Her mouth finds his. Their lips meet. Again he is powerless.
“Oh god, I’ve missed you so much,” she says.
“Me too.”
Clothes are shed, resolutions shattered. It is too much for him, he succumbs. She, too, had been unsure how she would react. She had been angry at him, hurt by his absence. Feeling a fool, worse, a bitch. All of this I find out much later, when she tells me.
After, they are in her bed. He is talking. He describes what has happened to his life, to all our lives. Maddy’s anger, her flight from Rome, her decision.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure there is anything she wants me to do. I don’t think she wants me to fight for her. I think she wants me out of her life.”
“What about you? Do you want to be out of her life?”
“No. There is too much there. Too many years. Johnny. She will never be out of my life. It would be impossible.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Of course. I never stopped loving her. I never will.”
She closes her eyes. “Do you love me?”
“Yes. I love you both. Is that wrong?”
“Maddy seems to think so.”
“And what about you?”
“I never asked for you to love only me. I never wanted to compete with Maddy. I loved you so much I wanted you to love me too, if only a little.”
He pulls her gently toward him and kisses her forehead. “I love you more than that,” he says.
In the morning, he is awake first. It is Saturday. Outside it is snowing lightly. The flakes melting on impact. Claire sleeps naked beside him, snoring gently, her hands under her head. He does not want to disturb her, so he lies there. Later they will go out for breakfast. Normally he would get up and go to the kitchen, make coffee and then go to his office to work. But there is no normal anymore. In the span of a few short weeks, everything has been upended. The office in Rome is gone, the office in New York is gone. His former life is a dream. He is an exile. In his rental apartment up five flights of stairs sits his laptop computer, barely touched, atop the small kitchen table. Inside is a novel he is at times reluctant to return to—so much has it changed, so much of his own circumstance has changed.
Is he surprised to find himself there? The woman next to him is not his wife, not the mother of his child. And yet. And yet there is something about this girl that is so important that he is willing to throw away everything. Is it her? Or is it something he wants to see in her? Yes, she is lovely, but not as lovely as Maddy. Yes, she is smart, but Maddy has wisdom. Is she as generous? As kind? As indomitable? I know she is younger. Less inured to the familiarity that two decades of marriage brings. She has not heard all of his jokes, does not know all of his moods or stories. To her he is still an undiscovered country where even the most mundane routines and rituals appear thrilling.
And why does she choose him? She may be young, but she is not a child. She is ambitious, that is plain. There are numerous other men who would have gladly taken his place in her bed. Much of it was opportunity. How many other prize-winning authors had she met? For her this was the first circle, the top table. It was not enough for her to be with a rich man. Clive taught her that. No, she had sampled those wares and found them wanting. She did not want to simply be an appendage. She had dreams of her own.
And then she met Harry. Handsome still. Lively. Successful, highly regarded. How could she not fall in love with him? He was everything she wanted. There would be a brief scandal if he left his wife for her, but in literary circles such exchanges are unremarkable and any antipathy would soon subside. Being with him would burnish her own career. The dinner parties, the open doors. Maybe even a novel of her own? They would be happy together, she could see that. She even began wondering what people would write about her one day in his biography. What view would history take of her? Home wrecker, partner, mistress, savior, or maybe just a footnote before he passed on to another woman.
But it is still only a fantasy. She needs him to sever the cord. That had not been her original intention, but now it seems the only way. Only that way can both Harry and she be happy.
Sitting in a booth at the local diner, she asks, “Does Maddy know about me?”
“No. She hasn’t asked, and I haven’t told her.”
“Would you?”
“Do you want me to?”
She thinks for a moment. Would this be her life? Sitting across from him every morning watching him drinking his coffee, eating his eggs? He uses Tabasco sauce, she remembers that.
“I don’t know,” she answers. “I don’t want you to lie if she asks.”
“No, there have been too many lies.”
“Let me tell her.”
He stares at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I don’t want her to hate you any more than she already does. I deserve some of the hate too.”
“No, it’s got to come from me.”
“Listen to me. It makes sense. It might even make things better. If I go in there and be honest with her, she might resent me, but she’ll respect the truth.”
He takes her hands. “Thank you. But it’s impossible. I would never ask you to do it. Or even want you to do it. It would be cowardly. It’s my responsibility. When the time comes, I’ll tell her, but not before. Please understand.”
She nods. “I understand.”
A week later she is ringing Maddy’s doorbell. It is raining hard. The sort of rain that makes an umbrella useless. She knows he will be angry when he finds out. But it is too late. She had not mentioned it again during the weekend. Waiting to see what he would do. If he would do it himself. When it seemed clear he wouldn’t, she decided it was up to her to act.
She is nervous. Her steps had faltered as she approached. For a moment, she almost turned and fled. It would have been easy to find an excuse. Something came up at work. Let’s try another time, shall we?
The door opens. “Claire,” says Maddy, kissing her on the cheek. “Come in. You poor thing, you’re soaked.”
