Hope Street: Hope StreetThe Marriage Bed

by Judith Arnold

  She decided to take a walk.

  When was the last time she’d taken a walk? Not just walked somewhere she had to be, but walked nowhere?

  Dressed in jeans, comfortable sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt, she ventured into her neighborhood, breathing the cleansing autumn air and delighting in the blazing colors of the leaves. She strolled all the way to the town green—a couple of miles at least—and gazed at the rectangle of grass surrounded by the Unitarian church, the fire station, the town hall building and a few preserved historical buildings. The green’s grass was half-hidden beneath a carpet of brown and orange leaves shed by the oak, maple and birch trees that punctuated the lawn. The air carried the scent of smoke and tart apples.

  Poor Curt, stuck in California during the most beautiful New England fall weekend of the year.

  Ass here versed course and hiked back home, she thought about how much she missed him. Even though things had not been good between them, she loved him. He was her anchor, her support, an essential element in her reality. She wished he was with her, appreciating the gorgeous foliage and the refreshing breeze. She wished he could see the job she’d done on Peter’s room.

  He would see Peter’s room tomorrow when he got home. He’d be pleased and grateful. He’d put his arms around her.

  She’d put her arms around him.

  I want you, Curt. I want you home. I want you with me.

  Tomorrow, she thought, and a hesitant smile curved her lips. Curt would be home tomorrow. And she would be ready for him. She would never be whole again, but she was healing, finally. Maybe she’d needed a few days away from him to reach this point, but she’d reached it.

  Once home, she tackled the living room, the den and the master bedroom, vacuuming, polishing, neatening up. She treated herself to take-out Thai food for dinner—pad thai was a definite improvement over Goldfish crackers—and then settled into the recliner in the family room and watched a Monty Python movie on the VCR. And laughed. Out loud.

  Yes, she was ready for Curt.

  He was scheduled to arrive home around dinnertime on Sunday. She thawed some strip steaks for dinner, prepared roasted red bliss potatoes with olive oil and herbs and tossed a salad. She carried a bottle of Rioja up from the wine rack in the basement and opened it so it could breathe—she wasn’t sure what that meant, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt. Then she soaked in the tub, an indulgence she hadn’t let herself enjoy since Peter’s death, and dressed in the laciest underwear she owned. It wasn’t flagrantly sexy—Curt had never been particularly interested in sexy lingerie—but it was feminine and flattering, and wearing it made her feel womanly. She completed her outfit with a beige cashmere sweater and her snuggest pair of jeans. Actually, all her jeans were kind of snug these days, thanks to her Goldfish binges.

  She brushed her hair until it glistened, slid the diamond eternity ring Curt had given her for their tenth anniversary onto her finger and poked her diamond studs through her ears. She was nervous, but happy. She was ready. Ready to reclaim her life. Ready to let her husband reclaim her.

  He arrived home at around seven. Peeking through the living-room window, she spotted the cab idling at the curb and remained where she was, watching Curt climb out, haul his wheeled suitcase from the seat and close the door. He would be tired, she knew, jet-lagged, bleary. She’d fix him a drink, let him unwind, follow his lead. Wasn’t that what he’d been wanting her to do all along?

  He came up the front walk and she swung the door open for him. Clad in faded jeans, a wrinkled shirt and his navy-blue blazer, his hair mussed and his mouth set, he didn’t look as happy to see her as she was to see him. He probably expected to get turned away tonight. He probably thought nothing had changed since he’d left.

  So much had changed. Ellie had cleaned Peter’s room. She’d thrown away the Gatorade and the Goldfish. He would be pleased.

  “Hi,” he said wearily, tilting his head as she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. That she’d kissed him didn’t seem to register on him. He smiled briefly, then wheeled his suitcase to the stairs and lifted it by the handle. “Let me wash up, okay? Then we’ll talk.”

