The Affair (13 page)

Then she went into a little spiel I’m sure she’s recited a thousand times. She walked over to her door and opened it with
a flourish. “Imagine you’re on a rocket ship. You’re about to take off. Everybody’s buckled in, the engines are rumbling.
Now comes the countdown, and the rocket is launched.” Bonita slammed the door dramatically. “No exit. You’re stuck on this
rocket and you’re not going anywhere. No matter how bad it gets, you’re staying.”

She sat down with us again. “I want you to think of your marriage like that. You’ve decided that you must stay together, if
only for Petey’s sake. There are no exits. So let’s work through this mess and maybe you’ll discover that your journey together
ain’t half bad.”

Inspiring? Sure. But rockets also explode in midflight sometimes.

As for my gratitude list, I think I’ll have to pass this week.

’Til next time,

I told Eddie that Roger and I had started marriage counseling. He responded with something like, “Good for you. You should
try to make it work, I mean, with Petey and all.”

But he looked stricken. Wednesday morning, over coffee at McDonald’s, he wanted to know more about the counseling. “So how’s
it going? You know. The therapy.” He seemed anxious, bordering on needy. I’d never seen him that way. It was pathetic. I wanted
to tell him the truth and say: “Counseling is a farce. We’re supposed to do all these dumb homework assignments as if that’s
all it takes to put this mess of a marriage back together. I’m trying, but Roger’s acting like a jackass, and I’d rather jump
out of the rocket now and spend the rest of my life orbiting Pluto than stay stuck in a burning marriage with no exits.”

I couldn’t say it. Now that Roger and I are in therapy together, there’s a protective veil between us and the rest of the
world. To reveal the details of the process would be like sabotage, a betrayal of all three of us—me, Roger, and Bonita—and
while I’m no stranger to betrayal, I can’t explain it. There’s something different now.

So all I said was, “It’s going okay.” Eddie cocked his head back and looked into my eyes, as if seeing me from another angle
would elicit more information. It was hard, but I managed to keep my mouth shut. I know he’s worried and wants me to reassure
him that we can still be together. I wish I could. I literally hunger for him. Even if Bonita manages to patch up our marriage,
could I ever have this kind of passion with Roger? Is he capable of lusting for me the way Eddie does? Would he call me in
the middle of the day just to say the memory of my body is so distracting he can’t concentrate on work?

So I told Eddie about the counseling. But I never told him to leave me alone, which would have been the right thing to do
now. I’m not an idiot; I know that my marriage
doesn’t have a fighting chance until I end my relationship with Eddie. But damn it, I just can’t do it. Call it sordid, immoral,
and cheap, but what I have with Eddie is real and it makes me feel good (when I’m not feeling guilty and panicky and remorseful).

I am not ready to give this up. And Eddie seems to be doing everything in his power to see that I don’t. We were in the back
of the elevator this morning, jammed against the wall in the 9
A.M.
crush, Eddie standing behind me in the corner. As we ascended I felt his hand slip under my shift, then between my thighs.
With his other hand he pulled me back against him. When the elevator reached my floor I moved toward the doors but Eddie held
me tighter. I felt powerless to escape his grip and the idea excited me. He took away his hands as the elevator got less crowded,
but put them back when it emptied. We rode this way until we reached the top floor. He said, “Let’s take the stairs down.”
We made out in the stairwell like a couple of teenagers. God, it felt so good, it took all my strength to pull away.

Next week Roger and I are meeting separately with Bonita, presumably to discuss our respective affairs. From that point on,
I figure we’ll be either moving toward true reconciliation or divorce.

’Til next time,

Last night I ran into the K-Mart on the west side to pick up sunblock and I heard a man say: “Nicole, I
told
you to leave that crap alone. Now quit before I smack your heinie.” He sounded loud, rough.

My first thought: What a lowlife. Then I realized that I
knew
that voice. I peeked into the next aisle. Eddie! My lover—it still feels weird to use that word, but that’s what he is—screaming
at his preschool daughter. And using a word like “heinie”! I felt sick.

I was too embarrassed to approach him, too stunned to sneak away. Hiding behind a stack of electric fans, I watched him. It
was impossible to discern the sleek, carnal man who has occupied my heart and mind and daydreams for months. What I observed
instead was a harried and exasperated father who used a word like “crap” when addressing a preschooler. And threatened to
smack her heinie. (I can’t get that word out of my head!) I also saw that the cart was filled with every form of junk food
known to humanity, stuff I wouldn’t let Petey eat if it was the last thing in the house (well, maybe if it was the last thing
… but you know what I mean). And then I noticed his potbelly. Where did
that
come from?

A woman rounded the corner with her own cart. Could this be Patty? I waited. She pulled out an aqua blue housedress and held
it up. I heard her say, “For Mom. What do you think?” It
was
Patty! She looked nothing like the round, bleached-blond woman I’d envisioned. She had brown hair straight as pins, cut bluntly
at the jaw line, and looked like a kindergarten teacher. A mean one.

