by Merry Jones
“W
hat?” Dave leaned on his elbow, not fully awake. “You think I’m having an affair?” He rubbed his eyes. “With Barbara?”
“I read her texts.” Nora waited for him to explode, to accuse her of snooping and invading his privacy.
“You read her texts? In my phone?” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded baffled. He scratched his head, turned the lamp on, and looked at her with his head tilted, the way Sophie did. “Why would you do that?”
Nora’s hands tightened. Her eyes darted from side to side, up and down. Her mind went blank, and she tried to remember. Why had she done that? Oh, yes. Because Dave had been gone so much, worked so late. Because he’d had a lot of phone calls. And because he’d made love differently. Would any of that justify what she’d done? Prying. Invading her husband’s privacy. Becoming the crazy possessive, jealous wife. Dave had every right to be furious.
He sat on the side of the bed. Silence billowed between them, thick and tangible, as seconds passed.
Nora considered apologizing. Or backing up, trying to unsay what she’d said. She wanted a do-over, starting from when Dave told her to climb into bed.
“Why did you look at my phone?” Dave’s voice was soft. “That’s private.”
“I know.” Nora cut him off. “But I had to.”
“I don’t get why you think I’d cheat.” His shoulders straightened. His voice became brusque and wounded. “I mean, why? After all this time. I gave you my word, Nora.”
“I remember.”
“Do you think I don’t love you?”
Nora couldn’t think of what to say.
“I do, Nora. More than ever.”
She studied his face, puffy from sleep, no signs of a lie—no tiny tics or twitches.
“To be honest, I’m stunned that you’d suspect me. And more than a little bit hurt. It’s been five years since the thing with Steph—”
Nora’s hand went up. “Do not say her name.”
“And I promised then that I would never lie to you or cheat again.”
Nora nodded and looked away. Saw the wedding photo on the dresser. Dave had promised to be faithful that day, too.
“So? What is this about? Doesn’t my word count for anything? Don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.” Her face burned, and she didn’t trust her voice, so she paused until she knew it wouldn’t crack. “I mean I did until—”
“Until you didn’t. So, instead of discussing your doubts with me, you decided to launch an undercover investigation.” Even now, even at this intimate moment, Dave talked like a lawyer.
“I meant to talk to you.” She paused, took a breath. “I should have.”
“Yes.”
They were quiet for a moment. Nora chewed her lip.
“But if you’re not having an affair, why does Barbara invite you over while her husband’s away? And tell you to make sure ‘Nora doesn’t know’?”
Dave sighed and scratched his belly. “Damn it, Nora. I see how it looks, but you’ll just have to trust me. I can’t go into it other than to say that it doesn’t concern you.”
She raised her chin. “I’m your wife.” She kept her voice down, struggling not to shout. “How does a secret relationship between you and my close friend not concern me?”
Dave was on his feet, pacing around the room. He crossed his arms, breathing heavily. Finally, he sat beside Nora. “There is no affair. You have my word. Understood?”
“Then what is it?”
Dave paused. “I’m helping Barbara with some confidential matters. Of a personal nature.” His words sounded measured, calculated.
“She’s your client?”
He pressed his lips together, hedging. “Unofficially. Informally. In some capacity, I suppose you could say so.”
“What?” Nora leaned so that she could get a better look at him. “You’re representing Barbara?”
“Not technically. But, sort of. I’m assisting her.”
Nora stood and faced him. “So. You’re saying that you and my friend are and are not working together, that you do and do not represent her, and that, whatever it is, neither of you thought it would be appropriate to mention it to me. In fact, you agreed to keep it secret and carry on behind my back.” She grabbed her arms, hugging herself, digging her nails into her skin.
“I understand how it looks.” Dave stood and pulled her to him. He kissed her forehead. “But believe me, nobody’s conspiring against you. It’s a matter of Barbara’s privacy and best interests.”
Nora didn’t resist his embrace, but neither did she return it.
