A Good Marriage

by Kimberly McCreight

  Once upon a time, I would have said that blacked out was the same as passed out. Someone asleep, basically, facedown on the carpet. Eight years into being married to Sam, I was now an expert in drunken vernacular. In a blackout, a person—your husband, for instance—stays completely ambulatory, going through all the regular motions, albeit clumsily. He does not seem “passed out” in the least, though he is not “there” either, because the most essential portion of him—the him you love—has effectively vanished. Leaving you speaking to someone who looks like your loved one and sounds like your loved one but is not him in any meaningful way.

  Ten stitches and a mild concussion, that was all in the end despite the blood. Such a short time later, and the gash was so neatly hidden by Sam’s hair that even our friends in Jersey hadn’t noticed. Part of me wished Sam had been left with a ghastly scar right in the middle of his perfect forehead. I would never forget those moments of thinking he was dead. Why should Sam? Zach was right: the worst part of marriage was the way somebody else’s problems became your own.

  Rehab. That was the obvious solution. But, as Sam was always quick to point out, we didn’t have the money for the high-quality private treatment that wouldn’t be covered by insurance. The kind both of us had heard was really the only effective kind. Getting sober and staying sober is expensive. But there was one option Sam refused to consider: his parents.

  Sam came from an extremely wealthy family, generations of money, going all the way back to the railroads. These days, his father, Baron Chadwick, was a tax partner in a prestigious Boston law firm and his mother, Kitty Chadwick, a society wife. But Sam had not had a happy childhood. No abuse, just unbearable coldness that had frozen into cruelty as Sam continued to disappoint his father with the passionate, creative, sensitive person he turned out to be. Sam’s father wanted an athlete, a class president, a lawyer, for a son. He wanted a corporate raider and a locker-room brawler, someone who would cut down enemy and friend alike. Anything to win. Meanwhile, Sam handed over study guides to struggling classmates and had once decided not to interview for an impressive internship his best friend had his heart set on. Sam’s dad couldn’t really see the point of a son like that. He couldn’t see the point of Sam. Sam had been estranged completely from his parents since right before our wedding. It seemed only fair to me that they pay for the damage. But Sam couldn’t bear the thought of asking, which was absolutely understandable, and also totally convenient.

  “Oh, hey,” Sam said sleepily, stirring on the couch. He looked toward the windows, where he was always sure to keep watch for my cab. “Sorry, I missed you coming in.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  But I was not fine. I was suddenly overwhelmed by this deep, tar-like anger. Stuck to everything. Was it sweet that Sam stood sentry, waiting for me to get home? Sure. Would I rather he express his love by getting himself sober once and for all? Um, yes, definitely.

  What I could not explain for the life of me was how I could be that angry and yet want to climb up on the couch next to Sam and curl my body inside his.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Almost eleven.”

  “And you just got home?” Sam squinted his blue eyes, bright even in the dim light. “That’s late even for the gulag.”

  “Yeah.”

  And then I was supposed to tell Sam everything. About Zach and Amanda and the call out of the blue. About my trip to Rikers, and how I’d backed myself into a corner by saying I’d ask Young & Crane. On the way home, I’d been puzzling over my impulse to blurt that out to Zach, but I had no interest in looking under that particular rock. And so I also decided to say nothing to Sam. To keep it all a secret. After all, what was one more?

  “That’s like a …” Sam reached and spun his fingers through my hair, his voice dropping sleepily as he fumbled to calculate. “A twelve-, no, fifteen-, sixteen-hour workday.” He exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry, Lizzie.”

  I shrugged. “You don’t assign the cases.”

  “But it is my fault you’re working there in the first place,” he said, and he sounded so sad. The way he always did whenever he apologized, which was often. Still, I believed he meant every word.

  “It’s okay,” I lied. Because nothing good would come from more of Sam’s guilt.

