A Changing Marriage

by Susan Kietzman

  Bob handed his car keys to the parking attendant and walked into the lobby of the hotel. On the way to the elevators, he stopped, reconsidered, and turned around. With a slight smile on his face, he walked briskly across the lobby to The Mariner for a beer. He could drink to his new resolution: to spend more time with his family. Bob sat on a padded stool at the end of the polished oak bar. He put his back against the wall so he could look out at the harbor through the floor to ceiling windows. The sun was setting, offering a postcard-worthy vista of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and opera house. When his beer arrived, Bob took a sip before returning his head to the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to be tired. “Buy you a beer, sailor?”

  Bob opened his eyes to find a pretty young blonde standing next to him. He smiled at her. “Where did you come from?”

  “Melbourne, originally.”

  “And tonight?”

  “Work.” She slid on the stool next to him. “I’m a hostess in the dining room.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re not from around here, though, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Let me guess,” she said, rubbing her chin for effect. “The States; more specifically, the Midwestern states.”

  Bob raised his eyebrows. “You’re very good.”

  “Not really,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I asked my friend at the front desk about you.”

  Bob sipped his beer. “Why would you do that?”

  “I guess because I think you’re cute.”

  “Well,” Bob began.

  “Sheila,” she said, holding out her hand. “Sheila Morgan.”

  Bob took her hand, which was both strong and soft, and shook it once.

  “Bob,” he said. “Bob Parsons.”

  “Well, Bob Parsons, how about that beer?”

  Bob glanced down at his empty glass and up again at Sheila. She was a knockout. “Sure,” he said. “Only I’m buying.”

  CHAPTER 17

  NOVEMBER 2004

  Bob was due home Friday, in two days, and Karen was miserable. She put on a cheery face for Rebecca and Robert, but she wasn’t sure she fooled Rebecca, who gave her questioning looks. She did know that Robert believed she was as eager for the homecoming of her husband as he was thrilled about the return of his dad. After dinner, he X’d out another day on the calendar he made when Bob left town. Thirty-five bright red X’s stared back at Karen from the wall; two lovely clean, blank squares remained. After the children were asleep, Karen poured herself a glass of wine and took it to her bedroom. She got under the covers and tried to think positive thoughts, but none came without force. She began to cry, but scolded herself for acting foolish. She told herself that she really was glad Bob was coming home, that it was just the change in routine that was upsetting her. She had been so free, so completely able to do whatever she wanted to do, outside of caring for her children. However, at eleven and nine, Rebecca and Robert were fairly independent. She no longer had to hover over them. In fact, Rebecca, in her adolescence, resented anything Karen did that could be mistaken for hovering, including, asking about school, homework, or friends, anything at all. Even Robert, who still loved his mother’s attention, enjoyed time to himself. And since she had given him the Nintendo DS for a good report card, Karen had seen and heard from him even less.

  Working at the newspaper didn’t impinge upon Karen’s freedom either; instead it seemed to expand what she sought. She relished the praise she received from her coworkers and from people in the community. And making her own money helped Karen feel like she owned something; Bob had nothing to do with her success as a reporter. Nick, she admitted to herself, was the reason she loved her job and felt free and content. He was at the root of her panic about Bob’s return. Karen propped up her pillows and sat back against them. She blew her nose, then sipped her wine. She fully released the thoughts that had been pushing inside her skull to get out, easing the dull ache in her forehead and pulsing at her temples. “Nick,” she said his name aloud—handsome, intelligent, caring, good-smelling Nick was the only reason for her tears. She had started to subscribe to her own daydreams that Nick, not Bob, was the one who came through the door at the end of the day. That Nick sat across the table from her at dinner. That Nick was on top of her in their bed. And Bob? In her fantasies, he just didn’t exist.

  And now he did. For the first time in weeks, Bob’s face filled Karen’s mind instead of Nick’s. She set her empty wineglass down on her bedside table and turned out the light. She had one more night before Bob got home. She could spend it with her children, or she could somehow spend time with Nick. But how? Trish was in town. Maybe just a lunch would do. Maybe they could go back to that diner and discuss their feelings for each other. Karen rolled over in bed, facing Bob’s side, willing herself to stop. You are his wife, she told herself. There will be no lunch. There will be no romance. You are married to someone else.

  When Karen got home from tennis the next day, the light on her answering machine was blinking. She played Nick’s recorded message four times. “Karen, it’s Nick. Call me when you get a chance.” She then erased it before picking up the phone and calling the newspaper. Within seconds, she heard his real voice. “Nick Fleming.”

  “Nick, it’s me, Karen.”

  “Give me a moment, okay?” Karen poured herself a glass of water and sat down on a chair. She took a long drink while she conjured up reasons for his call. He needed her to come in. He needed her to write a story from home and send it to him. He needed to see her. When he got back on the phone, he said, “I miss you today.” Karen put her hand over her heart. “Does that sound silly?”

  “No, no. I miss you too.”

  “Listen, I know Bob’s coming home tomorrow. . . .”

  “Don’t.”

