The Affair (22 page)

“Not at all,” I said quietly. “I’ve had those same awful visions about my son. When my brain’s in overdrive and I can’t sleep.
I hate that. So I’ll go in to check and make sure he’s okay.”

“Yeah, and sometimes they’re not okay.” Ben told me about another son, Matthew, who had died of leukemia when he was almost
five. Petey’s age. “Pure hell. Burying your own kid. It was fifteen years ago, and I still have nightmares. I’ll wake up in
the middle of the night and just cry like a baby.” He left to get a refill. When he returned, he had a piece of baklava on
a plate. “Share this with me,” he said. Then, “I see you’re married.” He eyed my wedding band.

“Separated, actually.”

“Ohhhhhh,” he said, a tiny smile flickering across his mouth. “I see.”

“And you?” I ventured, feeling guilty since I already knew more about his life than he would have ever imagined.

“Divorced,” he said, wiggling his bandless ring finger. “Since June. It was mutual. Things fell apart years ago, but we’d
agreed to stay together until the youngest was in high school. And now he is.” Ben sipped his coffee. “Going through Matthew’s
illness, and then his death … well … it’s just not good for a marriage.
Especially when your marriage is on shaky ground to begin with.”

He gestured as if to put the whole topic aside, then asked, “I know this is a horribly rude question, and you don’t have to
answer it, and please, by all means, tell me if I’m out of line here, but I’m just wondering …”

My mind raced with possibilities: How much money do you make? Do you like oral sex? Can I feel your boobs?

“What?”

“Why did you and your husband separate?”

Is that all? Whew! “We both made some mistakes,” I said, surprised by my self-restraint, which didn’t last long, though. “Actually,
he’d been messing around. You know. With other women.” (I wasn’t going to tell him about Eddie. Apparently I knew him well
enough to let him know that my husband was a philanderer, but not so well that I could tell him about my own misdeeds.)

“I must say, in my humble opinion”—Ben touched his hand to his heart—”the man must be a fool.” I resisted the urge to say,
“Damn right,” and shrugged. “Things happen.”

As we said good night, he asked, “May I kiss you?” I found the question charmingly old-fashioned, though it was difficult
to find him appealing in his bizarre winterwear.

“Yes, you may.” I turned my head and let him move toward me.

Holy mother of God. The man could kiss. I felt my whole body respond, and wanted more, but decided that this kiss would have
to be enough. For now.

He kept his face very close to mine. “Thank you. That was very, very nice. May I kiss you again?” he asked, and my heart did
a little flip-flop. This time he
reached out to gently draw my face toward his. Suddenly I heard a
boing
, a springy sound that reverberated through my head. Ben yelped. I pulled back and saw him rubbing an angry red mark on his
cheek. “What the heck was that?” he asked, looking bewildered.

“I don’t know,” I said, wondering if perhaps I’d bitten him without knowing it. Then I felt something hanging at the side
of my face and realized that it was my Elasta-lift. I’d assaulted him with my nonsurgical face-lift. Ben didn’t seem to notice
the black elastic strap dangling from my head, and for this small blessing I am grateful!

’Til next time,

I don’t care what the poet says:
February
is the cruelest month. Sunless, joyless, and there, in the midst of all the dirty snow and gloom, comes, incongruously, a
celebration of love contrived by confectioners and as dreaded by lonely hearts as New Year’s Eve.

I actually had plans for Valentine’s Day, but under the circumstances, didn’t think they were substantial enough to exempt
me from the lonely hearts club. Roger had called earlier today. “I know it’s short notice but I want you to find a sitter,”
he said in a low voice. “I’m taking you out on a date.”

“Roger, we’re separated. Remember?”

“Yes, of course I remember. How could I possibly forget?” He sounded playful and light, as if the separation were a folly
that he was willing to indulge, like my
sudden interest in breeding canaries, my insistence on learning to play the tuba. He played along bemusedly, assuming that
this interest, like the others, would eventually run its course. “What harm would there be in having dinner with me at our
favorite restaurant? What do you say? Bellamy’s at eight o’clock?”

“Fine,” I agreed with a sigh. “Bellamy’s at eight.” I smiled as I hung up the phone, secretly pleased to have Roger wooing
me but also skeptical. I couldn’t believe he’d changed that dramatically in three months, while I feel as if I’ve been transmogrified.
It couldn’t possibly work.

He arrived at 5, before the sitter, so he could give Pete a bath and ready him for bed. I noticed that Roger wore the jeans
he knew I favored most, because of the way they hung low on his hips. He caught me looking and asked, “How about we make this
a conjugal visit?” I folded my arms across my chest and shook my head. He flicked the bath water at me. “Well,” he said, “maybe
next time.” He tucked Pete in and straightened the kitchen (insisting above my protestations), and told me about his new play,
about a group of fraternity brothers who reunite after twenty years. It sounded intriguing.

