glittering wickedly as he grinned. God, I love his teeth.

  “You know.” My face hurt from smiling so much. An elevator chimed and Eddie hopped in. I could see him staring at me as the doors closed.

  Roger was unusually animated when I arrived home. He had the cordless phone in his hand. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?” He waved the phone in the air.

  I put my briefcase down and rubbed my shoulders. “Tell me it’s a masseuse.”

  He smiled. “It’s Diana. She just invited herself over. Two weeks from today. Says she wants to catch up with me. I mean us.”

  Now what am I going to do? Diana is totally unpredictable. What if she says something about Eddie?

  ’Til next time,

  November 14

  Oh no. I can’t believe this. Two minutes ago I heard the phone ring. Roger got to it first. He held his hand over the mouthpiece as he offered it to me. “Some guy wants to ask you about plants for your office. Sounds like a phone solicitor. Should I tell him you’re not interested?”

  I held my breath. “I’ll take it.”

  Roger shrugged and went into his office. As long as I could hear him hammering away on the keyboard, I knew it was safe to talk. I tried to sound casual. “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s me. Eddie.”

  “Eddie? From the office?” Who was I kidding? I knew exactly who it was.

  “Yeah, Eddie from the office. How are you?”

  Scared, I wanted to say. It felt as if Eddie had violated some fundamental tenet of fantasy and flirtation. How could he call me at home, the place where my husband and son live in happy ignorance? Eddie had upped the ante. “Fine,” I answered. “What’s up?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m buying new plants for your floor and wondered whether you had any favorites. You know. For your office. I mean, before I place the order, I just thought I’d ask.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I felt dizzy.

  “Huh?”

  “What is this, junior high school? I know what’s going on here.”

  There was absolute silence on the other end and for a moment I thought he’d hung up. But then Eddie’s voice came through, hushed and soft. “If you know what’s going on, then you must know that I can’t get you out of my head. Especially the way your mouth curls up at the corners, even when you’re not smiling.” I could feel my lips tingle the way they do when the novocaine starts to wear off. I bit my lower lip hard.

  “I have just one question for you and I want you to answer me honestly. If your answer is no, I’ll never bother you again.”

  I couldn’t bear that thought. “What’s the question?” I whispered. My head hurt.

  “Are you attracted to me?”

  I knew that my answer could change my life. Everyone’s lives. I could hear Roger tapping at the keyboard in the other room.

  “Yes. I am attracted to you.”

  “Mommy?” Jesus. It was Pete. How long had he been standing there? I pressed my mouth to the phone and whispered, “Gotta go.” My heart thumped frantically. “Bad dream, sweetheart?” I led Pete back to his room and tucked his dinosaur blanket up to his chin. He smiled at me and fell back to sleep. I watched him guiltily. It’s almost as if I’m betraying him too.

  ’Til next time,

  November 21

  It’s 1 A.M. Pete and Roger are asleep and I’ve just spent the last half hour with my head over the toilet. When Roger asked, groggily, if I was okay, I told him I thought it was the sweet-and-sour shrimp I’d had for dinner.

  I lied.

  I know it’s the guilt. Even when there was nothing left in my belly, I heaved the bile. When that was gone, I just shook and gagged. My cheeks are flushed and I’ve got the chills. It’s the guilt.

  Roger had reached for me in the night, then pulled me against him so we nested like spoons, his arm around my waist. I felt the stirring in his briefs, felt it against me. He was sound asleep. If he could touch me now, why not when we were both awake?

  I felt his warm breath against my neck and suddenly I was overcome by pity. I thought of his receding hairline and his futile efforts to grow a goatee. I thought about the failed plays, the success that has eluded him season after season. I imagined him hunched over the keyboard, convinced that this time he was golden. I thought of his one positive review, published in the Times ten years ago, now pathethic and yellowed in its frame. I thought of the wife whose heart hungered for another man.

  What would he say if I told him about Eddie? Would he be arrogant and ridicule Eddie’s lack of education, his lowly profession? Would he crumple in pain? Would he cry? Would he fill with rage and, for the first time in our marriage, raise a hand to strike me? Or, worse, would he silently pack his things and take Pete away?

  I felt his heart beat against my back. He murmured in my hair. Did I hear him say he loved me? I held my breath and listened keenly like a birdwatcher for the call of the loon. I was wide awake now. I actually hoped he would mention some other woman’s name Diana, Cameron Diaz, anyone but me. I wanted a reason to want Eddie. I wanted to level the playing field. Roger said it again, unmistakably. He said, “I love you.” It was at this point that I felt my dinner roil and surge and I staggered back to the bathroom.

