Wife Living Dangerously (26 page)

“Busy,” he repeats, squinting at me. “I have an idea. As long as you’re playing hooky, why don’t you change into something
normal. Have you ever been to 611 Worth Street?”

“No. What’s that?”

“I’ll show you. You’ll love it. But maybe you want to change first.”

“I don’t think I can go. I mean, now that I’ve got this Japan project.”

“You wanted a mental health day, remember? Come on, Julia.”

I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.
I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.
I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.

“Give me five minutes.”

611 Worth Street turns out to be a medievalist’s vision of heaven, an underground emporium of swords and axes, suits of armor,
forged buckles, brass and gold garters and girdles, quatrefoil lanterns, herald’s trumpets, gothic triptychs. I must have
passed the corner of Worth and Second a thousand times and never knew this store was here. There is an incense cone burning
on a glass gargoyle, patchouli, intoxicating, arousing.

I point to a long sword on the wall. “Is that real?”

Evan lifts the sword from its stand and touches his finger to the blade.

“The Marshall sword. A replica of Sir William Marshall’s own weapon of choice. Marshall served faithfully under Richard the
Lionhearted.” He offers it to me.

“No, that’s okay.”

“Here. I’ll help you.”

He encircles my arms with his own but the sword is very heavy and it droops in my grip. Evan puts his hands over mine and
now is closer than he has ever been, and I can smell the sweetness of his breath on my neck. “Thirty-three-inch blade, perfectly
balanced, central ridged fuller, full-length distal taper.” I have no idea what he’s talking about and I find it all very
arousing. He turns the sword in our hands, first one way, then the other, then pushes me gently forward as he jabs. “Magnificent
weapon.”

I don’t want him to let go.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but the thought of you in that mink coat, Julia, I mean, the thought of you underneath
the coat…” He still has his arms around me, holding my hands as I grip the sword, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say this.”

“It’s okay. I want you to say it.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

I have cooked dinner and I have done two loads of laundry and now I am writing Caitlin’s report on the Salem witch trials.
She thinks she is dictating to me as I type but her dictation only provides the basis for a far more engaging and sophisticated
report and as far as I’m concerned, I should have done this for my daughter long ago. Every kid in that class gets help from
parents. Last week they brought in their pioneer village projects, and each one was more professional than the next. Ashley
Cain’s village had running water and a stone fireplace with electric wiring to give the illusion of real burning logs. Chaz
Bennett’s was so big that his parents brought it in on a rolling cart and used the handicapped elevator to get it to the class.
Caitlin’s project, on the other hand, actually appeared like the work of a child. The whole thing was constructed from Popsicle
sticks and looked, frankly, like crap. As the other kids and their parents, the real architects, brought in their projects
and I watched Caitlin’s crestfallen expression, I vowed that I would give my daughter every academic advantage, and if that
meant my direct involvement in homework, then so be it.
So be it.

Four words in five hours, unless “ah” counts as a word, in which case he’s averaging one word every hour. Upon arrival, he
says “Hi.” During dinner, the word of the hour is “Fork?” At 9:00
P.M.
he asks, “Where’s the remote?”

I am now on the bedroom floor with my dresser drawer, determined to get it organized in one night. I find three-year-old Target
receipts, junky gum machine trinkets Lucy forced me to buy, then promptly abandoned, loose change, twelve different shades
of foundation (all wrong), tangled necklaces, a million bottles of hotel body lotion (always take them, never use them). Occasionally
I try to engage Michael (“Wow, I wondered where that Dave Matthews CD went”) but he doesn’t respond.

When I cannot endure the silence another moment I blurt out, “For the love of God, Michael, would you please just tell me
what’s bothering you?”

He is in bed with his head propped against the giant denim-covered PrimaLoft-filled “reading wedge” I bought for him last
Christmas from the Company Store catalog. His reading glasses are perched on his nose so he can alternate between watching
the game and perusing the paper. He clicks the mute button on the remote and turns wearily toward me.

“I’m not sure I want to get into it because it’s going to open up a whole can of worms and you look so content there, organizing
your drawer. I don’t want to bother you.”

The famous and familiar Julia-and-Michael tango begins. “But you’ve already brought it up and I can’t relax knowing something’s
bothering you. Please just tell me what it is.”

