Wife Living Dangerously (22 page)

“Dad was smart to dump you,” I screamed.

Her slap landed on my cheekbone with a sharp crack. Four slim fingers left a scalding imprint. “Your father didn’t leave me.
I left him. And you should be grateful I did. He beat the crap out of me, Julia, and he would have done the same to you.”
I never mentioned my father again.

“Is he married, this professor?” my mother asks.

“No.”

“That’s not good,” she says, frowning. “That means you have more to lose than he does. It’d be better if he was married. Then
he’d have an incentive to keep his mouth shut.”

I appraise the sixty-one-year-old Trina McElvy, tight jeans and high-heeled sandals. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without
makeup, not even before bed. I notice a butterfly tattoo on her ankle.

“Is that new?”

“Nope.” She raises her cuff and turns her ankle to give me a better view. “Got it when I turned fifty. Got another one on
my sixtieth birthday, but I’d have to pull my pants down to show you that one.”

“No thanks, Ma.”

She’s nibbling her thumb again. “So, Julie-bell, tell me about your beau.”

“He’s not my beau, Ma.”

She raises her hands. “Ooooh. Touched a nerve. Sorry.” She waits a beat. “Tell me about… the
professor.
”

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It was crazy to go to Trina for advice. What was I thinking?

“Oh, forget it.”

Trina reaches across to the table to hold my hand. “Is Michael being good to my baby?”

“Huh?”

“Are you getting any?”

“Mother!”

She smirks. “I didn’t think so.” She grinds the cigarette butt in her coffee cup. “Okay. Fine. Here’s my advice even though
you didn’t ask for it. If your husband isn’t loving on you he’s not much of a husband. It’s a requirement in the Jewish religion,
sex is, between husband and wife. I bet you didn’t know that.” She lights up again, takes a long, soul-satisfying drag, and
cocks her head toward the cigarette. “I’m giving these up in two weeks.”

“Sure you are.” I know where this conversation is going. My mother never liked Michael. She thinks he’s cold. Even when I
was already engaged, Trina tried matching me up with single men she knew from work. Or wherever.

“You’re a woman, Julia. You’ve got your needs. If your own husband can’t satisfy you…” She shrugs her shoulders. “Why
shouldn’t you take care of yourself? You only live once.”

Where have I heard that before?

“Just be careful. Don’t get yourself knocked up, you know what I’m saying?”

I gather my things and stand. “Thanks for the advice, Mom.”

Trina gives me an ostentatiously loud kiss on the cheek. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime you’ve got a problem, you just come
to your old mom. I’ll set you straight. I’m always here for my baby girl.”

O
cean Isle is colder this time of year and a chilled fog shrouds the lovely sea, but that does not deter us from the shore.
We arrange canvas folding chairs on the sand, set up our trusty blue cooler packed with tequila, beer, and Diet Coke. We are
barefoot and wrapped in fleece blankets and we tilt our faces to the miserly sun. The weather is a disappointment but we’re
warmed by the alcohol and conversation. Except for a round old woman strolling with two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, we
are alone.

I dig my feet into the cool sand to elude the biting black flies and stare desolately into the fog. Annie is talking about
the anniversary gift her husband gave her, a handmade coupon for “a night of undivided attention, including but not limited
to a foot massage, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie yogurt, the chick flick of your choice, and nookie.” I
stand up and move toward the ocean, the wind beating me about the head like a foam bat. The water is freezing, but I wade
in a bit, soaking the bottom edge of my blanket. I look down at the gullies rushing between my feet, wedging shell fragments
and tiny pebbles between my toes. I spot a piece of sea glass the color of amber, and as I bend to pick it up, another wave
smashes against my shins and the glass slips away. The undertow is almost too powerful to resist.

Annie holds a match to her lips and extinguishes the flame with a quick Lamaze breath. She pushes the Candle of Truth across
the table. “It’s all yours, Francesca.”

