What You Don't Know

by Merry Jones

  “I wish she’d dump him,” Alex said. “How many affairs has he had now?”

  What? Who? Was everyone thinking about affairs? Smiles and nods.

  “Too many to count.” Patty began listing the women.

  Barbara sipped mimosa number three. “His wife is just about the only one he doesn’t screw.”

  Everyone laughed, then paused to chew biscuits and corn muffins, to sip drinks.

  Nora toyed with her wedding ring. “So, you’re saying she should divorce him?”

  Three heads turned to her.

  “Catch it on Netflix, Nora.” Patty swallowed her biscuit. “You know the actor—Steve Harding.”

  Nora wasn’t sure who that was. She pictured someone tall and handsome who strongly resembled Dave.

  “The guy has political ambitions, and he uses everyone,

  especially his wife,” Patty said.

  Nora glanced at Barbara whose husband also had political

  ambitions.

  “But she can’t divorce him,” Patty continued. “I mean, deep down he loves her.”

  “Seriously? He doesn’t love anyone. He loves power.” Alex reached for another muffin.

  “No, he loves her,” Patty insisted. “He always comes back to her.”

  “Because he can. Because she doesn’t have the balls to

  confront him.” Alex bit off a chunk of celery.

  “She knows he’s cheating?” Nora asked.

  Nobody answered. Patty munched. Alex scowled. Barbara shrugged.

  “Not sure,” Alex said. “I mean, she should. But like they say, the wife is the last to know.”

  “Bull,” Barbara spoke with authority. “If wives don’t know, it’s because they prefer denial to facing the truth. If your husband is cheating, you’ve got to know something’s off.”

  “But on the show, she doesn’t see it even though it’s right in her face.” Patty popped the rest of a biscuit into her mouth.

  “The only reason she doesn’t dump him is that it’s a television series and they need to keep the tension up for like, thirteen episodes. In real life? She’d have sent him packing three seasons ago.” Alex crossed her arms.

  “Is anyone else cold? Think they’d turn the air down?” Barbara asked.

  No one else was cold. Patty told Barbara that being cold was her punishment for being thin. She needed to put on weight like the rest of them. Body fat would keep her warm. Barbara gave Patty the finger. Alex gave Barbara her cardigan.

  Nora finished the bloody mary and watched drops of red juice slide over the last of the melting ice. “Let’s say it wasn’t a TV show. Would you still think she should kick him out?” She

  directed the question to Barbara.

  Barbara blinked. “But it is a TV show.”

  “Right. But in real life, should an affair end a marriage?”

  “Oh God, Nora. You’re not having one, are you?” Patty gasped.

  “You can tell us, if you are.” Alex lowered her voice. Her eyes seemed hungry.

  The three of them leaned forward, resting their elbows on the table, blinking at Nora like starving crows. None of her friends had any idea about five years ago, what Dave had done, what Nora had forgiven.

  “Of course not.” Nora made herself laugh. “I’m just asking.”

  “She’s thinking about it,” Barbara told the others. “Well, take my advice, Nora. Don’t do it.”

  “How can you tell her not to?” Patty grinned. “You of all

  people.”

  Wait, was Patty joking? Had Barbara had an affair?

  “Shut up, Patty.” Barbara slapped Patty’s arm. “Don’t be a bitch.”

  “Seriously,” Nora pressed on, facing one friend, then another. Smiling to make her questions seem harmless. “I mean, Barbara, if Paul had an affair, would you kick him out? Patty, would you divorce Ronny?”

  The women started tittering.

  Patty scoffed. “Ronny? No mere woman could lure him from his beloved recliner.”

  Alex said that, between his plastic surgery practice and training for marathons, Ed had no time for one woman, let alone two. “Plus, he’s too disorganized to make a haircut appointment. How could he arrange secret trysts?”

  “Paul would never.” Barbara’s husband was campaigning for the Senate, so despite his good looks and opportunities, he wouldn’t risk bad publicity. Besides, he openly doted on Barbara, sending her flowers and love notes, calling her several times each day even when he was out of town.

