The Affair (29 page)

I was dismayed to find that her in-box was totally empty, until I realized she transferred all her messages into separate
folders (how characteristically anal of her). I scrolled through the folders. Barry. Conference. Eating Disorders. Grants.
Then I found one with my name on it.
My name!
I was about to click it open when I thought I heard the elevator. I panicked and quickly shut down the computer.

Obviously I feel guilty. And so hypocritical—what would Reverend Lee say if he knew? But I am completely fixated on that folder
with my name on it. What was inside? And do I dare break in again?

’Til next time,

It’s official: I have a crush on Reverend Lee. And I guess that’s okay, as long as I can somehow limit those feelings.
That’s always been my problem, keeping it contained. Over the years I’ve sought to understand that impulse: Why am I not satisfied
with a simple crush? Why, always, is there the drive to expand it to something larger, more consequential, more damaging,
more real?

I don’t think it’s about lust. In fact, I suspect it’s not even related to romance, necessarily, but ownership. I can’t simply
enjoy gazing from afar. I must possess. It’s why I’ve never been inclined to lease a car or rent an apartment or use the public
library.

Now I find myself fantasizing about Reverend Lee’s wife, Michelle, running off to the Bahamas with Roger. Then Reverend Lee
invites me for a prayer session which turns to—oh, this is gross. What am I
thinking?
This is a man of the cloth! I’ve got to stop this.

Well, temptation strikes in more ways than one. This morning, I got to work at 6
A.M.
and, finding myself all alone in the office, couldn’t resist trying to get back into Cadence’s computer. But when I typed
in “Rottweiler,” I got a “Bad Log-In” message! She changed her password! I immediately became flushed and felt as if my heart
had wedged itself in my throat. Could she have known someone broke into her account? Does she suspect it’s me? She hasn’t
behaved any differently toward me—she has been her usual dismissive, remote self.

I feel myself spiraling downward. What once gave me joy at work—brainstorming at staff meetings, working with Dale on the
new clinic—are closed off to me now. My ideas are no longer welcome. The staff seems to have sided with Cadence, and now I’m
on the outs, the unpopular girl rejected by the clique. Cadence has
chipped away at my responsibilities so that my involvement in the eating disorders clinic is all but symbolic; Dale reports
directly to Cadence. I am miserable.

Oh, the joys of living in a small town. A few well-placed questions and I’ve uncovered all sorts of interesting tidbits about
the good Reverend: He went to college on a wrestling scholarship. He minored in bass clarinet. He plays in an amateur jazz
trio and performs every Thursday night at Chico’s. His parents are still alive, still married. He has a brother in high school,
the product of his mother’s surprise pregnancy at age forty-four. He plays basketball at the Y. He doesn’t drink or smoke
but is addicted to a computerized basketball game called Slam Dunk. He’s a Big Brother to a boy named Jason who lives in the
Altamont housing projects. He and Michelle have been married for thirteen years but, most intriguingly, were separated for
nine months during a period of marital strife. Couldn’t get further details on that one.

Roger and I are starting to disagree about how to raise Petey. That’s never been a problem before; we’ve been a united front
on all the major issues, from spanking (we’re both against it) to TV (weekends only) to toy guns (no). Now, suddenly, we disagree.
For instance: Last week Pete said a boy in class (Louis, the troublemaker) had slammed him with his lunch box. The next thing
I know, Roger is in the basement with Petey, teaching him how to fight! I hear him say something like, “One quick hit to the
stomach, with all your might, and Louis won’t ever bother you again.”

I ran downstairs and said, “Excuse me, but do you really think this is the message you want to give Petey? That it’s okay
to hit other kids?” Roger said it’s his “duty” to teach our son to fight. Then Petey gets into the act and chimes in, “Yeah
Mom. I
want
to learn.” I looked at him, his tank top hanging off his bony little shoulders, and imagined some bully crushing him against
the wall. Wouldn’t fighting back just provoke creeps like Louis? Wouldn’t it be better just to involve the teacher?

Roger dismissed me with, “Let me handle this. It’s between me and Pete.” I looked at the two of them staring back at me and
felt like I was intruding in some kind of male ritual. Part of me believes it’s my responsibility to stand firm; I am the
boy’s mother, after all. And yet, I know all those drum-beating Robert Bly fanatics would tell me to back off and let men
be men.

Alyssa’s lawsuit against Roger seems to be moving toward a firm court date. I’ve been dreading this. I don’t want to relive
all the tawdry details of their affair, and frankly I fear that stirring this up again will put our marriage to the test once
more. I’m not in the mood for another test. I have the power to stop Alyssa and her attorney in their tracks. I know she was
a hooker, a fact that could cost her her teaching job.

That’s been my trump card all along, but I’ve clutched it in my fist as a kind of collateral. I’ve always known I could save
Roger, but what if he doesn’t deserve to be saved? What if there were other women? What if he was making it with Diana? Taking
Reverend Lee’s advice, I “prayed on it.” And the answer that came to me was this: Let it go. So tonight I will tell Roger
about Alyssa, and together we will confront her and her attorney. I’m nervous.

