The Affair

by Debra Kent

  Wednesday

  Oh, the joys of living in a small town. A few well-placed questions and I’ve uncovered all sorts of interesting tidbits about the good Reverend: He went to college on a wrestling scholarship. He minored in bass clarinet. He plays in an amateur jazz trio and performs every Thursday night at Chico’s. His parents are still alive, still married. He has a brother in high school, the product of his mother’s surprise pregnancy at age forty-four. He plays basketball at the Y. He doesn’t drink or smoke but is addicted to a computerized basketball game called Slam Dunk. He’s a Big Brother to a boy named Jason who lives in the Altamont housing projects. He and Michelle have been married for thirteen years but, most intriguingly, were separated for nine months during a period of marital strife. Couldn’t get further details on that one.

  Thursday

  Roger and I are starting to disagree about how to raise Petey. That’s never been a problem before; we’ve been a united front on all the major issues, from spanking (we’re both against it) to TV (weekends only) to toy guns (no). Now, suddenly, we disagree. For instance: Last week Pete said a boy in class (Louis, the troublemaker) had slammed him with his lunch box. The next thing I know, Roger is in the basement with Petey, teaching him how to fight! I hear him say something like, “One quick hit to the stomach, with all your might, and Louis won’t ever bother you again.”

  I ran downstairs and said, “Excuse me, but do you really think this is the message you want to give Petey? That it’s okay to hit other kids?” Roger said it’s his “duty” to teach our son to fight. Then Petey gets into the act and chimes in, “Yeah Mom. I want to learn.” I looked at him, his tank top hanging off his bony little shoulders, and imagined some bully crushing him against the wall. Wouldn’t fighting back just provoke creeps like Louis? Wouldn’t it be better just to involve the teacher?

  Roger dismissed me with, “Let me handle this. It’s between me and Pete.” I looked at the two of them staring back at me and felt like I was intruding in some kind of male ritual. Part of me believes it’s my responsibility to stand firm; I am the boy’s mother, after all. And yet, I know all those drum-beating Robert Bly fanatics would tell me to back off and let men be men.

  Friday

  Alyssa’s lawsuit against Roger seems to be moving toward a firm court date. I’ve been dreading this. I don’t want to relive all the tawdry details of their affair, and frankly I fear that stirring this up again will put our marriage to the test once more. I’m not in the mood for another test. I have the power to stop Alyssa and her attorney in their tracks. I know she was a hooker, a fact that could cost her her teaching job.

  That’s been my trump card all along, but I’ve clutched it in my fist as a kind of collateral. I’ve always known I could save Roger, but what if he doesn’t deserve to be saved? What if there were other women? What if he was making it with Diana? Taking Reverend Lee’s advice, I “prayed on it.” And the answer that came to me was this: Let it go. So tonight I will tell Roger about Alyssa, and together we will confront her and her attorney. I’m nervous.

  ’Til next time,

  June 25

  I finally told Roger that Alyssa was a hooker. I’d expected a positive, even celebratory conversation. But Roger accused me of inventing stories, picking at old scabs, even losing my mind. I tried to assure him I wasn’t fabricating anything. I told him everything Dale had shared with me last winter, about Alyssa showing up at the CD release party with some gross guy who couldn’t get a girl unless he paid for one; about her being his “escort.” I watched as Roger’s look of incredulity faded. Then I thought I heard him mumble something like, “That explains the phone calls.” I asked him to repeat himself, but he wouldn’t answer me.

  For a long time he just sat there, slowly shaking his head. He had a knuckle wedged between his teeth, as if to plug the impulse to scream. Maybe I should never have told him. Maybe I should have gone to Alyssa on my own. She’d have withdrawn the charges, Roger would have been surprised and happy, and it would have been over. Instead, I was sitting on the deck in the glow of a yellow bug light with a husband who seemed filled with antipathy toward me. What was he thinking? That he was a big sucker, dumb enough to imagine he was the only man to share Alyssa’s bed? Was he worried that she’d given him an STD?

