Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) (4 page)

There was only one sink in the bathroom. She did her makeup,
leaning into the mirror, and again he had to resist the urge to take her in his arms.

“What do you need?” she asked. “You’re hovering.”

“Just you.”

She pretended to gag on a finger, sticking out her tongue.

“It’s true. Plus I need to brush my teeth.”

“You should have said so. I can move.”

“No rush,” he said, though they were going to be late.

He had to wait for her to choose a pair of earrings, a necklace, and finally a bracelet, in each case asking his opinion and then going with her own choice.

“Is there room in there for my jewelry bag?” she asked, and he knelt to tuck it away in the safe, glad to be able to do something for her.

On the way out, he made sure he had a room key.

“You look nice,” she said at the elevators, plucking a long blonde hair from his lapel.

“Thank you, so do you.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t have time for a glass of champagne.”

“Maybe in the tub later?”

She shushed him silently, pop-eyed, a finger to her lips, as if someone might be listening.

“Be a shame to waste that view.”

“We’ll see.” Which could mean any number of things.

He clapped and rubbed his hands together like a silver screen villain. “So you’re telling me there’s a chance.”

“Not if you act like that.”

So he stopped.

Odds of getting sick on vacation:
        
1 in 9

    She always ordered the wrong thing—not because she didn’t know her own tastes but because so often the descriptions were misleading. In the case of the monkfish, there was no mention of walnuts, which, though not allergic, she refused to eat, and had ever since she was a child. The bitter taste made her think of the castor oil her mother forced on her when she was sick, its emetic effect, and the chipped and swollen pressboard toilet seat in their old bathroom.

Art, as always, offered to trade with her. Already he was reaching his heavy plate over their wineglasses, his other hand open to take hers.

“Are you sure? You love tuna.”

“I can get tuna anytime.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very giving of you.”

“That’s because I’m a giving person.”

“That is true, you are.” Sometimes too giving. Passive himself, he took up the causes of others with a tireless determination, whether it meant acting as treasurer for the parents’ association trying to raise money for a new track at the high school or helping Mrs. Khalifa put together her satellite dish. Marion used this willingness against him to get things done around the house. Left to himself, he’d lie on the couch and watch football all
weekend, but once motivated, he couldn’t stop until the job, no matter how large, was done. He was more compulsive than impulsive, a plodder and a planner, not at all spontaneous, which was at least partly why she’d been so surprised he’d cheated on her, and why, though she hated him for it, deep inside she mostly blamed Wendy. He would have never done something like that on his own.

The tuna was perfectly cooked, the center the color of watermelon, with the jellied consistency of aspic. The wasabi–black pepper crust added a sinus-tingling bite she quelled with a slug of wine. “You sure you don’t want this back? It’s delicious—nice and rare.”

“This is good too. It’s a nice place.” He gestured to the Falls across the gorge, endlessly pouring. “I’m surprised it’s so empty.”

“That might have something to do with the prices.”

“This is the cheap one! This is like Burger King compared to the one on Sunday.”

“After Sunday, Burger King’s about all we’ll be able to afford.”

“After Sunday, Burger King is where we’ll be working.”

“To Burger King,” she proposed.

“To Burger King.” They clinked and drank. “You know, I don’t think Burger King is hiring.”

“Okay,” she said, “let’s talk about something else.”

“Tomorrow night we’ve got Heart.”

“You’ve gotta have Heart. When is that?”

“That’s at eight, so dinner’s early, at six. I was thinking we might do the fun stuff in the afternoon, depending what the weather’s like. I don’t know if Clifton Hill is open Sunday.”

“I haven’t seen a forecast.”

“We definitely want to see the Ripley’s Museum.”

“
We
,” she said.

“What, you don’t?”

“I’d rather see a real museum.”

“This is Niagara Falls, nothing’s real here.”

The waiter came over to check on them, restoring decorum. Did they want another bottle of the Chardonnay?

Art looked to her.

“I just want another glass.” She’d already had three and was feeling them.

