The Affair (32 page)

Today at Barnes & Noble, I told Petey I’d buy him a book—a little paperback based on the new Tarzan movie. When Roger came
over to us, I handed him the book and asked him to go pay for it. He looked at it and frowned. “Do we really want our son
reading this kind of tripe?” he asked. Petey, who was sitting on the chair next to mine, was already bracing himself for an
argument. “But Mom said she’d buy it for me,” he protested, voice wavering. Roger sighed one of his big theatrical sighs.
“I think we need to discuss this.”

“Now?”

“Now is as good a time as any,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t abide this kind of reading material.” He folded his
arms like a schoolmarm, a disapproving old biddy. “Now that Pete’s taken a real interest in reading, he needs quality. Not
stupid books based on stupid movies.”

Pete looked at me hopefully. I reached for the book and tucked it under my arm. “Sorry, Roger, but I already told him he could
have it.”

“Fine. Then you pay for it. I’ll be waiting in the car.” Exit stage left. I offered to read the book to Petey at
bedtime but he said he didn’t want to hear it. “Maybe some other time,” he said, looking sad. Roger didn’t talk to me for
the rest of the night. Welcome to my marriage.

The Tarzan episode continues. This morning I woke early to buy Roger breakfast—a scrambled egg and cheese on an onion bagel,
his favorite—and he barely thanked me. “What is it with you?” I asked him. “Would you please talk to me?”

He put down the newspaper and stared at me. “I’m tired of you dismissing me in front of our son.”

“What do you mean, dismissing you?” I said.

“I mean, I told you I didn’t want him reading that crap and you went ahead and bought it anyway. What kind of message does
that send?”

I wanted to choke him! “Excuse me? And what kind of message does it send to have Mommy capitulate every time Daddy snaps his
fingers? Huh?”

“You know what? You know what? It makes me absolutely sick to my stomach that you let him read that crap. What the hell is
wrong with you, anyway?” That ugly, bulging vein on Roger’s forehead was throbbing now.

“What’s wrong with me?” I demanded. “How about you? You encourage him to watch
Xena!
You’ve rented
A Very Brady Sequel
, like, four times! You let him stay up until ten
P.M.
watching Nick at Nite. Don’t talk to me about crap!”

Then Roger did something that made me absolutely maniacal. “Look at you. Just look at you,” he said, gesturing toward me.
“What is this, some kind of performance?” He looked around the room in search of imaginary spectators.

“Bravo! Bravissimo! Such drama. Such projection.” He cupped his hands around his mouth to form a megaphone. “Are you auditioning
or something? Is that what’s going on? An audition?” Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s no need to emote, you
know. I’m only two feet away.”

I grabbed a hairbrush and threw it. It hit the wall, six inches from his ear. I was filled with unspeakable rage. I screamed,
“I hate you!” My throat burned and I sobbed into my hands, feeling my nose and eyes swell. Roger sat there, serene and fully
in control. He had won. “Maybe we can revisit this issue after you’ve pulled yourself together,” he said coolly. He put a
hand on the doorknob and turned toward me once more. “That time of the month?”

As a matter of fact, it is. God, how I hate my husband right now.

Big improvement. Roger actually apologized. While he still insists I was wrong to buy the Tarzan book, he realizes it’s something
we should have discussed privately and understands it was wrong to expect me to back down in front of Petey. Wow.
Big
progress. I’m still mad at him but things are so lousy at work I can’t afford to be in a fight with him right now. I’ve got
this theory that if something’s wrong in one important area of your life, you’d better work like hell to keep things stable
everywhere else, or you’re headed for a breakdown. When Roger apologized, he gave me a smile that literally melted the anger.
It’s hard to stay mad at him. Does that make me a wimp, or a wife? Is my ability to recover so quickly a sign that I’m incredibly
strong, or incredibly screwed up?!?

I’ve decided to take a chance and show up at the next Wilton staff meeting. I called Marlena this morning to confirm the day
and time: Wednesday, 11
A.M.
“We’ve missed having your shining face at the table,” she said, her voice genuinely warm, as usual.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “I’ve missed you all too.”

“What happened last week?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, coming in at the end of the meeting. That’s not like you.”

“It’s not me. It’s, well, there was a miscommunication, I guess.” It took all my self-restraint to keep from mentioning Cadence.
I didn’t want to drag Marlena into this ugly mess, especially now that she’ll have to work with that Amazon.

“So we’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Marlena chirped.

“I’ll be there!” I said, trying to sound bright.

The meeting went without a hitch. The Amazon blanched when she arrived to find me sitting at the table, already engaged in
light banter with Marlena and Wey, the young, funny therapist who works as an art therapist, mostly with kids. I took the
role of elder stateswoman, offering my wise counsel when consulted, and (thankfully) I was consulted frequently. (Jack, the
fortyish social worker who came on to me at the center retreat two years ago, seemed especially interested in what I had to
say. Maybe because things have been so rotten at home, I found myself staring at his sexy mouth.) In fact, once I stopped
focusing on the Amazon, I actually enjoyed myself. Wilton is like the center’s feisty, scrappy alter ego. It’s always invigorating
to be around the staff, makes me feel like a graduate student again. It was hard to go back to my quiet office, harder still
to find the following message from Cadence in my e-mail box: “See me.” I decided to ignore it. See yourself, you big moron.

Get this: Tonight we interviewed a potential baby-sitter for Petey. When I opened the door, my first thought was, Not a chance,
kiddo. This girl was a
knockout.

She was wearing a gauzy little top, tiny shorts, gorgeous smile, long blond hair. “Hi, I’m Amber.” I must have been staring,
because then she said, “You know, I called about the baby-sitting job?”

