by Autumn Piper
Compelled, I stop and look back. He’s standing there, in the same spot, watching me go, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. My heart does the little lift-and-flip it does in a descending elevator. He’s there, like he said he’d be.
Tonight when I lie down and search for sleep, he’ll be there. I can think of him, instead of Mike and Lana. If I hadn’t seen them together last night, would Adam matter this much? I think the answer is yes. Looking back at him watching me, I feel what he must have when he saw me running by. The same feeling that propelled him out of his house to meet me.
He’s there, and I won’t forget.
Chapter 2
When I walk back into my house, it feels like I’m returning from another dimension, or maybe an episode of The Twilight Zone. My family is exactly the same as when I left an hour ago, but I’m all new.
Our house still smells like gravy and pumpkin pie. The comfy, overstuffed khaki furniture faces the fireplace and the TV beside it. It’s an open floor plan, so the kitchen, decorated in green with red strawberries, is visible from the small foyer. Our dining room sits in the corner, filled to capacity with a large oak table Mike made when we were first married.
The master suite and kids’ rooms are upstairs, along with both bathrooms. Downstairs is a walk-out basement, which means it’s built half in the hillside and half out. The lower level consists of a den, my office, and a spare bedroom. My office is also the utility room, home to the furnace and water heater. Once, it housed the washer and dryer too, but Mike built a new laundry room upstairs when I was pregnant with Ben, so I wouldn’t have to haul laundry up and down the stairs. To Mike’s credit, he did this without my requesting it. He’s always been thoughtful and caring toward me. Until recently, that is.
I purposely avoid looking at Mike when I walk in. He’s awake again, talking on the phone. Sounds like he’s planning to hunt tomorrow with one of his buddies.
Ben hugs me hello. “Hey, Mom. Have a good walk?” Such a sweet boy.
Breathing in the smell of his strawberry-scented shampoo, I pray he won’t be like his dad when he grows up. “Yeah, honey. It was nice.” His hug makes me happy to be home again, makes me want to keep our family together just to preserve his innocent joy. I want my kids to come home every night to both parents, to have two parents who love each other. They should see marriage as a lasting agreement between a man and a woman, not something easily stepped out of.
Can I stick it out, forgive Mike, forget what he did? Now is probably not the time to make this decision. I’m too angry. I need time, much more time, to make sense and think rationally. How long will it take ’til I can think rationally about my husband stealing a quickie with a friend while I’m only a room away?
And now there’s another factor. I’m no longer the undesirable, frumpy housewife I was when I left for my walk. There’s possibility out there. Possibility is a burden. It will be harder still to make a decision for my future, for my family’s future, knowing I shouldn’t let my own wants be a factor. Yet, when anyone decides to end a marriage, isn’t the chance of a future with a new spouse always there? Even the churches consider infidelity grounds for divorce. Why shouldn’t I?
I make soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, but only pick at my food. Ben and Rachel both have plans for sleepovers with friends tomorrow. Mike will leave to hunt early in the morning, and I’ll have the long, quiet day to think. Just what I need. I can’t stop thinking, as it is.
If I let Mike slide this one time, is it because I believe he was weak and I want to give him another chance? Can I live with a man if I think he’s not strong? Looking across the table, I simply don’t see him as weak. A jackass, yeah. The way he fought with his mother and sister today sure wasn’t weak. But was Lana just too big a temptation?
That’s a cop-out. If someone’s truly in love, no temptation is great enough to make them cheat, right? Maybe.
When dinner is cleared away–Rachel helped, without being asked!–I hole up in my office downstairs, under the pretext of working. Mike is a building contractor, and I do the books for him. But I also write. About four years ago, a story just started running out of me. Whenever I wasn’t busy with bookkeeping, I was tapping the story on the keyboard.
Some nights I went to bed with Mike, then got up, returned to my office after he was asleep and plunked away all night. I’ve had two novels published, and my editor seems to expect a new one to arrive about every six months now. I’m not independently wealthy or anything, but each book pays more.
