The Affair

by Debra Kent

  “I mean, I told you I didn’t want him reading that crap and you went ahead and bought it anyway. What kind of message does that send?”

  I wanted to choke him! “Excuse me? And what kind of message does it send to have Mommy capitulate every time Daddy snaps his fingers? Huh?”

  “You know what? You know what? It makes me absolutely sick to my stomach that you let him read that crap. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?” That ugly, bulging vein on Roger’s forehead was throbbing now.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I demanded. “How about you? You encourage him to watch Xena! You’ve rented A Very Brady Sequel, like, four times! You let him stay up until ten P.M. watching Nick at Nite. Don’t talk to me about crap!”

  Then Roger did something that made me absolutely maniacal. “Look at you. Just look at you,” he said, gesturing toward me. “What is this, some kind of performance?” He looked around the room in search of imaginary spectators.

  “Bravo! Bravissimo! Such drama. Such projection.” He cupped his hands around his mouth to form a megaphone. “Are you auditioning or something? Is that what’s going on? An audition?” Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s no need to emote, you know. I’m only two feet away.”

  I grabbed a hairbrush and threw it. It hit the wall, six inches from his ear. I was filled with unspeakable rage. I screamed, “I hate you!” My throat burned and I sobbed into my hands, feeling my nose and eyes swell. Roger sat there, serene and fully in control. He had won. “Maybe we can revisit this issue after you’ve pulled yourself together,” he said coolly. He put a hand on the doorknob and turned toward me once more. “That time of the month?”

  As a matter of fact, it is. God, how I hate my husband right now.

  Monday

  Big improvement. Roger actually apologized. While he still insists I was wrong to buy the Tarzan book, he realizes it’s something we should have discussed privately and understands it was wrong to expect me to back down in front of Petey. Wow. Big progress. I’m still mad at him but things are so lousy at work I can’t afford to be in a fight with him right now. I’ve got this theory that if something’s wrong in one important area of your life, you’d better work like hell to keep things stable everywhere else, or you’re headed for a breakdown. When Roger apologized, he gave me a smile that literally melted the anger. It’s hard to stay mad at him. Does that make me a wimp, or a wife? Is my ability to recover so quickly a sign that I’m incredibly strong, or incredibly screwed up?!?

  Tuesday

  I’ve decided to take a chance and show up at the next Wilton staff meeting. I called Marlena this morning to confirm the day and time: Wednesday, 11 A.M. “We’ve missed having your shining face at the table,” she said, her voice genuinely warm, as usual.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said. “I’ve missed you all too.”

  “What happened last week?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know, coming in at the end of the meeting. That’s not like you.”

  “It’s not me. It’s, well, there was a miscommunication, I guess.” It took all my self-restraint to keep from mentioning Cadence. I didn’t want to drag Marlena into this ugly mess, especially now that she’ll have to work with that Amazon.

  “So we’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Marlena chirped.

  “I’ll be there!” I said, trying to sound bright.

  Wednesday

  The meeting went without a hitch. The Amazon blanched when she arrived to find me sitting at the table, already engaged in light banter with Marlena and Wey, the young, funny therapist who works as an art therapist, mostly with kids. I took the role of elder stateswoman, offering my wise counsel when consulted, and (thankfully) I was consulted frequently. (Jack, the fortyish social worker who came on to me at the center retreat two years ago, seemed especially interested in what I had to say. Maybe because things have been so rotten at home, I found myself staring at his sexy mouth.) In fact, once I stopped focusing on the Amazon, I actually enjoyed myself. Wilton is like the center’s feisty, scrappy alter ego. It’s always invigorating to be around the staff, makes me feel like a graduate student again. It was hard to go back to my quiet office, harder still to find the following message from Cadence in my e-mail box: “See me.” I decided to ignore it. See yourself, you big moron.

  Thursday

  Get this: Tonight we interviewed a potential baby-sitter for Petey. When I opened the door, my first thought was, Not a chance, kiddo. This girl was a knockout.

