Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  She enters the house—their house—and drops her bag at her feet. The first thing she sees is Miles’s umbrella, his fucking British umbrella that opens to the size of a carport. She takes it in both hands, lifts it overhead, and brings it crashing down on the hall table, scattering the pile of mail she’s ignored for a week. She raises the umbrella and brings it down again.

  “Goddamn you!”

  Electricity courses through her limbs. Still clutching the umbrella, she strides into the living room and up the stairs. She flings open the door to their bedroom, crosses to the far side of the bed—Miles’s side—and swings the umbrella across the night table, sending books and all his other crap flying. The tip of the umbrella catches in the drapes. Jackie gives it a yank, then lets it fall to the floor. She storms out of the room, kicking a tissue box and an alarm clock out of her way.

  “Goddamn you, Miles!”

  In the hallway, she pauses, panting. She’s wearing her coat, her boots, her scarf. Sweat breaks out on her back, on the nape of her neck. She unwraps the scarf, takes off the coat. The white-hot energy is gone, burned through. Her legs wobble as she returns downstairs and to the front door, where she pulls off her boots, abandoning them among the mail.

  She thinks of Antonio for the first time. Her eyes go to his bedroom door, which is closed. If he were home, he’d have heard her and come out. Something small to be thankful for.

  Jackie hangs up her coat and picks up the mail. As she’s stacking it on the table, the specter of Harlan’s face appears before her, grinning at her over her husband’s shoulder. Jackie holds on to the coatrack to stop herself from getting in her car, driving over to his house, and burning the goddamn place to the ground. She wants to do this with every cell in her body. She wants to destroy him. If she thought she could get away with it, she would.

  Jackie binge-watches House of Cards and, when she’s dizzy with hunger, scrounges for what she can eat without effort: crackers, olives, the ends of cheese, more crackers. She glances out the window to assess the time of day, drinks a bottle of wine. Antonio comes, Antonio goes. She barely talks to him, unwilling to delve into anything meaningful and equally unwilling to pretend nothing is wrong. He doesn’t press her. Avoidance is his strategy, too.

  She falls asleep, wakes, watches TV. The day passes, and the night, time slipping under her feet like a treadmill.

  It is Christmas Eve morning. Not that she gives a shit.

  Grace might call in advance of Christmas morning, and Jackie would not want to worry her, so she turns on her phone. Jackie is supposed to be there tomorrow, although it seems unfathomable that she would be able to accomplish everything necessary, mentally and physically, to arrive in another town to celebrate anything. So much excitement and joy. So many smiling, cheerful people. Impossible that seven people she is related to could be so cheerful. (She is not counting her mother.)

  Jackie is out of crackers. The house is close, and the air, which she had not noticed at all, now feels toxic. The furniture, the windows, the walls, appear coated in film. She is coated in film. She drags herself to the shower, runs it scalding. When she is clean and dry, she rummages for a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater.

  The shower has exhausted her, the hot water and steam have melted her tendons. She stumbles as she pulls on socks, slips on her winter boots. It’s cold out, she reminds herself. Winter. Christmas.

  Her coat is by the door, her keys, her wallet. The frigid air slams her in the face. The feeling of it is exquisite. She thinks of rowing, long pulls of the oars, again and again, until her thighs bite in pain, but the thought holds for only a second. The river. Jeff.

  Her hair is damp and she has no hat. She pulls up her hood and walks to the shops. She wants the bakery, but even as a possibility, it is too reminiscent of happiness. She desires only the cold air, the shock of it, and something that isn’t crackers and opts for the corner grocery store, which contains the miracle of having everything despite its size.

  This miracle she can manage.

  At home again, her phone warbles. Miles.

  By the fifth ring, Jackie realizes she can’t avoid him forever. Well, she could avoid him forever, but she has things she wants to say, and questions she wants answered.

  “Hi, Jackie.” His voice breaks. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Let’s not start with that, okay?”