Tonight, writing is only an excuse to get away from Mike and hide my emotion-ravaged mood from my kids. I want to protect them from this, if at all possible. Besides, all the turmoil in my head right now has stymied any creativity.
I manage to keep my cool by doing some online Christmas shopping until the kids kiss me goodnight. Once I know they’re in bed, I let myself go. Last night I was in total shock. Today I was busy cooking, putting up a front for the in-laws and playing referee. Now, I’m ready to cry those postponed tears.
One of the kids’ beanbags from the den is in the corner of the office, and I give it a really sound, frustrated beating. Wouldn’t it feel good to beat Mike like this? Big chickenshit still hasn’t come down looking for me. Maybe he’d rather not talk about it either. Does he think I’ll ignore it and go on? Or does he want me to find it unforgivable? Maybe he wants out, and this is his passive way of letting me know.
Way too much time to think.
I finally zonk out in the spare bedroom downstairs, next to my office. I’ll get up in the morning before the kids, and make up the bed. They’ll never know Mom isn’t sleeping with Dad anymore. And I don’t think I will be, ever. I can’t see myself wanting him again. Knowing where he stuck it last night, how could I? Ick.
* * * *
With muffled thumps and bumps, Mike stumbles around upstairs, at the buttcrack of dawn. He’s probably trying to find all the hunting crap he usually rouses me to help him get together. What do I care if he doesn’t have an insulated vest today? Or his precious hand-warmers? If you wanta be warm, don’t go out in the cold before dawn. No rocket science there. I wait until the garage door is closed and his truck rumbles away, then I rise and hide the physical evidence of my failing marriage, and go upstairs to shower.
The kids are gone by mid-morning. I could go shopping, but I’m not a Black Friday person. One is either really into the crazy shopping thing, or far away from it. Nobody dabbles in shopping the day after Thanksgiving.
Mike’s mom calls me. She’s a really-into-crazy-shopping person. She’s at the mall and needs everybody’s sizes, pronto. I rattle them off, but tell her, as always, not to worry about me, and she tells me, as always, how she really can’t afford all this Christmas expense this year.
She wants to discuss their big ruckus yesterday. For the first time ever, I staunchly refuse to defend or blame a single one of them, or even try and console her.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her.
“Okay. Yeah. Well, sorry for leaving you with the mess yesterday.”
I shrug, though she can’t see it. “No big deal.” Why am I always such a pushover? I’m still mad about it; why won’t I tell her that?
“I just wish Mike wouldn’t–”
“Oh. Oops. Got another call coming in. Bye.” Whew!
I take myself to lunch, with a Nora Roberts novel, at the Mexican restaurant. Dawdling with the chips and salsa, I soak up the dependability of a story with a happy ending. My entree goes untouched; someone boxes it up as I’m reading a love scene. After two hours, the server gets snippy because I’m still around. I leave him a tip equal to roughly twice my ticket total, and he smiles apologetically at me on my way out.
At home, I stare listlessly at the story on my computer screen until two o’clock, when I always go for my walk. Sure, I could have walked earlier today. But I’m used to going at this time now. Besides, I know that’s when Adam will be expecting me. M
aybe. He could have been merely creating a diversion from his boredom yesterday. Or he might be working, or shopping. Or who knows? Still, as I head up the last hill, my heart pumps faster for more reasons than usual.
A GasKo truck is in Adam’s driveway. So he’s not at work. Still, he could be out and about. He must have a life besides work and watching me go by.
Keep running. Go! the practical voice in my head tells me. Adam will only complicate my life. He already has.
Screw reason. I want to see him, need to feel noticed, wanted. A car is parked in the cemetery. Three old ladies, probably visiting the grave of a friend. As I walk in, they’re loading up to leave. They wave at me on the way out, and I smile and return the friendly gesture. By the time their car turns onto the street, Adam is heading my way, coming out a gate in his back fence. I can see his smile from far off, and I’m smiling right back.
“Hey,” I chirp, happier than I’ve been in, say, twenty-three hours or so.
“Hey.” He hands me a bottle of water. How thoughtful! Do they still make thoughtful men?
“Thanks.” His eyes search mine as I loosen the lid and drink.