  “Fine, so none of them would cheat,” Nora said. Was she the only one whose husband had strayed? Was she a chump for

  staying with him? “But what if they did?”

  The others looked at her, losing their laughter as if they sensed her urgency. Patty’s eyes narrowed. Alex stared at Nora, brow furrowed. Barbara sat at attention, studying her drink.

  “I wouldn’t want to know,” Patty said. “I’d hope Ronny would make sure I didn’t find out.”

  “Really? You’d want to be lied to?” Nora’s chest tightened. “Because for me, the lying would be even worse than the

  cheating. How could you ever trust him again?”

  “If I didn’t know about it, it’d be the same as if it weren’t happening. At least as far as I was concerned. What’s the old saying? What you don’t know can’t hurt you?”

  Alex shook her head. “I’d want to know. If Ed’s keeping

  secrets that big, the marriage is over. Isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.” Nora tried to make her voice sound playful. “I mean, could a marriage survive?”

  “Not mine,” Barbara said. “Paul would never cheat. And if I did, the marriage wouldn’t survive, and neither would I. Paul would kill me.”

  Alex laughed. “For sure, murder would be involved at my house too. I’d kill Ed’s ass.”

  “Not me,” Patty said. “What good would Ronny be if he’s dead? I’d divorce him and take every cent he ever earns.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Barbara said. “You’d never divorce Ronny.”

  Patty folded her hands and sighed. “You’re right. I’d stay with him and make his life hell. He’d spend the rest of his days trying to win my forgiveness.”

  The waiter delivered two Caesar salads with grilled chicken, a barbecued brisket sandwich, and Nora’s black-eyed pea soup. They ordered more drinks. Around them, the room buzzed with conversation and the clinking of utensils on plates.

  As they ate, Patty told them to come clean. Had any of them ever cheated?

  Nora set down her soup spoon, wondering. Her gaze moved to Patty’s familiar round face and heart-shaped mouth. She’d known Patty since high school. Patty would never cheat, could never keep secrets, especially big ones. Alex was a tennis player, a golfer, a dieter. A stickler for the rules, so she was also a no. What about Barbara? Nora wasn’t sure. Barbara was an unknown, with her perfect hair, enhanced breasts, elegant jewels, and perfectly manicured nails. She’d met Paul when she’d been a dealer at a casino, mingling with high rollers. Hmmm. Maybe.

  Nobody volunteered anything.

  “Okay, so no one’s admitting actual cheating,” Patty went on, “but has anybody been tempted?”

  Alex sat back and straightened her arms, as if pushing the question away.

  Barbara studied the remains of her salad, folding her hands on her lap. “Don’t you guys think we should talk about the book?”

  “Screw the book,” Patty said. “Don’t dodge the question.”

  Alex cleared her throat. “Of course, I’ve been tempted. Who hasn’t? Hot men are everywhere. I mean, have you seen the butt on our waiter?”

  Laughter. Nods. Admissions. Flicks of hair and bites of lunch.

  Nora put on a grin but didn’t say anything. Her friends probably wouldn’t believe her, but she’d never been tempted to cheat on Dave. Sure, there were men she considered sexy—Barbara’s husband, Paul, for examp
le. But Paul’s sexiness was merely a fact, like his eye color or profession. It didn’t involve her.

  “So, if we’re playing truth or dare,” Barbara swallowed mimosa, “I’ll need a few more drinks.”

  Everyone laughed, maybe nervously.

  “With Paul around, why would you ever look at anyone else?” Patty asked. “He’s a heartthrob. It’s like he stepped off a GQ cover.”

  Patty and Alex listed bellies, baldness, hairy shoulders, and other reasons as to why their husbands would never adorn

  magazine covers. Barbara remained silent.

  They all had too much to drink. By the end of lunch, Nora was shocked to learn that Patty had lost her virginity to Mr. Kohl, their high school swim coach. Alex had had an abortion sophomore year of college. And before Paul, Barbara had partied with her share of high rollers and done lots of cocaine.

