The Affair (8 page)

Diana started toward the door, then stopped. “By the way, did Roger mention that I’m taking him to lunch next week?”

I felt my stomach flip-flop. I said nothing.

“I’m
really
looking forward to it. We have
so
much catching up to do.” She giggled. “Oh, baby, don’t look so worried. It gives you wrinkles, you know.” The door closed
behind her. Eddie tried to put his arms around me but I stepped away from his embrace. I couldn’t touch him. I wanted to throw
up. “Don’t let that bitch get to you.”

“Why shouldn’t I? Don’t you realize what’s happening here? She’s out to destroy my marriage!”

“And what if she does?” Eddie looked at me. Then,
softly, “It could be the best thing that’s ever happened to you … to us.”

’Til next time,

This morning at breakfast Roger violated the tacit rules of our cold war and actually initiated a conversation. I was hopeful
until I realized that the topic was Diana Pierce. I had just dipped my spoon into a bowl of corn flakes when he mentioned
his upcoming lunch. “Diana says she has something important to tell me,” he said, eyes on the sports section. “Something about
the office. Something big. Have any idea what she’s referring to?”

What could I possibly say? Sure, Roger. She wants to tell you all about the day she broke into my office and found me with
the office gardener. Oh, and the fact that my lipstick was smeared all over my face.

“I’m not sure …” I began, my appetite quickly draining away. Incapable of swallowing even a spoonful of cereal, I began clearing
the table. If there was ever a time to broach the subject, this was it. Petey was still asleep and my first appointment wasn’t
until 1
P.M.
I wasn’t ready to confess any wrongdoing, but if Roger was going to hear about Eddie, I wanted him to hear it from me first.

“I have a theory, though. There’s this guy in the office. I think he has the hots for me.” I moved quickly around the kitchen,
keeping my back to Roger as I spoke. “Diana—who’s not my biggest fan, if you haven’t already figured that out, by the way—has
it in her head that I’m having an affair with this guy. A
gardener
, for
Christ’s sake. Can you
believe
that? You’d think Diana would have a better imagination than that!” I forced a laugh. I was talking too much, gesturing too
wildly.

The more I talked, the more I began to believe my own story, and this belief enabled me to continue in earnest. It was a testament
to the profound power of human denial. In that tiny pause between “I don’t know” and “I have a theory,” I managed to convince
myself that Eddie was nothing more than a dumb lug with a schoolboy crush, a pest, a triviality. Denial allows teenagers to
move through all nine months of pregnancy and never acknowledge that they are carrying a baby. It’s probably what keeps O.J.
Simpson sane. Bolstered by denial, I continued: “He’s always coming around to water my plants. They’re practically dead from
all the water they’re getting. The guy has an IQ of 40! Vinnie, Tony, whatever his name is.”

“Eddie.”

“What?” I was stunned.

“I believe his name is Eddie.” Roger was no longer reading the sports section. He pushed his plate away and folded his arms
across his chest.

“How do you know his name?” I tried not to stammer but my face flushed with blood and heat.

Roger let out a humorless chuckle. “I know more than you realize.”

’Til next time,

Suddenly everything seemed to move in slow motion. How could Roger know about Eddie? Did I whisper his
name in my sleep? Had Diana revealed her suspicions? Was my husband, a man who virtually sleepwalks through our marriage,
more aware than I realized?

“Eddie’s the guy who called you a while back. About the plants.”

“Huh?” I tried to appear clueless. Of course I knew what Roger was referring to. Eddie had called me at home, at night, under
the pretext of choosing plants for the office—a ridiculous ruse. Roger had picked up the phone first and seemed to suspect
nothing. Now I checked his face for any hint of awareness. It was hard to tell.

“Sure. You remember. He called about plants. At night.”

“I guess. I really don’t remember.” I shrugged and reached for the last plate in the dishwasher. It clattered to the floor
and broke into three neat pieces, like a preschooler’s puzzle. I bent to pick it up and cut myself on an edge.

“Nervous?”

Now I knew Roger suspected something. Damn him—he was playing with me. I pretended not to hear. Some therapist. The woman
who urges communication can’t even talk honestly with her own husband. I couldn’t. I knew that speaking the truth now could
lead to the rapid dissolution of my marriage, and as miserable as I may be, I’m not prepared to be single.

Neither is Roger. He could have pursued it but instead he let the subject drop. He picked up the newspaper and poured himself
another cup of coffee. “I’ll be home late tonight,” he said. “Student conferences.” My mind leaped to the image of Roger and
Alyssa outside the Learning Attic, her hands adjusting his scarf. And their stupid smiling faces.

Roger had one-upped me. He knew I was in no position to say a word about her. If Roger was the blackened kettle, I was most
certainly the pot. “Should I keep dinner warm for you?” I asked, shamed and contrite. In context, the question made a mockery
of a real marriage.

“Don’t bother. I’ll grab something on the way home.” That’s precisely what I was afraid of.

