She just couldn’t picture it.
38
THREE DAYS BEFORE DEPARTURE
Samantha sat on the sofa scrolling through her Facebook feed on a smartphone with a waning battery. She kept going back to look at the number of likes on the last post she made on her Samantha’s Studio page. Despite having over five hundred followers, after a little more than two hours, it was holding steady at only twelve tiny thumbs-ups. One of them was her own. She closed Facebook and went back to Pinterest, looking for ideas for the secretary that she’d picked up off the side of the road. She wasn’t sure what to do with it and wasn’t all that invested in it; the thing was more trouble than it was worth. Probably why the owners had dumped it on the sidewalk in the first place.
She set the phone aside when Mack pulled up in the driveway knowing Samantha was done for the night. “Sam” was on the clock now. She hated that he called her that. She’d been Sammy until fifth grade, but the minute she started middle school, she became Samantha and never answered to anything else. Until she met her husband. No one called her Sam but Mack. At least no one used to. It was catching on the more he used it around their friends.
The rumble of the garage door vibrated faintly through the walls, and she heard him let himself in through the dining room. There was a pause while he took off his boots and dropped them, thump, thump, on the dining room floor. It had taken getting the hardwood floors redone, but he eventually came around to not wearing his Timberlands in the house. She listened as he walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and popped open a beer. He gulped down three big, loud swallows before he shut the fridge door and called out to her. She replied, “In here.” A moment later, he tromped into the front room, freshly painted a lovely light purple.
The house was coming together more quickly than she’d anticipated. While she hadn’t entirely hated the process of updating it (her choices about liking it were limited if she didn’t want to live in the Disco Den), she still didn’t want to renovate homes. She didn’t want people giving her orders and telling her that they didn’t like her choices. Still, it was a nice room.
He strode over to where she sat on the couch—an English roll arm she’d bought at an estate sale—and leaned down to give her a kiss. His breath smelled like beer and the onions he must’ve had in his lunch. Under that, there was something else, subtle, but impossible to ignore. He wore a faint hint of perfume and a fainter aroma of excited pussy on his skin. She kissed him because that was what she did when he wanted it. If she refused or turned away, he’d get pissed off and storm around the house like a giant toddler. So, she kissed him and asked how his day was, when she knew how at least part of it had gone. He smiled and told her it wasn’t bad.
Not bad. I bet.
He straightened up and took another drink of beer. “This is the last one,” he said, the implication hanging heavy in the air. She hadn’t been to the store.
“I’ll grab some tomorrow when I go to my hair appointment.”
“That doesn’t help me tonight, Sam.” He stared at her as if she wasn’t picking up on his heavy unspoken suggestion that she get up off her fat ass this minute and run to the package store. She read him clearly; she just didn’t feel like going. Not when he could have bought some after he finished fucking his whore. And stop calling me Sam.
“It’s going to take me a minute to get dinner going, if you want to run up to Sippy’s Liquors. You have time.”
He frowned. He could have a drink or dinner when he liked, but not both; not unless he took care of one of them himself. “I just got home,” he said, as if that somehow trumped the fact that she was equally inconvenienced by his lack of forethought.
“I’ll get started on dinner while you enjoy that one.” She stood and turned to head for the kitchen. He grabbed her arm tightly and stopped her. She braced herself, waiting for him to scream at her, his breath strong in her face. While his grip hurt, his expression was flat. She looked to see if his jaw was flexing the way it did when he was holding something back, like when he got angry in public. It wasn’t. His face was pale, without a bit of the flush she was used to seeing rise in his cheeks when he was upset. She couldn’t read him. That was always the worst. Her stomach cramped a little at the memory of the last time he looked like that. Sometimes her back tooth still ached. She steeled her resolve. So close. You’re so close, just stick it out a little while longer.
He said, “You wanna go out to eat?”
She blinked a couple of times while she processed what he said. “Sure,” she agreed carefully. “We can do that.”