  As I write this I can feel the anxiety ebb, finally. I need to get bac
k to sleep. I’ve got back-to-back clients all day tomorrow and a session with a married woman with four kids who thinks she may be lesbian. I owe it to her and all the rest of my clients to be awake and alert. Maybe I’ll take something to help me get back to sleep. I think I’ve got some melatonin in the medicine cabinet.

  Wait. My computer just chimed. Who could be e-mailing me at this hour?

  ’Til next time,

  November 28

  Even before I checked my in-box I knew that the new e-mail was from Eddie. But how did he get my e-mail address? Wait a minute. I know. I’d seen him flirting with Trish, the new receptionist (implants, I’m sure). She’d handed him something. Red cover, yellow lettering. Damn that devil! He must have sweet-talked her into giving him the directory! That list is as closely guarded as the Pentagon—lest any of our particularly unstable clients try to track us down at home.

  I clicked on the envelope icon and his name appeared, highlighted on the screen. Edward Bennedetto. I stared at his name for a long time before I got the nerve to read his mail. Just two words.

  “You awake?”

  He was on-line. I could have ignored it, could have deleted it. But the seventh-grader in me could not resist. I had to write back. “Mmmmmm. I’m here.” Not “yes” or “yup.” But “Mmmmmm.” Flirting in cyberspace. What am I doing?!?

  He fired back a response. “What are you wearing?” Oh God. Don’t go there, Eddie. I guess I provoked him with that “mmmmmm” business. By now it’s 2 A.M., and I’m so tired I’m seeing bugs on the wall and the drone from my printer is beginning to sound like music. Sheryl Crow, actually. I could have logged off. I should have logged off. But this was too delicious. “T-shirt. Panties. Black, by the way.” Actually I was wearing a Gap sweatshirt and leggings, my bedtime attire of choice these days. Eddie responded: “Mmmmmm.”

  This was too much fun. And so illicit. Then I thought of Roger snoring upstairs in bed, his chiropractically correct foam pillow wedged under his neck. I could feel my stomach clench, the beginnings of another session of guilt puking. I couldn’t handle much more of that tonight. “Gotta go. Get some sleep!” I logged off before I could see whether he’d written back.

  It’s late. We signed Pete up for peewee basketball at the Y and it starts tomorrow evening. If I don’t get some sleep myself, I’m going to be zombie mom in the bleachers.

  ’Til next time,

  December 5

  I feel like crap. It was one of those days when I hated everything. I hated the wasp-like cyclists in their Lycra, riding three across, hogging the road, so physically fit I wanted to slam my Jeep right into their tight little butts. I hated the women who jogged in the freezing drizzle with that glazed “runner’s high” look in their eyes (damn fanatics). I hated the mothers who came to the preschool holiday party in their size four Talbot’s plaids and shiny loafers, all permed and perky and so damned happy. Can anyone possibly be that happy?

  And I hated the fact that Eddie didn’t show up for work today. Forty-five minutes spent getting dressed this morning. All that effort, wasted.

  I’ve noticed that I’ve started to see myself as I imagine he sees me. The image that holds no fascination for my husband now ignites the lust of another man. I touch my lip and think, this is the lip he loves, the lip that curls up at the corners even when I’m not smiling. He said it was catlike. I straddle a bench and see the curve of my leg and think, this is the leg he wants to stroke. I slip off my T-shirt and imagine him watching me from the corner of the room. Is this sick, or what?

  Betsy, my dear old college roommate, wants me to do this. I mean, have an affair with Eddie. I e-mailed her last night and told her everything. (Not that there’s so much to tell: I have a crush on the office plant guy, he has a crush on me, and we flirt like junior high schoolers. End of story.)

  She e-mailed back this morning. “You only live once, kid. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You deserve to feel loved and desired. Get him into bed!” I was stunned. This was coming from Betsy, the only girl in my sorority house who didn’t own a fake ID and actually studied for exams while the rest of us were at keg parties with the Delta Chi boys. Betsy, the good Catholic, the only friend who could legitimately wear white at her wedding.

  On the other hand, Betsy could be viciously sarcastic. Maybe she was just playing with me. I e-mailed her back: “Are you kidding?” She must have been on-line just then because the phone rang a moment later. “Not on your life.” Her voice was hushed. Her kids must have been in the room. “You go, girl!” (Now that this hip urban expression has finally made it to Betsy’s prim hamlet in suburban Iowa, “You go, girl” has, shall we say, lost some of its appeal.)

