The waiter comes by with menus.
“We need a few minutes, please.” Vickie folds her hands and sets them on the shelf of her belly. He steps away. She says to me softly, “Go ahead and start without him. I can handle it.”
I guess I’ll have to break the news to her myself.
I reach under the table for my handbag and pull from it something I’ve brought especially for the meeting. I set it on my lap under the white tablecloth. “Please know, Vickie, that I’ve come to think of you as a friend, one of my only friends here, and that’s all going to end in about two seconds. I regret that more than you’ll ever believe.” I slowly pull the object out from under the tablecloth. It’s a soft bundle of navy blue cotton fabric, and my hands tremble as I unfold it and hold it out to Vickie. “I think you can guess how I came to have this.”
She takes it: a man’s T-shirt, laundered and laundered to gossamer softness, with a small, worn “New York Athletic Club” logo near the left shoulder.
Vickie studies it. Her face tells me nothing. The busboy silently sets down a basket of bread. I turn away and watch the host at the front of the restaurant, talking on the phone, adding an entry to his reservations list. When Vickie raises her eyes, she has a confused look. She sets the shirt on the table.
My eyes fill with tears. Vickie used to be the crier. Now I’m the one on the verge of sobbing at all times. I suspect that Vickie hasn’t cried once since she called two days ago—her eyes are certainly dry now. But that won’t last for long.
Vickie asks, “What is this?”
Steve walks into the restaurant.
He looks agitated and nervous, in a way I’ve never seen him look before.
My heart pounds as the host leads him over. I can’t believe he’s here after Vickie let it drop that she was coming, too.
Steve takes in me, his pregnant wife, and his T-shirt—the shirt he left in my apartment, the one I couldn’t help but steal and never planned to use as evidence. The shirt Vickie now holds in her swollen hands.
“Surprise,” I say coldly. “Yes, I brought Vickie along, too. I thought she’d like to join us.”
He is pale and seems caught off-guard. Unable to speak.
Vickie looks from me to him and back to me again. “What’s this about?”
But now I can’t answer. I’m too busy taking in the woman behind Steve.
The tall, willowy, honey-haired woman from the night of the fireworks. Jessica. Steve’s mistress. Holding hands with her blond toddler.
I want to kill him.
“How could you?” I say to Steve, low, furious, murderous.
Vickie doesn’t yet understand the significance of this. She looks at Jessica, bewildered. “You?” she asks. “From the elevator?”
Steve cuts Vickie off, quietly but firmly. “I’m so sorry, Vickie, and I wish you didn’t have to be here for this, but if you can bear with me I promise to explain everything in a moment,” he says to her. “But first, Iris, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
It’s impossible to tell what Vickie is thinking. “I guess I can wait,” she says. She scoots herself, in her chair, to the side, not taking her eyes off Steve and me, as the host pulls out both remaining chairs. Steve holds on to the back of a chair and calls, “Sweetheart, come sit next to me,” in the direction of Jessica, who has scooped the little girl up onto her hip. For the child is a girl after all; she’s wearing a pink dress, and a flower barrette in her blond curls.
“Here?” Jessica moves the chair aside to make a new space at the table. She asks a passing busboy, “A high chair, please?” and he nods and scurries to the kitchen.
The five of us—Vickie and I in our chairs (should we get up?), and standing above us Jessica, the little girl, who looks to be about eighteen months old, and Steve—watch one another to see who will speak next. It isn’t going to be me. My brain can’t make sense of any of this. This is certainly not the scene I was expecting.
“Wed!” the child announces. “Wed!”
Steve’s eyes soften. “You’re hungry for some bread, sweetheart?” He removes a roll from the basket on the table, tears off a piece, and offers it to her. She holds it in her chubby fist and gnaws on it happily. Steve reaches out his hands and takes her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.
“Dada,” the child coos.
That ends the silence.
“Iris, this is the woman I was telling you about, from the elevator.” Vickie indicates Jessica, then asks her, “What are you doing here?”