Eddie glanced at the dress and answered, “Whatever.” I was relieved. Part of me was terrified that he’d embrace her in the
analgesics aisle and say, “It’s a lovely dress, darling. And you’re a lovely woman. Let’s have sex tonight.” Ridiculous, isn’t
it? Truth is, I didn’t want to see anything to suggest that their marriage was happy and stable. And I didn’t. They even shopped
with
separate carts! (In her cart, a package of something for yeast infections, I was delighted to observe.)

Interestingly, I was able to put that entire K-Mart scene out of my head when Eddie called me at the office on Thursday. His
back is better and he wants to meet at the Roundtree next week. I told him I’m scheduled to go to Washington for a conference,
and now he wants to come with me. The idea of spending three days with him is so exciting and scary I can hardly breathe when
I imagine it.

This morning I found a manila envelope on my desk. Inside, wrapped in pale violet tissue, was a
teeny
-tiny black teddy from Heavens To Betsy. The moment I found it, I heard my computer ding. An e-mail from Eddie. It said only:
Washington.

Now for the big news. Alyssa left a message on my voice mail at work. Sounding like a spoiled, spiteful child, she said she
had something to tell me about Roger. “You need to know something about me and your husband,” is how she phrased it. She said
she’d call back next week. Of course, my imagination has devised every imaginable scenario: She and Roger are running away
together. And they’re taking Petey. They’re having a baby. They’re collaborating on a play about their sexual escapades.

If I don’t stop this I will lose my mind.

’Til next time,

Taken together, the events of the week have a kind of magnificent order, as if a master puppeteer (God?) has
led me toward the only decision I can make now: I must stop seeing Eddie.

The Washington trip was a disaster. Eddie and I actually had a fight! It started in a café near Dupont Circle. He was incredibly
hostile toward the waitress, a frail little college girl who was obviously trying her best. At one point she forgot to bring
a soupspoon and he said, “Do you expect me to eat this with my teaspoon? Or maybe I should just slurp it out of the bowl?”
The waitress started to cry. I told Eddie to cut the poor kid some slack and he went into this long harangue about the eroding
work ethic in young people and how “when I pay good money for a meal, I expect good service.” I told him I’d be happy to pay
for the meal if he would just be nicer to the waitress, and he threw me such a chilling look that for a moment I was almost
afraid of him.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” Eddie said. “We’re not supposed to be fighting like an old married couple, we’re supposed
to be back in the room, screwing our brains out.”

“Oh? Is that what we’re supposed to be doing?” I asked, hearing my voice sharpen and arch like an eyebrow. “So, I guess you’ve
done this before?”

Eddie contorted his lips to suppress a guilty smile. “Well, you know how it is,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, Eddie, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

He wiped his mouth as if to rub the smile away. “You know. You’re away on business and you’re lonely. It happens. What can
I say?”

“Don’t say anything, Eddie,” I said. I left the table.

When we got to the hotel, I just told him I’d rather not have sex. He packed his bag and left. I haven’t heard from him since.

On Wednesday, during a private session, Bonita Loeb told me point-blank that as long as I was having an affair, I couldn’t
remain in therapy. (I wonder whether she said the same thing to Roger.)

Thursday I received this letter from Petey’s school:

Dear Ms. Ryan and Mr. Tisdale:

With tremendous regret we must inform you that Petey can no longer continue at the Acorn Early Education Center. As you know,
the school policy mandates that students be toilet-trained. In this way, we can maintain a sanitary environment, as well as
keep teachers in the classroom. I know that you have tried hard to remedy the situation, but unfortunately Petey continues
to wet and soil himself, and it has become a distraction to the other children as well as a strain on our teachers.

It is also terribly embarrassing for your child. When Petey began at Acorn, he was an outgoing little boy, but in the past
few months we have noticed dramatic changes, not only in his toileting habits, but also regarding his behavior. He has been
withdrawn and weepy, and rarely exhibits the joie de vivre he had when he began here. I don’t mean to intrude, but I wonder
if there is something in Petey’s home life that is causing his distress, and if there is anything you can do to ease the situation
for him.

Again, we are sorry to lose Petey. On behalf of the staff here at Acorn, we wish your family the best of luck.

Most sincerely,

Emma Burgins

Director, Acorn Early Education Center

I cried after I read that letter (I’m crying again just thinking about it). Roger looked ashen, as though he might cry too.
I’ve canceled my appointments for next week so I can be with Petey. I feel so responsible, so guilty. This sweet little boy
has been the receptacle for all the unhappiness in my marriage, all the sneaking around, all the shame. Oh God, how I desperately
wish I could go back in time to reverse all the damage that’s been done. But how far back would I have to go? To the day I
met Eddie? Or the day I met Roger?