  She accepted his reserve as a result of cross-country-flight fatigue. And maybe a touch of apprehension. He probably assumed she was the same Ellie he’d left five days ago. Maybe while he washed up, the importance of her having kissed him would sink in. He’d figure it out.

  While he was upstairs, she grilled the steaks, lit the candles she’d arranged on the dining-room table and gave the salad dressing a final stir. He hadn’t come back downstairs by the time everything was ready, and she realized that in addition to washing up he’d opted to unpack his bag. She decided that was a good thing. When he joined her, he’d be done with all his tasks and ready for a glass of well-breathed wine.

  And as he’d promised, they would talk. He would tell her all about San Francisco. He’d gloat about the negotiation—she had no doubt it had gone his way—and complain about the hassles of flying across the country. And they’d eat, and she’d reach for his hand and say, “Let’s go upstairs,” and they’d blow out the candles and leave the dishes and make love. She could do this. She swore to herself she could. She wanted it. Her desire would guide her through her inhibitions and hesitations, her fears.

  As soon as she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she zapped the steaks in the microwave for a few seconds to heat them. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, she smiled and said, “We’re eating in the dining room tonight.”

  “We are?”

  She led the way, carrying the steaks on a platter. She’d already put the salad and potatoes on the table, and poured wine into two crystal goblets.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked as he took in the festive table.

  “Welcome home?” She shrugged. “You were away and I missed you. And now you’re home and I’m glad.” She turned to him, searching his face for a sign that he recognized the profound change in her, that he was willing to forget for now how difficult she’d been, how emotionally crippled. She was better now. Surely he could see that. Surely he could forgive her for whatever pain she’d caused him.

  “Ellie.” He sounded pensive.

  Couldn’t he tell? Things were good now. He should be smiling. “Sit,” she said, pulling out his chair and then settling into the chair across from him. “Let’s drink a toast.”

  He lifted his glass, then lowered it and sighed. “Ellie. We have to talk.”

  Her festive mood had failed to infect him. The candles, the wine, the delicious meal she’d prepared, her smile…None of it registered on him. Had his flight been that awful? His entire trip a bust? “Fine,” she said, refusing to drop her smile. “Let’s talk.”

  “I had sex with another woman.”

  Ellie had been lifting her wineglass, but her hand twitched so hard she nearly snapped the stem in two. She lowered the glass and stared at Curt. The candles fluttered, their golden light dancing across his face. He looked bleak.

  I had sex with another woman. The sentence assaulted her, each word a blade slicing into her. Curt. Her husband. The only man she’d ever loved. He’d had sex with another woman.

  She tried to wrap her mind around the idea. It was preposterous. So unlike him. Didn’t he love her as much as she loved him? In sickness and in health, in good times and bad? Wasn’t that the vow they’d made to each other?

  “You weren’t in California?”

  “I was.” He averted his eyes, grabbed his glass and gulped some wine. Setting the glass back down, he grimaced, shoved away from the table and stormed into the kitchen. Ellie heard the clink of ice in a glass, the slosh of liquid being poured. He returned with a glass of Scotch. Evidently, wine wasn’t his drink of choice when he was annihilating his wife.

  “You were in California,” she said. She could hear an accusation in her voice, a heavy layer of distrust.

  “Yes.” He drank some Scotch, then met her gaze. “So was the woman.”

  “Oh, my G
od.” She felt nauseous, but there was nothing in her stomach, nothing but a sip of wine. Closing her eyes, she flashed on a picture of her husband, naked, his beautiful, rugged body stretched out alongside—who?

  Another woman.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re sorry?”

  “I am. Really.”

  Her steak knife lay temptingly close to her right hand. She nudged it away. “What is this, an act of contrition? Do you expect me to exonerate you? Cleanse your soul? What?”

  “I’m telling you because I love you,” he said. “Because we’ve always been honest with each other. I didn’t want to have sex with her. I wanted you. But I couldn’t have you for so long—”

  “So you went looking for someone else?”

  “I didn’t go looking. She was there, and she offered.”