“Look.” Dave kept holding her, stroking her back, gazing gently into her eyes. “This entire discussion has been based on a monumental misunderstanding. I should have been more forthcoming with you. And you should have told me what you suspected. Can we just agree to be more open in the future, put it aside and try for a few hours’ sleep?”
He was right. Nora nodded and climbed into bed. Lying beside Dave under their plush floral comforter, she tried to quell her sense of betrayal. But couldn’t quite. Because even if there was no affair, even if Dave and Barbara had been doing legitimate legal business, they’d been conducting that business behind Nora’s back. Sharing secrets. Meeting privately, exchanging texts. And that was almost like cheating.
Dave’s arm fit snugly against her, his breathing slow and even. In moments, Nora drifted. She slept, but her sleep was neither deep nor restful. When the girls woke her up, it was after nine, and Dave had already gone to tennis.
Saturday, October 2, 1993
N
ora woke up to her dad’s off-key rendition of “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and the smell of smoky bacon. On Sunday mornings, Philip often cooked. He’d wear an old flowered apron over his jeans and flip pancakes while the coffee brewed, no doubt hoping the aroma would lure Tommy out of his room for breakfast. Nora hoped it would, too, because if the aromas didn’t lure Tommy out of his room, she’d be enlisted to bang on his door, waking him to convey the message that dad had cooked, and the food was ready. Which meant, she’d be on the receiving end of Tommy’s gruff and indecent replies.
When the phone rang, Nora answered on the upstairs extension. “What’s going on there? Is someone singing?” It was Annie. Apparently, she could hear her father.
Nora dragged the phone into her bedroom, told Annie that it was the television and that she’d turn it down.
“So?” Annie asked. “Can you go? How’s two o’clock?” She was probably in her room, sprawled across her unmade
four-poster bed.
Nora lowered her voice. “I can’t. My dad’s making a big deal out of having a family day.”
“Family day? What’s that? Do you have to stay home and play Scrabble? Have a game of catch? Gawd. Family day. That is so lame.”
Yes, it was lame. But it was the only excuse Nora had been able to think of when Annie suggested they go back to the mall and maybe meet some new guys.
“Trust me, Nora. After a couple hours, your dad’ll be as sick of it as you will.”
Downstairs, her father sang on. Her mother called for her to wake up Tommy. God, couldn’t she have a single phone call in peace? Not that she knew how to handle this one. Why why why why did Annie insist on going to the mall again? Why couldn’t she be happy rollerblading or bike riding or just hanging out watching a video?
Annie was still talking. “Besides the food court’s where all the high school kids hang. And, honestly? I wouldn’t mind running into that Rick guy again.” Her laughter tinkled, sharp like shattering porcelain. “I should have given him my phone number.”
“Well, thanks for leaving me with his creepy friend.” Nora’s stomach twisted at the thought of him, his smell, his braces jammed with pieces of food, his fat gross tongue.
“Creepy? Come on, Nora. It wasn’t his fault you got sick. You probably wouldn’t have liked Johnny Depp th
at day. Trust me. He was totally biker hot.”
Biker hot? What did Annie know about bikers? She was just turning twelve. Down in the kitchen, her father blared a verse from another of his favorite tunes, “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah.”
“Nora? Is Tommy up? Come set the table.” Her mother’s voice was shrill now, annoyed. Why couldn’t the woman set the table her own damn self? Why was everything always Nora’s job?
“I gotta go, Annie.”
“Okay. So, I’ll call you at a quarter of two. By then, your dad will be sick of whatever it is he’s planning, and you’ll have played dutiful daughter long enough, so you’ll be able to sneak off for a little. Sound good?”
“I can’t promise—”
“You’ll see. It’ll be fine.”
“Nora!” Her mother clomped up the stairs. “Where are you?”
“Great. Okay. Later.” Nora hung up and called down to her mother. “I’m here. Getting Tommy.”