I feel like I’m in a kind of purgatory, a limbo land where I have neither the affections of my husband nor a full-fledged
relationship with a lover. I have never felt more completely alone. Next week is Roger’s lunch with Diana. I’m scared.

’Til next time,

It has been forty-eight hours since Roger had lunch with Diana, and I have absolutely no idea what transpired. Based on Roger’s
behavior, however, I fear that Diana has told him everything she knows about Eddie and me. Roger has been silent as a monk.
When I walk into a room, he leaves. When I sit down at the table, he clears his plate. When I ask a question, he responds
as minimally as possible; instead of speaking he nods or gestures or grunts. He wasn’t in bed when I went to sleep, nor was
he there when I woke up. I found him in the study last night, whispering conspiratorially into the phone. I had to know who
he was talking to. Later that night I hit the redial button on the cordless phone. A young woman picked up. I heard myself
say, “Is Alyssa there?”

“That’s me,” she answered perkily. “Who’s this?”

I felt my chest clench. I fumbled for a response then said, idiotically, “Sorry. Wrong number.” I pushed the flash button
to disconnect the line, then stood there in the dark, phone in hand, shaking.

So why aren’t I rejoicing? Isn’t this exactly what I’d wanted, a reason to leave my cold-as-a-fish husband and leap into Eddie’s
eager arms? If this were a soap opera, that’s exactly what I’d be doing now. I’d hop in my car, call Eddie from the highway
on my cell phone, and arrange to meet him at a motel, where we’d screw our brains out. He leaves Patty, I leave Roger, and
we live happily ever after. But this isn’t a soap opera. It’s my very real life. I’m too introspective, too
guilt ridden
to dispose of my marriage like a used coffee filter. To what extent am I responsible for whatever may be going on between
Roger and Alyssa? Do I really want to start over with someone new? (It gives me a headache just imagining what it would be
like to establish the kind of familiarity I have with Roger. Do I really want to pick up Eddie’s dirty underwear? Do I really
want him to see my stretch marks?) What if the only thing attracting me to Eddie is the fact that he’s attracted to me at
a time when I’m most vulnerable? Could I really spend the rest of my life (or even a year) with a man who would abandon a
wife and three young daughters? Even more painful to contemplate: What if he has no intention of leaving them? And why can’t
I forget the taste of Eddie’s mouth, the fleeting sensation of his body sinking into mine on the couch?

As I replayed that scene in my head this morning, my secretary buzzed me on the intercom. “There’s a Mrs. DeLuca here to see
you. She says it’s important.” I
opened the door to find a tiny, scowling woman in my waiting area. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” she said, shaking a finger at me.

“Excuse me?” I was truly mystified. We get all sorts of borderline cases in our office, and I figured she was one of them.

I was wrong. This was no borderline. It was Eddie’s mother-in-law! She pointed an arthritic finger at me and spoke in a voice
loud enough for everyone in the office to hear: “Leave my daughter’s husband alone!”

She was standing in the anteroom to my office, four feet of finger-wagging fury. Eddie’s mother-in-law.

“I’m telling you,” she growled, “you got no business bothering with a married man.” She clutched a black vinyl purse in one
hand and pointed with the other. “And I ain’t leaving until you promise me, missy. Hands off.”

I felt a rapid flush rise from neck to scalp as I searched for an appropriate response.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping to appear confused yet kindly. “Do I know you?” The woman cocked her head, arched an eyebrow,
and hissed: “No. But I know all about you. Oh-ho, I sure do. I know what you’re trying to do to a good man.” She glared at
me disdainfully. “A
married
man. A man with three little girls and a wife who loves him.” Now she was yelling at me. “But you’ll do it over my dead body.
You hear me? OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

At this point I noticed that the office has come to a standstill. The secretaries and several of the social workers are watching
intently. Gail, my secretary, gestured toward the phone and mouthed the words:
“Should I call security?” I nodded my head and she began punching in the number. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I told her. “I’m going
to have to ask you to leave.”

I heard the chime of the elevator and I’m relieved to see Mark, the building security guard. He looks at the woman, then at
me, clearly confused. He’s obviously thinking: You call
this
a security threat? “Please escort this woman from the building.” He puts a gentle hand on her elbow and begins leading her
toward the elevator. “Come this way, please,” he says. She will not go quietly, though. “Listen here, you slut! Stay away
from my son-in-law! I’m warning you! Stay away!” I can still hear as the elevator descends. As I turn toward my office I see
a figure leaning against the water fountain. It’s Diana, and she’s staring straight at me. Laughing.

That cow! Who else but Diana would be venal enough to call Eddie’s mother-in-law? I phone Eddie at work and tell him everything,
sobbing into the receiver. “Jeez,” he whispers, momentarily stunned. But he doesn’t appear particularly worried that Patty
might know about us. Right now he seems to care only about me. “Awww, honey,” he coos softly. “You shouldn’t have had to go
through that. I’m so sorry.” After a pause, he says, “Listen, I’ve been saving this for later but maybe now’s a good time
to tell you.” I stopped crying. “What?”