  “Oh, my God.” The image of Curt flickered through her imagination again, only this time she visualized the woman—petite, dark-haired, with bright red lipstick. “Moira? Your old law partner?”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. Her mind spun, her thoughts flying out in all directions, as if her brain were a centrifuge.

  “It wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “It wasn’t? What happened, did she force you? Did she rape you? What do you mean, it wasn’t what you wanted?”

  He cursed under his breath. “Okay, yes, I was willing. What I wanted was you. But you made it very clear over the past year and a half that that wasn’t an option.”

  “Don’t lay this on me,” she retorted. “I didn’t betray you.”

  “You locked me out, Ellie. I was going crazy.”

  “You were horny.”

  “Yes, I was horny,” he retaliated, his anger rising to match hers. “I felt as if I had no wife anymore.”

  “You had a wife who was hurting, who was broken—”

  “I had a wife who shrank from me whenever I touched her. How do you think that made me feel?”

  Tears burned Ellie’s eyes. She’d been so hopeful about his homecoming. But this man who came home, this man who looked like Curt and sat at her dining-room table—he couldn’t possibly be the man she’d trusted with her heart and soul, the man she’d promised to love as long as they both lived.

  “Why are you even telling me this? Why didn’t you just lie to me?”

  “I couldn’t lie to you. I love you, Ellie.”

  “You sure have a funny way of showing it.” She shoved away from the table and stormed into the kitchen, carrying her wine. Not that she could taste it, but if she drank enough of it, maybe it would numb the pain a little.

  Pain. She’d grown so used to it that not suffering had been like waking up to a new world. Now she was back in the old world, the pain world. She’d climbed out of the hole and Curt had shoved her back in.

  He didn’t follow her into the kitchen. Standing by the sink, staring at her ghostly reflection in the dark window above it, she heard muted thumps and movements. He was moving around the dining room, taking care of things. Blowing out the candles, stacking the plates. She closed her eyes, clung to her wineglass and hugged her ribs with her free hand, as if that arm could hold her together.

  Moira Kernan. His old colleague, his friend, that aggressive bitch.

  Ellie knew her assessment wasn’t fair. She’d met the woman a few times and she hadn’t been bitchy at all. She’d been smart and funny.

  And she’d been in Boston when the negotiations on this deal had begun.

  She heard footsteps behind her and opened her eyes. Curt’s ghost had joined hers in the window’s reflection. He stood behind her, keeping his distance. No hugs tonight, no affectionate nuzzling.

  “Did you sleep with her in Boston, too?” Ellie asked. Why she was pressing him for more information, she couldn’t say. Hearing the details only made the pain worse.

  “Yes.”

  His answer told her why she’d had to ask. She needed to know that he’d been unfaithful to her right here, in her territory, on her turf. He’d sneaked behind her back while she’d been at home, in this house, in their bed.

  “Do you love her?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? You used her?” Could he be that selfish?

  “I didn’t use her. She doesn’t like attachments. It was just…a thing.”

  “A thing.”

  “Sex. No strings attached. No emotions.”

  “Like hiring a prostitute, only no money changed hands,” Ellie said bitterly.

  “It was not like hiring a prostitute. She’s an old friend. She saw I was in bad shape. She offered to help.”

  “How charitable of her.” Each word snapped from her, like brittle twigs breaking off the branch of a dead tree. “I know, you’re trying to be mature and civilized about this, and you want me to be mature and civilized, too. We’re having this charming little chat, you’re telling me you slept with another woman and I’m supposed to—what? Thank you for your honesty? Congratulate you for scoring? I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to deal with this, Curt—except to tell you this hurts as bad as losing Peter. Something else has died—and you killed it.”

  Unable to say another word, she abandoned the kitchen, walked up the stairs, entered Peter’s clean, tidy bedroom and closed the door.

  She didn’t feel safe in here. The pain was just as excruciating. But she figured that as long as she remained in that room, Curt wouldn’t come after her….