“Two glasses,” Art said.

He rarely drank with her. It was nice. He could be attentive when he wanted to, and intimate, giving her his full concentration, turning their exchanges into flirty wordplay. The first intimation that things had gone wrong between them was the sudden absence of that easy, dancelike banter. He’d come home from work and be pleasant with the children and helpful in the kitchen, would read or watch TV like usual, but with her he was impersonal and bland, afraid to say anything in their private language for fear of lying. Later, she was the same way when she was carrying Karen around in her head, except that he never noticed. Or was it that she’d known Karen wasn’t serious, that they’d been wrong from the start, the assumptions that brought them together—as Celia suggested—false at bottom, whereas he and Wendy Daigle were meant to be together?

“Damn it,” she said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re making your uh‑oh face.”

“I’m having bad thoughts.”

“Don’t have bad thoughts.”

“I’m not trying to, I can’t help it.”

“Are you still going to have bad thoughts when we’re divorced?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought it might work like bankruptcy, everything forgiven.”

“Sorry, some debts you have to pay.”

“It was worth a try,” he said.

“Not really.”

He’d finished her monkfish, leaving a slick of walnut pesto.

“You want the rest of this?” she asked. “It’s delicious but I’m stuffed.”

“Ask for a doggie bag. You can have it for a midnight snack.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be awake then. And I’m definitely not going to be hungry.”

The waiter returned to clear and to see if he could tempt them with coffee or dessert. No, they were ready to go. They sipped their wine and watched the Falls, the few other couples ranked along the window. She envied them, assuming their lives, though no less complicated, must be happier, at least tonight.

The waiter came back and wished them a good evening. He hoped they would enjoy their stay.

“Thank you,” she said when Art had paid the check.

“Thank American Express.”

“It was nice.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” he said, subdued, helping her with her chair. He met her when she stood, and kissed her, holding her shoulders, rubbed the tops of her arms as if she were cold. “You’ve never ruined anything, so don’t say you’re sorry, okay?”

That was all she wanted, for him to fight for her. She was tired of being the wronged wife, the one he’d settled for out of guilt. Wasn’t she worth winning? He’d never been jealous, even when he’d had good reason to be. He couldn’t know what she’d ruined—to no purpose—proving she was still desirable, and her secret seemed monstrous and unfair. She misted up, overwhelmed, and held him.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry.” Part of it was the wine, and part of it was that she was tired. She’d been angry for so long, she wanted him to feel the same way.

Standing there, holding her as if they were slow-dancing, Art wished he had the ring. The timing was right, the lights low, the room quiet. He would drop to one knee and offer himself to her. She would open the box and pull him up by his elbows, and the other couples would applaud. They would go upstairs and drink champagne, rechristen each other, giddy as newlyweds, and start fresh tomorrow.

Instead, on the way out, he grabbed her a peppermint, which she waved off with disgust, saying she’d eaten too much.

The mall they followed to the lobby was lined with upscale shops in which they were supposed to blow their winnings, though he assumed they were just for show—Tiffany, Louis
Vuitton, Swarovski, the Havana Tobacconist, even a Bentley dealership, outside of which sat a gleaming fastback, the grand prize in a raffle. Holding his hand, Marion paused at the Prada window to look over some leather coats. The mannequins were eyeless and inscrutable, all sleek cheekbones and pillowy lips. Now that the moment had passed, he wondered what magic words he’d uttered. He’d apologized, told her it was all his fault, but he’d been saying that ever since he confessed. It must have been something before that, but after the Bombay Sapphire and the wine he couldn’t bring back their exact conversation.

It was common enough for her to bring up the subject on special occasions, as if she’d been waiting for the perfect moment, lobbing it into the middle of her birthday dinner or their anniversary. She had a genius for self-pity that defeated even his. He liked to believe that by act of will and the passage of time he’d gotten beyond thinking of Wendy every day, while Marion, who’d never met her, tended her memory like a widow.

