The Affair

by Debra Kent

  I find myself counting the years until Petey is old enough to handle our divorce. I’ve got to get out of this marriage.

  ’Til next time,

  February 20

  Thanks to a flat tire, I now know exactly what Roger is doing with his young student. My Jeep wheeled over a broken beer bottle in the parking lot as I pulled into my spot this morning. The tire was completely deflated by the end of the day. I hadn’t fixed a flat since college and wasn’t sure I remembered how to do it. So I pulled out my cell phone and called Roger.

  He didn’t answer—and it didn’t make sense. He’d always been home by 6 P.M. I worried that Petey had been hurt—God’s revenge for Alice’s accident—and saw a fleeting but vivid picture of Roger in the hospital emergency room, crumpled over the gurney as the nurses covered the small body. When my clients do this, I call it catastrophizing. Yet the truth is, I do it all the time. Ever since I was a little girl, sitting on the window seat in our living room, watching for the headlights of my father’s car, I’ve always conjured horrific possibilities.

  I had to hurry. I managed to fix the flat myself, then sped home, taking streets instead of the highway to avoid rush-hour traffic. As I rolled through a yellow light at Washington and Seventh, I saw them: Roger and a young woman lingering outside the Learning Attic. She was a girl, really. I slowed as I passed them, knowing intuitively that they would never see me. They were in the kind of glass bubble new lovers create for themselves, impervious to outside distractions. She wasn’t the blond cover girl I’d imagined, but had a Stevie-Nicks-witchy-woman look: spiraling hair, almond eyes, red-painted lips, long skirt, cowboy boots. Very different from the cool, Waspy, Talbots look Roger always said he favored. As I passed them, I saw her lean toward him and adjust his scarf. An intimacy. I’m still in shock.

  I picked Petey up from day care, knowing Roger would be momentarily panicked when he arrived and didn’t see his son among the other kids. I wanted him to panic.

  It’s now 7:36 and he still isn’t home. Is my marriage over? I allow myself to contemplate the possibility. I never thought he’d have the courage to make the first move, but it looks like he fooled me, didn’t he? I’m scared. I am not ready to live alone. I am not ready to end my marriage. And crass as it may sound, without Roger’s money I’ll be broke—almost as broke as Alice’s mother, who went from caviar to food stamps almost overnight.

  Roger is a trust-fund baby. The money his parents made in the stock market—buying Disney and McDonald’s and IBM when these companies were young and green—has made it possible for Roger and all his siblings to live comfortably and pursue the careers of their dreams. Hence, Roger the Playwright. My client load changes every month so my income fluctuates, and ever since the managed care revolution, most of my clients leave treatment after the allotted six or eight sessions.

  I couldn’t have a house, couldn’t afford a car, probably couldn’t afford health insurance. I’m not ready to live like a grad student again, cinder-block-and-plank shelving, hot dogs for dinner. To know profoundly that I am alone, that I am not loved, that my marriage may be ending … it’s all so chilling. And suddenly, in light of these possibilities, there is nothing sexy about Eddie. The prospect of poverty has the effect of a cold shower.

  I’m aware that by focusing on my finances, I conveniently avoid the real issues. Forget about losing money—what about losing my life’s companion, the father of my son? What about Petey? Do we really want to live with the burden of knowing we wrecked this child’s life? If nothing else, isn’t Petey’s well-being worth fighting for? I resolve to confront Roger when he gets home. I’ll be cool, controlled. I will not cry. I’ll tell him it’s time to work things out.

  When I heard Roger’s key in the door, I was prepared to employ the interested-but-detached voice I use with my clients. (“I got a flat today,” I’d tell him. “I tried to call you but you weren’t home. Leftover lasagna okay for dinner?”)

  But the moment I saw my husband’s face, flushed and happy—and actually heard him whistling—I knew I’d never make it. “Where were you at six o’clock?” I said, already accusing. I felt my outrage roil, then surge. “I saw you. With her.” I sounded like Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  “I see we’re moving up in the world. First eavesdropping, now spying.” He sorted through the mail, chuckling derisively. He had on one of his trademark expressions—a razor blade smile, grotesque in its insincerity. It made me want to pummel him.