Roger, who should have been deeply immersed in
Xena
and has never shown any interest in interviewing baby-sitters, suddenly materialized. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce
me?” he asked.

I glared at him. “Amber, this is my husband, Roger Tisdale.” She practically jumped off the sofa.

“Roger Tisdale? You wrote
Basic Black?
Are you that Roger Tisdale?”

Roger pulled himself up to his full five feet eleven inches. “That’s me.” He extended a hand. I hated that eager look on his
face. “Wipe the drool off your face,” I mumbled. They both looked at me. God, I think I’m developing Tourette’s. I couldn’t
restrain myself.

“I auditioned for Jasmine.” She pouted. “But I didn’t get it. They said I was too, uh, sexy.”

“Indeed,” my husband said, smiling. Leering.

I want to finish this story but I see I’ve got a client coming in a minute and I’ve got to review her file.

’Til next time,

So there we were yesterday, in the living room: Amber, the baby-sitter candidate, radiating erotic youth, my darling husband
practically ejaculating into his Dockers, me feeling fat and jealous. Had I known that this girl would turn out to be so perfect,
I wouldn’t have answered the door in a stained oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans. The truth is, she sounded ugly on the phone.
She had one of those mucus-clotted voices that suggests a deviated septum or harelip. I expected slow and fat and jolly. I
never expected long and lean and stacked. Nor did I expect a theater aficionado who just happened to audition for a role in
my husband’s play but got rejected because she was “too sexy.”

When I left the room to answer the phone, Amber was sitting on the piano bench while Roger stood at the archway, chatting
amiably. When I returned, they were both on the sofa, Roger’s arm draped over the back, his fingers just barely touching her
bare, tanned shoulder. I knew that would happen.

They were discussing Roger’s work. He looked elated, charmed, smitten. “And it’s precisely that yearning I explore in my new
play,” he said to her.

“Your new play?!” Amber widened her eyes and opened her mouth to reveal two rows of perfect teeth. She was really turning
it on—and so shamelessly, given the fact that Roger’s wife, the woman who would ultimately determine her employment, was standing
right there.

Neither one seemed to notice or care that I had returned to the room, or that we’d lost sight of the original
purpose of the meeting. I sat on the piano bench and waited, trying to appear respectful as Roger summarized his plot. At
some point Amber must have remembered that she’d come to interview for a baby-sitting position. “So. Where’s the little guy?”
she asked.

“He’s in the family room,” I answered. “His name is Peter.”

“That should be easy to remember. That’s my little brother’s name.”

“Oh, really?” I said as Petey walked into the room with his bucket of Legos. Amber immediately squatted beside him and said
playfully, “Oooh! Legos! My favorite. Can I play?” I could see the outline of a thong through her shorts.

Petey regarded her cautiously. “I guess so.” He pushed a handful of blocks in her direction.

Roger shot a look at me that said, “Isn’t she just wonderful? Aren’t we the luckiest family in the world to have found such
a delightful young woman to watch our child? Won’t she make a fabulous baby-sitter?” I shot back a look that said, “Not on
your friggin’ life, kiddo.” I watched the smile fade from Roger’s face. I glanced at my watch. “Roger, it’s almost nine. Would
you get Pete in the tub, please?”

“Oh, hon, I think we can be a little flexible with bedtime, don’t you?”

“Actually, no. He’s going on a field trip tomorrow. He needs his sleep. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

My husband didn’t budge. It was like wrenching a kid out of a candy store. Finally he said, “Well, okay, then.” He extended
a hand to Amber. “It was a pleasure. I imagine we’ll be seeing more of you.” Amber put out a smooth, tanned arm. She didn’t
shake his hand, exactly. She sort of rocked it sideways, as if she planned
to take off with him. I waited until Roger was safely upstairs before I turned to Amber and said, “Well, thanks for stopping
by.”

She looked surprised. “We’re done?” She moved toward her bag and reached in. “I brought my résumé. I’ve got references. I
was a nanny for the Friedmans. They live around here, somewhere. Do you know them?”

“I don’t believe I do.” I took the résumé and unfolded it. Lots of experience. She even knew CPR. She’d probably make a terrific
sitter. But then I remembered that look on her face when she met Roger. And then I thought of Alyssa, the first time I spotted
her with Roger outside the school, how they looked like they were in their own little lovers’ bubble, impervious and oblivious.
Suddenly I felt my inner bitch rocket to the surface. What I said next was so uncharacteristic, so incredibly Jerry Springer-ish,
I almost scared myself: “I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Number one, you’re not getting this job.” My heart lodged itself in my clavicle. “Number two, you’re not going to contact
my husband. You will not audition for his next play. You will not ask to be his intern or assistant or gofer or anything.
You will not call here under the pretext of doing an article for your school newspaper. You will not,” I stopped myself. This
girl didn’t know what had hit her. She looked like she was going to cry. I’d scared her. She was just a kid. I felt horrible.
“Look. I’m sorry. It’s just that, I’ve been through this before. I don’t want to go through it again.”

Amber had recovered. Now she was insolent. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

I watched her hop into her Miata. She floored the
pedal and roared away. Roger trotted down the stairs. “Where is she?” he asked.

“Who?” As if I didn’t know.

“You know. The girl. The baby-sitter. Amber.”

“Oh, she’s gone.”

“So, what did you think? She’s something else, isn’t she?”

“What do you mean, Roger?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You know what I mean. She’s great. Don’t you think? I mean, the way she bonded with Pete
so quickly, just got down on the floor with him and really clicked with him, don’t you think?”

“No, Roger, I don’t think.” I started up the stairs. “Do you have any idea what just happened in that room?” I asked, pointing
toward the sofa.

“What do you mean?”