  “Okay, you’re right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Courtyard on State Street.”

  Not at Harlan’s? It doesn’t matter to her one way or the other. The damage is done. Jackie pictures the hotel room, the drab furnishings, the patterned carpet, the reminder cards on every surface, the windows that don’t open. She does not feel sorry for him.

  “What happened with the police?” She keeps her questions neutral. There is no point in asking if he did it.

  “They asked a lot of questions but didn’t charge me with anything. My lawyer—Rory McMaster, the guy I used for Antonio—says they can’t build a murder case with zero evidence.” He pauses. “They kept asking me about the boathouse.”

  The mention of their shared activity, the one that brought them together, stops the conversation. The silence enlarges until it compresses the air around Jackie and she struggles to breathe. She gasps, half filling her lungs, then coughs.

  “Jackie? Are you all right?”

  The weight of her losses, the extent of her foolishness and gullibility, hits her once more. The rickety scaffolding from which she launched her feeble attempt at a full life has collapsed. No, she is very much the opposite of all right, and Miles damn well knows it.

  Miles says, “You don’t really think I could do that, do you? To your friend?”

  His naked presumption pulls her upright, as if she has an obligation to consider him in a good light, to be fair with him. “You know what, Miles? I honestly don’t know who the hell you are or what you’re capable of.”

  “Darling.” His voice is pillow-talk soft. “I know you’re angry, but can we do this in person? Just talk?”

  “Fuck off, Miles.”

  She punches her screen with her finger and ends the call.

  How is it possible to feel furious and devastated at the same time? Oh, and humiliated and heartbroken and gullible, too. With so much emotion coursing through her veins—her cortisol levels must be through the roof—it’s like she doesn’t have skin or muscle, just nerve ends and neurons and hormones, pure emotional juice.

  In the bathroom she splashes her face with cold water. She avoids scrutinizing herself in the mirror, hurriedly pulls her hair into a ponytail, then, desperate to burn off energy, scrubs the kitchen counters even though they aren’t dirty. If she keeps busy, she won’t implode.

  The kitchen is as antiseptic as an operating room when the doorbell rings. She wipes her hands as she goes to the door, checks the door cam.

  Miles.

  She yanks open the door. “Why are you here?”

  “To talk. Can we please talk?”

  Jackie turns away without answering, leaving the door open. Why not talk to him? She does have questions, although she can’t guarantee she won’t pummel him before he answers. At least he didn’t just waltz in as if he weren’t a cheating bastard who destroyed their marriage. It’s the little things, she thinks, as she dumps the towel on the kitchen counter, punch-drunk on adrenaline and grief.

  Miles stops at the end of the hallway. He looks terrible—bags under his eyes, lines around his mouth that age him ten years, a sadness in his eyes she’s never seen.

  Good.

  Jackie moves into the living room, keeping her distance. “Antonio’s in his room if you want to say hello.” She knows her casualness is cruel and doesn’t care.

  Miles follows her, shucking off his coat on the way. “I texted him before I left the hotel, saying I’d take him out to eat in a while.”

  Jackie picks up the throw from the couch and folds it to have something to do with her hands.
It’s as though Miles doesn’t belong in this house already, like he’s a guest. Their marriage is a fresh corpse he steps over with exaggerated politeness, not looking down.

  She sits, the tension in her limbs now apparent. Her neck is encased in a steel collar, and her heartbeat is kicking up.

  Hello, anger. Welcome back.

  Miles lowers himself into the chair across from her. He looks at her, and she meets his gaze. A long moment ticks by, and Jackie has the sensation of viewing the two of them from above, with the marriage corpse between them.

  He leans forward. “I’m so sorry, Jackie.” He waits for her to speak, then continues. “I’m sorry about your friend. I had nothing to do with his death. You know that, don’t you?”

  Jackie is surprised to hear herself speak; the voice seems to come from elsewhere. “Many things I was certain of are apparently false.”