  “Damn you, Roger. What the hell is going on?” I could hear Petey humming in the other room as he rummaged through his crayons. I didn’t want him to walk in on this. One of the kids in his Saturday play group told him his parents were getting a divorce because they fight too much, and now every time Roger and I argue, Petey asks pitifully, “Are you going to get a divorce now?”

  “What do you think is going on?” Roger narrowed his eyes, waiting for my theory.

  “Don’t play games with me. I saw the girl.” Already I was crying, my voice choked as phlegm clogged my throat. “I saw how she touched you.”

  “She wasn’t touching me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Was that Alyssa?”

  He stopped flipping through the mail and stared at me. “How did you know her name?”

  “Caller ID.”

  “God. You and your Caller ID.” He wiggled his fingers in the air and made Twilight Zone noises: “Ooooh … I guess Big Brother is watching me. I never wanted to get that thing in the first place.” He left the room to play with Petey, left me in the kitchen, alone and trembling in my rage. I began banging pans and slamming cabinet doors. With a sweep of my arm I pushed mail and papers off the counter and onto the tile floor.

  It’s a blinding kind of turmoil, this anger. I imagine it’s how a two-year-old must feel in the throes of a temper tantrum. I was out of control and terrified, knowing I must look like an ass, but simply incapable of regaining my calm. In retrospect, I know what fueled the rage: it was the belief that this man who had deprived me—no, starved me—of physical affection in all these months had somehow found the capacity to give the gift of his attention and touch to another woman.

  This idea (and that’s really all it is—I have no proof of an affair) had captivated my imagination in the cruelest way and catapulted me from a relatively sane wife to a raving shrew. And as I raved with red eyes and a swollen red nose, I thought, “How could he love a woman this needy, this pathetic? How could any man?” I shoved the lasagna into the microwave and heard Roger’s footsteps behind me.

  “You’ve got no right to spy on me, you know,” he began. I refused to turn around.

  “Look. She’s a flirt. And she’s cute. But there’s nothing going on. I swear.”

  I turned now and searched his face for the truth. I didn’t believe him. Suddenly I thought of Eddie, his body against mine in the video arcade, and I felt guilty and ashamed. A childish phrase sprang to mind, and it’s never been more appropriate: It takes one to know one.

  ’Til next time,

  March 3

  Last night I felt a powerful need to talk, but there was no one to talk to. Betsy is always asleep by nine. I was too embarrassed to tell either of my sisters about Eddie. Teresa is too critical, Julia too self-absorbed.

  So I did something I thought I’d never do: I went online. First I found a chat room for mothers; all they wanted to talk about was getting Kool-Aid stains out of the carpet. Then I joined a group of singles, where I got an instant message from some guy who wanted to know what color panties I was wearing. Finally I found a chat room for newly divorced women. Thinking they might have some cautionary tales and sound advice, I lurked for a while, then introduced myself and shared my sorry story.

  I can’t believe the response. One person urged me to dump Roger ASAP and move in with Eddie. Another suggested I give up on both men and become a lesbian. (“You’ve never been loved ‘til you’ve been loved by a woman,” she insiste
d.) Another woman said I’d be crazy to give up Roger’s trust fund and offered to trade places with me any day. And one ex-New Yorker told the group that she’d given up everything—husband, house, job as a high-powered publicist—to become a waitress in Texas where she’s now dating a cowboy and having the best sex of her life. On one hand I thought: You slut! On the other hand, I found her story tantalizing. It was as if she’d thrown a stick of dynamite into her life, fled from the rubble, and started anew. Of course, she didn’t mention whether she’d also left behind children.

  I teach people how to communicate, yet my husband and I still haven’t sat down to discuss the mess we’ve made of our lives, and I go on-line to reveal myself to total strangers! I’m paid to help resolve marital conflict and my own marriage is a shambles. How many clients would I have today if they knew? Then again, nearly all my colleagues face similar contradictions. Michael leads the anxiety disorders workshop and I know he takes Xanax for panic attacks. Nan can’t maintain a friendship longer than six months because she’s pathologically self-centered. Avery’s a family therapist who hasn’t spoken to her mother in twelve years. And James is one of the leading experts on marriage and infidelity and he’s been carrying on with his research assistant for years. Perhaps that’s what makes him an expert.