  When Nora’s turn came, she searched for a secret that would match the level of their confidences. Tommy shot into her mind. “Why not tell them about me?” But Tommy was a secret she would never share. So, she had nothing.

  Her other secrets were mundane—shaving her legs even though her mother had said she was too young. Or junior year of college, getting an extension on a term paper because of her dog’s death when she hadn’t had a dog. Yawn. Boring. Nora needed something juicy. But what? She thought of Dave and his secrets. He must be done playing tennis. Was he in a hotel room with another woman, his tennis racket lying beside the bed? Stop it, she told herself. Just stop.

  Finally, she told a partial truth about experiencing serious post-partum depression after Ellie. Nobody seemed impressed so she embellished, telling them of a day when, exhausted, sore from breastfeeding, and drowning in diapers, laundry, and baby throw-up, she’d thought seriously of suicide.

  Patty’s mouth dropped. “God, Nora. Why didn’t you call me?”

  Nora’s face got hot. She’d gone too far, made her story too extreme, made herself sound over-the-top too different. Weirdo. Freak.

  Patty looked stunned and hurt that Nora would have kept such a big secret from her. She promised that she would have been there and made Nora get help. Nora wanted to back up and erase her story, replace it with something more normal. But she was committed to it now. She reached across the table and took Patty’s hand, explaining that, back then, she hadn’t been able to articulate her feelings. By the time she could, her depression had lifted and there was nothing to talk about.

  Patty’s face relaxed. Nora’s remained hot, flushed with shame for lying. But she’d wanted to fit in with her friends, to provide a story that made her seem as interesting as they were. And her contemplation of suicide had worked, because afterward, they started telling stories about their own lowest moments.

  They shared who’d taken antidepressants, which ones, and for how long. Discussed seasonal depression, light therapy, hormones and PMS. Going to work or staying home with the kids. Nora drifted, offering occasional comments so that she’d appear to be engaged. Lifting the corners of her mouth so she’d seem light-hearted. Glancing at her phone to check the time. Eventually, Alex reminded them that they had yet to discuss the book they’d read, and everyone laughed.

  “I liked it,” Barbara said.

  “Me, too.”

  They’d all liked it.

  “Good. Anybody got anything else to say about it?” Patty asked.

  No one did.

  “Next time, we should stay on topic,” Alex said.

  Patty reminded everyone what the next book was and where they would meet.

  Nora got home around three, after three bloody marys. Dave’s car wasn’t there. The girls were still at Nana’s. Alone with floating dust particles and faint electric hums, she put her handbag on the table in the foyer. She didn’t allow her face to relax and her shoulders to slump until she was upstairs, in the privacy of her room.

  Thursday, September 23, 1993

  H

  ome. Finally. Alone. No need to say the right thing, hang with the right group, or stand, walk, sit, smile, yawn with the right attitude. Hot, crampy, and eager to lie down, Nora lugged her book bag up the front porch, past the empty, unused, wicker rocking chairs and the wind chimes that made no sound in the stillness of the simmering, unnaturally exhausting, late September afternoon. She unlocked the front door, went straight to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator for a drink. The lemonade pitcher was empty. Of course it was. Stinking Tommy must have finished it and been too lazy to wash it out. She left the pitcher there. Maybe Marla would be annoyed when she saw it. Maybe she’d even scold him for once, though probably not. Tommy was her angel. He’s brilliant and unique, not like other kids. Nora settled on water. She took out the ice while dreading her math homework, a full page of stupid repetitious multi-digit problems of division and multiplication, same kind they’d had to slog through last year. It was an annoying, boring, waste of time that the teacher justified as review. She gulped the water so fast that her brain froze, and while she waited for the pain to pass, she considered calling Natalie and doing the problems together, splitting them up the way they had last year and all the years of math homework before that.

