“Jonathan, you’ve got to believe me. I had no idea, I swear. I’ve been crazed with the new job. Nobody talks about finance here. It’s only about entertainment—you seriously can’t imagine. I promise, this is the first I’m hearing of it.”
She had to do it. Because telling Jonathan that her pride was more important than his well-being was not an option. He would never look at her the same way.
“Humph,” he said, and she didn’t know if he was buying any of it.
Still, Cass committed to the lie. She peppered him with questions about what was going on, which he answered with discernible aggravation and, to the extent he could, monosyllabic answers. They did their dance, Cass with her repeated “Oh no, that’s terrible” and Jonathan with his series of yeps.
“So I’m guessing that means you can’t get away for a few days to see my mom?”
“I don’t know, Cass.”
She felt herself starting to hyperventilate, wishing for a paper bag to catch her shallow breaths. It was far, far worse to lie in a bed of her own making than to deal with a mess that was handed down by fate alone.
“I understand,” she managed.
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE DIDN’T ACTUALLY deserve any more from Jonathan than she got. After all, their initial relationship was based on a lie of her fabrication. And for a long time, it hadn’t bothered her. She barely acknowledged it to herself for the first few years of their relationship. Then something irreversible snapped and the deception became too much to bear. She knew it was the specter of a child from their union that tested her ability to push away the past. Parenthood would force a dependency on Jonathan like none she’d ever known, raising the stakes of him knowing the truth about her infinitely. And even if he never did find out, it would be hard enough just listening to Jonathan tell their little ones a thousand times over—Daddy was so lucky that Mommy was at Paragon . . . Daddy was so lucky to run into Mommy on Park Avenue . . . Five minutes’ difference and you guys wouldn’t be here.
The truth: it was no coincidence that Cass ran into Jonathan on Park Avenue outside of his office building. She knew exactly where he worked and that he’d been in New York for six weeks and change. He was an analyst at Winstar Capital; had attended business school before that at Penn. His apartment was located on a well-regarded Upper East Side block in a posh, doorman high-rise. His office was in Midtown in a building not too far from the graphic design firm with which her team would be pairing to represent the Roundabout Theatre Company. It was only a matter of time before they ran into each other during the workday. Cass was going to be doing a lot of on-site work there (she’d make sure of it) and Jonathan was bound to take a lunch break. Loitering outside the office would be a cinch. She could always say she was looking for a cab.
And there it was. The chance meeting Jonathan referenced so lovingly in his wedding toast, that he marveled at repeatedly on their anniversary, was actually a carefully orchestrated lunge at the financial security she knew he could provide for her. First in college, then years later. Jonathan had been marionetted, not once but twice, and he was none the wiser. More than that, he was blissfully taken with a fiction that fate had kissed him. He could crumble knowing that his life was just following the script written and directed by his cherished wife. And he might never forgive her for it.
26. JONATHAN
TO BE MARRIED, you have to be willing to accept certain fictions. His mother accepted that his father was done cavorting with other women after Katie was born. Russell’s wife did her best to believe that his lower back could only be properly treated by this one particular Swedish masseuse in Hoboken who needed at least three hours to release his sciatic nerve. And his brother believed Jordyn when she said she was only acting like a frenetic, high-strung bitch because of the wedding stress and that after it was all over she’d chill out.
Accepting a fiction isn’t the same as ignoring a proven lie. When you choose to stop asking further questions, to cease picking at the Jenga blocks upon which the fiction rests, you are preserving the sliver of a chance that it isn’t fiction after all. That your partner is being honest, that you were the paranoid one for doubting them to begin with.
He called Cass back the next day. It was genuinely upsetting that his mother-in-law was sick; she’d never said an unkind thing to him the entire time he’d been with Cass. He’d gotten a hero’s welcome whenever he visited Michigan. The littlest things he’d do, like pick up the check at the diner or fix Donna’s computer, were met with an embarrassing amount of gratitude.
Cass’s appreciation was palpable when he told her that he’d go with her to see her mother. She was high-pitched and obsequious, repeating a string of thank-yous. The whole exchange was so un-Cass that it made him nervous. He just wanted her to stop babbling. It felt good to have some upper hand, but not necessarily at the expense of losing the version of the wife he married.
“My mom basically told me how much it means to her that I married you and that I’m settled. I guess it helps her feel less like a total failure as a parent,” Cass said just as they were about to hang up.
“Cass, listen, I’m glad to hear that our visit will be nice for Donna. But you created this rift between us and I don’t want to get back together just because you want your mom to be happy.”
And then a pause. He knew he’d overreached. Had actually done it on purpose. The best time to make headway with Cass was when she was down. They coexisted on a seesaw. Cass up meant him down and vice versa. And he felt definitely up now, at least vis-à-vis his wife. After all, just last night he had been having sex with Brett, who never said a word about his snoring or the TV volume. Not that things were perfect between them. He and Brett were living in no-man’s-land relationship-wise, the place on the tennis court where you miss every shot. The purgatory seemed to be working for the time being, but only a fool would think it could continue that way indefinitely.