  I closed my eyes, lost in the warm feel of Sam’s strong fingers in my hair, in the memory of how he’d done the same thing on our second date and in our second year and last week. And in the end, wasn’t that the key to marriage? Learning to pretend that a few unspoiled things could make up for all the broken ones.

  I remembered back to the first weekend Sam and I spent together in New York City. When I’d traveled nearly three hours from Philadelphia, first on the SEPTA train and then New Jersey Transit and then the subway, all just to get to him and that electric pulse he’d sent through my bones the night we met. We’d had sex three times, then slept on Sam’s pullout couch, the only piece of furniture that would fit in his postage stamp of an Upper West Side studio, our heads pressed up against the stupidly oversize refrigerator. Before we went to brunch the next morning, we’d stopped at a nearby homeless shelter so Sam could drop off some notebooks and pencils he’d bought for the kids staying there. Maybe it had been planned for my benefit, but he was wrapping up work on a piece about the need for city-subsidized school supplies. And the way his eyes shone was real. Afterward, he said: “It’s not much, but it’s the best I can do.”

  What if this, now, was Sam’s best?

  “Let’s go to bed, Sam,” I said as he reached forward to pull me on top of him. “People will see. We need those stupid curtains.”

  “Let’s stay here,” he murmured as he unbuttoned my blouse, slid the fingers of one hand inside my bra as the other hand lifted up my skirt. “Let’s not go anywhere.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  And then I closed my eyes. Because Sam wanted me. Because, despite myself, I wanted him, too.

  KRELL INDUSTRIES

  CONFIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION

  Attorney-Client Work Product

  Privileged & Confidential

  June 24

  To: Brooklyn Country Day Board of Directors

  From: Krell Industries

  Subject: Data Breach & Cyber Incident—Introductory Report

  This memorandum shall serve to confirm the retention of Krell Industries by Brooklyn Country Day’s Board of Directors to evaluate a potential data breach compromising certain personal information of students and their families. All information contained in this memorandum and all future communications are to be considered Privileged and Confidential Attorney Work Product, not intended for distribution.

  Krell Industries’ investigation shall include, but not be limited to, the following:

  System Review: A detailed review of all available data systems to identify internal failures and external intrusions that led to the breach.

  Witness Interviews: Interviews with all relevant parties. Interview subjects shall be informed that confidentiality is critical to investigatory success. Confidentiality forms will be executed.

  Weekly Progress Reports: Will be distributed to summarize progress on the investigation.

  Critical Event Reports: Will be distributed on an as-needed basis to highlight information requiring a more urgent response.

  Suspect Identification: Potential subjects for civil and criminal action will be identified.

  Amanda

  SIX DAYS BEFORE THE PARTY

  When Amanda arrived at Sarah’s already crowded brownstone, Kerry was standing near the door, pressed up against the wall like he was trying to dissolve into it.

  It was a relief to finally see a friendly face. On the quiet twilight walk over, Amanda had gotten two calls to her cell from an unknown number. The sudden shrill sound had made her heart take flight, even though the phone had rung only once each time, not even long enough for Amanda to decide whether to answer. The calls co
uld have been unrelated to the many that had come before—only a few weeks earlier Amanda had fully believed that was a possibility. But once the breathing started, there was no pretending anymore. Somehow, he’d found her. And whatever he wanted, it wasn’t something good.

  It was hard not to envy all those parents squeezed into Sarah’s brownstone for the PTA meeting with their “cybersecurity” problems. Amanda had real security problems, and it was way more terrifying.

  At least there in Sarah’s brownstone, Amanda felt safe. Sarah’s husband Kerry was a huge guy—over six feet, and with the girth of the defensive linebacker he’d once been. Amanda always had such a hard time imagining Kerry, with his soft, saggy brown eyes and quick grin, intentionally knocking anyone over, even on a football field. She could much more easily picture him as Prom King. Though his face was quite a bit rounder than it had once been. Amanda had noticed from some of the older photographs displayed throughout the house.