  They were silent for a moment. “Is there any way I can see you tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s meet at the diner at six.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Karen told Rebecca and Robert she was going to the library to do research for a newspaper article. When Rebecca asked her why she didn’t simply use the Internet at home, Karen lied to her daughter, telling her she needed information about the history of their town, something that could be found only in the library’s local history room. Rebecca shrugged and retreated to her room. Robert accepted Karen’s kiss good-bye just as Jamie was scooping a second helping of macaroni and cheese into his plastic dinner bowl. “I won’t be late,” said Karen, taking her car keys out of her purse.

  “I don’t have to be home until ten,” said Jamie, hoping Mrs. Parsons would linger at the library until its closing. She was the only mother who paid twelve dollars an hour, especially easy money on a school night.

  Karen drove to the diner in silence, rehearsing lines instead of listening to the radio. When she walked in, he was there, sitting in the same booth they’d had lunch in Monday; sitting in the same booth where they had confessed their attraction for each other. Karen walked quickly to the booth and sat down. “Am I late?” she asked, breathless from his presence.

  Nick smiled at her. “I’ve been here all afternoon, trying to figure out what to say to you.” Karen looked at him, puzzled. “I’m kidding,” he said, reaching across the table and touching her hand. “I just got here.”

  The waitress poured Karen a glass of water. “What do you want to say to me?” Karen asked. “What do we want to say to each other?”

  Nick squinted his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. “I only know I wanted to see you.”

  Karen smiled at him. “I’m here.”

  The waitress brought menus, which Nick and Karen stared at for thirty seconds before Nick spoke. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” Karen put her menu down on the table.

  “Me neither. Let’s go for a walk.” Nick stood and pulled out his wallet. He put a five-dollar bill on the table before buttoning his wool blazer.

  Karen watched hi
m button his coat as she buttoned hers. “Will you be warm enough in that?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding?” he said, leading her toward the front door. “My internal temperature is about five-hundred degrees right now.”

  They walked quickly down the sidewalk to the river. Alone with her, Nick wrapped his arm around Karen’s shoulder and led her to a bench at the water’s edge. They sat, and Karen leaned into him, closing her eyes to the wind and her mind to what was right and proper. He rested his chin on the top of her head briefly and then pulled back just enough to kiss her forehead. She looked up at him. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me what you want to do.”

  Karen put the index finger of her right hand across his lips. He kissed it. She then put both her hands on the sides of his head and pulled his face even closer to hers. “I want you to kiss me.” Nick kissed her softly on the lips, then drew back. Karen raised her eyebrows. “You call that a kiss?” He leaned in and covered her mouth with his. She responded, wrapping her arms around his neck and pushing her body into his. She needed to be closer to him; she wanted her body to occupy the same space his did. Her heart felt like liquid in her chest. The only other time she felt like this, felt this good, had been in college when she was kissing Ray McNamara. She vowed not to make the same mistake again.

  “You taste good,” he said.

  “I brushed my teeth before I came,” she said, grinning.

  “Because you knew I would kiss you?”

  “Because I wanted you to kiss me.”

  They both sat back on the bench. Nick breathed in audibly. “Have you thought about this moment?”

  Karen laughed. “About three billion times.”

  Nick kissed her again. “You have the perfect mouth. I could kiss you all night.”

  “In a different world, you could.” Karen looked down at her hands.

  Nick lifted her chin with his fingers. “What kind of world is that?” Karen looked into his eyes, looking for the answer she wouldn’t find. They both looked at the river for a moment. “I’ve got an idea,” said Nick, taking Karen’s hands and pulling her up off the bench. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Perfect.”

  They walked back to the diner and got into Nick’s car. He drove along the river road into town, past the high school their children would attend, past the library where Karen was supposed to be perusing town records, past the storefronts, some of which were still brightly lit with customers milling around inside. “Are you ready for something to eat now?”

  “I am a little hungry, yes.”

  He drove through the next fast-food restaurant, ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and vanilla milkshakes, and handed the food to Karen. He then drove to the newspaper and parked in the lot behind the building. Lit by weak lights, the building looked different, unfamiliar. Frenzied during the day, it was unproductive, serene at night. “You’re a romantic, parking here.”

  “I am a romantic, especially when it comes to you. However, I have another reason for parking here.”

  Karen set her burger down on its paper wrapper and looked at Nick. He took a sip of his shake. “I got some news today,” he began.

  “And?”

  He reached over and tucked Karen’s freshly washed hair behind her ear. “You won the press award for your story about Sharon Oriano.” Karen’s mouth opened involuntarily. “It was an incredible story because you told it with incredible sensitivity.”

  “I can’t believe it,” was all Karen managed to say.

  Nick leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I can. You can do anything you want to, Karen.”

  Karen looked out the window at the empty parking lot, jammed with older model cars during the day. Don’t spend your life wishing for another one, Sharon had said in the interview. Karen looked back at Nick. He kissed her lips and said, “I want you so badly.”

  “You have me already.”

  Bob walked through the back door just before six o’clock. Rebecca was in her bedroom. Robert was in the basement watching television. And Karen was on the phone with Caroline, who was suggesting dates for a get-together with the Lees and the Jenningses before the holiday rush. Bob gave his wife a warm smile. He set his bag down, crossed the kitchen floor, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I’ve got to go,” Karen told Caroline. “Bob just got home.”