Can he tell they’re puffy from crying so much last night? I give up trying to guess what he’s thinking, and just look back at him, sinking into those sparkling blue eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come today.” He seems relieved.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be home,” I counter. Wow. He anticipated this as much as I did. “Did you work today?”
He nods. “I covered for one of my foremen, so he could go out of town with his family.” And just where is your family? Echoing my thoughts, he asks, “Where’s your family today?”
“Ben and Rachel are having sleepovers with friends, and Mike is out hunting water-fowl, or pheasants, or something.”
Adam’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You sure he’s not with his girlfriend?”
His bringing that up irritates me. Yet, I’m not certain I’d be here enjoying his company so, if it weren’t for The Indiscretion, as I’m now calling it–leaving names and possessive adjectives out of the title keeps it removed from me personally. I shouldn’t have told Adam about it; now he’ll be reminding me like he just did.
“I could hear him upstairs, digging around for all of his gear this morning,” I reply. “The guy single-handedly made the noise of a herd of elephants.”
Of course I’d know if he wasn’t really hunting!
Wouldn’t I?
Adam looks upward at nothing at all, as if visualizing something. When he’s finished thinking, he smiles. It seems he’s pleased with his image. His eyebrows jump in with I’ve got it! when he looks back at me.
“What?” I demand, still cranky about being reminded of The Indiscretion.
“You’re not sleeping with him.” He’s still grinning at his deduction.
How’d he know? I open my mouth to deny it, but what’s the use? Instead, I look away at a brown horse in the pasture next to the cemetery.
My cellphone rings, and I dig it from my pocket to see who it is. Great. “Lana the Homewrecker. Should be interesting. Think she’s trying to save her own ass, or Mike’s?” I intend to let the call go to voice mail, but Adam motions me to answer. My angst must be intrinsically interesting to him. “Hello?” It’s not my usual friendly tone, but a suspicious, affronted one.
“Mandy, it’s Lana.”
I remain silent. Let her get to her point.
“I just wanted to see if you’re okay. You were kinda weird the other night…”
“Weird?” The bitch screws my husband, and tells me I’m weird?
“Yeah, the way you walked out was just–”
“Okay, Lana, why don’t you tell me how I should react. I’m sure you have much more experience with this than I do. I mean, how do other wives behave when they catch their husbands balling you?”
“That was cold, Mandy. It wasn’t like we planned it. And I don’t–”
“Cold? Yeah, let me apologize, okay? I’m sure you have no blame whatsoever, so I shouldn’t take it out on you. Tell you what, next time I’m feeling cold, I’ll cuddle up with Brad, how would that be?” See how she likes the idea of another woman moving in on her turf!
Adam raises his brows and smiles at me like he’s known something all along that I’ve just figured out.
“Oh, honey, keep dreaming.” Laura’s laugh is hostile and insulting. “I’ve heard how bad the sex has been with you and Mike. And why would Brad even look at you, when he has me?” The verbal sucker punch leaves my stomach hurting as much as an actual hit.
“I’m sorry, didn’t you call to grovel or something?” I feel tears threatening, but keep them out of my voice. Adam has heard this entire conversation, and now he probably thinks it’s my fault Mike strayed.
“I just wanted you to know, it had never happened before, and I’d like to keep it quiet. Please?” The voice of my nemesis has turned syrupy and contrite.
Adam shakes his head at me, his eyes wide. Yeah, I want this kept quiet, too. Right now, I’d rather think Mike fell madly in love with a respectable woman, than he just had to have this tramp. But I’ll let Lana sweat it out. How can she actually have the nerve to call and ask me for a favor?
“Fuck off, Lana!” I snap the phone shut.
Adam claps me on the back, seemingly proud of me. I’m feeling a little proud myself, and a lot sick. A wicked combination of nerves, exhaustion and barely eating since Wednesday evening has me shaking, my heart racing, my legs suddenly weak. Irreverent as it is, I sit down hard on the nearest headstone, my hands clasping my middle.
“Hey, you okay?” Adam’s voice is soft, worried.