Marla reversed directions, muttering. Nora let out a breath and chewed the inside of her cheek. How was she going to deal with Annie? What kind of family activity could take all afternoon? She approached Tommy’s door with trepidation, bracing for one of his typical greetings, like, “If you knock one more time, I’ll smash your face,” or “Shut up or I’ll come shut you up.” Or the always popular, “Drop dead, shit head.”
She hesitated at his door, braced herself, knuckles poised for knocking. During other Sunday wakeups, she’d sustained twisted arms and nasty pinches. This time, she’d knock and call his name, then take off, not sticking around for him to come out. She took a breath, rapped on the door.
“Tommy!” She kept her voice soft, hoping to irritate him less. “Get up.”
She waited, but Tommy didn’t answer. Was he still asleep?
“Tommy, Dad made breakfast. Come down and eat!”
Nothing.
Nora stared at the door, turned and looked at the stairs. What was she supposed to do? Why was Tommy her responsibility? It wasn’t her fault he wouldn’t wake up. Even so, she tried again, pounded this time, not with her knuckles, but with her fists.
“Tommy. I know you can hear me. Are you going to get up or what?”
Silence.
In a minute, Mom would yell upstairs, impatient with her. “I don’t ask much,” she’d say. “Is it too much for you to get yourselves out of bed?” She’d go on, not considering the fact that Nora and Tommy were two separate people, that Nora was unfairly being blamed for Tommy’s behavior. Well, for once, she wasn’t going to get chewed out for his laziness. Nora pressed her ear to the door and, hearing nothing, turned the knob and pushed the door open wide.
“Tommy, get up—” She stopped mid-sentence because Tommy wasn’t there.
His bed was rumpled but empty.
“Tommy?”
She didn’t want to go into his room, to enter his world of mounted butterflies and crawly things, his posters of caterpillars, his blown-up photographs of roaches, locusts, and June bugs. She stood in the doorway. The curtains were closed, the light dim, the air musky and stale. Yesterday’s clothes festered on the floor. Books and folders spilled out of his book bag beside his bug freezer.
But no Tommy.
Nora checked the bathroom but didn’t find him. She called his name again, but heard no response. She was angry now. He must have heard her, must be deliberately ignoring her. Why would he do that—unless he didn’t want her to find him. Which meant he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Nora’s teeth clenched as she darted out of his room and down the hall to hers. Whatever he was doing in there—probably leaving a dead bug or some other sick creature to scare her—it didn’t matter. He had no right to be in there. She burst in, ready to attack.
But Tommy wasn’t there.
She checked her pillow and sheets. Found no grisly surprises. Looked at her bookshelf. Nothing.
“Tommy?” She stepped out of her room cautiously, worried now. What could have happened to him? Had he run away? Her imagination kicked in and she pictured him taking off before dawn, hitchhiking, maybe accepting a ride in a pickup truck driven by a kidnapper or killer.
“Nora! Tommy!” Her mother’s tone was definitely angry now. “Breakfast is on the table. Dad and I are eating.”
“Mom, I can’t find—” Nora didn’t finish saying that she couldn’t find Tommy because just then, he appeared at the end of the hallway, slinking out of their parents’ bedroom with his camera in hand.
“What?” He wasn’t dressed yet, wore the undershorts and T-shirt he’d slept in.
“Why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been calling.”
“Didn’t hear you.”
She didn’t believe him: His face was crimson. Why? Was he embarrassed? What had he been doing? An image flashed in her mind: her mother clutching a piece of paper from her father’s pocket, her face turning that same deep red. “What were you doing in Mom and Dad’s room?”
He shoved past her toward his room. “Like it’s any of your business.”
“Like it’s Mom and Dad’s business.”
“So what? Go on. Tattle on me. Tell them I was in their room. Big fucking deal.”
“Fine. I will.” She wheeled around, headed for the stairs.
“Hold on, what’s the big deal? I was just taking pictures. Of their furniture.”