  Miles winces. “I know. I get it. But I didn’t kill anyone.”

  She has felt the truth of this since she heard of Jeff’s death, but she doesn’t trust her judgment anymore. Change of subject. “Tell me about the men.”

  He pulls back, as if she struck him, but then nods and resettles in the chair, resigned. He had to have thought of what to say. “I’ve struggled with it, really struggled. I guess you’d call it denial.” He’s been studying his shoes, but glances at her briefly. “I had an affair with a man when I was married before. Beatrice and I tried to work through it, but failed.”

  “Antonio knew.”

  Miles sighs and spreads his hands. “She was adamant about being open with him. I wasn’t so sure.”

  Jackie imagines Antonio as a young teen, learning about his father’s sexuality, the implications for his parents’ marriage. And here he is again. She wonders if she and Antonio might have become closer if this secret hadn’t been wedged between them.

  Miles is watching her. “I know what a mess I made. Believe me, I know.”

  “What about since then?”

  “Rarely. Because of my denial. Because of my job.”

  His job? It hasn’t occurred to her, she hasn’t had time to think that far, but Miles is probably right that young football players and their families might not put their trust in a gay man as readily as one married to a woman. “Is that why you proposed to me?”

  “What? No, Jackie. Of course not.” She has no faith in his denial. He leans toward her, his elbows on his knees, clasps his hands. His eyes are pleading. “I haven’t had an affair since I’ve been with you. Never.” His voice breaks. “Not until . . .”

  Jackie’s throat closes. He can’t even say Harlan’s name.

  “Please believe me.” He searches her face, then gives up. “Why did you come to Harlan’s, anyway? He said he had no idea.”

  Jackie shakes her head at Harlan’s duplicity, the layers of it. “He sent me a text, Miles. He wanted me there. He staged the whole thing. Why else send me a text, saying you were in a bad state, saying I should come?”

  Miles looks incredulous, and his expression reminds her of Nasira’s when Jackie tried to convince her of Harlan’s ulterior motive. Sure, it’s not easy to accept that you’re a pawn, and Harlan is so convincing, so slippery. But Jackie is weary of being the one who now sees through his facade, the one whose job it is to open everyone’s eyes. Let Miles figure it out himself. “When did it start with Harlan?”

  “Recently, as in a couple of weeks ago. I’m telling you, it was like he suddenly noticed me, like a sign lit up on my forehead that said, ‘Men Wanted.’” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I was so fucking helpless. So fucking helpless.” He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m truly sorry.” His shoulders heave as he tries to hold himself together.

  Jackie cannot bear to witness this, and yet her anger and pain won’t allow her to go to him. That her best feelings toward him should be thwarted by his transgression makes her anger hotter, but the impulse to comfort him is still there.

  She gets up. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “I’ve got coffee.”

  “Okay. Coffee.”

  In the kitchen, twenty feet distant from her husband, Jackie forces herself to take deep breaths. She prepares their coffees—how many times has she executed this small domestic routine?—and turns over what Miles has shared. Her stomach sours at the thought of him with someone else, and her mind skitters away from the details. Being held by someone else, wanting them, giving to them, that’s where the knife goes in.

  And Harlan. Not just some other man. Harlan. She knows all too well what it is like when he fixes you in his sights. You freeze, as prey do, forgetting even to cry out in surrender. She and Miles share this now.

  Jackie returns to the living room and hands Miles his mug.

  “Thanks.”

  The way he takes the mug, the familiarity of the movement, the cadence of his voice over that one word. She resents knowing how soft his fine blond hair is, the way his dimples appear when he’s delighted, the weight of his hand in hers. She moves away, bends a leg under herself, and sits, cradling her mug in her hands. “Have you heard from Harlan?”

  “No. Not since Friday.”

  “The police must’ve interviewed him.”

  “I assume so, since I was at his house when Jeff died.”