He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Maybe later, hon.”

“Now.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

Michael bolts upright. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you realize that your daughter is scavenging your drawers for clean
socks? Have you seen the mountain of dirty clothes in the laundry room? Isn’t it just a little ironic that you’re spending
all this time cleaning out, I don’t know, beaver kennels when your own house is such a…” He waves his hand. “Well, you
know. I’m sorry, Jules. I really didn’t want to have to talk about this.

“Julia, I’m sorry. I hate this. I tried to ignore it. But it’s been building up. And you’re the one who’s always saying we
need to talk things out.”

“So talk.”

“Look. Julia. I rely on you to keep things moving smoothly on the home front. I’m not asking for anything extraordinary. Just
the basics. Food, laundry, keeping up with the kids. Did you know, for instance, that Caitlin got a thirty-one on her math
test last week?”

“Yes, I know. And I’m hiring a tutor.”

“Well, a thirty-one is pretty serious, don’t you think?” My affable Michael, a man who would sooner eat moldy bread than confront
me with his grievances, seems to be gaining steam. I can hear Homer spinning in his wheel across the hall and the sound is
amplified by anxiety, grinding my skull.

“I know how happy you’ve been at Cherry Hill. And that’s great, Julie. I’m not trying to be in a fight with you. I love you.
But I just don’t get it. Honey, you used to
care
about this family. But the kids can’t eat frozen pizza for dinner every night. We made a deal, remember? I’d take the job
at Wellman only if you could cover for me at home.”

I wish I could say that I volleyed back a brilliant retort, vindicating myself and all working mothers who struggle mightily
to care for families, earn a living, and do some good in the world. Why hadn’t I documented all the times this week that I’d
wiped runny noses, made nutritionally balanced lunches, played Candyland until I wanted to kill Queen Frostine, cleaned footprints
off the white tile kitchen floor (Michael doesn’t even know where we keep the mop). I wish I had asked him why can’t he do
the laundry once in a while, and how come he gets to play in a band in bars until one in the morning but if I spend a little
time at Cherry Hill I’m tampering with our domestic equilibrium?

But somehow I know that this isn’t about dirty laundry or Caitlin’s thirty-one or my volunteer work. Something else is going
on, and with dread in my heart I force myself to ask, “What’s really bothering you, Michael?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Michael doesn’t say anything right away and his pause compels me to look at him, and when I do I can see that his face is
no longer animated by moral indignation. Now it holds only sadness. Sadness and fear.

“I saw you. Today. On Worth Street. In that medieval store.”

I feel a lump the size of an avocado rise in my throat.

“Ohhh-kaaay,” I say, proceeding cautiously. “And?”

“And you looked like you were having a grand old time, Julie. With some guy who had his arms around you.” Michael looks as
if he’s about to cry. “Who was that?”

“That was Evan Delaney. A colleague, Michael. He’s a medievalist. And he was showing me how to hold a sword. That’s all.”

“Why weren’t you at work?”

“I took the day off.”

“To be with him?”

“No, to be at home. Evan stopped by with some files. He suggested I take a break.” This account of my afternoon is so spare
and devoid of significant detail that it easily ranks as the biggest lie I have ever told.

“That’s all?” Michael asks.

“That’s all.” I go back to reorganizing my drawer and Michael goes back to clicking channels and by the next day it is as
if the entire conversation never took place.

“It occurs to me, Julia Flanagan, that we’ve already engaged in three critical rituals of courtly love.” Evan and I are sitting
under the magnolia tree outside the Bentley, the first time I’ve seen him since our visit to 611 Worth Street. Evan had called
to invite me for a walk and I surprised him by accepting. I saw no reason to deprive myself of the pleasure of being with
this resplendent man who actually wanted to be with me.

“How do you figure?”

“Well, let’s see.” He counts on his big fingers. “One, I’ve serenaded you. Okay, maybe I should have used a lyre instead of
a harmonica but as far as I’m concerned it qualifies. Don’t you think?”

I nod groggily, already drugged by the tacit intimacy in his words. This was a declaration. I had not prepared myself for
it.

“Two, I’ve sent you poems.”

