The Affair (33 page)

“Forget it, Roger. She’s not getting the job.”

“Oh, dear. Is the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head again?”

“Shut up, Roger.” I was drained and shaken by the fact that I’d unleashed all my paranoid fury at a young girl. I didn’t want
to talk. I put Petey down for the night and collapsed into bed.

’Til next time,

The new neighbors up the street, Hanna and Craig, invited us to have coffee and dessert tomorrow night. Naturally, I cannot
find a sitter. I’ve called everyone on
my list. Called Pete’s counselor. Asked Rachel Becker’s mom if she’d take him for a couple of hours. No luck.

I was wildly flipping through my phone book when Roger walked in and waved a sheet of paper in my face. It was Amber’s résumé.
“Won’t you please stop this foolishness already and call her?” he asked wearily.

“No, Roger.” I knew she’d make a great sitter. She knew CPR. Even I don’t know CPR. I felt like a big, stubborn baby.

“Come on,” he said, almost whining now. “I’ve got a hunch she’s one of those sitters who comes with a backpack full of coloring
books and Play-Doh.”

“Right. And you’ll pull out your Erector set and the two of you will have a grand old time.” I can’t believe I said that.

He started to walk out of the room, then turned around and said, “Look. We’ve been through a lot. I was an awful shit to you.
So I don’t blame you if you don’t trust me. But if we’re going to move forward, I mean, if we’re aiming for some semblance
of a happy marriage, then at some point you’re going to have to give up this routine of yours. And for both our sakes, I certainly
hope that happens sooner rather than later.”

I thought of Reverend Lee. He’s on vacation in New Hampshire somewhere. I missed his big, warm hands. What would the good
Reverend want me to do now? Roger and I haven’t had a grown-up’s night out in a while. And I do want to get to know the new
neighbors. Should I get beyond the jealousy and call the girl?

I thought of that thong, the pert breasts, and silver toe ring. I remembered my husband’s flushed, animated face. Screw it.
I’d rather stay home.

Roger was cold and remote all evening. He’s treated me like an acquaintance, one he’s not particularly fond of but willing
to tolerate. He communicates with minimal output. It’s almost like he’s playing some kind of board game, where you get more
points for using fewer words. I’d say, “How did your meeting go with your agent?” and he’d say, “Okay.” I’d say, “Where’s
the permission slip for Pete’s field trip?” and he’d say, “Fridge.” Not “On the refrigerator.” Just “Fridge.” When he does
make small talk, he looks at a spot just to the left of my head, and speaks all formally, with the slightest hint of an English
accent. I find this infuriating.

I was going over my records and realized that I have not had a single referral from the hospital or the county mental health
center in more than two months. I still see new people, but most of them lately have come to me through other therapists.
This makes no sense at all. Normally I do two intake interviews a week. Most of the referrals go through Filomena. I’m going
to talk to her tomorrow to find out what’s going on. I’m hoping there’s a reasonable explanation.

Filomena looked pained when I asked her about the referrals. “What can I say?” She shrugged helplessly. She rubbed the tattoo
on her wrist, Chinese characters drawn in a deep green.

“Say anything. You’ve got to know what’s going on. Tell me.”

She looked around then leaned toward me. “It’s her. Quasimodo.”

Even in my rage I wanted to laugh. “You mean Cadence?”

“Whatever.” Filomena rolled her eyes in disgust.

“What? Did she just tell you to stop sending me intakes?”

“Nope. That bitch took over referrals, you know what I’m saying?” She rubbed her tattoo again. “Look. I know it’s none of
my business but…”

“What? Say it.”

She looked around again. “Word is, you’re out.”

I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. “What do you mean, I’m out?” And what did she know, anyway? She was one of the clericals.

“Look. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

I had to grab my hands to keep them from shaking.

When I got home I tried to talk to Roger but he was deeply engrossed in a
Xena
rerun. As I talked he reached for the remote, not to lower the volume so he could hear me (as I originally assumed) but to
actually intensify the volume so I wouldn’t drown out the show’s profound dialogue. He pulled Petey onto his lap.

“You’ve got to see this,” he whispered to my son. “It’s the best part.”

I stared at my husband, really took him in. So tidy, almost fey, in his creased khakis, Eddie Bauer madras plaid shirt, and
moccasins. His glasses were pushed down to the tip of his nose and his lips were pursed like a fussy old lady’s. How did I
wind up with this man? I wondered. And how would I possibly endure
the next thirteen years, until Petey was out of the house and in college?

It’s 2
A.M.
I can’t sleep.

Didn’t see Amazon all day. Filomena said that one of Cadence’s Rottweilers was having surgery. It would not surprise me to
find out she’s interviewing for my replacement.

This afternoon I had a session with Pauline Willis. Pauline started seeing me two years ago to deal with anorgasmia. I directed
her toward a few self-help books, the kind designed for women who use phrases like “down there” or “female plumbing” to describe
their genitals and reproductive system. When I hadn’t heard from her, I assumed that the books must have scared her away.