  Jackie sets down her glass. Again she considers telling Miles everything she suspects about Harlan, the whole theory. But she doesn’t have the energy to lay it all out, try to convince him, but she can at least warn him. Miles might be more than a pawn in Harlan’s scheme; he might be a target. “I know you didn’t believe me when I said Harlan was acting strange, but you should think about it now, think about how he might not be acting in your best interests. Who knows what the police know about Jeff’s death that we don’t? Who knows what Harlan said to the police? This is serious, Miles, more serious than an affair.” Miles is doubtful, but Jackie presses on. “Tell me what happened that night, what you told the police.”

  “It’s pretty simple. I went to his house from the airport, with an Uber. I got there about four thirty.” He drops his gaze. “We had drinks, several, and . . . got involved. I don’t know exactly when, but at some point Harlan said he was going downstairs to his office to work. I fell asleep.”

  Jackie pushes away the image of her husband sleeping peacefully in a tangle of sheets on Harlan’s bed. “Then what?”

  “Antonio called at around half past eleven. Then I called you.”

  “Where was Harlan?”

  “There, asleep. I mean, he woke up when Antonio called.”

  “So he could’ve been anywhere, then.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You know what I’m worried about? The possibility that Harlan told the cops he couldn’t account for where you were between whenever you said you went to sleep and eleven thirty. You could’ve left without him knowing.”

  “I don’t have a key.”

  “You could’ve left the front door unlocked or taken a key. You could’ve gone in and out a million ways.”

  Miles scowls. “What are you saying? I thought you believed me.”

  “I’m trying to believe you, Miles, but it’s hard.” She wields her doubt as a weapon, but does not own it. “You did just deceive me.” Miles closes his eyes, as if to hide from her, as a child would. “Anyway, it’s the police you have to convince. And I doubt your friend Harlan is going to help you with that.”

  Miles’s expression is skeptical as he reaches for his mug. The cuff of his shirt slips back, exposing his allergy and fitness bracelet. He never removes it. Jackie’s thoughts spark.

  She gets up and places her mug in the kitchen sink, eager for Miles to leave. “Antonio’s probably hungry.”

  Miles follows her partway into the kitchen and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thanks, Jackie.”

  She notes he did not call her “darling” or “beautiful” as he has always done. She misses it already, and the ache in her ches
t expands. “Thanks for what?”

  “For not being as angry as you have every right to be.”

  “I could get angry, and I probably will be again soon. But right now I’m sad, and that’s a lot harder.”

  His face falls. “Can I hold you?”

  “No.”

  He stands there, unwilling to give up.

  “Go out with Antonio, Miles. I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

  “Okay, Jackie. I will.” He looks at her a moment longer, then walks down the hall to knock on Antonio’s door.

  After they leave, Jackie retrieves her laptop from her computer bag and opens it on the kitchen counter. She finds the MedFit page and logs in. Before she gave Miles the bracelet, she set up the account for him so he could start using it immediately. He appreciates technology but prefers his experience to be turnkey.

  Jackie hasn’t been on the site since she established the account, so it takes her a few clicks to navigate to the fitness data and find the right date: December 22. She sets the time frame for 3:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. and selects the graph icon. A line graph appears. The heart rate line is red, the activity line blue. Jackie follows the blue line with her cursor, evaluating whether it corresponds to what Miles told her about that evening. From four to four thirty-five, when Miles said he was in an Uber, the activity is near zero. For the next two hours, it undulates between zero and low activity, consistent with having drinks with Harlan, moving about the house, probably going out to the patio for a smoke. At about six thirty, the pattern changes abruptly; the heart rate line shoots up like a flare, and the activity line ratchets higher.

  Jackie’s stomach clenches. She slams the laptop closed and paces from the kitchen to the living room and back again. She can’t bear to examine the data anymore—it’s torture—and why should she care whether she can corroborate Miles’s story? Jeff is dead. Her marriage is over. What power does the truth hold when her world is in ruins?