The white impressions of his fingers in her flesh darkened to red after he let go. Tomorrow there’d be bruises where he grabbed her, and she’d have to wear a long-sleeve shirt to work, despite the late season humidity. Her other hand wanted to float up and rub at the aching spot, but she held her arms down at her sides. She imagined him noticing her massaging her arm and asking, What? You think that was hard? Instead, she stayed still, and he said, “Let me get changed and we’ll go. I’ve been sweating in these clothes all day.” He walked off to the bedroom. He never changed after work. Sometimes, he’d wear the same thing two days in a row, only taking his clothes off to get into bed and then stepping right back into a pair of pants that could almost stand up by themselves. She figured he must’ve smelled his mistress on himself. It didn’t matter. He could spruce up all he wanted. He’d confirmed what she knew already. What she knew, but not who.
He emerged a minute later, dressed almost identically to what he’d been wearing before, except clean. A Patriots T-shirt, a pair of tan dungarees, and white socks. His face clouded over for a second. He stepped out of sight and returned a minute later with his boots. “You ready?” he asked.
She followed him to the car. Once upon a time, he’d been gentlemanly and had held doors for her—pulled out her chair like a high school boy following his mother’s instructions how to treat a girl, though they were both in their thirties. Those chivalrous gestures faded as they dated, having mostly disappeared by the time they were engaged. Once they celebrated their first anniversary, the bloom was off the rose, as her grandmother used to say. He’d kept up the pretense for as long as he needed to. By the end of the first year, they’d bought the house and were established in it. And he was done with courtship gestures. The best she knew she could expect was when he used the fob to unlock his door, he might think to click twice to release hers too before climbing in.
He was backing up out of the driveway before she had her lap belt fastened. He didn’t ask where she wanted to go. It didn’t take but a minute to realize he was driving straight to the Hadley Maison.
Despite the exotic name, it was a townie burger bar that looked like the only way it could pass inspection was with an envelope full of cash. It was his favorite haunt. He seemed to always have a friend or two sitting at the bar.
Sam wondered if he brought the whore there for lunch.
The waitress smiled when she saw Mack and told him his table was free and said she’d be right by. He has a table? How often does he come here without me? They sat by the window, him in his usual seat with the better view of the restaurant and the big screen television over her shoulder. The Red Sox were playing. The batter hit, and the people at the bar cheered and whistled like they were in the stands at Fenway. The waitress came over and asked if they’d like something to drink. He ordered a Narragansett, stepping on Sam’s attempt to get out, “I’d like a glass of chardonnay, please.” The waitress smiled and winked at her, leaving to go fetch their order.
She stared out the window at the water. Across the pond, the lights of other people’s houses reflected in the ripples made by the evening breeze. The restaurant was right in the middle of a lakeside residential community. She wondered how many of those people came around to eat at the Hadley. Probably not as many as wished the owners would give it up so the property could be razed and developed for another expensive house on the water instead of this dive.
One of Mack’s friends from the bar said something, and he laughed. She didn’t hear what it was, but had a feeling they were laughing at her. The noise in the place deadened her ears, and she felt a little disoriented, kind of like being drunk, except she hadn’t had anything to drink. Not yet. She wished that the waitress would hurry up.
After a few minutes, the server returned with their drinks and took their order. When she came back later with their food, she had a second beer for Mack in hand even though Samantha couldn’t remember him ordering another. The server didn’t ask if she’d like a fresh glass of chardonnay.
They ate without saying much. He stared at the TV above the bar, and she did her best not to distract him from the television. She figured his enthusiasm to eat out that night was motivated by the game and not an interest in relieving her of the burden of fixing dinner. There was no TV in the dining room at home, and they were in the habit of eating together at the table. She wasn’t sure why he insisted on that when most nights he rushed through his meal to get to the sofa and the flat screen. Still, the Buffalo chicken wrap she’d ordered was tasty—it had bacon bits in it—and she had no dishes to do.