  “Oh you lucky girl. Tonight’s going to be all kinds of fun.”

  Bob kissed Karen’s face. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Karen hung up the phone.

  She turned to face him and surprised herself by the genuineness of her smile. He had the kind of sheen to his skin that comes from light exercise or long plane rides, and his lips were dry beneath a fresh coating of lip balm. She was taken aback at how handsome he looked, by his masculine jawline covered in brown stubble, by his clear blue eyes. His teeth were white and straight, like coated gum. And he looked at her with such intensity that she drew a deep breath. “Hi,” he said, just before kissing her again, deeply this time.

  Before she could analyze what she was doing, she was holding him, kissing him longingly, as if she really had missed him. He felt good—the familiarity of his body, the faded smell of aftershave. He had worn the same aftershave since college. Back then, Karen loved smelling like him, when his scent adhered to her skin when they embraced, lingering into the morning after they’d slept in the same bed. Naked they had planned their future. Karen closed her eyes.

  “You taste good,” said Bob.

  Karen blushed. It was exactly what Nick had said after kissing her the night before. “So do you.”

  “I’ve got plans for you later.”

  There it was; old Bob was back. “I’m sure you do,” said Karen, now forcing a smile. His plans entailed getting undressed as quickly as possible. He wasn’t romantic like Nick, although he had had his moments in college, before his career, before their future became his. Gone, now, was the seduction process, over a shared bottle of wine. Gone were the flowers, the theater tickets, the surprise outings, gone, gone, gone. He hardly complimented her anymore, except in the bedroom, where he would utter something like, You look so hot, baby, thirty seconds before he came. Sex was expected rather than treasured now, especially when he had been away. If they didn’t have children, he would have hustled her up to the bedroom with his travel bag still in hand.

  “Where are the kids?”

  Did he want to know because he wanted to see them, or did he want to know because he hoped they were at her mother’s house for the night? “Rebecca’s in her room, and Robert is downstairs.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’m going to go see them, then have a shower. What’s for dinner?”

  “Steak.”

  Bob smiled at his wife. “That’s my girl.”

  Over dinner, they talked about Bob’s trip. He entertained them with stories about different customs and cuisine, and the fascinating people he had met in each county he visited. No business talk. No numbers. He gave the children trinkets: foreign coins for Robert and costume jewelry for Rebecca. He presented Karen with a diamond choker, which made her gasp. It looked like a long tennis bracelet, delicate and dazzling. Caroline would be so jealous! She put her fingers to it as Bob fastened it around her neck. He had never bought her anything like this before. It wasn’t until after dinner, when Karen was doing the dishes and Bob was sitting at the kitchen table with another beer, that she began to wonder why he had bought her such an extravagant gift. It was not a question of money; it was more a question of timing. Why now? It wasn’t Karen’s birthday. It wasn’t Christmas. It wasn’t their anniversary, which they never exchanged gifts for anyway. It was simply the night Bob had walked back into their lives after five weeks away. Was this his new way of thanking her for taking care of the children and the house while he was away, or was it something else?

  Caroline had recently told the tennis girls about an article she’d read in a woman’s magazine called “Guilt Gifts,” about men who habitually cheat on their wives and how th
ey attempt to make up for it. A woman can always spot a wandering husband, the article began, by what he brings home. The first thing he buys his wife is a bouquet of beautiful red roses. After that, he presents spa gift certificates and fine jewelry, especially diamonds. If he doesn’t buy something, he may simply ease up on credit card lectures or encourage his wife to shop whenever she feels inclined to do so. He may even take the whole family on a vacation. Bottom line: He spends money on his wife to alleviate his guilt, and he never comes clean. The affair ends only: number one, if he gets caught, or number two, if he gets tired of it.

  Karen and her tennis buddies had discussed the article at lunch the week before, after Caroline had announced it was the perfect arrangement. Stephanie, Ginny, and Karen were well versed in Caroline’s attention-grabbing remarks, but this one took them by surprise—until she justified her point of view by making several interesting points. One: If your husband is cheating, he and his bad breath are not chasing you around the bedroom as often. Two: If your husband is cheating, chances are he’ll feel guilty along the way and, as the article pointed out, present you with expensive gifts. And three: If your husband is cheating, there’s no reason why you can’t cheat, too. New sex, Caroline said, as everyone knows, is thrilling and satisfying. What Caroline hadn’t mentioned, intentionally or otherwise, was the possibility of catching a nasty sexually transmitted disease from a new partner. (This was outlined in another women’s magazine, in an article entitled, “The Messy Details of Your Husband’s Next Affair.” While Karen refused to subscribe to what she thought of as journalist trash, she was not above reading it at the salon and in line at the grocery store.) Of course, new lovers could use a condom. But in the heat of untethered passion, many didn’t. The wives in the article who were unwilling to leave their philandering spouses often ingested a course of antibiotics or underwent same-day surgery to deal with whatever their husbands brought home. They didn’t want to raise the issue with their men, the article stated, because it would imply a lack of trust. Karen had laughed at that statement. Trust was the least of their problems.