  She was wearing a gauzy little top, tiny shorts, gorgeous smile, long blond hair. “Hi, I’m Amber.” I must have been staring, because then she said, “You know, I called about the baby-sitting job?”

  Roger, who should have been deeply immersed in Xena and has never shown any interest in interviewing baby-sitters, suddenly materialized. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asked.

  I glared at him. “Amber, this is my husband, Roger Tisdale.” She practically jumped off the sofa.

  “Roger Tisdale? You wrote Basic Black? Are you that Roger Tisdale?”

  Roger pulled himself up to his full five feet eleven inches. “That’s me.” He extended a hand. I hated that eager look on his face. “Wipe the drool off your face,” I mumbled. They both looked at me. God, I think I’m developing Tourette’s. I couldn’t restrain myself.

  “I auditioned for Jasmine.” She pouted. “But I didn’t get it. They said I was too, uh, sexy.”

  “Indeed,” my husband said, smiling. Leering.

  I want to finish this story but I see I’ve got a client coming in a minute and I’ve got to review her file.

  ’Til next time,

  August 6

  Friday

  So there we were yesterday, in the living room: Amber, the baby-sitter candidate, radiating erotic youth, my darling husband practically ejaculating into his Dockers, me feeling fat and jealous. Had I known that this girl would turn out to be so perfect, I wouldn’t have answered the door in a stained oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans. The truth is, she sounded ugly on the phone. She had one of those mucus-clotted voices that suggests a deviated septum or harelip. I expected slow and fat and jolly. I never expected long and lean and stacked. Nor did I expect a theater aficionado who just happened to audition for a role in my husband’s play but got rejected because she was “too sexy.”

  When I left the room to answer the phone, Amber was sitting on the piano bench while Roger stood at the archway, chatting amiably. When I returned, they were both on the sofa, Roger’s arm draped over the back, his fingers just barely touching her bare, tanned shoulder. I knew that would happen.

  They were discussing Roger’s work. He looked elated, charmed, smitten. “And it’s precisely that yearning I explore in my new play,” he said to her.

  “Your new play?!” Amber widened her eyes and opened her mouth to reveal two rows of perfect teeth. She was really turning it on—and so shamelessly, given the fact that Roger’s wife, the woman who would ultimately determine her employment, was standing right there.

  Neither one seemed to notice or care that I had returned to the room, or that we’d lost sight of the original purpose of the meeting. I sat on the piano bench and waited, trying to appear respectful as Roger summarized his plot. At some point Amber must have remembered that she’d come to interview for a baby-sitting position. “So. Where’s the little guy?” she asked.

  “He’s in the family room,” I answered. “His name is Peter.”

  “That should be easy to remember. That’s my little brother’s name.”

  “Oh, really?” I said as Petey walked into the room with his bucket of Legos. Amber immediately squatted beside him and said playfully, “Oooh! Legos! My favorite. Can I play?” I could see the outline of a thong through her shorts.

  Petey regarded her cautiously. “I guess so.” He pushed a handful of blocks in her direction.

  Roger shot a look at me that said, “Isn’t she just wonderful? Aren’t we the lu
ckiest family in the world to have found such a delightful young woman to watch our child? Won’t she make a fabulous baby-sitter?” I shot back a look that said, “Not on your friggin’ life, kiddo.” I watched the smile fade from Roger’s face. I glanced at my watch. “Roger, it’s almost nine. Would you get Pete in the tub, please?”

  “Oh, hon, I think we can be a little flexible with bedtime, don’t you?”

  “Actually, no. He’s going on a field trip tomorrow. He needs his sleep. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  My husband didn’t budge. It was like wrenching a kid out of a candy store. Finally he said, “Well, okay, then.” He extended a hand to Amber. “It was a pleasure. I imagine we’ll be seeing more of you.” Amber put out a smooth, tanned arm. She didn’t shake his hand, exactly. She sort of rocked it sideways, as if she planned to take off with him. I waited until Roger was safely upstairs before I turned to Amber and said, “Well, thanks for stopping by.”

