The Affair

by Colette Freedman

  “Hey, what’s up—it’s freezing out here.” He came up behind his wife, wrapped his large arms around her waist, and rested his chin on the top of her head. He felt her stiffen and knew immediately that she was going to draw away from him.

  Kathy stepped back into the kitchen, forcing him to release her. “Just getting a breath of air; the kitchen was stuffy. Nice cologne.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not. “Yeah. It’s new. I didn’t know if you’d like it.” He spoke evenly and watched her pull the door closed and move to the table to clean up the cards.

  “I do. I left a couple of cards on the bed,” she began.

  “I saw them. . . .”

  “I don’t have addresses, and besides they’re personal cards—it would be better if you wrote and signed them.”

  After eighteen years of marriage, he’d come to know when something was amiss. He could tell from the set of her shoulders, by the way she refused to meet his gaze. “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

  “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’ve got the tone in your voice.”

  “Which tone?”

  “That tone.” He smiled, covering his growing irritation. “The tone that tells me that you’re pissed off at me.”

  Kathy sighed.

  “Oh, and the sigh is another sure sign. The sigh and the tone. You’re like a great jazz band, Kathy . . . always in syncopation.”

  “Look, I’m tired,” she snapped. “I’ve been writing cards for hours. Mostly your cards, to your friends and your colleagues. I do it every year. And every year it’s last minute, and I’m always missing addresses. You don’t help.”

  Robert bit back a response. He was going to say, you’ve had weeks to do it, but you always leave it to the last minute, and you always blame me. You could have been doing these a few at a time instead of sitting on your ass watching The View and Judge Judy. But the last thing he wanted was an argument. Instead, he said calmly, “Kathy, I’ve just come in from a ten-hour day. I had a meeting in Framingham, the Pike was a parking lot, and I’ve got a really important presentation in the morning. Just . . . give me a minute to decompress, and I’ll go through my address book. Or you can; I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I’ve done them all,” Kathy said tightly. “The four on the bed are all you have to do.”

  “We’re arguing over four cards?”

  “No,” she growled. “We’re arguing over the one hundred and twenty I’ve already written. Without your help.”

  Robert nodded and shrugged. “I should have taken some into work with me,” he said. Then he glanced up at the clock. “I’ll go and get the kids.” He turned and hurried from the kitchen before he said something he regretted. It was the same argument every year. They probably even used the same words. He snatched his leather coat off the rack behind the door and left, resisting the temptation to slam the front door.

  He pressed the remote, and the Audi clicked open. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he grabbed the steering wheel and took a deep breath, calming himself. He counted to ten before slowly exhaling the air from his lungs, trying to push out the frustration as well. Today was Thursday. This would be the third argument this week. An argument over nothing. Or over something so small that it counted for nothing. Easing the car out of the driveway, he turned left onto the quiet street. Ice crackled under his tires; it would freeze hard later on.

  They had been married for eighteen years, and he recognized that an argument never really came from nowhere, and it was never—never—about the subject under discussion. Everything had subtext. Today, Kathy was arguing about Christmas cards. Yesterday she’d fought with him because he had forgotten to bring home milk; earlier in the week she’d had a go at him because he had failed to get home in time to go to a parent-teacher conference.

  He had explained to her—more than once—that this was his busiest time of year. He simply didn’t have the time; but she found it difficult to accept that. Plus it was particularly awkward now with Maureen out of the picture. The new receptionist was good, very good indeed, and she came without all the awkward baggage that know-it-all Maureen brought to the job, but he found he had to check and double-check everything, and that just increased his workload and his stress level.

  Kathy liked to think that she knew about the business, but in the years since she’d stepped back from being involved in the day-to-day running of R&K, things had changed. And not only his business; Kathy had been home for too long and had become isolated from the realities of doing business in the real world. And the real world now included traffic. Incredible traffic. Standstill traffic. She simply didn’t understand that it made no sense to leave the office at five thirty and sit in traffic for an hour, when he could just as easily leave at six thirty and sit in moving traffic for twenty-five minutes.

  Plus, of course, it allowed time for him to see Stephanie.

  Robert smiled as he pulled up outside the kids’ high school. Both Brendan and Theresa were home late on Thursdays; Brendan had extra classes, and Theresa had basketball practice. Brendan was slipping behind in just about every subject, whereas Theresa was ranked second in her class this year. She took after her mother, he thought proudly.

  Robert turned off the engine and dropped the window a fraction. Icy wind curled in around the stuffy interior of the car. He pushed the CD button and a Christmas compilation that had been given away free with the Boston Herald came on. He found himself humming along with the Bing Crosby–David Bowie version of “The Little Drummer Boy,” and he felt a little of the tension ease away.

  Maybe after Christmas they would find time to get away together. Have a talk, mend some fences; he could tell her exactly what was going on with the business. And Stephanie? Would he talk about Stephanie Burroughs? Would he tell her about his mistress, and why he needed to keep her sweet?

  “Dad!” Brendan wrenched open the door, with all the force and enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old, jolting him from his thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Thought I’d surprise you.” Robert reached over and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “How was school? And don’t say boring,” he added quickly.