Being eternally guilty, he was eternally defenseless against her, which fed a resentment he knew he wasn’t entitled to, leaving him nothing with which to counter her anger but impatience and, after so long, exhaustion. Perhaps being sorry for being sorry meant that she knew she needed to let go but couldn’t, out of wifely pride or simple spite. If so, the admission was a major shift, the recognition that they needed to change the way they were with each other if they were going to move on. Unless he was completely mistaken, she seemed to be asking for his help.

But he was not adept at reading her, especially after a few drinks. That had been made clear enough times in the past.
Approaching her with high spirits and what he thought were innocent hopes, he’d tasted more than his share of rejection, and he was wary. If she really was finally beginning to forgive him, he wouldn’t risk it by pushing her.

Beside him, she made a queasy face, pressing a hand to her midsection as if she were having contractions. “How’s your stomach?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Mine’s a little rumbly. Actually a lot rumbly.”

“You’re not going to throw up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I wonder if the tuna was bad.”

“You had a few bites too.”

“Not that many.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“We’ll get you upstairs.”

So no champagne. No tub. Now he was glad he didn’t have the ring. He didn’t want it associated with anything that could be read as a bad omen.

Let down, he turned calculating, scanning the lobby for a cashier’s cage. Across from the elevators, the slot machines dinged and blinked, an empty temptation, their odds steeply tilted toward the house. Deeper within the casino, hidden somewhere among the acres of brightly patterned carpeting and table games, were two high-stakes French roulette wheels without the American model’s unfair 00. He had hoped to locate them and stroll by to study the action before their dry run tomorrow night, but that, like so many other desires, would have to wait.

“Remember,” she said, “you wanted to change that money.”

“We can do it tomorrow.”

“I’m fine, I think I just need to sit.”

The elevator came and they took their positions against the rear wall, hoping no one would join them. To his relief, no one did. Normally when they were riding alone he would try to steal an inappropriate kiss—a game, since she was scandalized by cameras. Now, to show support, he held her hand.

In the hall, he went ahead to open the door for her. The turndown service had been in, leaving tempting breakfast menus for the doorknob and heart-shaped chocolates on their pillows. She dropped her purse on the bed and went directly to the bathroom. He pulled off his tie and stood looking at the view, a string of miniature streetlights describing a road on Goat Island. Beside it, the river ran invisible, fell red and frothing for a few seconds, shedding mist, then returned to darkness again. He and Wendy had poured champagne over each other, spent days barricaded in hotel rooms like fugitives, blinds drawn against the light. It was so long ago that he was tempted to cast those hours in a nostalgic haze, leaving out Marion completely. The great mystery to him wasn’t the power of that happiness—he was at heart a romantic, and it was a romance—but how he could be so remorseless toward the rest of the world. Until then he’d thought of himself as a decent person. Afterwards he couldn’t say what he was.

“Hey,” Marion called.

“Is for horses.”

“Can you hand me my book?”

“Where is it?”

It was waiting on her night table.

“Here you go. Oh my lord.” Pinching his nose, he reached the mystery in to her and slapped on the fan.

“I know, I apologize. I think it was the tuna. And you feel fine.”

“Strong like bull.”

“Go do your money. I’m going to be a while.”

“Want me to grab you some Gaviscon or something?”

“I don’t think it would help. Maybe some Imodium.”

“I’ll see what they have.”

The money was still there, just as he’d left it. Having nothing else to carry it in, he took the gym bag, aware that it made him conspicuous. He checked on her a last time, looped the
DO NOT DISTURB
card over the knob, and like that, he was suddenly, disappointingly, free.

Odds of vomiting on vacation:
        
1 in 6

    She’d thought she was finished but she was far from done. After she changed into her black nightie and brushed her teeth, her bowels filled back up, and then when they were empty again and she was trying to lie still in bed, her stomach gurgled juicily, and rather than risk not making it, she went and sat on the pot a third time, bent forward, clenching a fist in effort, squeezing out a foamy gruel.