The Affair

by Debra Kent

  I couldn’t say it. Now that Roger and I are in therapy together, there’s a protective veil between us and the rest of the world. To reveal the details of the process would be like sabotage, a betrayal of all three of us—me, Roger, and Bonita—and while I’m no stranger to betrayal, I can’t explain it. There’s something different now.

  So all I said was, “It’s going okay.” Eddie cocked his head back and looked into my eyes, as if seeing me from another angle would elicit more information. It was hard, but I managed to keep my mouth shut. I know he’s worried and wants me to reassure him that we can still be together. I wish I could. I literally hunger for him. Even if Bonita manages to patch up our marriage, could I ever have this kind of passion with Roger? Is he capable of lusting for me the way Eddie does? Would he call me in the middle of the day just to say the memory of my body is so distracting he can’t concentrate on work?

  So I told Eddie about the counseling. But I never told him to leave me alone, which would have been the right thing to do now. I’m not an idiot; I know that my marriage doesn’t have a fighting chance until I end my relationship with Eddie. But damn it, I just can’t do it. Call it sordid, immoral, and cheap, but what I have with Eddie is real and it makes me feel good (when I’m not feeling guilty and panicky and remorseful).

  I am not ready to give this up. And Eddie seems to be doing everything in his power to see that I don’t. We were in the back of the elevator this morning, jammed against the wall in the 9 A.M. crush, Eddie standing behind me in the corner. As we ascended I felt his hand slip under my shift, then between my thighs. With his other hand he pulled me back against him. When the elevator reached my floor I moved toward the doors but Eddie held me tighter. I felt powerless to escape his grip and the idea excited me. He took away his hands as the elevator got less crowded, but put them back when it emptied. We rode this way until we reached the top floor. He said, “Let’s take the stairs down.” We made out in the stairwell like a couple of teenagers. God, it felt so good, it took all my strength to pull away.

  Next week Roger and I are meeting separately with Bonita, presumably to discuss our respective affairs. From that point on, I figure we’ll be either moving toward true reconciliation or divorce.

  ’Til next time,

  August 3

  Last night I ran into the K-Mart on the west side to pick up sunblock and I heard a man say: “Nicole, I told you to leave that crap alone. Now quit before I smack your heinie.” He sounded loud, rough.

  My first thought: What a lowlife. Then I realized that I knew that voice. I peeked into the next aisle. Eddie! My lover—it still feels weird to use that word, but that’s what he is—screaming at his preschool daughter. And using a word like “heinie”! I felt sick.

  I was too embarrassed to approach him, too stunned to sneak away. Hiding behind a stack of electric fans, I watched him. It was impossible to discern the sleek, carnal man who has occupied my heart and mind and daydreams for months. What I observed instead was a harried and exasperated father who used a word like “crap” when addressing a preschooler. And threatened to smack her heinie. (I can’t get that word out of my head!) I also saw that the cart was filled with every form of junk food known to humanity, stuff I wouldn’t let Petey eat if it was the last thing in the house (well, maybe if it was the last thing … but you know what I mean). And then I noticed his potbelly. Where did that come from?

  A woman rounded the corner with her own cart. Could this be Patty? I waited. She pulled out an aqua blue housedress and held it up. I heard her say, “For Mom. What do you think?” It was Patty! She looked nothing like the round, bleached-blond woman I’d envisioned. She had brown hair straight as pins, cut bluntly at the jaw line, and looked like a kindergarten teacher. A mean one.

  Eddie glanced at the dress and answered, “Whatever.” I was relieved. Part of me was terrified that he’d embrace her in the analgesics aisle and say, “It’s a lovely dress, darling. And you’re a lovely woman. Let’s have sex tonight.” Ridiculous, isn’t it? Truth is, I didn’t want to see anything to suggest that their marriage was happy and stable. And I didn’t. They even shopped with separate carts! (In her cart, a package of something for yeast infections, I was delighted to observe.)