  “Almost boring,” Brendan grinned. “Math sucks, Dad. . . .”

  “I know. I know. But you heard what your mother said. Junior year’s your most important year for grades on your college application. She wants you to get into a good school. And so do I,” he added, turning the key in the ignition and easing the car down the street.

  “But you said I could join you in the company.”

  “And you will. After college. The business is changing. It’s hard to get hired without an education, even if your old man owns the company. Technology is evolving. The latest digital video technology is moving ahead in leaps and bounds. Wasn’t so long ago video cameras recorded on tape. Next it was CDs and then Blu-rays, and now it’s all digital recorder.” Robert turned down the narrow side road that led to the gymnasium where the Brookline Warriors practiced. “I can’t keep up with all the new technology—but you can. That’s why I really want you to go to college, come out with a degree, and take R&K to a new level.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder again. “You know it makes sense.”

  “I know,” Brendan said unhappily. “But Mom’s really on my case about this. I even have to study over Christmas for my SATs. Seriously, Dad, it’s so unfair.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Does this mean I can’t work at the company on weekends?”

  “Of course you can. I’m talking to a boy band about shooting their new pop video. I could use you on that.”

  “That’d be awesome. I could be a second-unit director.”

  “Hey—this is R&K Productions, not 20th Century Fox. We don’t have second units. We have one unit—and that’s me with a Steadicam. You can be an associate producer, maybe.”

  “Okay,” Brendan said slowly. “So . . . what does that mean exactly?”<
br />
  “Means you make the coffee.”

  “Tight,” Brendan said glumly. He suddenly leaned forward and pointed. “There’s Theresa.”

  “Yeah, J.P. Licks!” Brendan shouted and high-fived his sister.

  “Wait until I park . . . ,” Robert began, but Brendan pulled open the door and bounded out of the car toward the ice cream shop. “Dad, you’re the best.”

  Robert pulled up alongside Zaftigs Deli and parallel-parked between two oversized SUVs, maneuvering the Audi into the tight space. Satisfied, he pulled up the brake and turned off the engine.

  Theresa waited for her father while he put money into the Pay Station. She was very maternal, just like her mother. He reached down, and she slipped her hand into his. “So tell me,” he said, “how was school?”

  “The usual. How was work?”

  “The usual,” he said. “Although I’ve got some really cool stuff coming up.”

  “You can’t say cool, Dad,” Theresa said quickly. “Not at your age. It’s not . . . cool.”

  “When I was young, we used to say cool all the time.”

  She squeezed his hand, a quick tightening of the fingers. “Well, you’re not young now.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Gee, you’re welcome.”

  Theresa would probably be the one taking care of him in his old age. Brendan would want to put him into a home, but Theresa would insist that her father live with her and her family. Robert swallowed hard, pushing away the sudden image of his little girl all grown up with a family of her own. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d cradled his babies in his arms . . . and now they were teens. Soon they would make their own way out into the world, and he’d lose them to husbands, wives, and lovers . . . but they would always be his children, and he would always strive to make them happy. To give them what they wanted, no matter what the cost. They would have everything he never had. Including ice cream before dinner.

  Theresa had been “starving” after basketball practice and she “couldn’t wait” for dinner. And even though it was below freezing outside, the air cold enough to make blinking painful, she wanted ice cream. Coconut almond chip ice cream.

  “Dad, please, Dad, please.”

  When Theresa asked Robert for something, it was hard for him to say no. For years, they had had a father-daughter tradition that on the first day of every month, he’d buy two large Hershey chocolate bars with almonds at CVS, and they’d wolf them down in the car. Kathy had never found out.

  Kathy didn’t approve of kids eating sugar, but Robert was of the opinion that a little chocolate never hurt anyone, especially when it afforded him a little bonding time with his daughter.

  Because he had been working so hard for so many years, Robert cherished any time he could get with his kids. For far too many years, by the time he got home at night they were either in bed or, more recently, watching TV or doing homework. By that time he was too mentally exhausted to engage with them, and often a whole week would go by with less than a couple of words spoken between them. On the rare occasion he got home early enough from work to pick them up from school and spend time with them, well, he tried to make it last. So, when Theresa begged for ice cream before dinner, Robert simply couldn’t refuse.

  Robert wrapped his daughter’s small hand in his as they walked down Harvard Street. Robert smiled; he wondered if his daughter would ever be “too old” to hold her dad’s hand. He blinked at the sudden image of him leading his daughter down the aisle of a flower-filled church.

  “You’re like a million miles away,” Theresa said as they entered the ice cream store. Brendan was already at the counter, pointing to the vat of chocolate M&M ice cream.

  “I was just thinking that you’re growing up so fast. You’ll be getting married soon.”

  “Dad!” Theresa squealed. She had just gotten her braces off, and Robert knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he was going to be subjected to the stress of a dating daughter. “That is seriously not happening any time soon.” Then her smile faded as she searched his worried face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, pumpkin. Just don’t grow up too quickly, promise me that.”

  “Sure, Dad. Hey, can I add hot fudge and marshmallow sauce?” She pulled him up to the long counter.