A third beer arrived, and she started to worry about the drive home. Mack didn’t let anyone drive the Demon. Not even her. He had a high tolerance for alcohol, but three beers was three beers after all. No. Four. He’d had one at home before they left. Tolerance or not, Narragansett was going to be his copilot, not her or Jesus. Nor was he becoming more patient and loving as he got deeper in the glass. He wasn’t a happy drunk, though he was an amorous one. He was a vigorous—if selfish—lover, but the last thing she wanted to do that night was pretend his half-erect alcohol cock was anything capable of pleasing her. Four beers was four beers, and there’d probably be a fifth before they headed for the exit.
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and checked Facebook again. Still only twelve little blue thumbs. She browsed away to a friend’s page and looked at her pictures of the new puppy they’d gotten. Sir Arthur Corgi Doyle, they’d named it. She clicked the heart emoji and then realized that she’d forgotten to take their own dog, Maxim, out for his afternoon walk. It was a near certainty that they would return to a pile near the front door or in the middle of the dining room, and she’d be the one to clean it up. It was her fault he didn’t get a chance to do his business before they went out. After work, she’d gone right to her computer instead of walking the dog.
Another play and the bar erupted in more cheers and clapping. She jumped a little and realized how badly she had to pee. She stood and set her napkin on the table.
“Where’re you goin’?” Mack asked.
“I have to use the restroom.” She waited a second and then added, “And then we should probably go. The dog needs to be let out.”
He waved a hand at her and returned his attention to the game. If another cheer startled her, she was going to wet her pants.
On her way to the restroom, she stopped by the waitress station. Her server looked up and smiled. Something about the way she looked at Sam was off. Her husband definitely brought his mistress here. What if she’s his mistress? Sam looked the woman up and down quickly, assessing if she was her husband’s type. Though she was a little skinny, it was possible. Sam had met one of his exes, and that woman was nothing like her or this waitress. If he had a type, it might be as simple as has-a-vagina. But the woman’s perfume wasn’t right. The scent she’d caught on Mack was less assaultive. Less intended to cover the odors of kitchen grease and spilled beer. She smiled and said, “Could we get the check, please?” The woman said, “Sure,” and turned to print out their ticket. Sam went to the bathroom.
When she returned to the table, Mack was looking at her with a furrowed brow. “The dog needs to be walked,” she reminded him.
“There’s no beer at home.”
“We can stop on the way.”
“I’ll miss the end of the game.” She sighed and sat down, resigned to cleaning up dog shit. “You gonna pout about it?” he said.
“If I’d known we were staying for the whole thing, I’d’ve brought my phone charger.”
He rolled his eyes. He knew she didn’t like baseball, had known since they were first dating, though early on, she’d tried to learn to like it. It didn’t work. She thought the game was boring, but you weren’t allowed to say that in Massachusetts, let alone in a townie bar crowded full of people wearing red and white jerseys. “Fine. If you’re going to be a fuckin’ baby, we’ll go. Jesus.”
She didn’t argue. There was no point to it. Mack turned and announced that his mom said it was time to get his jammies on. One of his friends at the bar said, “Maybe she wants to breast feed you.”
Mack laughed, picked up his beer glass, and said, “I’m strictly bottle fed. I’d starve otherwise.” The friend looked at Samantha’s chest and laughed. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to kill him with her glare. He winked at her and took a drink.
He knows. Everyone here knows my husband is sleeping with someone else.
Her face flushed with rage and embarrassment, and she turned to leave. She was halfway down the stairs before she heard Mack following along.
* * *
The ride home was a little harrowing, but could have been worse. Her husband had the route between their house and the Hadley committed to muscle memory. He could probably make the drive dead asleep. Half drunk wasn’t asleep, though. He kept drifting into the oncoming lane of the narrow, twisting New England road. She clenched her jaw and held on to the side of her seat. Along the way, he stopped at a package store and went in to get more ’Gansett and a pint of Maker’s Mark. Once started, he was determined to finish. That suited her just fine. Drink made him horny, but drunk might make him pass out.