  Interestingly, I was able to put that entire K-Mart scene out of my head when Eddie called me at the office on Thursday. His back is better and he wants to meet at the Roundtree next week. I told him I’m scheduled to go to Washington for a conference, and now he wants to come with me. The idea of spending three days with him is so exciting and scary I can hardly breathe when I imagine it.

  This morning I found a manila envelope on my desk. Inside, wrapped in pale violet tissue, was a teeny-tiny black teddy from Heavens To Betsy. The moment I found it, I heard my computer ding. An e-mail from Eddie. It said only: Washington.

  Now for the big news. Alyssa left a message on my voice mail at work. Sounding like a spoiled, spiteful child, she said she had something to tell me about Roger. “You need to know something about me and your husband,” is how she phrased it. She said she’d call back next week. Of course, my imagination has devised every imaginable scenario: She and Roger are running away together. And they’re taking Petey. They’re having a baby. They’re collaborating on a play about their sexual escapades.

  If I don’t stop this I will lose my mind.

  ’Til next time,

  August 11

  Taken together, the events of the week have a kind of magnificent order, as if a master puppeteer (God?) has led me toward the only decision I can make now: I must stop seeing Eddie.

  The Washington trip was a disaster. Eddie and I actually had a fight! It started in a café near Dupont Circle. He was incredibly hostile toward the waitress, a frail little college girl who was obviously trying her best. At one point she forgot to bring a soupspoon and he said, “Do you expect me to eat this with my teaspoon? Or maybe I should just slurp it out of the bowl?” The waitress started to cry. I told Eddie to cut the poor kid some slack and he went into this long harangue about the eroding work ethic in young people and how “when I pay good money for a meal, I expect good service.” I told him I’d be happy to pay for the meal if he would just be nicer to the waitress, and he threw me such a chilling look that for a moment I was almost afraid of him.

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” Eddie said. “We’re not supposed to be fighting like an old married couple, we’re supposed to be back in the room, screwing our brains out.”

  “Oh? Is that what we’re supposed to be doing?” I asked, hearing my voice sharpen and arch like an eyebrow. “So, I guess you’ve done this before?”

  Eddie contorted his lips to suppress a guilty smile. “Well, you know how it is,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “No, Eddie, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

  He wiped his mouth as if to rub the smile away. “You know. You’re away on business and you’re lonely. It happens. What can I say?”

  “Don’t say anything, Eddie,” I said. I left the table.

  When we got to the hotel, I just told him I’d rather not have sex. He packed his bag and left. I haven’t heard from him since.

  On Wednesday, during a private session, Bonita Loeb told me point-blank that as long as I was having an affair, I couldn’t remain in therapy. (I wonder whether she said the same thing to Roger.)

  Thursday I received this letter from Petey’s school:

  Dear Ms. Ryan and Mr. Tisdale:

  With tremendous regret we must inform you that Petey can no longer continue at the Acorn Early Education Center. As you know, the school policy mandates that students be toilet-trained. In this way, we can maintain a sanitary environment, as well as keep teachers in the classroom. I know that you have tried hard to remedy the situation, but unfortunately Petey continues to wet and soil himself, and it has become a distraction to the other children as well as a strain on our teachers.

  It is also terribly embarrassing for your child. Whe
n Petey began at Acorn, he was an outgoing little boy, but in the past few months we have noticed dramatic changes, not only in his toileting habits, but also regarding his behavior. He has been withdrawn and weepy, and rarely exhibits the joie de vivre he had when he began here. I don’t mean to intrude, but I wonder if there is something in Petey’s home life that is causing his distress, and if there is anything you can do to ease the situation for him.

  Again, we are sorry to lose Petey. On behalf of the staff here at Acorn, we wish your family the best of luck.

  Most sincerely,

  Emma Burgins

  Director, Acorn Early Education Center

  I cried after I read that letter (I’m crying again just thinking about it). Roger looked ashen, as though he might cry too. I’ve canceled my appointments for next week so I can be with Petey. I feel so responsible, so guilty. This sweet little boy has been the receptacle for all the unhappiness in my marriage, all the sneaking around, all the shame. Oh God, how I desperately wish I could go back in time to reverse all the damage that’s been done. But how far back would I have to go? To the day I met Eddie? Or the day I met Roger?