  She looked surprised. “We’re done?” She moved toward her bag and reached in. “I brought my résumé. I’ve got references. I was a nanny for the Friedmans. They live around here, somewhere. Do you know them?”

  “I don’t believe I do.” I took the résumé and unfolded it. Lots of experience. She even knew CPR. She’d probably make a terrific sitter. But then I remembered that look on her face when she met Roger. And then I thought of Alyssa, the first time I spotted her with Roger outside the school, how they looked like they were in their own little lovers’ bubble, impervious and oblivious. Suddenly I felt my inner bitch rocket to the surface. What I said next was so uncharacteristic, so incredibly Jerry Springer-ish, I almost scared myself: “I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Number one, you’re not getting this job.” My heart lodged itself in my clavicle. “Number two, you’re not going to contact my husband. You will not audition for his next play. You will not ask to be his intern or assistant or gofer or anything. You will not call here under the pretext of doing an article for your school newspaper. You will not,” I stopped myself. This girl didn’t know what had hit her. She looked like she was going to cry. I’d scared her. She was just a kid. I felt horrible. “Look. I’m sorry. It’s just that, I’ve been through this before. I don’t want to go through it again.”

  Amber had recovered. Now she was insolent. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

  I watched her hop into her Miata. She floored the pedal and roared away. Roger trotted down the stairs. “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Who?” As if I didn’t know.

  “You know. The girl. The baby-sitter. Amber.”

  “Oh, she’s gone.”

  “So, what did you think? She’s something else, isn’t she?”

  “What do you mean, Roger?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? You know what I mean. She’s great. Don’t you think? I mean, the way she bonded with Pete so quickly, just got down on the floor with him and really clicked with him, don’t you think?”

  “No, Roger, I don’t think.” I started up the stairs. “Do you have any idea what just happened in that room?” I asked, pointing toward the sofa.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Forget it, Roger. She’s not getting the job.”

  “Oh, dear. Is the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head again?”

  “Shut up, Roger.” I was drained and shaken by the fact that I’d unleashed all my paranoid fury at a young girl. I didn’t want to talk. I put Petey down for the night and collapsed into bed.

  ’Til next time,

  August 13

  Saturday

  The new neighbors up the street, Hanna and Craig, invited us to have coffee and dessert tomorrow night. Naturally, I cannot find a sitter. I’ve called everyone on my list. Called Pete’s counselor. Asked Rachel Becker’s mom if she’d take him for a couple of hours. No luck.

  I was wildly flipping through my phone book when Roger walked in and waved a sheet of paper in my face. It was Amber’s résumé. “Won’t you please stop this foolishness already and call her?” he asked wearily.

  “No, Roger.” I knew she’d make a great sitter. She knew CPR. Even I don’t know CPR. I felt like a big, stubborn baby.

  “Come on,” he said, almost whining now. “I’ve got a hunch she’s one of those sitters who comes with a backpack full of coloring books and Play-Doh.”

  “Right. And you’ll pull out your Erector set and the two of you will have a grand old time.” I can’t believe I said that.

  He started to walk out of the room, then turned around and said, “Look. We’ve been through a lot. I was an awful shit to you. So I don’t blame you if you don’t trust me. But if we’re going to move forward, I mean, if we’re aiming for some semblance of a happy marriage, then at some point you’re going to have to give up this routine of yours. And for both our sakes, I certainly hope that happens sooner rather than later.”

  I thought of Reverend Lee. He’s on vacation in New Hampshire somewhere. I missed his big, warm hands. What would the good Reverend want me to do now? Roger and I haven’t had a grown-up’s night out in a while. And I do want to get to know the new neighbors. Should I get beyond the jealousy and call the girl?