  Except no, she couldn’t call Natalie. Something fundamental and irreversible had occurred that day and because of it, Nora knew she would never call Natalie again, not ever. She started upstairs, lugging her bag, her throat tight, chest roiling with sorrow, or maybe guilt. But why should she feel bad? She hadn’t done anything wrong. True, she and Natalie had eaten lunch together all through elementary school, but this was Welsh Valley Middle School. And she hadn’t asked Natalie to save her a seat. Neither had she asked Annie to. But both of them had, on opposite sides of the cafeteria aisle. She’d had to make a choice on the spot, in a flash, a heartbeat. And now she couldn’t stop seeing the look on Natalie’s face. Shattered. Deflated like a leaky balloon. Bereft like an abandoned puppy. God. What had she done that was so awful? It wasn’t like she and Natalie had been going steady and Nora had cheated and left her for a new love. So why had it been such a big deal? Why did she have to feel guilty about making a new friend? Why was it her fault that Natalie wasn’t cool enough to fit in?

  And why was her bedroom door open?

  Nora dropped her book bag, stepping toward her room. She always shut her door when she left for school. Someone else had opened it, and her parents were at work. So it had to be Tommy. He’d gone into her room. Was he still in there?

  She leapt forward, bursting through the doorway.

  Tommy stood at her dresser with his back to her.

  “Damn it, Tommy! What the hell are you doing?”

  He jerked as if startled but didn’t turn around.

  Her underwear drawer was open.

  “Answer me.” Something hot surged in her chest, seared her insides.

  He still didn’t face her. “You’re home early.”

  “Why are you in my room?” Her voice was low, a growl. Her fists tightened.

  She stomped toward him. He turned away from her, hunching. Why wouldn’t he look at her? What was he doing? Was he sliding something into the drawer? Taking something out? She grabbed his forearm to see what he was holding, but he moved faster, yanking his hand away and punching her arm so hard that she stumbled backward against the bed.

  “Get away from me!” he squawked. “I’m just looking for my sock.”

  His sock? “In my dresser?” She righted herself, took a firm stance just out of his reach. “You’re full of shit.”

  “I think it got mixed up in the laundry.”

  “So? You could ask me to look for it.” Her hands were on her hips so he wouldn’t see them trembling. “You don’t get to come in here and go through my stuff. Besides, that’s not even my sock drawer.”

  His neck was crimson. “How should I know which drawer it’s in?”

  “It’s not in any of them. Who cares about a stupid sock? Just get out of here.” She lunged at him, grasping the b
ack of his shirt.

  He pivoted and smacked her arm again.

  “Get out!” She tried not to show her pain and pointed at the door. “Don’t come in here again. Ever!”

  “Since when do you tell me what to do? I’ll come in if I want. Whenever I want.” Tommy went on taunting. “Loser. You’re on the rag, aren’t you? I can smell it.”

  What? “Shut up. Just shut up!” Could he really smell her? Her period had started that morning. God. Did she smell bad? Had she smelled at school? Her face sizzled at the thought. She would die. But no, it wasn’t possible—Annie would have told her. In fact, Tommy probably hadn’t smelled anything either. He’d probably seen her pads in the bathroom and was just being a dick. Even so, she inhaled deeply through her nose, smelled a faint perfumy scent, but nothing else. “Know what, Tommy? I get why nobody likes you. You’re such an asshole. Get out.”

  “Or what, you’ll tell Mommy? Go on. Tell her I went into your room. Big freaking deal. You’re always doing shit to me, but I don’t whine about it.”

  “I don’t do anything—”

  “No? What about my ant farm? You never even apologized, let alone paid me for it. I bought that with my own money. And what about all the stuff you make up, like that I spied on you—”

  “I didn’t make that up and you know it. God. Just go away. You’re such a freaking loser!”

  “I’m a loser? Really? You think you’re better than me?” Tommy finally wheeled around and faced her. He stepped close and stood over her, speaking softly as if telling a secret. “You think you’re Miss Too Cool to Breathe the Same Air as her Brother! Well, news flash, you’re not cool, little sis. You will never be. Oh, you’ll try to be. You’ll put on acts, pretend, fake it, cozy up to the right people, but underneath, you are, always were, and always will be, the same as me. A misfit. An oddball. A freak.”