“Category: work.” Frankie twists a curl around her finger. “I’m trying to get through to that asshole Gary Wallace,” she begins.
Gary Wallace owns the local
Star Gazette
and is notoriously resistant to giving free publicity. (“Tell ’em to take out an ad, for Christ sake” is his usual response
to anyone requesting a blurb in the paper’s “Neighborly News” column.) Burly and blond, with a round baby face and gold molars,
Gary spent a million and a half on television advertising last year and wouldn’t buy a box of Thin Mints from a Girl Scout
if she was his own daughter. He has never contributed to a single community fundraiser, not the library expansion, or the
new animal shelter, or the community kitchen. In his TV ads he’s sitting on top of a silver rocket ship, screaming: “Read
the
Star Gazette.
Our coupon pages are OUT OF THIS WORLD!” Riding the rocket like a bronco, he flies into a distant starry galaxy, which is
where I think most people would like Gary Wallace to remain.

“I’ve been calling Gary to see if I could get some PR for my fortune cookies, right? And I keep trying even though he never,
ever
takes my calls. Well, I know how much the jackass loves rubbing elbows with big shots. So this time, when the secretary asks,
‘Who should I say is calling?’ I say, ‘Please tell him it’s Katie Couric.’ Of course the jerk picks up right away. I can’t
believe it. I finally have Gary Wallace on the phone. The first thing I say is, ‘This isn’t Katie Couric it’s Frankie Wilson
and I’ve got this great new fortune cookie they’re thinking of carrying at Bamboo Buffet please don’t hang up.’”

“What did he do?” I ask.

“He hung up.
Obviously.
Then he calls Bamboo Buffet and registers a formal complaint against me.” Frankie sucks on the lemon wedge and winces. “He
can kiss my ass for all I care, cheap bastard. There’d better be a special place in hell reserved for men like Gary Wallace.”
She moves the candle to me. “Your turn, J.”

“We’re expecting big things from you, girl,” Annie says.

“I think I’m having an affair.”

I’ve said it low, all at once, and as fast as my lips will move, which defeats my purpose since no one actually hears what
I’ve said and they insist I repeat myself slowly and clearly, which is exactly what I don’t want to do. I close my eyes. “I
… think… I’m having… an affair.”

Annie makes a face. “What do you mean, you
think?
Wouldn’t you know it if you were having an affair?”

“I met someone. A man. A professor.” God, this is hard. Annie already knows about the affair but I decide against telling
Frankie. I just can’t handle her reaction right now. I feel too fragile. But I’ve got to give them
something.
“I can’t stop thinking about him. We go on walks. He e-mails me. I e-mail back. I, I look forward to going to work in the
morning. I think about him when I pick out my clothes the night before. If I don’t see his car in the parking lot on campus
I’m depressed for the rest of the day. And I have bought forty-nine hideous cookie jars just to take my mind off him. Oh,
GOD, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

I pause and wait for a response. “Say something. Don’t just sit there
staring
at me.”

Frankie is first to speak. She wants to know what he’s like, and I feel myself buoy like a cork as I tell them about Evan’s
hair, his arms and hands, the long, strong legs, the way his eyes glitter when he smiles at me. I tell them about the day
I met him, the Ovid poem, the Road Rage expo, and courtly love and the Kama Sutra and the look on his face when he asked me
to “mark” him, so resolute, so carnal. Abandoning fully any reluctance to discuss him, I am now in my glory, racing to include
as many details as possible, aware that I’ve got my audience completely enthralled. The flecks in his eyes. The single bulging
vein traversing his forearm. His breath, always fresh and sweet. His upper eyelids, soft and a little baggy, and the chipped
tooth that invites exploration.

“Holy
shit
!” Frankie says, looking genuinely mortified. “We’ve created a monster.”

“No, no, we haven’t created any monster. Hey. C’mon now.” Annie reaches across the table to pat my hand. “This is normal female
sexuality. This is
healthy.
”

“How can this be healthy? I’m so
miserable
!”

“And how are things with Michael?” Frankie asks.

“He’s still in that band and no, I’m not replacing Edith Berry.”

No one can understand why my husband had absented himself during my performance; I try to explain that Michael wasn’t ready
to play Captain to my Tenille. “And Edith still calls my husband Mikey.”

“I say we kill her.” Frankie tosses her lemon wedge across the table. “Wipe the little shit off the face of the earth. I mean
it. I’m sick of these girls, shaking their little titties at married men—”

“—
Big
titties,” I interrupt.

“Fine.
Big
titties. Even worse. Hello? Excuse me? He’s
married.
Look elsewhere,
bitch.
”

I’m moved by Frankie’s impassioned response. “I’m not going to kill her.” I pick at the hardened wax at the bottom of the
candle. “And I have no evidence that she and Michael are, you know.”