Claire enters. “Here,” says Maddy. “Let me take that.” She helps Claire off with her coat and hangs it on a hook. “I can’t believe it’s been so long. You look beautiful. I love your haircut.”
Claire blushes and smiles. “Thank you. I forgot you hadn’t seen it.”
“I was so happy you called.”
“Thanks for letting me stop by.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s just what I needed. It’s wonderful to see you.”
Maddy disappears into the kitchen. “Can I bring you coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
“I won’t be a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”
Claire remains standing. “I love your home.”
“Thanks. It’s too bad it’s so miserable outside. When the weather’s fine, it’s nicest to sit in the garden.”
“How’s Johnny?”
“He’s doing very well. He seems happy to be back in New York. His old room, his old friends. You know how kids are. Here we go.”
Maddy emerges with a small silver tray, on which sit a porcelain teapot, two matching cups, creamer, and sugar bowl. Maddy has lots of lovely china she inherited from her grandmother. Did she use the Spode? I think so. “Hope Lapsang is all right. It seems like that sort of afternoon.” She pours, and the smoky aroma fills the room. Claire is glad for the distraction. Her hand shakes when she lifts up the delicate cup.
They are in the sunken living room. Outside the rain patters against the glass, drums on the flagstones. Claire is again struck by Maddy’s beauty, her poise. Her decency. It makes her feel insignificant. Doubly so now.
“So tell me about yourself,” says Maddy. “How have you been?”
“Fine. Work’s been good. I got a promotion. Better money. It allowed me to rent my own place.”
“That’s right. Walter mentioned something about that. He said h
e had a drink with you last fall.”
“We were meant to get together again in spring, but something came up. How is Walter?”
“Same as ever, bless his heart. And romance? Any progress on that front?”
“It’s been complicated.”
“Oh, I believe it. Isn’t it always?” Maddy laughs. “Speaking of which, I don’t know if you heard this already, but Harry and I have separated.”
Claire nods. “Yes, I know. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thank you. It’s not been easy.”
Claire takes a breath. “Maddy, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s why I wanted to see you today.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know how to say it so I’m just going to spit it out.”
Maddy’s eyes narrow. “Spit out what?”
“Oh god.” Claire sighs. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The hairs on the back of Maddy’s neck rise. She knows what Claire is going to say almost before she says it and shuts her eyes. She doesn’t want to hear it. It’s too much.
“Maddy, Maddy. It’s me,” continues Claire. “I’m the one who ruined it all. I’m the one who’s been having an affair with Harry. I’m so sorry.”
Hearing the words makes it even worse than imagining them. Maddy’s face turns white. The muscles in her jaw tighten, and she sits there in stunned silence, not moving a muscle. Claire leans forward, fearful, anxious. Making herself smaller.
“What did you say?” Maddy asks finally.
“It’s me,” she answers, almost inaudible.
“You’re the one he bought the dress for in Paris?”
Claire nods her head and sniffs. “Yes.”
“And all those other trips?”
“Yes.”
Maddy takes a deep breath, staring at a fixed point on the wall. How do you react to something like this? The brazenness of the betrayal, the immensity of it. It offends all natural laws. This is the sort of admission that leads to anger, no, worse, to murder. It’s a stain that permeates everything. But Maddy does not reach across and strike Claire. She does not scream, she does not raise her voice. She is a woman who knows how to sit through a beating, who knows how to not give the afflictor the satisfaction of their blows, no matter how hard the belt falls.
In a measured voice she asks, “Do you love him?”
“Yes.” Again, Claire nods, not daring to meet Maddy’s gaze.
“I see. Does he love you?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Love is, of course, even worse than sex. Sex is simply a betrayal of the body. Love is a betrayal of the heart.
Maddy stands up, walks over to a small table across the room, and removes a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. Her hand trembles slightly as she lights one. She takes a few drags, her back to Claire, staring out at the garden, watching the rain drip from the branches. Arms crossed, she turns again to face Claire and asks, “When did it happen?”
Claire blows her nose into her napkin, still avoiding Maddy’s eyes. “Last fall. When Harry came to New York. We ran into each other at a party. I invited him back to my place for a drink. And . . .”
Maddy holds up her hand. “Thank you. That’s enough. I really don’t think I want to hear any more. I just want to ask you one more question. Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I wanted you to know how sorry I am, and that Harry still loves you even if you are getting divorced. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’d be furious if he did.”
“You’ve seen him?” gasps Maddy. If it is possible for her to be even more shocked, she is.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Claire hesitates and then nods her head. “Yes.”
Maddy closes her eyes. “I see.”
Claire sits there expectantly. Waiting. Her cheeks moist with tears.
“Claire, thank you for coming. I can’t say that I am glad to hear what you’ve told me, but I admire your courage. I don’t know what you expected from me. And I am sorry to disappoint you if you thought I’d become hysterical or begin hurling insults or worse at you.”
“No, I . . .”
“Please. Let me finish. What I do want to say is how saddened I am that you would betray our friendship as you did. When you first entered our lives last summer, I thought you were a very different person than you turned out to be. I, we, took you in, and this is how you repay us. I don’t know how you can live with yourself. I really don’t.”