Jessica doesn’t have time to answer, because as Vickie begins speaking, so does everyone else.
“You’d like the high chair here?” the busboy inquires, moving it into position.
“What did the baby just call you?” I say to Steve.
“Who dis?” the toddler asks Steve, pointing at me.
It’s unclear what Emily Post would say about who gets the first introduction in such a situation, but this time the toddler wins out.
“This, sweetheart, is my friend Iris,” Steve tells her gently. “Iris, this is my daughter.”
My hand flies to my mouth. I whip my head around toward Vickie. How will she take this—that her husband doesn’t just have a mistress; he has a child with his mistress? A mistress who lives in their building, no less?
Steve doesn’t seem to be worried whether dropping this bombshell may send his wife into premature labor. He puts his arm around Jessica. “This is Clare,” he continues. “Clare, this is Iris.”
I stare at Clare. “Your name is Jessica.” I check Steve’s face for confirmation. “Her name isn’t Clare; it’s Jessica.”
Of all people, Vickie shakes her head. “No, no. You’re mixed up, Iris.” She leans over clumsily to retrieve the child’s sippy cup, which has fallen to the floor, braces one hand on the edge of the table to lever herself back to a sitting position, and hands the cup to the toddler. “This,” she says, “is Jessica. The little girl from our building. Remember I told you?”
“Dessa!” the toddler announces.
“You say your name is Clare?” Vickie asks the woman.
“It is.” The woman smiles. Oh, God. Vickie doesn’t deserve this. She really doesn’t.
Vickie extends her hand. “I’m Vickie Benjamin Sokolov in Twelve-C. It’s nice to meet you, formally.”
I’m in awe of Vickie. She’s handling this amazingly well.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Vickie,” Clare—tall, blond, willowy Clare—answers. Then she extends her hand to me. “And you, Iris. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Clare’s my sister,” Steve says.
I’m not thinking clearly enough to remember that Vickie has told me Steve only has brothers. I’m too busy being horrified by the conclusion to which I’ve already jumped. “You’re sleep—” I can’t bring myself to say that. “You’re having se—” Definitely not that, not in front of a baby. “You’re having an aff—” Nothing sounds right. There’s no good way to say it. “You’re having whatever you want to call it, with your sister?”
Steve’s eyes crinkle. “I may be having whatever you want to call it, Iris.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “But not with my sister.”
There it is. Right out in the open. I’m stunned that he’s let it drop like that. Doesn’t he have any regard at all for Vickie, having to find out, in a crowded restaurant, that her husband has fathered a daughter with—all right, if not his sister, somebody?
I want to punch him. I would punch him, but not in front of an innocent child. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting at any other table than this one, to be with anyone else in the restaurant—with that arrogant-looking business-suited man rushing up to the host’s desk, barking something impatient. I close my eyes, then open them. I’m still in exactly the same place. I scan Vickie’s face to see how she’s taking it, waiting for the tears or the anger that I know will be her reaction, and that I am dreading beyond words because I deserve it all. Why hasn’t she said anything
yet?
Except that Vickie no longer seems to be paying the slightest bit of attention to Steve, Clare, Jessica, or even me. She’s become distracted watching the businessman striding over to our table. The man pushes Clare aside, none too gently, to claim one of the chairs. “What the hell is this?” he addresses all assembled.
Vickie draws her mouth into a tight line and finally, at long last, speaks. “Would someone,” she says slowly, “would someone please tell me what this is about? I don’t seem to be in on the joke.”
I glare fiercely at Steve. My face burns. Not with embarrassment but with unchecked fury. When I speak, it frightens me. “You know what? You do it. You tell her what this is all about. In fact, while you’re at it, tell everybody. I’d like to know, myself. Go on.” My hands are clenched into fists. “Explain yourself. You’re her husband.”
Vickie stares at Steve.
Steve stares at Vickie.