  Eventually he’d have to say something. I crossed my arms and waited. As I sat in the rocker I realized how nice it felt to be out on the deck on this balmy night, smelling steaks on other people’s grills and watching the pink-streaked western sky. The geraniums were thriving. The new mulch on the flower beds was deep brown and fragrant. The deck, warmed by a day of strong sunlight, now radiated a soft, woodsy, sauna smell. Pete was at his grandparents’ house.

  Roger’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you. How could you wait so long to tell me?” He was almost yelling now. I could see my neighbors out on their deck. They had company. Suddenly nobody on their deck was talking. Clearly, our conversation was more intriguing than their own. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing Roger and me argue. Dave and Genevieve Wright are model citizens. Two children, perfectly behaved and regularly pressed into service scrubbing down patio furniture, planting impatiens, hosing down the van, raking up leaves. While my garage looks like the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch, theirs is spare and clean, with color-coded cardboard boxes on wire racks and a smooth cement floor that’s cleaner than the floor in my kitchen. Even their garbage is neat: recyclable cans and plastics washed and sorted, papers stacked and bundled, trash cans sparkling on the curb. Though I’m experienced enough to know you can’t judge a marriage by its surface, I’m amazed at the congeniality and open affection between them. The only noise I’ve ever heard coming from their house is the ethereal plucking of Genevieve’s harp.

  “Shhh. Roger. The neighbors will hear you.”

  “Screw the neighbors.” He grabbed a pebble from the flowerpot on the table and tossed it in my direction. It hit the sliding door with a loud “ping!” He wasn’t trying to hit me—at least I don’t think that was his intention—but it still got me mad.

  “Are you insane? If you want to sit out here and announce our business to the rest of the neighborhood, fine. But I’m going inside.”

  The thing is, I knew he was right. It was senseless, almost sadistic, to have kept this secret to myself for so long. I had no good excuse. But then again, there was no point in flogging myself. The only thing I could do was apologize. It’s what Reverend Lee would call “taking the high ground.”

  “Look,” I told Roger, as I rose from my chair. “I don’t know why I kept this from you. But not everything happens when we want it to happen. Things happen in God’s time.” As soon as I said it, I realized how bizarre it must have sounded. Roger knew about my meetings with Reverend Lee and didn’t seem particularly threatened; I guess he figured it was yet another of my self-improvement projects, like my brief fling with Buddhism or the tai chi class I took three years ago. But working God into everyday conversation—actually using Him to justify human behavior—was something else altogether. It surprised me, too.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Roger narrowed his eyes, as if perhaps I wasn’t his wife, but an evil holographic impostor.

  “I just mean, we don’t always have control over things.”

  “Of course we do. What are you talking about?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Reverend Lee had put it so much more eloquently.

  “Look, I’m not in the mood for this religion crap. And if you’re thinking about becoming one of those born agains, you can forget it. For once in your life, stay in reality. Be accountable. Grow up, dammit!”

  So I tried again. I apologized. I admitted that I held on to the information because I didn’t completely trust him; I needed to know that we were solid, and he was trustworthy, before revealing the one thing that would get him off the hook for good. I told him I planned to confront Alyssa and was confident she’d d
rop the lawsuit once she realized I had no qualms about taking the matter to the principal of her school, even the school board.

  Suddenly, almost tangibly, the balance of power shifted. Roger fell back onto the couch and blew out a long breath. I don’t know what finally clicked into place for him, but I suppose he realized the woman he’d betrayed was presenting him with a precious opportunity. In other words, he knew he owed me big-time. “God, I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry. You are being very, very good to me.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” It was a rare moment: Roger, contrite and, if my hunches were correct, willing to grant any request I desired. I could have asked for a vacation in Tuscany. But I chose something closer to home. I asked him to fire Diana.

  He reflexively pulled his hand away, then quickly realized how that must have come across, and attempted to take my hand again. It was too late. I didn’t want him to touch me. I’d wanted him to agree without hesitation.