“Yes, you have.” I wonder what will come next and brace myself for something genuinely loving and irreversibly frank.

“Three, I’ve made you the center of my universe.”

I feel myself shining inside; his words fill me like fresh water. Evan has taken the next step, articulating the feelings
that have filled his heart. I want to, but cannot, do the same. I am afraid. All I can manage is: “So what haven’t we done,
Sir Delaney?” His answer surprises me.

“Well, I haven’t challenged anyone to a duel.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Oh, but I must. Now, who would you like me to fight? I suppose I could kill Leslie Keen for making your life a living hell.
Or I could have it out with your husband.”

“Not funny,” I say but my heart is spinning like a gyroscope.

“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

I look at him. “What is this?”

“This what?”

I gesture with my hands, gathering up the air between us. “
This.
This
thing.
What are we doing? What are we?”

Evan gazes at me with those impossibly green eyes, reaches for my hand and kisses it. “We are colleagues, and we are friends,
Julia. This thing we have is called friendship.”

“Is that all it is?”

“Is that all you want it to be?”

“Yes, Evan,” I force myself to say. “That’s all I want it to be.”

“Then I guess we’re good, my friend.” He drops my hands and I feel the air cool the spot he’d kissed.

I must have looked as disappointed as I felt.

“Isn’t that what you wanted to hear? Or was there something else you wanted me to say?”

Friendship isn’t enough for me, Evan, I am thinking. I want to know how it feels to fall asleep in your arms and awaken in
your bed.

“No,” I finally say. “There’s nothing else I wanted to hear.”

“Okay, then.” I watch as Evan rises from our spot under the tree, brushes off his pants, and makes his way back to his office.
I want to grab the leg of his pants and pull him back to me but all I do is sit there and watch him leave me.

Tonight I will call Evan Delaney’s office just to hear his voice on the answering machine.

The beach house is beginning to feel familiar, not nearly as breathtaking as the first time I stepped through the beveled
glass doors. Even the elevator is now just another utilitarian construction detail: How else would one transport coolers from
kitchen level to beach level? I have been spoiled.

I’ve been assigned the corner bedroom this time, the “Swedish Room,” with its view of the bay to the west, and the Atlantic
to the east. I feel guilty taking the largest room, but Frankie insists on it; everyone else has had a turn in this room except
me. Crisp and fresh in white, blue, and young grass green, all solid colors except a single pillow in the middle of the full-sized
bed, a primitive green leaf print. The bed is a pristine antique, with a simple carved headboard in solid alder painted white
dating back, Frankie told me, to the Gustavian period of the late 1700s. Two white nightstands flank the bed, a squarely built
table with a single drawer, and a round pedestal with no drawer. Fresh white geraniums in a small painted blue bucket, a white
plaster dove sitting atop an old leather-bound Bible. Fifteen paces beyond the bed is a sitting area with a white wicker and
wood rocking chair, rolltop desk, sturdy white wooden coffee table, old Norse maps in blue frames, and a pewter tree-of-life
candleholder. The only concession to modernity is the Macintosh computer, a seventeen-inch active matrix flat-screen monitor,
Internet at the ready, so guests can check e-mail and surf the Net.

I could live in this room. I must live in this room. I want Frankie Wilson’s parents to adopt me and let me stay in this simple,
lovely, orderly Swedish room for the rest of my life. I would read the Bible every night and plot imaginary journeys on the
Norse maps. I flop across the goose feather comforter and wonder how my friends would react if I simply refused to go back
to Indiana with them. Surely there is some obscure legal loophole to protect me. Squatter’s rights? Possession is nine-tenths
of the law? How could I return to my life in Larkspur Estates and behave as if nothing had happened? How could I go back to
putting the trash out on Wednesday nights like a regular person? Would I look any different, pulling out of my driveway, squinting
into the sunlight, and flipping down the visor? Decorating my mailbox with the seasonal mailbox covers I’d bought through
the Lillian Vernon catalog, the rosy hearts in February, the penguins in Santa costumes in December? Christmas parties, bulb
planting, garage sales, gutter cleaning, retrieving the mail, putting out the trash—I feel as if I am no longer entitled to
these rituals of domesticity. I should be living in a house on fire. In fact, I should be ablaze myself.