“Of course they’re not.” Annie tugs her blanket more snugly about her shoulders. The fire we’d built in the fireplace had
fizzled out some time ago and a damp chill has settled around our table. “Julia’s husband isn’t the cheating kind. Anymore.”

“That’s what I used to say.” Frankie pulls her hood on and tightens the drawstring. “Damn, it’s cold in here. I should do
something about that fire.” But instead of tending to the fire, Frankie brings her hands to her face and erupts in big, messy,
heaving, clotted sobs. At first we all think she’s kidding—Frankie had been popping Muddy Buddy mix only moments ago and anyway,
she’s not a crier—she didn’t even sniffle when we rented
Beaches
. Frankie is the happy puppy, the ebullient, rosy-cheeked goof. Frankie likes to give gag gifts like farting rubber pigs and
boxing nun puppets. She has a Scooby-Doo bobblehead on her dashboard. She floods our e-mail boxes with jokes. She believes
that a box of Godiva chocolates is more effective than therapy any day. Above all, Frankie does not cry.

“God, Frankie, what
is
it?” Annie asks. “What’s wrong?”

But I know precisely what is wrong with Frankie. It is Jeremy and that blubber-lipped receptionist. Now I feel guilty for
not alerting her as soon as I’d spotted them together in Starbucks. I find a box of tissues on the kitchen counter and wedge
it into her balled-up body.

“Frankie,” I begin, gingerly, waiting for her sobs to ebb. “Is it Jeremy?”

When Frankie finally lifts and presents her face to us, it is no longer the round, girlish, mirthful face we know, but a deeply
dented, haggard tableau of pain and betrayal. It was a face I knew intimately because it was my own face, five years ago.

“Uh-hungh.” She honks sonorously into the tissue. “He’s in love with his receptionist.
Miranda.
” She twists her mouth and spits out the name like it’s one of those nasty, shriveled-up green peanuts. “Can you believe it?”

“Frankie…” Annie asks, hesitantly, “what does Miranda look like?”

“What do you think she looks like?” Frankie snorts. “She’s got big fucking lips like Angelina fucking Jolie!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Annie slinks back into her chair and yanks the hood of her white sweatshirt tighter around her head so all you
can see is her nose and the dots of light in her black eyes. “I think I saw them together. About a month ago. At the two-dollar
movie theater.” Annie shuts her eyes and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “It was some stupid karate movie and the place was
empty except for the two of them in the back. I was only there because I thought I left my umbrella under one of the seats.
They never clean that place, you know.”

Frankie is dabbing at her eyes and following Annie’s story with some acrid combination of masochistic interest and roiling
resentment. “And… ?”

Annie swallows, hard. “Oh, Frankie. You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do.”

Annie turns her eyes beseechingly toward me. I jump in. “Come on, Frankie. You really need to hear all the sordid details?”

“Uh-huh.” Frankie is staring dully at a spot somewhere between Annie’s brows. “Keep talking.”

“I can’t, Frankie.” It is a rare moment for Annie, normally so forthcoming. This leaves the rest of us to conjure the possibilities.
Were they kissing? Did he have his hand up her shirt like a middle-school kid on a date? Was she giving him a blow job? Or
were they straight-out humping? Or, who knows, 69-ing?

“What-fucking-ever.” Frankie tosses her soggy tissue into the white wicker and brass trash basket, then turns to face me with
her swollen bloodshot eyes and an inflamed nose. “Don’t do it, Julia.” Her growly voice seems to be emanating from her bowels.
“Michael’s a nice guy. He loves you, Julia. Don’t do it. It’s so mean. It’s just so fucking mean.”

With Frankie’s somber admonition lurking at the edges of my deteriorating conscience, I rededicate myself to steering clear
of Evan Delaney. I let a graduate student take over the courtly love exhibit. But Evan remains a presence in my life. His
e-mails come frequently, and they’re always structured in a way that forces a response. (Considering a course on medieval
sexuality curriculum. Any suggestions? Has Jake seen the latest issue of
Cycle
? If not, would you like me to drop it in campus mail?) I’ve diligently turned down his offers of Turkish coffee with every
manner of excuse, but never with the truth. I have never said, for instance, You tempt me like nothing else has tempted me.
I would sell my soul to have a single night with you, if I knew I could do it without hurting my husband. Never have I felt
such turmoil. Sometimes I think I would rather be dead than live like this.