The Affair (25 page)

Claire backed away, said nothing, pulled her blouse down, feeling like a complete ass. What had seemed so sexy just moments
ago now felt tawdry, shameful, disgusting. She felt the wetness between her legs and was sickened by it. The phone dropped
from her hand. Calmly, her husband picked it up, moved toward the window, gazed out.

Kevin was still there. He must have witnessed the whole scene but was firmly rooted to the spot. Claire could see him actually
smirking, still holding the phone. Then she heard him say, “Your wife’s hot.”

Her husband pulled down the blinds and returned the phone to its cradle. Claire watched him in the ridiculous hat and dowdy
apron and thought, “It’s over.” She expected an explosion but there was none.

“The kids are waiting for us downstairs. They decorated the dining room. Pull yourself together.” He opened the door and turned
around. “And do me a favor. Act surprised.”

Surprised? Why? Claire’s head ached, felt stuffed with goosefeathers. Then she remembered. It was their anniversary.

Later that night, after she had endured the farce of an anniversary party and smiled for the Polaroid pictures and opened
the handmade presents her youngest (the sentimental one) had made, her husband told her he had known. “Maybe not everything
or everyone. But I knew plenty. How could I not know? Don’t you realize you’re the town whore?”

The words stung like a slap. She recoiled. He switched on the reading lamp by the bed. “Don’t look away. You need to hear
this. You need to hear about your kids, who’ve been hearing all about
you
from the other kids in school. They know about the painter you screwed in the new house down the street. The math teacher
you jerked off in the teacher’s lounge, and God knows who else. And in case you’re wondering, they probably know about this
guy, too.” He gestured toward the window. “Brandy Johnson is in Cara’s homeroom. Her father’s doing the electrical work on
the house. So you can assume the whole middle school knows by now.”

Claire wanted him to stop, but knew he was entitled. What she couldn’t understand was his chilling lack of emotion. Why wasn’t
he screaming? Why hadn’t he thrown something at her, or slammed his fist into the wall?

“You don’t think the kids know? You think you can live in a town this size and carry on the way you’ve been carrying on, and
keep it a secret? Do you realize that there’s a rumor going around that Casey’s not even my son? Everyone says he’s the spitting
image of Pastor
Michaels. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you make it with the pastor, too?”

Claire shook her head slowly, too stunned to respond. All this time, he knew. He
knew.
And he never let on. “Why didn’t you say something?” she said feebly. “Why didn’t you just leave my clothes on the lawn and
change the locks?” There was something in her voice then, a simmering blend of awe, confusion, and something else: anger.
Claire had waited her whole marriage for her husband to show some signs of life, and even now, confronted with his wife’s
raging infidelity, he remained calm. A model citizen. That’s what she’d thought the day she met him. A Boy Scout.

“I would never kick you out,” he told her. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

Claire stared at him. “Get what?”

“I love you. I have always loved you. I just…”

“What?”

“I always thought of you as sick. And I prayed that you might get well someday. I never stopped praying.”

Even as Claire realized what a saint she had for a husband, she also knew it was more complicated than that. They’d made a
tacit arrangement years ago: Where sex was concerned, her husband was off the hook. He wasn’t into it, and she wouldn’t demand
it. How she satisfied herself was her own business. He didn’t want to know. She wanted to discuss it, this theory of hers.
But she stopped herself. Her infidelities weren’t merely the dalliances of a frustrated wife and at last she knew it.

Sitting in my office, uncharacteristically unkempt and ashen, Claire finally admitted that she had a problem. (Progress!)
“My husband’s right. I’m sick. I’ve been sick for a long time.” She pulled a tissue out of
her purse and dabbed at her eyes, then delicately blew her nose. “The town whore. Can you believe it?”

Well, yes, of course I can believe it, I thought. I looked at the clock. It was time to end the session. “Now you’re ready
to make real progress,” I told her. “I know it feels like your world is caving in, but believe it or not, you’re going to
get through this.”

I picked up Petey from school and listened to his amiable chatter and thought, this is my life, and my life isn’t so bad after
all. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I literally craved my husband. I decided to put my petty complaints about peanut
butter aside and just love him. I imagined walking into the house and kissing him long and hard.

What I hadn’t imagined, though, is that he had company. As I opened the door from the garage, I heard him say, “She’s home.”
And then I heard a woman say, “Do we tell her now or later?” And then Roger: “I’m not sure. Why don’t we play it by ear?”

’Til next time,

I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Diana sitting in my rocker (
my
rocker) in the living room, a club soda in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She was wearing khaki slacks and
a periwinkle knit top with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves that revealed toned, strong biceps. Her hair, now shoulder-length
and glossy black, was swept into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her face had a few more crow’s feet, but her olive
skin was clear, her lips plump (collagen
injections? hmmmm …) and her teeth brilliant white (bleached?). Jeez, I thought to myself. Maybe I should get myself arrested
too. She looked incredible for a woman fresh out of prison.

She stood as I entered, set her glass down on the side table, called out, “Darling! Darling!” and extended her arms to hug
me. I let her. She pressed her lips to the side of my face, then whispered, “Don’t fret, darling. Everything’s kosher.”

“They let you out?” I couldn’t help myself.

Diana let the comment bounce off her like a Nerf ball. “Oh, darling, don’t put it that way,” she said, laughing. “I’m out.
Free and clear.” She lifted her pants cuffs to show me her unencumbered ankles. Tan legs, white Hilfiger crew socks. “See?”