“Iris, what are you talking about?” Vickie says. “This isn’t my husband.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
People in New York make scenes every day. They get into screaming matches on the bus. They expose themselves on street corners and pass out drunk across the sidewalk in broad daylight. The rest of the city keeps right on going, changing seats, walking around, stepping over. Little wonder, then, that not a soul in this restaurant is watching this scene unfold. To me, though, it appears as if everything stops. The white-aproned waiters carrying their trays, the clink of silverware, the faint lapping of the lake outside, little Jessica with soggy breadcrumbs on her chin. The whole world seems to hold its breath.
“This is my husband,” Vickie says, gesturing at the businessman.
He’s a little under six feet tall, with brown hair and brown eyes. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, a man who owns a Jack Russell terrier, who went to an Ivy League college, and whose driver’s license, were I to check it, would show that his name is Steve.
In short, a man fitting the description of every other man in New York.
“Would one of you people tell me what in Christ’s name is going on?” demands Vickie’s husband, checking his watch and then crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t have time for this.”
I don’t say a thing. Instead I look at the other man. The stranger I’ve been tracking for three months.
Vickie looks at him, too. So does Vickie’s husband. So does Clare. So does the little girl in his arms. His little girl. Jessica. Jessica the blond bombshell.
“Who are you?” I ask him.
“I told you,” he says. “My name is Steve.”
You’d think pandemonium would break out after that, but it’s more as if the police had raided our little French farce—everyone simply scatters. Clare says something about Jessica needing a nap and confers with Steve in a voice too soft to overhear. Steve hugs and kisses the toddler, and Clare disappears with her, back out into the afternoon.
Vickie faces Steve—Steve her husband—with sparks shooting out of her eyes.
“What the hell did I do?” he protests.
She gives him the most furious, piercing look I’ve ever seen a person give anyone. And then, pinning him with her stare, she reaches carefully down for the extra glass of water the busboy left on our table. She brings it to her lips for a dainty sip.
And she throws the rest in his face.
“We’ll discuss all this at a later date, in private,” she says, places the empty glass delicately back on the table, and turns on her heel and waddles out of the restaurant. Her husband stands openmouthed, stiff as the statue of Daniel Webster in Central Park, as the water drips from his expensive silk tie, down the perfectly creased legs of his suit, and pools under his immaculately shined loafers.
He flips open his cell phone and stomps away in the opposite direction.
Steve and I, that is, not-Vickie’s-husband Steve and I, are left standing by ourselves in the middle of the restaurant. The waiter and busboy begin to clear the table, removing the untouched plates and napkins, stripping the linens, straightening the un-sat-in chairs, mopping the wet floor.
I wait for Steve to speak first.
He appears to be waiting for me.
I adopt moderator body language: eyes soft but gaze steady, hands loosely at sides, palms curled forward in a gesture of approachability, mouth somewhere between nonpartisan and party hostess. “I’m open to whatever you feel like sharing,” the stance is meant to convey. Inside I’m about to boil over.
“This must come as a shock,” he begins.
I keep the artificial smile going.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he adds.
The host leads a party of four to our abandoned table: two teenage girls and their parents. He begs our pardon as everyone gingerly steps around Steve and me.
“We should talk outside. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” Steve strides manfully toward the door. After a few feet he looks back to see if I’m behind him. I am, but only because I feel foolish loitering next to a family eating lunch. Once outside, I march directly out to the park road and start to turn right, intending to walk home the way I came—only this time perhaps stopping at Bethesda Fountain, the famous one with the angel on top, to help myself calm down. Ahead of me, Steve seems to be going in the same direction. He stops again and looks back.
“Yes. There are a few things I need answered.” My tone is not a moderator tone. It is the tone of a woman who feels . . . what? “Betrayed” comes to mind, but that doesn’t make sense. Steve never promised me anything, and I never expected anything. I don’t want anything. I’m going back to Teddy. “Why did you tell me you were Vickie’s husband?”