  ’Til next time,

  March 6

  After Roger insisted that he wasn’t sleeping with Alyssa, I decided to leave the issue alone, thereby deferring the painful but necessary process of deconstructing our marriage in order to rebuild it. I don’t have the energy for that. I’m also scared. There’s too much venom under the surface—his and mine. I’ve opened these wounds before in hopes of a reconciliation, then suffered the assault of Roger’s acrid hostility. (“What do you mean I’m not affectionate?” he’d scream. “How about you? When’s the last time you offered to rub my back? And what do you expect when you wear sweatpants to bed every night?”) I’m not ready to put myself through that again.

  My eleven o’clock canceled today. I thought I’d take the opportunity to meditate, but I wasn’t alone for long. I heard a soft rap at the door.

  “Do you accept walk-ins?” It was Eddie. He ducked his head boyishly. I opened the door wider to let him in, then closed it. Locked it. “I normally see clients by appointment only,” I said, playing along, “but I’ll make an exception in this case.” He stretched out on the leather sofa and rested his large hands across his belt buckle. His biceps bulged, even in repose. He stared up at the ceiling as he spoke.

  “See, Doc, I’ve got a problem.”

  My heart thwacked wildly in my chest. I knew precisely what would come next. “There’s this woman. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, she’s married. So am I.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me more.”

  “She’s amazing, Doc. She’s smart … sexy.” Eddie turned to stare at me. I had to look away. The word ricocheted in my head.

  Sexy? Me? I decided to take a risk. “Tell me about your wife.”

  Eddie was quiet for a long time. He looked up at the ceiling again. “Patty. You want me to tell you about Patty?”

  I swallowed hard. I wanted to say, No, not really. Let’s get back to that sexy woman you can’t get out of your mind. What was I afraid of? That he’d say he still loved her? Or that his words would turn this phantom wife into a flesh-and-blood woman. A mother. Like me. His stories would make her sympathetic, and then inviolable.

  I was wrong. By the time Eddie had led me through his marriage and its demise, I cared nothing for Patty. And for once I understood completely how a gardener and a clinical psychologist could be locked in this lover’s knot. Damage attracts damage; pain finds pain. We had reached almost heliotropically toward each other, knowing intuitively that we would be accepted and perhaps even loved.

  He told me so much. I want to write more about the details of his marriage but I’m already late for a haircut appointment.

  ’Til next time,

  March 13

  As Eddie lay there on the couch, I imagined myself stretched along the length of him. I imagined him gripping me with his strong, tanned arms, then maneuvering me so I was under him, which is how I like it. I wanted to be overwhelmed by him. He glanced at me as he spoke, and I prayed that among his talents, telepathy wasn’t one.

  “I married Patty in high school. She was pregnant. I wanted to do the right thing. But we’d only been together four months. I didn’t love her.” I felt relieved, then ashamed. If I really cared about this man, wouldn’t I want him to resolve his marital problems? Did I really want him pining for me?

  “We were both raised Catholic,” Eddie continued, “so divorce was out of the question. I don’t think I’m Catholic anymore.” He turned to look at me. I tried not to react. “Keep going.”

  “You know what they say—a woman is either a devoted mother or a devoted wife, but never both at the same time.” I’d never heard this particular maxim but it gave me a guilty little shiver. I didn’t have to think hard to know which category I fell into. “Well, Patty’s always been a devoted mother to our three girls. Wouldn’t even have sex when she was pregnant, convinced that it would hurt the babies.” I quickly calculated, three pregnancies times nine months … that’s over two years without sex. “Then Patty’s mother moved in with us last year and … well… I’m last in line. No, it’s worse than that. I’m not in line at all.”