  THIRTEEN

  CURT STARED AT THE SCREEN without really absorbing the images that paraded past his eyes. A few photos of Katie’s graduation from college. A scene from Ellie’s parents’ fiftieth anniversary party a month later. A photo of him perched on a ladder outside the house, cleaning the gutters along the roof’s edge, while Ellie held the ladder steady below them.

  Moments in a marriage, he thought. Judging by the evidence Katie and Jessie’s movie presented, no one would guess that Curt and Ellie were drifting further and further apart, that the foundation of their marriage was developing cracks that would soon expand into chasms, jeopardizing the entire structure. If Ellie had known that less than two months after that afternoon when he’d cleaned the gutters, he would have sex with another woman, would she have knocked the ladder out from under him?

  The screen went black, and large white block letters appeared: Eleanor Frost’s Excellent Adventure. The sign faded, replaced by footage of Ellie’s parents, seated next to each other on the peach-hued brocade sofa in their living room.

  “Africa!” Ellie’s mother sounded astounded. “All of a sudden, out of the blue, Ellie decided to go to Africa!”

  Beside her, Ellie’s father shook his head. “She never seemed interested in Africa before.”

  “All of a sudden, she told us she was going to go to some medical center in—what was the name of that city? Kinshasa?”

  “Kumasi,” Ellie’s father corrected her. “It’s in Ghana.”

  “Ghana. Right. Where is that, anyway? Somewhere in Africa, I know. When she told us she was going, I was so shocked you could have knocked me over with a feather. I know that’s a cliché, but that’s how I felt. Absolutely shocked.”

  “She never said a word about Africa,” Ellie’s father chimed in. “Never in her whole life that I was aware of.”

  “But you know Ellie. She gets an idea in her head and there’s no talking her out of it.” Ellie’s mother reflected for a moment, then added, “Maybe she went to Africa because she was bored here at home.”

  “I think she went because she wanted to save the world. You know Ellie.”

  “Yes, maybe that was it.” Ellie’s mother smiled. “Either she wanted to save the world or she was bored. One of those two things, that’s my guess.”

  Ellie chuckled, and Curt found himself grinning at her parents’ inanity. Of course her parents couldn’t have guessed the real reason Ellie had gone to Africa—to
save the world, sure, but also to get away from Curt, from the shambles he’d made of their marriage. Ellie had gone to Africa to put thousands of miles between herself and the husband who’d betrayed her.

  Not that she’d ever said so to Curt. A few weeks after he’d come home from California, she’d stunned him with her announcement. He’d been waiting for her to take some appropriately dramatic action: demand that he move out of the house, perhaps, or that they see a marriage counselor, or that they get a divorce. She’d issued none of those expected demands, though.

  He’d sensed that something had gone cold inside her. But she hadn’t slipped back into her depression. No retreat into moping, compulsively gobbling Goldfish crackers or staring moodily at the screen saver on Peter’s computer while she listened to his hip-hop music. She’d appeared full of vigor and purpose, as energetic as she’d been before Peter died.

  She’d gone to work each morning, come home each afternoon, fixed supper, watched a little TV with Curt and then retired to bed, she on her side, he on his, like tolerant, well-behaved strangers. She’d kept their conversations focused on impersonal matters—the sprinkler system needed to be winterized, and she wanted to get her car in for a tune-up before the season’s first snowfall, and did Katie need any financial assistance from them? Those New York rents were insanely high, and her internship at the TV station paid ridiculously little.

  Then one evening, she’d said, “I’m going to Africa.”

  She’d learned about the program through an old friend of hers from Children’s Hospital, researched it further online and submitted an application. Of course she’d been accepted. A woman with her credentials—they wanted her yesterday. How soon could she get there?

  She’d had to arrange for a sabbatical with her school, but the superintendent had found a replacement and given her the semester. In mid-January, while Jessie was still home from college on her winter break, she and Curt had driven Ellie to Logan Airport and waved her off.