Pictures of their furniture? Nora stopped and faced him. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand. It’s—I’m experimenting. With light. And texture. The wood in their bedroom set has an
interesting grain.”
He was lying. His tongue tripped and his words didn’t flow right. But being hungry, and without time or interest in calling him out, she started down the steps.
“Wait. So, why were you looking for me?”
Seriously? Why did he think she’d look for him on Sunday morning when the house smelled of bacon and hot maple syrup?
“Breakfast.”
She was almost at the landing when he called after her, “For real. I was just getting shots of the furniture.”
Nora didn’t respond. Tommy hurried after her, was on her heels, tailing her nervously into the kitchen. Their father was draining bacon grease, while their mother poured orange juice into their glasses. The pancakes were already on plates.
Everyone sat down.
“So, how’s the weekend going?” Dad asked. “Either of you have plans for later?”
Nora almost rolled her eyes. Did he really believe Tommy might have plans? “I might go to my friend Annie’s house.”
Her mother’s eyebrow raised. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with that girl. Why don’t you ever get together with your other friends, like Natalie or Charisse?”
Nora shot her a look. How could her mom disapprove of Annie? She’d never spent five minutes with her and had no idea how immature, by comparison, Natalie and Charisse were.
“What was that for?” Her mother stopped eating and glared at Nora.
“What was what for?” Her father was sipping coffee. He looked up, clueless.
Her mother scowled at him. “You saw that. You know exactly what.”
Nora helped herself to bacon strips.
“What?” He shrugged.
“Are you completely oblivious, Philip?” Marla’s hands were on the table. “This is what I mean. This is the attitude I get. Didn’t you notice how she looked at me?”
Wait. This is what I mean? They’d discussed her? Her
attitude?
Tommy had drowned his pancakes in syrup and was shoveling forkfuls into his mouth, smacking his lips as he chewed.
Nora’s father turned to her, frowning. “Nora, apologize to your mother.”
“Apologize?” Nora bit into a piece of bacon. “For what? I didn’t do anything.”
“You sassed me.”
What was going on? Nora had hardly said a word, nothing close
to what she’d wanted to say, what she had every right to say, what she knew even though nobody would admit it. The truth was that her mother was ashamed of Tommy, of what a total loser he was, of how he had not a single friend with less than six legs, of how he slunk around with his camera snapping photos of things that crawled in dirt. But her mother would never admit those feelings, so blame got shoved onto Nora for being normal and having actual friends. Nora was sick of bearing the brunt of Mom’s dark little secret about Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy.
“All I said was I wanted to go to Annie’s—”
“Philip.” Her mother snapped, her eyes sharp on her husband.
“Nora,” Her father sounded bedraggled. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere today.”
“What?”
“You were rude to your mother, so you’re staying home.”
Marla looked at her coffee cup, her face smug.
Tommy chugged orange juice.
Nora said nothing. She sat at the table, thinking of how unfair her mother was, how clueless her father was. The good news, though, was that she didn’t have to worry about what to tell Annie about going to the mall. This day was going to be spent home with her family, after all.
Sunday, August 12, 2018, 11:00 a.m.
A
s if from a distance, Nora watched herself move through the morning, getting the girls ready to go to Barbara’s backyard pool where they’d meet Patty, Alex, and their kids. She got Ellie into a pink swim suit, Sophie into yellow. She packed a bag of towels, caps, goggles, sunscreen and hairbrushes, and brought it downstairs, wondering if Barbara had texted Dave again. Damn. What kind of person conducted a secret relationship—even about business—with her friend’s husband? What was so personal and private that Nora couldn’t be allowed to know? Unless—was it something about Barbara’s past, something coming back to haunt her? Or something about Paul? Maybe he’d done something sleezy to rise in politics so fast. Maybe it was something so shady that Barbara needed a lawyer to protect her own interests. Did it involve the IRS? The Mob?
“Mommy, can we go now?” The girls were waiting by the door. How long had they been there, watching her?