  “You’re going to ruin your appetite, and you know how your mother feels about dessert before dinner.”

  Theresa chuckled. “Trust me, I won’t. I’m totally starving.” She squeezed her father’s hand again. “Besides, what Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  “Don’t underestimate your mother,” Robert said, reaching for his wallet. “She’s a lot smarter than you think.”

  Robert drove back to the house with the two children chatting happily together in the back of the car, which now smelled like a combination of Indian and Chinese take-out food. There were only two and a half years between Brendan and Theresa, and they got along really well. Robert was particularly happy about that. He didn’t really have a relationship with his three brothers, all of whom were older than he was. His parents had divorced when he was fourteen, and although he’d stayed with his mother, his regular weekends with his father and older brothers had been uncomfortable outings. He’d stopped going when he was sixteen. By then all but one of his brothers had moved out of the country—and a year later, his eldest brother, Stephen, had gone to New Mexico. There were still occasional letters, the odd Christmas card, congratulatory e-mails when the Red Sox won the World Series, but the last time he’d actually seen all of them had been at his father’s funeral fifteen years ago. Only Stephen had come home for their mother’s funeral nine months later.

  “Dad,” Theresa chimed up around a mouthful of fries. She was dipping them in curry sauce, and Robert felt his stomach grumble. He’d missed lunch—again—and all he’d had to eat since breakfast was a packet of peanut M&M’s and rum raisin ice cream. So much for taking care of himself. He had promised Stephanie that he would start eating more healthily, and today’s diet had consisted of sugar, sugar, and more sugar. “Dad, hello, are we going to have to go to Aunt Julia’s the day after Christmas?”

  “Well, you have a choice,” he said carefully. “Either we go over to your Aunt Julia . . . or she’ll come to us. Now, if we visit her,” he continued slowly over the groans, “we can leave. If she comes to us, we’ll never get rid of her.”

  “But we go there every year!” Brendan protested.

  “It’s a tradition. It’s called Boxing Day.”

  “A British tradition. We’re American.”

  “I know, but the tradition is important to Ben, who’s British . . . and Julia who pretends she is.” Robert said patiently.

  “Well, I think it’s time to break the tradition,” Brendan grumbled. “We’re missing some of the best television.”

  “That’s why we have TiVo,” Robert sighed. He too hated going over to Kathy’s sister’s house in Wellesley for her annual Boxing Day party, but he knew how important it was to his wife. “Let’s do it this year, and we’ll see if we can do something about changing it for next year. Deal?”

  “Deal,” the kids echoed.

  “And we should probably not bring this up with Mom,” Theresa guessed. “Like the ice cream.”

  “Probably not.” Robert grinned. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. The bedroom light was on upstairs. As they climbed out of the car, it clicked off. He put his key in the lock and pushed the hall door open, allowing Theresa and Brendan to shove their way into the hallway.

  Kathy appeared at the top of the stairs, hand lightly trailing along the banister.

  “We got takeout,” Brendan called, holding up the brown paper bags.

  Kathy smiled. “More than takeout, I see.”

  There was an expression on her face that Robert could not identify, and he wondered if she was coming down with something. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine, just fine,” she said tightly, then swept past hi
m into the kitchen.

  Robert wandered into the family room and sank into a chair. He hit the remote to turn on the television, absently flicking from channel to channel. Sitcom, sitcom, bad sitcom, really bad sitcom, marine documentary, cooking program. All the sitcoms had a Christmas theme, the marine documentary was set in someplace snowy, and Iron Chef was doing a mince pie cook off. It had probably been recorded in June, he thought glumly.

  “Are you having yours in here?” Kathy asked, standing in the doorway.

  “No, no, I’ll eat in the kitchen.” He eased himself out of the chair and went into the kitchen. Theresa and Brendan were sorting through the food, doling it out onto plates, squabbling over the number of fries each had. They put their plates onto trays and carried them into the family room to watch TV.

  “I got you some lamb curry. It’s mild,” Robert said.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Well, have a few mouthfuls anyway.”

  “I said I’m not hungry.”

  Robert concentrated on emptying his own food—plain old chicken curry—from the foil containers onto his plate.

  “That’ll stink up the kitchen,” Kathy said, pushing open the windows, “and you’ll reek of garlic for the rest of the night.”

  “Keep the vampires away,” he said lightly. He sat and ate, chewing slowly and methodically, determined not to get a stomachache. He turned on the small TV set high on the wall and found the Iron Chef program. From the corner of his eye, he watched Kathy open the plastic medicine box and pull out two aspirin. She swallowed them quickly. “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  “Just a touch of a headache. I’m going to bed,” she said, and hurried from the room, leaving him alone in the kitchen with his curry and the TV for comfort.

  Robert watched several chefs competing against each other with the sound muted. The two children were a room away and Kathy was upstairs, and he was alone in the kitchen, eating his dinner: just another night in the Walker household. He felt desperately lonely. He couldn’t remember the last time the family had sat down to a meal together, nor could he remember the last time Kathy had asked him about work, how things were going, whether it had been a good day or not.