  Sarah hadn’t married Kerry for his looks anyway. Kerry had swooped in with his button fortune and his varsity jacket and swept Sarah right off her feet, made her feel safe and taken care of. Of course, in the end, she and Kerry had ended up not nearly as wealthy as Sarah had anticipated—she was quick to point out—but it wasn’t like they were suffering. Kerry was a very successful lawyer.

  As far as Amanda was concerned, Kerry’s attentiveness was far more valuable than money anyway. Zach had always been more than happy for Amanda to fill the gaps left by his demanding career by hiring people—plumbers, carpenters, nannies, tutors, gardeners, painters. But she couldn’t very well hire someone to do something like reach Case’s baseball card collection on his highest closet shelf. Mentioning it to Sarah last weekend was embarrassing, but within the hour there was Kerry, standing on Amanda’s front stoop.

  “I was instructed to come, madam,” he’d joked. “Something about baseball cards?”

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda had said. “It’s so late on a Sunday night. I swear I didn’t ask her to make you come.”

  And Amanda hadn’t, but she was glad Sarah had sent him. Case wanted his cards at camp, and Amanda wanted to get them shipped first thing in the morning. She’d tried using the extra tall stepladder, but the box remained hopelessly out of reach.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know my wife,” Kerry had said, glancing around the dark house. “Zach’s at work at eight thirty on a Sunday? That’s hardcore.”

  “He has a funding meeting in the morning,” Amanda had said, which was often the case, though she hadn’t known it to be specifically true on that day.

  Kerry had retrieved the box from the shelf without even having to go all the way to the top of the stepladder.

  “Be sure to tell Case he’s a lucky kid,” he’d said as he handed it down to Amanda. “If one of our boys ever wrote from camp asking for something like that, Sarah would pretend the letter got lost in the mail. You want me to take a look at that closet door while I’m here? It’s probably just the hinge making it stick.”

  “No, no,” Amanda had said, feeling mortified that Kerry had a mental list of all her undone chores. Did she mention them that often? “I’ve already called someone.”

  It was no surprise then, that Kerry was there at Sarah’s PTA meeting, even though he’d probably had to leave work early. He was always wherever his wife needed him to be.

  Kerry finally noticed Amanda hovering near the door and waved her over. “Can you help?” he whispered through clenched teeth once Amanda had made her way through the crowd. He rubbed a hand over his shaggy brown hair. “Why are all these people in my house?”

  “Because your wife is the PTA president?” Amanda replied.

  “But it’s summer,” Kerry whined. “There should be a summer reprieve.”

  “Don’t look at me. She made me come, too.”

  “On my signal,” he said. “Let’s run for the door.”

  Amanda appreciated the way Kerry joked with her, like she was just another person, and not even an especially attractive one.

  “No way. I’m too scared of your wife,” Amanda said with a grin—a real one—as she slid past Kerry toward the living room. “You should be, too.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I am appropriately terrified.”

  As much as she would have preferred to stay with Kerry near the back of the room, Amanda needed to get where Sarah would see her, so that her presence would be counted. Then maybe she wouldn’t need to stay as long. Amanda was feeling rattled from all the calls—more today than yesterday—and being alone in a large group of Brooklyn Country Day parents was stressful in and of itself. Amanda looked around for Maude, but didn’t see her. Her gallery was often open late on weeknights. She was probably at work.

  Sarah’s living room was warm and tasteful. Well lived-in and loved, Amanda always thought, the walls crowded with candid family photos through the years—red-faced crying babies, first meals, awkward Halloweens, and finally sullen teenagers. It was so different from the pristine surfaces of Amanda’s gut-renovated brownstone. Her own home was beautiful, of course, but she longed for floors like Sarah’s that creaked in some spots and bowed in others. Not that noisy floors in and of themselves were a good thing. The floors of the trailer Amanda grew up in had made plenty of noise, each heavy, drunken footstep on the yellowed linoleum like the squeak of a mouse stuck on a glue trap. Anyway, the point was, the noises of Sarah and Kerry’s house were nothing like that. They were the sounds of a well-loved family in the brownstone’s bones.