I looked at Roger and waited for an explanation. I could see the sweat on his upper lip. “Sit, sweetheart. Can I get you a
drink? You look like you need it!” He giggled nervously. I hated that giggle. And all these terms of endearment—sweetheart,
darling—were making me sick.

“I’m fine,” I heard myself say tightly. I wanted to appear casual but couldn’t. I was hurtling headlong into major PMS and
knew I’d sound as pissed off as I felt. Here was my nemesis sitting in my living room, apparently cooking up some scheme with
my husband while I’m at work. I know she thinks prison and that twelve-step program of hers transformed her life, but she’ll
always be a bitch as far as I’m concerned. I looked at Diana, then back at Roger. “So, what’s going on?”

Roger rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath. “I’ve decided …” Uh-oh. Anytime he starts a sentence with “I’ve decided,”
I know there’s trouble ahead. It’s a kind of preemptive strike, as if to say, “I
know you’re going to hate this idea, but this is my business, not yours, so shut up and listen because you have no say in
the matter.”

“… to hire Diana as my new research assistant.” He raised his glass of wine. “I think this calls for a toast.” I couldn’t
believe my ears. As if the week hadn’t been bad enough, now this. Welcome to my world. “Really,” I managed weakly as they
clinked their glasses together. “So, how did this all, uh, happen?” I glanced over at Diana. She was literally beaming. I
took deep cleansing breaths. I counted to ten in my head. I tried to remind myself that Roger and I were on firmer footing,
that there was nothing to fear.

“It was serendipitous, really,” Diana started. “I was picking up some clothes at the dry cleaners, thinking that I really
needed a fresh start, a new career, no more number crunching.” She fiddled with the unlit cigarette, stared at it, ran it
across her lower lip. “Then I’m thinking, but who would hire me? How would I explain the, uh, gap in my employment? So do
you know what I did next?”

“No, Diana, I can’t say that I do.”

“I prayed, of course. Right there in the dry cleaners. I said, God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” She smiled brightly. “It’s the Serenity Prayer.”

I wanted to choke her scrawny neck, but immediately I felt guilty. Many of my patients have literally been saved by twelve-step
programs. I just couldn’t believe she was serious. “Then my higher power answered my prayers,” Diana continued. “Precisely—I
mean, precisely—at the moment I finished praying—”

“—in I walk,” Roger interjected. “And I have my own
worries. As I’m driving to the dry cleaners, I’m thinking, I’m getting deeper into the new play, and it’s time to start adding
the sort of detail that will make my characters come alive. Even though I invented them, I know so little about what they
do. What I really needed—”

“—was a researcher.” Now, wasn’t this special, the two of them finishing off each other’s sentences like an old married couple.
I wanted to scream. “Roger needs someone to investigate his characters’ careers, and present a kind of executive summary,
you might say,” Diana continued. “I’d do the legwork while he concentrates on his … craft.” Diana shot a dazzling smile at
my husband. He grinned back appreciatively. I continued my deep cleansing breaths.

“Isn’t that… I don’t know … kind of cheating?” I asked. The two looked at each other.

“What do you mean, exactly?” Roger finally replied.

“Well, I mean, isn’t research part of the creative process? Is that something you can just farm out to someone else?”

“Sure, of course, it’s done all the time,” he said, a bit of defensiveness registering in his tone. Then, “Diana, can I freshen
your club soda?” I noticed he didn’t bother to ask if I wanted anything.

“That would be lovely.” She offered him her empty glass. I watched my husband saunter out of the room and imagined how satisfying
it would feel to kick his ass.

Diana jumped up from the rocker to the sofa and now sat inches away, her tight thigh almost touching my not-so-tight thigh.
I started to move away but she restrained me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t. Please. Sit.”

I don’t know why, but I flopped back into the couch. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

“I know how you must feel. I really do.”

“Really? And how’s that?”

“Let’s see … you thought you’d gotten rid of me, and now I’m back to haunt you. You ruined my life by turning me in, and now
you’re terrified that I’ll take revenge, that all this twelve-step talk is just an act, that I’m really the same crazy bitch
that made your life a living hell. Oh, and you’re convinced I’m going to get Roger into bed … Am I getting warm?”

She was flaming. But I refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. “Oh, you poor darling. Of course you’d feel that
way,” she went on. “And why shouldn’t you? And I suppose there’s nothing I could say or do today to prove that your fears
are all unfounded. You’ll just have to wait. And see.” She reached over and gave my hand a little squeeze. “You’ll see.”

Now the question is, do I just let Roger go through with this? Do I have the right to ask him not to hire Diana? Has she really
changed? Am I right to be afraid? Or is this some kind of opportunity for spiritual and emotional growth? I honestly don’t
know what to do next.

’Til next time,

I’m depressed. It’s almost the end of April, and where’s our spring? It’s rainy, icky, windy, and cold. I had an entirely
unfulfilling day at work: two cancellations and a double session with Rita, my biggest failure, a thirty-eight-year-old
speech pathologist who’s been stuck in a dead-end relationship for nearly seven years. I wanted to throttle her, to tell her
to shut up and quit whining. I have no patience for people who won’t even do the minimal legwork necessary to change. Maybe
I need a new career. On the drive home I had to listen to this radio talk show host vilify mothers who put their kids in day
care. (Of course, I could have switched stations, but instead I masochistically forced myself to listen to every word.)