At home, he parked in the driveway at a crooked angle and climbed out, forgetting his house keys in the cup holder. She pulled them out so she could unlock the front door before he started swearing and kicking at it. When she climbed up the steps to let him in, he tried to pinch her ass but almost dropped his bottle of Maker’s and figured he couldn’t risk it. She was quietly thankful for small blessings.
Inside, she was relieved to find that Maxim hadn’t made a mess on the floor, but he was looking at her with an expectancy that said if she didn’t turn around and take him out for a walk that very instant, he wasn’t going to be able to hold it any longer. So, she hooked the leash to his collar and told Mack she’d be back soon. He grunted and headed to the living room with his six-pack and whiskey. She was barely out the door before she heard him hollering at the game.
She and the dog hustled into the neighborhood across the highway. It was a longer walk than they needed to take—Maxim had done his business not twenty feet from the front step. But she wasn’t ready to go back in. Not yet. Though it was a pain getting across the highway, and the neighborhood was a little far, the dog needed the exercise, and she needed the time away. She hated being so far from everything, and craved having other people around her, even if they were mostly behind closed doors. Looking out and being able to see a house across the street or someone else walking their dog felt less like being an exile. On nice evenings, she’d sometimes run into people walking off dinner over there, getting their steps in on fitness trackers. They’d wave and say, “How ya doin’?” But not tonight.
It was dark. She’d forgotten a flashlight, and her phone battery was too low to waste. It was fine. Like Mack knew the way home from the Hadley, she’d stored the walk through the neighborhood in her muscles and bones. She took Maxim around their regular circuit, peeking in people’s windows as they passed, mostly seeing big televisions tuned to the game. She walked the dog up a different street than usual just to stay out a little longer and window peep. Eventually, though, she had to go home. Tonight, anyway.
They circled around and headed home, having not spoken to a soul.
Inside, as soon as she let the shiba inu off his leash, Maxim raced off to find
Mack.
She peeked into the living room at her husband. He looked like he might be asleep. Maxim shifted on the sofa, and Mack put a lazy hand on his back. Not asleep. Not yet. But close.
When I go, I’m taking that dog with me, you asshole.
She went into the bedroom to change into her flannel pajamas. Even though it was warm inside, she liked how cozy they were—and how unflattering. Her husband’s dirty clothes lay in a pile at the foot of the bed. She kicked them aside and that smell wafted up to her. The scent of perfume and something else. There was no way she was going to sleep in a room with that smell. She grabbed his shirt and tossed it into the laundry hamper. Picking up his pants, she dug into his pockets to pull out the inevitable scraps of paper, receipts, and business cards that always ended up clotted and ruined in the wash. Her fingers brushed against something soft and silky. She withdrew a pair of women’s underwear from his front pocket.
Her fingers sprung open, and the underwear fluttered to the floor. Her heart started to pound, and she felt breathless. Whether his mistress gave them to him as a gift or he just took them, there was the memento of his faithlessness right there on the floor in front of her. A pair of stinking panties with a faint yellow streak in them.
She picked them up between thumb and forefinger and contemplated going back into the living room and throwing them in his face and screaming at him to get the fuck out of her house. She knew how that would play out, but it didn’t matter. If he finally followed through on his threats and hit her somewhere it would show, she could call the police and have him arrested. She didn’t want him arrested, though. He’d just bail out and come home. And then she was right back where she started. No. She had to be the one to leave. But restoring furniture wasn’t enough to live on without her teaching salary. Not yet. Having a second income and the craft shows on the side meant she could save up for the first and last on the shop lease and the buildout, but if she had to rely on teaching to pay the rent, she’d never have the time or energy to even think about opening the shop. What choice did she have? Dreams deferred again. Another year treading water teaching French with her head down, and then she could try. She could get her down payment on the house back and use that. But first she had to divorce Mack and force the sale of the house. A lawyer would cost more of her money. And before everything, she had to leave him. That was another thing entirely.
Closing Costs Page 17