I can only nod. If I speak I’ll be sick all over my shoes. After a minute or so, I’m not lightheaded anymore, and stand. God, how embarrassing, to go all weak in front of him!
“You’re pale,” he tells me, and strokes my cheek with his fingertips. I must look awful, but he seems concerned, not disgusted. “You’re freezing. Come on.” He leads me toward his house. We’re halfway to his back gate when it comes to me: I cannot go in there, not in this mood.
“Adam. Hold on.”
He stops and faces me.
I press my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Do you want to be my revenge?”
His laugh is warm, lusty. “Would there be opportunity for advancement?” He asks like it’s a paying position, a job. “A possibility for a permanent position?”
That makes me smile, which I can see was his objective, by the way he winks and grins. “Probably not at this point. Revenge would be a temp position only.” I can’t lead him on. Angry revenge sex might be good, but adultery isn’t likely to lead to a lasting relationship.
“Then, no. I’ll keep arms’ reach away from you, Scout’s honor.” Some Freudian slip, saying arms’ reach, rather than arms’ length.
He appears sincere, so I continue following him into his yard. Through the unlocked back door, we enter his kitchen, which is neat and clean, but not compulsively so. An open bag of chips is on the counter and a dirty coffee mug sits next to its spoon. I have a fleeting memory of how easy it was to keep my kitchen this clean BC–before children.
Perched on a wooden stool in front of his counter, I watch in silence as Adam fills two thick ceramic mugs with hot cocoa, then douses them both with peppermint schnapps. He didn’t ask if I liked peppermint, or cocoa for that matter–really, is there a female who doesn’t like cocoa? It is chocolate, after all–but it’s fine with me. The alcohol adds to the warming effect as the drink moves down my insides.
He’s kicked up the heat, meanwhile, and the forced-air is blowing warmly in his den when I sink into a large, pine-green leather armchair, directly across from a La-Z-Boy in the same color. Between the recliner and armchair is a matching sofa. A huge, ultrathin TV occupies pretty much the entire wall above the fireplace.
The alcohol will go to my head in short order, unless I eat something. For now, I intend to relax and let i
t dissolve my stress. “So what do you do here all alone?” I ask. Probably watches a ton of TV. “Besides drink spiked cocoa and watch women run by?”
Adam’s eyes smile back at me, and it makes me believe I’m the only woman he watches run. Silly, yes. Gimme a break, I’m drinking on an empty stomach!
He motions for me to follow him, and we go up to his loft. In a room facing east, away from the cemetery, he has a sculpting studio. A two-foot-high likeness of a little boy, probably a nephew or a friend’s child, looks complete, standing on a shelf in a corner. A dog, some kind of Labrador, is mostly finished. Under a drop cloth is another, taller form. From its height on the workbench, it stands taller than me. All I can see of it is what looks like the loop of a shoe string.
I move to the little boy on the shelf. He looks about two years old, and a lot like Adam. If he hadn’t said he had no kids, I’d guess it was his son. He’s adorable, with dimples and the carefree joy a toddler exudes seconds before experiencing the tragic sorrow of having to take a nap or leave the playground. I can’t stop myself from touching his little cheek, as I would if he were really standing before me. When I look at Adam, he’s chewing his lower lip, looking pensive and guarded.
Sensing he’d rather not be pressed for details, I move on to the dog. It’s clenching a Frisbee, body poised to run. The ears are still blocks, and the tail is crude.
Adam points out the window, and I see his subject frolicking in the neighbor’s yard. “I’m giving it to the old guy next door for Christmas,” he explains.
What a softy. Wonder what the tall sculpture is of? I’ll just lift the cloth and peek…
“Do you have time for a pizza?” he blurts.
I grow still. Hmm. It sure feels good hanging here, probably too good, and I really want to stay. But I’m heading down a potentially dangerous path. Then I think of my empty house, and the woe is me when I return there.
“Mike won’t be back ’til late. He’s playing poker with the guys.” Mike left me a message while I was out not eating my lunch, and he’s staying over at his friend’s in Grand Junction. But I might as well start cutting out scarlet A’s to sew on my clothes, if I told Adam that.