“Maddy . . .”
“I think you’d better leave now. I fell for your tears once. Please don’t insult me even more by thinking I’d do it again.”
Maddy walks toward the front door. Claire follows.
“Maddy, I, I wasn’t sure what to expect from coming here today, but I had hoped that maybe you would at least try to forgive Harry and not hate me.”
“I don’t think I can promise you either of those things. Now will you please just go.”
I arrive that night. Maddy had called me in a fury. “That little bitch!” she had screamed into the phone. “That little bitch!”
She is already drunk when I arrive. A bottle of vodka is on the kitchen counter. Puddles of melted ice. It is hard to tell when she started. Probably not long after Claire left.
She is weeping now. Telling me about the conversation. The tea set is still on the glass Mies van der Rohe table in the living room. I notice that one cup has been hurled across the room, its obliterated remains lying in an expensive pile on the floor. Her nose is running, mouth bubbling, face slick with tears. I have never seen her like this in all the years I have known her. I offer her my handkerchief, which she takes and keeps.
“I should go see that Johnny is in bed,” I say.
She waves her hand, incapable of speech.
I go upstairs. Gloria is with Johnny, reading him a bedtime story. “Hey, pal,” I say. “Your mommy wanted me to tell you good night from her and that she loves you.”
“What’s wrong with Mommy?”
“Nothing. She’s just feeling a little tired tonight.”
“Is it Daddy?”
“No,” I say with a little laugh. “Like I said, she’s just tired.” I lean over and kiss him on the forehead. It is clear he doesn’t believe me. This is how children learn to mistrust adults. “She’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Uncle Walt.”
I nod good night to Gloria and pull the door to.
Downstairs, Maddy is smoking. I make us each a refill.
“Hope you aren’t planning on eating,” she says. “Food only gets in the way of the alcohol. Fuck food. I am never cooking fucking food again. I live in New York. I can order in anything I like any time I want. You want me to order you in something? Thai maybe? Mexican? Anything you fucking like. All it takes is a telephone and a credit card and some poor bastard on a bicycle brings it right to your door. Cooking is for chumps. Took me years, but I finally figured it out. See all those fucking pans? I’m going to sell them. The cookbooks I’ll give away. What do you say, Walter? Want a fucking cookbook? Take your pick. I got a shitload of them. French, Italian, Greek, American, nouvelle, haute cuisine. You name it, I got it. I only ever started doing it for Harry. He seemed to like it so fucking much.”
“No, I’m fine,” I answer.
“Good night, Miss Maddy, Mister Walter,” says Gloria, a quarter of an hour or so later. She is wearing her coat. It is almost nine o’clock.
“Good night, Gloria,” Maddy responds cheerily. “See you tomorrow. Thank you for everything.”
After Gloria closes the door and turns the lock, Maddy says, “What I don’t get is why her?” I know who she means. This has been a steady topic of conversation all evening as she attacks the subject from different angles. “I mean, we were living in Rome. There were all those gorgeous Italian women he could have been fucking, but instead he chooses her. Wher
e’s the sense in it?”
I say nothing. She needs to talk it out. It is the double betrayal that stings the most.
“Look at me, Walter. I mean, I’m not bad looking for my age, right? Boobs still don’t droop too much. My butt’s pretty good, and I don’t have bat wings yet, thank God.”
“You’re beautiful, Maddy. You shouldn’t have any worries on that score.”
“So what score should I have to worry on? Huh?”
“None from where I sit.”
She smiles and puts her hand on mine. “Thanks, Walter. Sweet Walter. You’ve always been there for me.”
“And I always will be.”
She pats my hand again. “You know, I think I’m just a weensy bit drunk.”
“Just a bit.”
“I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Good idea.”
She starts to stand up but stumbles. “Oopsy daisy,” she says with a big grin. “You know, I might need a little help up the stairs.”
I stand, and she puts her arm around my neck. I am just a little taller than she. Five-eleven in a good pair of shoes.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine—just don’t go anywhere, or I might fall flat on my face.”
I help her up the stairs and into the bedroom. She’s laughing all the way. “I need to pee,” she says, giggling. “Wait right here.” I help her into the bathroom, and she emerges several moments later to the sound of a flushing toilet. “All better,” she says. “Ready for night-nights.”
I pull back the covers, and she throws herself on the bed. “Help me off with my shoes, will you, Walter?”
I take off the shoes. She unbuttons her pants. “Now the pants.”
“I really don’t think . . .”
“Oh, don’t be such a poop. Put me to bed nicely. I deserve to be a little spoiled, don’t I?”
The intimacy of the moment engulfs me. I look away when I slide off her pants, conscious of my desires. Still, I cannot help but glimpse a strip of lingerie before she places her legs under the sheets. “Would you like some water?” I ask.
“Yes please.”
I go to the bathroom and return a few moments later with a glass of water. She is not yet asleep.
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