  I thought of that thong, the pert breasts, and silver toe ring. I remembered my husband’s flushed, animated face. Screw it. I’d rather stay home.

  Monday

  Roger was cold and remote all evening. He’s treated me like an acquaintance, one he’s not particularly fond of but willing to tolerate. He communicates with minimal output. It’s almost like he’s playing some kind of board game, where you get more points for using fewer words. I’d say, “How did your meeting go with your agent?” and he’d say, “Okay.” I’d say, “Where’s the permission slip for Pete’s field trip?” and he’d say, “Fridge.” Not “On the refrigerator.” Just “Fridge.” When he does make small talk, he looks at a spot just to the left of my head, and speaks all formally, with the slightest hint of an English accent. I find this infuriating.

  Tuesday

  I was going over my records and realized that I have not had a single referral from the hospital or the county mental health center in more than two months. I still see new people, but most of them lately have come to me through other therapists. This makes no sense at all. Normally I do two intake interviews a week. Most of the referrals go through Filomena. I’m going to talk to her tomorrow to find out what’s going on. I’m hoping there’s a reasonable explanation.

  Wednesday

  Filomena looked pained when I asked her about the referrals. “What can I say?” She shrugged helplessly. She rubbed the tattoo on her wrist, Chinese characters drawn in a deep green.

  “Say anything. You’ve got to know what’s going on. Tell me.”

  She looked around then leaned toward me. “It’s her. Quasimodo.”

  Even in my rage I wanted to laugh. “You mean Cadence?”

  “Whatever.” Filomena rolled her eyes in disgust.

  “What? Did she just tell you to stop sending me intakes?”

  “Nope. That bitch took over referrals, you know what I’m saying?” She rubbed her tattoo again. “Look. I know it’s none of my business but…”

  “What? Say it.”

  She looked around again. “Word is, you’re out.”

  I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. “What do you mean, I’m out?” And what did she know, anyway? She was one of the clericals.

  “Look. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

  I had to grab my hands to keep them from shaking.

  When I got home I tried to talk to Roger but he was deeply engrossed in a Xena rerun. As I talked he reached for the remote, not to lower the volume so he could hear me (as I originally assumed) but to actually intensify the volume so I wouldn’t drown out the show’s profound dialogue. He pulled Petey onto his lap.

  “You’ve got to see this,” he whispered to my son. “It’s the best pa
rt.”

  I stared at my husband, really took him in. So tidy, almost fey, in his creased khakis, Eddie Bauer madras plaid shirt, and moccasins. His glasses were pushed down to the tip of his nose and his lips were pursed like a fussy old lady’s. How did I wind up with this man? I wondered. And how would I possibly endure the next thirteen years, until Petey was out of the house and in college?

  It’s 2 A.M. I can’t sleep.

  Thursday

  Didn’t see Amazon all day. Filomena said that one of Cadence’s Rottweilers was having surgery. It would not surprise me to find out she’s interviewing for my replacement.

  This afternoon I had a session with Pauline Willis. Pauline started seeing me two years ago to deal with anorgasmia. I directed her toward a few self-help books, the kind designed for women who use phrases like “down there” or “female plumbing” to describe their genitals and reproductive system. When I hadn’t heard from her, I assumed that the books must have scared her away.

  Now Pauline is back, and she’s convinced that someone is watching her through a crack in the ceiling of her office. “What makes you think there’s anyone spying on you?” I asked her.

  “It was weird. All of a sudden it felt like I wasn’t alone. I looked up and noticed this gap between the ceiling tiles.”

  “And you’re sure this gap wasn’t there before?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not sure. I don’t remember ever looking up there before.”

  “What exactly are you worried about?”

  She stopped, pulled her thick brown hair to the side of her neck and twisted it with both hands. A crimson flush spread from her neck to the tips of her ears. “I don’t know.” She did know. She just wasn’t ready to say. And then we were out of time.

  ’Til next time,