  ’Til next time,

  August 14

  I haven’t wanted to write about Alyssa’s phone call. But I managed to tape the whole thing (my phone is rigged to record since I occasionally do phone sessions with clients), and this morning I transcribed the tape. It gave me stomach pains to hear it again.

  ALYSSA: I need to speak to Roger’s wife. Are you his wife?

  ME: Speaking. Who’s this? (I knew exactly who it was. Her voice is high and soft, like one of my baby-sitters.)

  ALYSSA: This is Alyssa.

  ME: Who? (Playing dumb, heart racing.)

  ALYSSA: I’m Alyssa. Roger’s student. You know? Alyssa.

  ME: Okay. And … ?

  ALYSSA: Look. I just called … I mean, I called to let you know that this therapy thing isn’t going to work.

  ME: (Silent, waiting.)

  ALYSSA: Are you there? Did you hear me?

  ME: I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  ALYSSA: Give me a break. You know Roger and I are together.

  ME: What, exactly, do you want from me?

  ALYSSA: I want you to give up. He’s done with you. So just let him go and get on with his life. (She sounded petulant, like a little girl. Part of me wanted to send her to her room for a nice long time-out.)

  ME: Give what up?

  ALYSSA: Huh?

  ME: YOU said you want me to give it up. What do you mean?

  ALYSSA: Don’t play games with me. You know what I mean. Roger told me how you dragged him to see that loony lady, that counselor. What a joke. Roger loves me. And I love him. So just give it up. (Now it hit me. Roger must have broken up with her. She’s panicking.)

  ME: (Determined to sound detached.) Okay. Anything else you’d like to say before I hang up the phone?

  ALYSSA: Yeah. He told me you’re as stiff as a board in bed. You just lie there, like you’re dead.

  ME: (Silence. I felt like crying.)

  ALYSSA: And he said I’m the best lover he’s ever had. You don’t know what you’re missing. He’s a total hotty. (Pause.) It’s a shame you couldn’t appreciate that. When you still had him, I mean.

  Alyssa has tried to reach me three times since that call. She’s left sick messages for me at work and has even sent me an e-mail message. In one voice mail message she said, giggling, “Roger told me about the way your breasts flop to the sides when you’re flat on your back, like he’d need a forklift to get them to stand upright.” In another message she said something like, “It’s really a pity that you never loved your husband enough to give him what he wanted in bed. He told me what a prude you are.” And then the e-mail: “Greetings. I’m wearing the black lace lingerie your husband bought me for my birthday. It’s exactly the kind he got you two years ago except it’s probably a few sizes smaller. Have a great day!”

  I saved all the messages in case I’d need them someday (divorce court? custody hearings?). It kills me to replay them, but I find myself masochistically going back again and again. It’s bad enough that Roger had an affair with his student, but how could he talk about me that way? And how could he be attracted to this demented little girl? I played the messages for Roger but he refused to admit that he is, or was, sleeping with Alyssa. I could tell by the way his lips trembled that he was lying. All he would say is that she’s a crazy girl with a wild imagination. He even managed to feign concern for me, and suggested I change my phone number and e-mail account.

  That made me lose all control. I threw my Rolodex at him (missed), then pummeled him with my fists, screaming, crying. He watched me, terrified. At one point he pulled me toward him, as if to hug me, but I fell to the floor, limp, spent. He backed away from me, slowly and scared, as if trying to elude a cobra. I begged him, “Please, tell me the truth about Alyssa.” Again, he insisted that she was infatuated and that she was lying.

  I played the messages for Betsy. She says I should get a restraining order against Alyssa. I’m not at that point yet, and anyway, I’m not even sure I have a case. But if the calls continue, I may have to involve the police. In the meantime, Eddie sent me flowers with a note that said, “I was a jerk in D.C. Forgive me?”