  “So, what’s it going to be?” I asked. I could almost see his brain grinding. How would he tell his old college buddy she was out of a job? Wouldn’t he look pussy-whipped to capitulate to his wife’s demands? “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “When?” I wanted specifics. I could see this dragging out for weeks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I need to know.”

  “Okay. She’ll be gone by Friday. I promise.”

  I don’t know if I was right to extract this reluctant concession when I probably should be working on acceptance and trust. But I can’t stand Diana, and her sudden sexual interest in me gives me the willies. Whether Roger fulfills his promise remains to be seen. In the meantime, I called Alyssa; her father told me she’s on vacation until Monday. I didn’t leave a message but plan to call her first thing next week. I can’t wait!

  ’Til next time,

  July 2

  Petey started day camp at the Y today. I spent last night loading up his backpack: sunblock, cap, insect repellent, swimsuit, towel, clean underwear, peanut butter on whole wheat, two drinks. When I picked him up at the end of the day, he told me I’d forgotten to pack a snack. “Everybody had something except me,” he said. Luckily, the counselors keep a stash of cookies for just these sorts of emergencies. I know it’s minor in the scheme of things, but I still felt awful and wanted to make it up to Petey somehow.

  So Roger and I took him for ice cream after dinner. We sat on the bench outside the Dairy Queen and watched the lightning bugs hover over the grass. It was a small but perfect moment.

  Tuesday, 6:30 P.M.

  I overslept and missed my eleven o’clock! This is unforgivable. It would have been my second session with Molly, who is, quite possibly, the unluckiest person I have ever met; in a span of thirty-six months Molly lost her job, discovered that her husband was having an affair, underwent a double mastectomy, and lost her grown son to AIDS. She hadn’t known he was sick, hadn’t known he was gay. She’s on four different medications for depression and stress. She told me I was her only hope.

  And now I’ve had to put off seeing Alyssa again.

  When I got to the center around 2 P.M., I found a yellow Post-it from Cadence on my door. It said, simply, “See me.” I peeled off the note and examined it more closely. All the letters were capitalized and the words were underscored. Twice. It reminded me of a teacher’s note, the kind you’d find at the bottom of an essay test you fudged your way through. I wanted to ignore it. Screw Cadence and her notes, I thought. If she wants to see me so badly, let her drag her fancy ass down the hall to my office.

  But that’s just not my style, I’m afraid. Knowing Cadence needed to see me made it impossible to focus on anything else. I had to know what she wanted with me.

  Was it the appointment I’d missed? Was there a problem with the grant I’d written for the eating disorders clinic? Or—and it gave me palpitations just contemplating it—had she found out that I’d broken into her e-mail account?

  I had to know. I stopped at the bathroom to make sure I looked more self-assured than I felt, then walked briskly to her office and rapped on the open door. I tried to make it a sharp, professional, almost-militaristic knock instead of a soft, tentative, scared-shitless one.

  Cadence was on the phone. Though I stood in plain view, she continued talking as if she hadn’t seen me. I debated whether to walk in and sit myself down, or simply leave. I decided to stand there. She looked up, then waved me away with her free hand. I didn’t move. “Hold on a sec,” she said into the phone. Her smile, clearly reserved for the person on the other end, instantly vanished as she addressed me.

  “Later. Okay?”

  I wanted to kill her. Who did she think she was talking to, one of the summer interns?! “Actually, that’s not okay.”

  She looked up. “Excuse me?”

  From some hidden spring, I found it. Courage. “I said, ‘Actually, that’s not okay.’ “ I pulled myself up straighter. I watched her nostrils flare. She ended her phone conversation, wheeled her seat back, and folded her arms, appraising me with a subtle look of amusement. I said, “You wanted to see me. I’m here now. Later isn’t good for me. I’ve got a client.”

  As soon as I uttered the word “client” I knew intuitively what would come next. I had just set myself up. I could feel it.

  “I’m so glad you plan to be there. For your client.” She didn’t say anything else. She just stared at me. We both knew what she was talking about.