’Til next time,

I finally told Roger that Alyssa was a hooker. I’d expected a positive, even celebratory conversation. But Roger accused me
of inventing stories, picking at old scabs, even losing my mind. I tried to assure him I wasn’t fabricating anything. I told
him everything Dale had shared with me last winter, about Alyssa showing up at the CD release party with some gross guy who
couldn’t get a girl unless he paid for one; about her being his “escort.” I watched as Roger’s look of incredulity faded.
Then I thought I heard him mumble something like, “That explains the phone calls.” I asked him to repeat himself, but he wouldn’t
answer me.

For a long time he just sat there, slowly shaking his head. He had a knuckle wedged between his teeth, as if to plug the impulse
to scream. Maybe I should never have told him. Maybe I should have gone to Alyssa on my own. She’d have withdrawn the charges,
Roger would have been surprised and happy, and it would have been over. Instead, I was sitting on the deck in the glow of
a yellow bug light with a husband who seemed filled with antipathy toward me. What was he thinking? That he was a big sucker,
dumb enough to imagine he was the only man to share Alyssa’s bed? Was he worried that she’d given him an STD?

Eventually he’d have to say something. I crossed my arms and waited. As I sat in the rocker I realized how
nice it felt to be out on the deck on this balmy night, smelling steaks on other people’s grills and watching the pink-streaked
western sky. The geraniums were thriving. The new mulch on the flower beds was deep brown and fragrant. The deck, warmed by
a day of strong sunlight, now radiated a soft, woodsy, sauna smell. Pete was at his grandparents’ house.

Roger’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you. How could you wait so long to tell me?”
He was almost yelling now. I could see my neighbors out on their deck. They had company. Suddenly nobody on their deck was
talking. Clearly, our conversation was more intriguing than their own. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing
Roger and me argue. Dave and Genevieve Wright are model citizens. Two children, perfectly behaved and regularly pressed into
service scrubbing down patio furniture, planting impatiens, hosing down the van, raking up leaves. While my garage looks like
the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch, theirs is spare and clean, with color-coded cardboard boxes on wire racks and a smooth cement
floor that’s cleaner than the floor in my kitchen. Even their garbage is neat: recyclable cans and plastics washed and sorted,
papers stacked and bundled, trash cans sparkling on the curb. Though I’m experienced enough to know you can’t judge a marriage
by its surface, I’m amazed at the congeniality and open affection between them. The only noise I’ve ever heard coming from
their house is the ethereal plucking of Genevieve’s harp.

“Shhh. Roger. The neighbors will hear you.”

“Screw the neighbors.” He grabbed a pebble from the flowerpot on the table and tossed it in my direction. It hit the sliding
door with a loud “ping!” He wasn’t trying
to hit me—at least I don’t think that was his intention—but it still got me mad.

“Are you insane? If you want to sit out here and announce our business to the rest of the neighborhood, fine. But I’m going
inside.”

The thing is, I knew he was right. It was senseless, almost sadistic, to have kept this secret to myself for so long. I had
no good excuse. But then again, there was no point in flogging myself. The only thing I could do was apologize. It’s what
Reverend Lee would call “taking the high ground.”

“Look,” I told Roger, as I rose from my chair. “I don’t know why I kept this from you. But not everything happens when we
want it to happen. Things happen in God’s time.” As soon as I said it, I realized how bizarre it must have sounded. Roger
knew about my meetings with Reverend Lee and didn’t seem particularly threatened; I guess he figured it was yet another of
my self-improvement projects, like my brief fling with Buddhism or the tai chi class I took three years ago. But working God
into everyday conversation—actually using Him to justify human behavior—was something else altogether. It surprised me, too.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Roger narrowed his eyes, as if perhaps I wasn’t his wife, but an evil holographic impostor.

“I just mean, we don’t always have control over things.”

“Of course we do. What are you talking about?”

I didn’t know what to say. Reverend Lee had put it so much more eloquently.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for this religion crap. And if you’re thinking about becoming one of those
born agains, you can forget it. For once in your life, stay in reality. Be accountable. Grow up, dammit!”

So I tried again. I apologized. I admitted that I held on to the information because I didn’t completely trust him; I needed
to know that we were solid, and he was trustworthy, before revealing the one thing that would get him off the hook for good.
I told him I planned to confront Alyssa and was confident she’d drop the lawsuit once she realized I had no qualms about taking
the matter to the principal of her school, even the school board.

Suddenly, almost tangibly, the balance of power shifted. Roger fell back onto the couch and blew out a long breath. I don’t
know what finally clicked into place for him, but I suppose he realized the woman he’d betrayed was presenting him with a
precious opportunity. In other words, he knew he owed me big-time. “God, I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry. You are being
very, very good to me.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” It was a rare moment: Roger, contrite and, if my hunches were correct, willing to grant any request
I desired. I could have asked for a vacation in Tuscany. But I chose something closer to home. I asked him to fire Diana.

He reflexively pulled his hand away, then quickly realized how that must have come across, and attempted to take my hand again.
It was too late. I didn’t want him to touch me. I’d wanted him to agree without hesitation.

“So, what’s it going to be?” I asked. I could almost see his brain grinding. How would he tell his old college buddy she was
out of a job? Wouldn’t he look pussy-whipped to capitulate to his wife’s demands? “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.”