  ’Til next time,

  August 23

  This week Bonita had us describe on paper our parents marriages, which we would then exchange at our next session. Here’s what I wrote:

  My parents were deeply in love. Any fool could see that. But having directed all their affection toward each other, there was almost nothing left over for their children. Except for a rare peck on the top of my head, my parents did not hug or kiss me, nor did they offer tender words. I felt like an interloper on their honeymoon. Nearly every night I would hear the crawk-crawking of the floorboards above me; the whole house seemed to rock with their passion, and I would wrap my pillow around my head to muffle the sounds. They were so absorbed with one another that once, when I was four years old, they actually left me at the curb as they obliviously sauntered ahead, arm in arm like two teenagers. I remember standing there, watching them cross the street, and in a little voice crying out, “Isn’t anybody going to hold my hand?”

  So I grew up looking forward to the time when I would have a husband who would give me his undivided attention and adore me and love me. To be married to someone who neither notices nor wants me has been a tortuous but also profoundly familiar experience, as if this is my lot in life, to be invisible and unloved.

  I was surprised by this assignment at first, since most therapists would prefer to have couples talking to each other rather than writing. But given how reticent Roger has been in her office, I guess Bonita figured this would loosen him up. We’ll see next week whether she’s right.

  Alyssa continues to torment me, and it’s gotten to the point that I don’t even pick up the phone anymore. In one message she listed all the places where she and Roger had had sex, including the rest room at Jim Dandy’s, the supply closet at the Learning Attic, and the gazebo at Ellis Park. As angry as I am with Roger for bringing this woman into our lives, I have to admit I’m starting to wonder how far things really went between them. I just can’t picture Roger doing these things—this is a guy who wouldn’t even kiss me in public, let alone have sex with me in a gazebo!

  As for Eddie, he is doing his level best to get back in my life. He knows I collect mermaids and left a tiny ceramic one on my keyboard Wednesday morning. I’m rapidly losing interest in him. In fact, he is starting to make me a little nauseated. But a part of me—the part that’s been listening to Alyssa’s messages—wouldn’t mind running into him …

  ’Til next time,

  August 28

  I’ve gained five pounds since the last time I weighed myself. I can’t seem to stay away from sweets. I started the day with a Kit Kat bar for breakfast, and last night after everyone was asleep, I plowed through half a chocolate
cake. What’s happening to me?

  Betsy called me yesterday, insisting that I start a new life with Petey somewhere far away from here. I’ve often fantasized about that, but it’s simply not an option. I could never do that to Petey. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m not doing Petey any favors by staying with Roger. It’s not good for children to live with miserable parents.

  I’ve heard that theory a million times. And you know what? I don’t believe it. I’ve counseled enough children of divorce to know that most of them want two parents under the same roof. Whether the parents are happily married isn’t important. Unless Roger starts beating me, I cannot justify walking out on him. And as horrible as things are right now, I have a little hope left in me yet.

  Here’s Roger’s response to Bonita’s question:

  DESCRIBE YOUR PARENTS’ MARRIAGE

  Withholding. Rejecting. Stable. Funereal.

  James and Beatrice Tisdale, upright as wedding cake figurines, and just as plastic, immovable, and silent. Father, buttoned-up in shades of gray, unsmiling and unyielding. Mother, nervous as a parakeet, a handwringer, bone thin and perpetually fatigued. Both were miserly with affection, as if there were a limited supply that somehow required storage for some future date, for emergency use only. Made a bundle in the stock market, but lived like ascetics for most of their lives.

  Never saw them kiss, spent most of my childhood convinced my siblings and I had been conceived immaculately. Still convinced. Realize only now that there were great cauldrons of anger roiling under the silence. James has carried on an affair with his secretary for twenty-seven years. Found them on the floor of his workshop when I was fourteen. Didn’t recognize Father at first, had never seen him so full of life. Never told Mother. Suspect she has always known.