  Amanda looked around the room at the usual eclectic mix of Park Slope parents—women in suits next to men in graphic T-shirts; parents who looked old enough to be grandparents next to parents who looked like they could be students themselves; parents of different races and cultures; single parents and same-sex couples. It was a diverse group in many respects, though they were almost all very wealthy and, to Amanda, universally intimidating.

  In their corner of Palo Alto, the PTA meetings had mostly been attended by stay-at-home moms, but in Park Slope men and women seemed to share more equally in parenting, and almost everyone had not only a job but a career. People were intelligent and accomplished in Palo Alto, too, but in Park Slope everyone was intellectual. The neighborhood was filled with journalists and professors and artists. People who wanted you to be saying something when you spoke. Politics, art, books, travel—you were expected to have opinions that were informed. As well read as Amanda was, none of her knowledge ran all that deep, and in Park Slope they picked the bone of each matter clean, held it up to the light, and inspected the marrow for consistency. This was true of people, too. If they ever looked inside Amanda they would find nothing.

  “Hi everyone,” Sarah began once people had finally settled down. She winked in Amanda’s direction and then looked around the room, allowing the tension to mount. Sarah had a knack for knowing exactly how to keep a handle on the Brooklyn Country Day parents. “So the dreaded contact list,” Sarah finally went on. “First of all: Don’t panic. We are all going to be okay. I promise.” There was an edge to her voice that she wasn’t bothering to disguise. “The PTA is working closely with Country Day to resolve the issue.”

  Hands shot up. “Working to resolve it how?” asked a tall man with dark brown skin and a perfectly tailored herringbone suit that Amanda was pretty sure she’d seen on the extra-expensive floor at Barney’s. A Wall Street Journal was folded crisply in his hand. “They aren’t telling us anything.”

  “Country Day has hired a firm that specializes in cybersecurity,” Sarah explained. “All they do is figure out what happened in these exact kinds of situations and help come up with solutions. But that can take time.”

  “Time, my ass,” a woman next to Amanda muttered angrily. She was frumpy and unkempt, her white skin pasty and veined. Amanda wondered when she’d last brushed her stringy blond hair.

  A petite woman with chin-length black hair, light brown skin, and a trim pencil skirt raised her
hand across the room. Her high heels barely touched the ground, and she vibrated nervous energy. “I’m sorry, but if Brooklyn Country Day can’t keep our information safe, why are we trusting them with our kids?” She looked around the room for support. Several people nodded in agreement. “Other schools in this neighborhood have had big problems with cybersecurity or cyberbullying or whatever you want to call it. Serious problems. I, for one, chose Country Day specifically because of its high standards. Do those standards only apply to our kids?”

  A knowing hum passed through the crowd.

  Sarah’s cheeks flushed. “Cyberbullying? This has nothing to do with cyberbullying,” she said sharply. “This has to do with all of us—what—tolerating some extra spam and maybe some junk texts for a while? Because that is what this will be.”

  Amanda glanced around at the faces of the other parents. Some looked noticeably graver than the rest.

  “But what if it is something more than just a nuisance?” the tiny woman pressed on. “My neighbor works in IT, and she said they could be planning to access all of our clouds.”

  She said clouds as she might have said vaginas, like the word itself was slightly prurient.

  “I’m gonna second her point,” said a laid-back-looking dad in jeans and a faded Ramones T-shirt. His hair was so gray it was almost white, his skin a similar ashen shade. “Maybe this will get worse, maybe it won’t. But they should at least be open about what’s happening. It’s not cool the way this whole thing went down. Brooklyn Country Day should be an open book, let us all in on the process. We’re supposed to be a community.”

  “And what if the person responsible is part of our little community?” Sarah asked. “A student, for instance, or a disgruntled former employee? What if that person is here tonight? There are valid practical reasons for the school keeping this ongoing investigation confidential. If the people affected want the school to pursue legal action on their behalf, for instance, evidence will have to be protected.”