  There was no yearning in Eddie’s voice, no hint that he wanted his wife’s affections. He talked as if he was describing something that happened a long time ago, in another life. “Patty’s a nice girl. Helluva mother. But I can’t tell you the last time we actually had a conversation. When I left my last job to start my business, she barely noticed. Not like I wanted a party or anything, but it was a big move, you know? I’ve got twenty-two employees and she couldn’t care less.”

  I was confused. I hadn’t realized Eddie was in business for himself. I’d pegged him for a community college dropout. He quickly read my face. “You’re wondering why I’m always here if I’m the boss. Right?” I nodded. He was telepathic! “The day we met, I was filling in for one of my guys. His wife was having a baby.” He looked away sheepishly. “After that, I kept coming around just to be around you. I like talking to you.” Then he laughed. “You think I’d be playing hooky if I wasn’t the boss?”

  I felt such turbulence. It had been years since I’d been the object of any man’s desire. I needed Eddie’s attention the way the willow root seeks water. I had been parched and my very survival depended on his desire. There were many things that drew me to Eddie: his machismo (so different from the fey and cultured boys I’d dated in school), his tenderness, his smoldering stare. But above all, I was attracted to the simple fact that he was attracted to me. And the truth is, I find that troubling. Am I so profoundly needy that all it takes to get me going is a man who wants me? What am I willing to trade to have that steady infusion of desire? My child? My husband? Can I possibly have both: the stability of married life and the passion of an affair? What price would I pay for my greed?

  When he had finally finished talking about his decaying marriage, he pulled himself up and patted the couch, gesturing for me to sit near him. It was risky. My next client was due in five minutes; she was a strongly intuitive woman whose husband had, in fact, been unfaithful. I was sure she’d scan my face and know instantly that Eddie and I were having an affair. And yes, I do believe that’s what this is, even if his body hasn’t entered mine. I feel as if I’ve surrendered my soul to this man. With a rush of adrenaline, I think of him first thing in the morning, and as I fall into the dim twilight between sleep and wakefulness, he is my last thought. When I shop for clothes, I choose things I think will please him (the short black skirt I found at Ann Taylor). When I dab on perfume, I imagine him inhaling the scent with his face against my neck. When I lift weights at the club, it’s the fantasy of Eddie watching from a corner of
the room that enables me to finish the set.

  There, on the couch, Eddie reached for my hands and held them lightly between his own. “We’d be good together. You realize that, don’t you?” I nodded slowly. I felt locked in his gaze. He reached over to brush the hair from my eyes. “Don’t we deserve some happiness?” I didn’t know what to say. Frankly, I never thought I deserved to be happy. The only clear message I got growing up was: Work hard and do whatever it takes to succeed. No one ever said: Do whatever it takes to be happy.

  “My old man died when he was forty-one. I don’t think I ever saw him really happy,” Eddie said. He held my hands tighter now. “He hated his job and hated his marriage, but every morning he went to work and every night he went to sleep in the same bed with my mother. He had a heart attack on the Fourth of July. He’d been scrubbing the barbecue while my mother stood in the kitchen, nagging at him like always. ‘Scrub harder, Joseph! You expect me to eat off that thing?’ I remember it like it was yesterday. He looked at her like he was going to say something, then dropped to his knees. I thought he was joking around. Then he flopped over and I knew he was dead. I was nine years old.”

  Eddie ran the back of his hand across his eyes. Impulsively I reached up and touched a finger to his lips. He turned quickly and kissed me full on the mouth, and in a moment had me beneath him on the sofa. His tongue was cool and tasted sweet and he moved his hand expertly under my blouse. My body arched to meet his, he pulled me closer, roughly. Whatever moral compass I might have possessed was quickly corrupted by the power of Eddie’s magnetic field.

  Just as quickly, I heard a knock on the door, then a key turning in the lock. Then, a woman’s husky voice: “What the hell?”

  Diana.

  Thank God for the small foyer between my door and the rest of the office—by the time Diana came into view, Eddie had pulled himself off me and I’d managed to sit up. I quickly ran a finger over my blouse to check the buttons but there wasn’t time to smooth my hair.