  She couldn’t talk: Child No. 4 was wailing in the background. But after I hung up the phone, my old friend’s exhortation stayed with me. With good Betsy’s blessing, the possibility of taking Eddie to bed felt tantalizingly real.

  ’Til next time,

  December 13

  Wound up having lunch with Eddie today. He jumped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. “Mind if I join you for lunch?” No one else was in the elevator. I could feel myself flush. “Sure.” Truth is, I hate eating alone. It could have been anyone and I would have said yes. (I’m aware that I sound as if I’m rationalizing now.) I had the sudden impulse to hit the emergency stop button and pin him against the wall. Judging by the look on his face, I think he was thinking the same thing.

  We found a quiet booth in the back of Peking Palace. It felt so illicit sitting back there. Eddie pulled a little box out of his coat pocket. “Got something for you,” he said, smiling. I looked at his beaming face and I felt… I don’t know how to put this …

  I just felt this overwhelming pity for him. Yes, I’ve imagined slipping my hand inside his briefs. Yes, I’ve even concocted complicated stories in which his wife and my husband just happen to be on the same plane, which tragically explodes in flight. Yes, he makes every nerve ending in my body come alive just by walking into the room.

  But I never thought he’d actually give me presents. Gift giving comes with a relationship. We don’t have a relationship. Or do we? Do I want him to love me? Or just lust for me? Do I want him to be my second husband, or my first lover?

  So I take the box in my hand. I shake it. I try to smile. How could he know me well enough to buy me something I’d like? And what’s he doing buying me presents on his plant-guy salary? I open it and pray it’s not jewelry. I look. Oh no. It’s a tiny brass bust of Sigmund Freud.

  Poor Eddie. Does he think all therapists are Freudians? I’ve never been especially fond of Freudian theory (especially that penis envy nonsense). I could see Eddie looking at me with a hopeful, expectant look on his face. He so badly wanted to please me. I realized then: he’s really falling for me. I don’t want that. I don’t want his adoration. I want his body. I don’t want to see Eddie as a puppy. I want him as a wolf.

  After lunch, I ran into Diana in the rest room. We’re both fixing our makeup in the mirror. With her trademark arched eyebrow she says, “So how’s your garden stud?” I tried not to let her see the terror on my face. What, exactly, does she know? Then she says, “Has he shown you his hose yet?” I tried to sound light. “Good one, Diana. But you know I only have eyes for Roger.” She smirked but I left before she could say anything else.

  What’s really nerve-racking is that this woman is coming for dinner in six days! If she’s like this when she’s sober, what is she likely to say after she’s had a little wine?

  ’Til next time,

  December 19

  The night I’d been dreading for weeks is finally over. I feel strafed. Almost everything that could have gone wrong, did. Pete woke up from his nap with a fever. My in-laws were supposed to take him for the night but he was so miserable I couldn’t bear to send him away. He spent most of the evening in my arms, sweaty and irritable, while I labored to reach around him with my fork. My period hit in the middle of dinner and leaked through my pants and on
to the upholstered chair (I don’t think anyone noticed but I almost died when I saw the stain). I got my foot tangled up in the Christmas tree lights and pulled the tree down (Roger caught it before it hit the floor but two glass ornaments smashed).

  But none of this compared to the agony of having Diana in my dining room for three and a half hours. Diana is what I call a “nonporous surface.” Every conversation is strictly one-way. She can talk about herself ad nauseam but has zero interest in other people, except to the extent that they have something to offer—if you can get her a courtside ticket to the basketball game, she’s your best friend.

  Worse than her self-absorption is her sadism. As I’m serving the salad she says, “These greens remind me … have you told Roger about your new friend?” I froze.

  “Which new friend is that, Diana?” Roger looked up quizzically, midbite.

  “You know, your friend.” I tried hard to seem confused. After a long, painful pause she said: “Maggie Belky, the new social worker. Nice girl.” Roger, uncharacteristically, must have been paying attention, because he said, “What does that have to do with greens?” Diana looked at me, smiling. “I don’t know. Just some weird train of thought, I guess.”

  It was like this all night. She’d gesture toward the potted azalea on the kitchen counter and say, “Your plant doesn’t look so hot. Anyone you can call for expert advice?” Or, “Can you recommend a good landscaper?”

  After she’d finished off the bottle of wine, she wrapped her arms around Roger’s waist and told me, “You take care of my Roger, you hear? If I’d had any brains I would have grabbed him when we were juniors at Penn. I was such an idiot.” Roger blushed and gently extracted himself from her grip. He moved to my side and muttered something lighthearted. I felt a wave of guilt as I contemplated his loyalty. Diana finally left at 11. I practically had to shove her out the door.