We drove to Bellamy’s in my Jeep. He looked natural behind the wheel again, but there was something unnatural about his magnanimity.
He asked me to choose the music (he normally seizes control over the CD player, claiming it’s “driver’s prerogative”). When
we arrived at the restaurant, he trotted around the Jeep and opened my door with a flourish. The old Roger was too stingy
to splurge on an appetizer, but this one insisted on two: tapenade with fresh baguette and a plate of chèvre tarts. The old
Roger would have steered me toward the least expensive entree, but this one encouraged
me to order the pheasant with leek and pecan stuffing, one of the priciest items on the menu.

He laughed and motioned for the sommelier. “A bottle of your tête de cuvé, please.” I thought I was hallucinating. My Roger?
Ordering champagne?

I stared at him. “Hey. Who are you … and what have you done to Roger Tisdale?”

He sipped his water and smiled serenely. “I’m not entirely beyond rehabilitation, you know.”

We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about the early years of our marriage, our upstairs apartment in a house owned
by a quirky sculptor and her husband. “What was her name again?” Roger asked.

“Lola something,” I said, trying to recall her last name. “Jacobson. Lola Jacobson.”

“Right!” Roger slapped the table. “What a nut!”

Lola was a bit odd, but I loved that apartment. It had wide-plank wood floors and sunny rooms, and an attic that always smelled
of warmed cedar. When we returned to the house, Roger kissed me lightly on the lips but didn’t push his luck. I watched him
pull away from the house, and for the first time in months, I felt hopeful.

’Til next time,

I woke up with a messy cold and my period. I called Roger’s lawyer to get a progress report on Alyssa’s lawsuit (I’m anxious
to get this resolved one way or the other) and learned that the case is still in discovery. It could be months before it even
goes to trial. I can’t
imagine that there are that many people worth questioning.

I was pulling into the lot at work, listening to a talk show on AM radio, when this divorced guy phoned in. He started talking
about how he met this fantastic woman—the only problem is that she’s still legally married.

The psychologist said, “Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble. Run to the nearest exit!”

“But she’s separated,” he protested.

“I don’t care if her husband lives in Timbuktu,” the radio doc shot back. “If she’s married, she’s off-limits. Do yourself
a favor and forget her. You sound like a nice guy. You don’t need this kind of nonsense.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess you’re right.”

“Sure I am,” she cackled. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Listen, hon. If she gets divorced, give her at least a year—hear
me? a year!—and if you’re still sweet on her,
then
ask her out. But promise me that you’ll wait a year from her divorce. Got it?”

“You have my word,” he said.

As he was talking, I was thinking … jeez, that voice sounds awfully familiar! Oh God, could it be … Ben? It’s a nationally
broadcast show. Of the hundreds of calls that this woman gets, what were the chances that she picked one from this little
town? What were the chances that Ben Murphy had called a radio pop psychologist for advice? What were the chances that I’d
be listening at the precise moment that the man I kissed two weeks ago called in to talk about
me?
It just didn’t seem possible! On the other hand, Ben did not show up at the club this morning.

Hmmm…

So now I’m wondering, should I ask Ben if that was him on the radio?

’Til next time,

What a week. Roger came for dinner Tuesday night, bearing the
Blue’s Clues
dog in one hand, a bouquet of pink tulips in the other. Petey raced through the living room, then slid through the hallway
across the wood floor like Derek Jeter. He grabbed the stuffed animal from Roger’s hand.

I frowned at Petey. “Is that how we behave when someone has a gift for us?” I had a queer feeling in my stomach as my words
echoed back to me. My formality was meant to dig a moat between my son and his father. I felt as if I’d just appointed myself
the One True Parent, and Roger was simply a visitor bearing gifts. In the old days I wouldn’t have thought twice about Pete’s
grabbing it—he’s a kid, kids grab.

Roger quickly shot me a hard look. “Is that who I am, now? Just another someone?” He dropped to the floor and tickled Pete
on the belly, sending him into instant hysteria. “If you want to grab something out of my hands, boy, go right ahead.” He
kept tickling Pete, who was now doubled over. “Of course, it’s terribly ill mannered to grab”—tickle, tickle—“and I’ll have
to think twice”—more tickling—“about letting you join me for tea with the queen.” Then he put his hand over his mouth and,
in a stage whisper, said, “Don’t mind the old lady, kid. She’s just a tight-ass.” I expected a wink, but Roger wasn’t even
looking at me. The two
boys had shut me out, and I stood there above them feeling gangly and unwelcome.

I knew I deserved it—I’d started the whole thing by treating Roger like a guest in his own home. But this! Countermanding
my instructions! Telling my son I’m a tight-ass! Screw you! I screamed to myself. I felt my jaw lock. I was amazed at how
quickly he ignited my rage. He’d been here only moments, and already I was cursing him.

Roger stood up and brushed off his pants. He remembered the tulips and shoved them at me. Looking away, he mumbled, “Got these
for you.” I wanted to throw them at him. They flopped to one side in the wrapping paper. Pink tulips always remind me of ballerinas.
I was too angry to appreciate their exquisite beauty. I took the flowers and snipped off the bottoms, in the open air, not
under water. Even as I cut through the smooth, green stems I knew I was destroying them; the air would block the water and
they’d be wilted within an hour. I hadn’t given them half a chance.