“I didn’t suggest getting back together right now,” Cass said, not quite emphatic, but with enough bristle that he jumped. “Our six months isn’t up. I said I want us to go visit my mom together. We need to do a Puddles exchange soon anyway. We’ll do it there.”
“Tickets?”
“Already reserved them.”
“Forward me the confirmation.”
Had Cass really reserved him a ticket before he’d acquiesced? Apparently she knew he’d come around before he did.
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
WHAT DO YOU pack for a trip to visit your mother-in-law who may soon be estranged from you forever? Jeans and button-downs, boxers, a toothbrush and an iPhone charger. Oh, wait, and condoms.
In his master bathroom, standing in front of the mirrored vanity, he actually smiled at himself. It was possibly the first time he’d seen his own teeth in ages. It happened the moment he dropped three Durexes into his Dopp kit. It was the lunacy of having to wonder whether you’re going to sleep with your own wife, the idea of packing protection when she could have been in her second trimester by now. That’s what made him grin at himself in the mirror like a goofball. His smile eased up when he thought about Brett—the reason he was even flush with condoms these days. Would he be cheating on her by sleeping with Cass in Michigan? Or was he cheating on Cass by sleeping with Brett in New York?
Cass had decided not to bring Puddles along on account of her mother’s allergy, so they set a date to do the next exchange for right after the trip. He knew she believed it was bullshit that Donna actually had any intolerance to animals, that it was just the easiest excuse to give her puppy-crazed daughter for why they couldn’t get a pet. But obviously Cass had decided not to be confrontational about it. It wasn’t deserving of the Nobel Peace Prize not to bring a dog around a cancer patient with a hypothetical allergy, but for Cass, these gestures weren’t a given when it came to her mother, who brought out the worst in her. He got it, though. As
much as he complained about his parents, at worst he was fighting systemic coldness and golden handcuffs.
Their planes were due to land within an hour of each other and they were supposed to meet up at the bookstore in Terminal A. The flight was smooth and he managed to sleep, which was easier than revisiting Brett’s expression that morning when he told her over FaceTime (with spotty Wi-Fi) where he was heading. Up until that point, Jonathan hadn’t seen the situation for what it was in Brett’s eyes: a competition for him. Probably because he didn’t feel like there was a woman out there, let alone two, who would be particularly motivated to fight for his affections. But maybe that was the case. After all, how broken up would Donna really have been if Cass had revealed her separation to her? Jonathan smelled a ruse.
His flight landed ahead of Cass’s plane. Maybe that was the way it had to be, maybe not. He didn’t bother consulting Expedia to see what options there had been for Cass to choose from. Why bother when the answer could infuriate him? He told himself that when she arrived he wouldn’t rush toward her and envelop her in some heroic-slash-pathetic hug. That he’d tilt his chin upward in acknowledgment of seeing her and wait for her cues. But when he spotted her struggling with a wheelie suitcase that kept turning on its side and a heavy tote slung over her shoulder, he pounced, gallantly swooping in to relieve her of her bags and stroking her hair like she was a child retrieved from a burning building.
“Hi,” she said meekly.
“Let’s go,” he said with a hand positioned on the small of her back, finding the generous dip in her spine. It was a dent from untreated scoliosis and the perfect place for his palm.
He led her toward the taxi line while juggling his own luggage and hers. Cass looked thinner, like her outer layer had been slogged off with an aggressive loofah. She wore cropped silk pants in beige, a white tank, taupe moccasins with beads. He wasn’t used to seeing her so lithe and in soft, unstructured clothing. It made him want to touch her bare arms again, to rub his palms on her skin and see if she still felt the same.
“Any more news?” he asked her when they were seated in the back of a cab. Cass gave the driver an unfamiliar address. Donna was a gypsy and it drove Cass crazy that her mother had a hard time planting roots. Did his wife recognize the irony now? That Cass had become the pot, Donna the kettle?
“Not really. She sounded better this morning when I called.” She turned to look at him, sliding her cell phone back into her purse. He had tried to see what her home screen was set to. It used to be a picture of the two of them in Miami together, away for the wedding of a couple from Brown they hadn’t spoken to in years. He couldn’t muster a glance, though he did see that her lock screen hadn’t changed. It was still Puddles, wearing a Santa hat from last year’s holiday party in their condo building. It had been a great night, the furthest thing from a precursor to where things stood today.
“Thank you for coming. I know you have a shitload going on at work. Do you want to talk about that, by the way?”
“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “It’s becoming clear that the SEC has real evidence. Emails with public company executives, particularly with this one pharmaceutical CFO detailing when a certain drug was going to be FDA approved. Mostly I’m upset about Jerry. He just wasn’t who I thought he was. Maybe nobody is.” He looked at her through the corner of his eye, thinking about the papers he’d found in her night table.
She reached over and put a hand on his leg and kept it there until they pulled into the parking lot of Donna’s complex. It looked like a shitty motel with its outer corridor and aboveground swimming pool. Cass owed him.
She took back her hand from his thigh and was now fiddling nervously with the cord from her earbuds, wrapping and unwrapping the wire around her index finger so tightly it looked like she would lose circulation. He didn’t know if it was the sight of where Donna was living giving her angst or the two of them doing this together as a couple, but something was making it look like Cass could jump out of her skin at any moment.