Steve removes his sunglass case from his shirt pocket. He pulls out his glasses and rubs them with a cloth. Though the day has turned overcast and we are already standing in the shade, he puts them on. I recognize the gesture. This is a person who wants to melt into the ground and disappear. Well, let him feel that way. He should.
“I didn’t tell you I was Vickie’s husband. You told me I was Vickie’s husband.”
“You told me you were Vickie’s husband!”
Steve sticks his hands in his pockets.
“That day in the park, remember? The day I admitted to following you. Only I wasn’t following you. Okay, I was following you, but only because I thought you were Steve. The real Steve. You did nothing to persuade me otherwise. You were the one who had a fit when you heard Vickie had hired me. You were furious and yelling, ‘Vickie is crazy! Vickie is crazy!’ Remember?”
“I said my wife is crazy. And you didn’t say Vickie had hired you; you said my wife had hired you. It didn’t seem far-fetched. I’m in the middle of a miserable divorce, Iris, and Stephanie, my ex, is suing me for custody of Jessica. I wouldn’t have put it past her to hire a private eye to follow me, to concoct some reason why I’m unfit to care for my child.” He looks surprisingly fierce. “Funny, isn’t it, considering she walked out on us when Jessica was two weeks old.”
I do not allow myself to feel bad for him. “None of that explains why you’ve been pretending to be someone you aren’t. You went to so much trouble, too. You played me like a fool for three months! All the phony appointments, taking off across the park—‘Golly gee, got to be somewhere,’ running off with Jack Russell. Next you’re going to tell me that’s not your dog.”
“That’s not my dog.”
I turn my back on him and march up the road, in the opposite direction from where I’d planned on going. I’ll cross over somewhere by the reservoir. It’s well out of my way, but I’d walk home via New Hampshire if I thought it would help me escape.
“Where are you going?”
“Wherever you’re not!” I quicken my pace.
Steve matches me step for step. Considering his legs are longer and he’s not in a skirt and heels, he’s able to keep up with no trouble, and talk, too. “The appointments weren’t phony. I’ve had meeting after meeting with lawyers, child psychologists, social workers, yo
u name it. It’s incredibly difficult for fathers to get full custody, and you have to jump through endless hoops. I’ve had court dates. And I’ve needed to be at work first thing in the mornings so I can finish everything I need to do and get back home to my daughter. As for Jack, he belongs to Clare.”
“Oh, yes. Your sister.”
“Clare is my sister, Iris. She happens to live in Merit House, the same building as Vickie. Most mornings I get up early, head uptown from my place, and drop off Jessica with Clare, so I can get some exercise. The trade-off is, I take Jack with me if he wants to go out. I do my run, go back to Clare’s, shower, and rush off to work. I pick up Jessica at three, and then Clare goes in to work.”
I focus on the scenery as I continue, with Steve at my side, up what, I’ve remembered too late, is one of the steepest hills in Central Park. Above my head, a bronze statue of a mountain lion crouches on a granite ridge. If real, its next move would be to leap onto me and rip my heart out.
I trudge north, past the Met, and consider his explanation. All right, it’s plausible. Let’s assume for a moment it’s true. That means everything that has happened is a result of two simple mistakes I made the very first morning of my first day. The first mistake was arriving five minutes late. I must have missed Vickie’s Steve, who probably really was slipping out for an early-morning tryst. The second mistake was jumping to conclusions about the man I did see. I could blame Vickie—showing me that stupid little postage-stamp-size photograph, giving me only the most perfunctory description of her husband. But the final mistake, the one I made four days ago and the only one that really counts, was all mine.
Steve says beside me, “Do you have other things you want to ask?” He sounds vulnerable. I fight back another twinge of sympathy as I quicken my steps, hoping to discover a secret path back to the Upper West Side.
“I do. The first morning I followed you, why did you act so suspiciously?”
He wrinkles his forehead: I don’t understand.
It's About Your Husband Page 28