  “So, what did you need to see me about?” I asked, suddenly not so brazen.

  She picked up the phone and swiveled her chair so that I was now facing the back of her head. “That will be all,” she said. “Please close the door behind you.”

  Typical Cadence: with minimal effort she had produced maximum results. I hate that woman. God, how I totally despise her.

  Thursday

  Yesterday turned out to be the day I finally confronted Alyssa. All day long I imagined how things would turn out. Would she recognize me? Would she try to throw me out of the house? Deny everything? Get violent?

  My last session ended at 1:50. I punched in Alyssa’s number and waited. I had a plan; I would pretend to be some kind of delivery service, maybe a florist, just to make sure she was going to be home later that afternoon. The phone rang twice. An airy, “Hello?”

  “Alyssa Elkins, please.”

  “That’s me!”

  “I have a delivery. Will you be there in fifteen minutes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait! What kind of—”

  I hung up, grabbed my briefcase, and ran out the door. As I pulled into her driveway I saw the screen door fly open. I slowly walked up the drive, feeling like I was finally at the denouement of some cheesy made-for-TV movie.

  Alyssa was wearing white linen drawstring pants and a white tank top, no bra. I tried not to look at her nipples. Clearly she was anticipating flowers, something lovely from a satisfied customer, perhaps. She looked at me expectantly, searched my empty arms. The little nitwit was obviously confused.

  “Delivery?” she asked.

  “No.” I stepped onto her porch. “Do you know who I am?”

  She stared blankly. “Uh, census?”

  “Roger’s wife.”

  She gasped. “What do you want?”

  I had rehearsed this moment in my head four thousand times. I looked at my watch. “Sometime before five o’clock today, your lawyer will call me to tell me you are dropping your lawsuit.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “What?”

  “And then he will fax me a letter confirming your decision.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not dropping the lawsuit.” She turned and put her hand on the screen door handle. She wasn’t wearing underwear either. I thought of those lean, young legs wrapped around my husband’s waist and suddenly wished I had a stronger weapon than words. (And yes, I do realize that this is the second time in a week I’ve contemplated killing someo
ne.)

  “In that case, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me this afternoon. Because as soon as I pull out of your driveway, I’m heading straight to Jan Dawson’s house to tell her how you whored your way through college.”

  Alyssa released the handle and turned to face me. I continued, “You do know who Jan Dawson is, don’t you? The head of the school board?” Alyssa nodded weakly. Things were going even better than I’d imagined. She looked like she was going to throw up.

  “And I guess after I talk to Jan, I’ll have a talk with the news editor at the Morning Herald and let her know that the new kindergarten teacher happens to be a hooker.”

  Just then Alyssa’s father called from somewhere in the house. “Everything okay out there, dear?”

  She yelled back, “It’s fine, Daddy.” She reached behind the screen and pulled the door shut.

  I stuck to my script. “You know what I really love about e-mail?”

  She didn’t say anything but kept her eyes on me.

  “I love how you can reach hundreds, even thousands of people in an instant. Like, I can make up a recipient list of all the teachers in your school, and all the parents whose kids go to that school, and all the news editors at all the TV and radio stations in town. And then I can send a message about anything—you being a whore, for instance—to all those people, just… like … that.” I snapped my fingers for effect. She jerked back as if I’d pulled a trigger.

  I looked at my watch again. “I’ve got to pick up my kid from camp.” I started down the porch steps, then turned again to face her. She was literally trembling. I loved it.

  “So, shall we be expecting a call from your lawyer this afternoon, then?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Very good!” I flashed a smile. “You have a nice day.”

  I was home by 3:30. At 4:03 the phone rang. I checked the Caller ID. It was Bill Kalman—Alyssa’s lawyer. I told Roger to pick up the phone. “You’re about to get some very good news,” I said, almost delirious with pleasure. I watched a smile spread slowly across his face as he held the phone to his ear. When he hung up, I asked him, “Is it over?”