Now Pauline is back, and she’s convinced that someone is watching her through a crack in the ceiling of her office. “What
makes you think there’s anyone spying on you?” I asked her.

“It was weird. All of a sudden it felt like I wasn’t alone. I looked up and noticed this gap between the ceiling tiles.”

“And you’re sure this gap wasn’t there before?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure. I don’t remember ever looking up there before.”

“What exactly are you worried about?”

She stopped, pulled her thick brown hair to the side of her neck and twisted it with both hands. A crimson flush spread from
her neck to the tips of her ears. “I don’t know.” She did know. She just wasn’t ready to say. And then we were out of time.

’Til next time,

Pauline was so panicky last week that I had to make time for her today. She finally admitted that she has a habit of masturbating
in her office after hours (apparently those books
did
help), and now she has convinced herself that someone was monitoring her. I guess there was a time when a notion like that
would have been ridiculous, but now it seems entirely plausible. I’ve seen this on TV: people discovering hidden cameras in
office bathrooms, locker rooms, even their own homes. Still, it’s hard to believe someone would go to the trouble of spying
on someone like Pauline, a quiet albeit nerdy claims adjuster at Carmichael Insurance. Since she noticed the gap in the ceiling
above her desk nine days ago, she hasn’t slept and can’t keep food down. She’s terrified that everyone at work knows about
the masturbation.

Normally I’d focus on the guilt and shame associated with her sexual behavior. But what if there
is
a hidden camera above her desk? Why dredge up her entire childhood when we can, at least, solve her short-term issue by peeking
behind the damn tile? I suggested she climb on her desk and take a look, but she wouldn’t even consider it. “Can’t you just
see it?” she said. “My big face staring right into that camera. Bad enough they’ve got me doing—you know. Do I have to humiliate
myself even more?”

She looked so anguished and desperate, and since Carmichael Insurance is just across the street, I offered to help her. I
realize I was mucking up the boundaries, but this woman doesn’t have a friend in the world. I felt I had to help her. We made
plans to meet on Friday at 5
P.M.

I’m sad today. I’m thinking about my marriage—all the small, significant things that have fallen away. The casual, almost
absentminded caresses. The unexpected flowers for the dinner table. The words of praise: “You have a beautiful voice.” “You
look pretty tonight.” There was a time when Roger automatically said “Bless you” after I sneezed. He still says it when Petey
sneezes, but has stopped sending blessings my way. There was a time when Roger was actually interested in me, a time when
he put down the paper or switched off the TV so he could hear what I had to say. There was a time when he would ask, “What
are you thinking right now?” because he noticed a certain expression play across my face, or “What did you dream about last
night?” because I cried in my sleep and he heard me.

And there was a time when Roger didn’t seem to notice other women, let alone screw them. Now he is almost shameless in the
way he stares, twisting his chair or contorting his posture so he can get an eyeful. At Dairy Queen last night he was talking
with his back turned toward me, in that unnatural way soap opera characters converse so that both are facing the camera. I
followed his eyes to a young woman straddling a nearby bench. She wore a white tank top, no bra, and shorts so tiny I could
see her labia. “Will you please turn around so I can see you?” I hissed. He reluctantly twisted his body around and asked
impatiently, “This better?” By then I was so angry at him I no longer wanted to see his face. We sat in silence until Petey
finished his cone.

I know that marriage changes, and that romance is for the discovery stage of courtship. But something else has happened. Not
just the fading of romance, but a
kind of rotting, a decomposition like an old stump. Most of the time I just don’t think about it. I can’t.

When I met Pauline, she admitted that she’d spent the previous half hour in the women’s room, retching into the toilet. She
had the distinct odor of vomit and perspiration. Her uncombed hair hung limply around her ashen face.

She looked like she’s lost ten or twelve pounds in the last two weeks (here I have to force myself not to envy this about
her; I’ve gained five pounds and feel grotesquely corpulent). We ascended to the eleventh floor in silence. I held my breath.

The elevator doors slid open and Pauline led me to her office. The room was small and spare, tidy as a nun’s. My eyes immediately
found the suspicious tile above her desk. If there was, in fact, a camera hidden there, it had surely caught Pauline’s every
action.

“Well, shall we?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Pauline made the slightest movement with her head. A nod.

I hoisted myself up on the desk, took a deep breath, and pushed the tile up. It flopped back down, sending mats of lint and
dust into my face. This time I managed to pull it out. I peered into the darkness, saw nothing. “Have you got a flashlight
or something?” Pauline said no at first, but then poked around in her top drawer and found a penlight.

I took it from her and looked around in the space above the ceiling tiles. There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Pauline
started to cry. But then, as I slid the tile back into place, something dropped onto her
desk with a sharp ping. It was a case. An empty video-cassette case.

’Til next time,