“Let’s go,” she said, looking again at her cell phone. “My mom said she’s in Unit 209. Remember, we’re acting totally normal, okay?”
“I got it,” he said, resentfully. Hadn’t he acquiesced to coming along fairly easily? She didn’t have to treat him like an imbecile, someone who would offer Donna a kiss on the cheek and then inadvertently let it slip that he and Cass were living on opposite coasts.
They ascended the steps, both of them avoiding the dilapidated railing with the peeling paint and wads of chewing gum pressed into the grooves. He knew full well that if he and Cass got divorced, this would be the last time he’d lay eyes on Donna. One of the realities of a divorce without children was the ability to make a clean break from the supporting cast of characters that each of them came in with. Cass’s family would be history to him, but he’d feel Cass’s absence forever, like a phantom limb.
Cass tapped on the door gently, calling, “Mom?” through the peephole. Footsteps could be heard approaching. Heavy ones, the thud of work boots. The door swung open and they were faced with a bald man in an open flannel shirt that revealed a tangle of wiry chest hair. He looked to be in his forties; a cigarette dangled out of his mouth.
“Uh, sorry,” Cass sputtered. “I think we have the wrong unit.” Jonathan saw her fishing for her iPhone again.
“You must be Cassidy,” he said, his twang hitting the a like a high note. It was jarring to hear anyone other than her parents call her by her full name. If his wife could have burned the idy at the end of her name, she would have.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “And you are?”
“Come on in,” Donna’s voice beckoned loudly from inside. His mother-in-law had a tendency to shout even when she was perfectly calm. Cass, in her defiance, had adopted an aristocratic timbre and sometimes Jonathan had to lean down to hear his wife. It seemed important to her that they be at the same level.
Slowly, they trudged through the front door, stealing confused glances at each other.
Donna was seated in a large armchair with fraying fabric, her legs spread in a V to accommodate a tray of food propped on a makeshift ottoman. She wore royal blue leggings and an oversized T-shirt that read, “Don’t Hate Me Cuz I’m Beautiful.” Her hair was flaming red, a new color for her, and she used her long nails painted in bright pink to summon them over for a kiss.
“Who is this?” he heard Cass mutter in her mom’s ear. Donna brushed her off and laid her sights on him.
“Jonathan, give Mom a hug.” Mom? He nearly shat himself when he heard it. Never had he called Donna by anything other than her name. Could this be a show to impress this new guy? Or to endear herself to Cass? He wanted it to stop.
He crossed the living room, where the television blared NASCAR, and bent down to her. She smelled like alcohol, the one thing his mother and mother-in-law had in common. Donna had her signature gold cross around her neck. Cass said once that her mother was not religious enough to behave like a morally sound adult, but just enough of a believer to think she’d have a place to repent.
“I’m Billy,” said the bald man, reaching out to shake Jonathan’s hand. Billy’s hand felt like one big callus. It reminded Jonathan of the way his hands felt during his rowing days, though it was pretty obvious Billy’s skin wasn’t coarse from too much boating.
“I wanted you kids to meet Billy in person,” Donna explained. “We’ve been together now for, what, eight months, is it?”
“Think so,” Billy said, picking up his beer from the coffee table for a swig.
“Billy works at the meatpacking plant,” Donna said proudly. Jonathan saw a tattoo on Billy’s left leg, a shape that looked rather like a ribeye.
“I don’t think you should be smoking around my mother,” Cass said firmly, coughing for emphasis. Jonathan had to agree. He felt like he was on the set of the Maury Povich show, like a bouncer was waiting off in the wings
in case this family reunion got out of hand. If anyone met Cass in New York, watched her command a room of powerful producers while she pitched a marketing plan or trailed her as she navigated a snooty cocktail party, they wouldn’t imagine in a million years that her mother was holed up in a three-hundred-square-foot shithole wearing a shirt she probably got for free at a used-car dealership, screwing a redneck meatpacker with a missing tooth.
“It’s fine, Cassidy,” Donna said. “It’s not like I can get cancer twice. Besides, Billy is very considerate. He puffs out the window or he smokes in the bathroom with the door closed when it gets cold. We were just about to make up the pullout couch for you two.”
Jonathan shot a look at Cass that he hoped indicated that this was not what he’d signed up for.
“We can’t impose,” Cass said, message received. “I booked us a room at the Townsend.”
“Fancy,” Billy said.
Donna shrugged.
“Suit yourselves,” she said.
The four of them spent the next twenty minutes making awkward conversation. Jonathan was relieved when he saw Cass reach for her purse.
“So I’ll see you in the morning,” Cass said. “You booked the appointment with the doctor, right?”
Jonathan couldn’t help but cringe hearing his wife ask this. He knew for most children and parents, a role reversal was inevitable. But Cass never had the chance to be the recipient and Donna the caretaker.
“I did. You kids need Billy to give you a ride?”
“We’re fine,” Jonathan said. Lord knew how many Natty Lights he’d put away before they arrived. “It’s good to see you, Donna.” That’s right, he thought. I said “Donna.” No “mom” bullshit.
The Intermission Page 30