A Good Marriage

by Kimberly McCreight

  “What?” Sarah gasped.

  “It is,” Maude said firmly. “We decided a while ago. When Sophia … we’ve decided, for sure.”

  “Come on, Maude,” Sarah pleaded. “I need your parties. Living vicariously through them is all I have.”

  “You seemed to have made do just fine on your own when necessary,” Maude said wryly.

  “Touché,” Sarah said, turning to Amanda. “For the second time, Maude is referring to the time I ‘cheated’ on Kerry. She would obviously like me to tell you.”

  Maude raised an eyebrow, pointedly. “What’s fair is fair.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said, and she could feel herself looking too shocked. She couldn’t help it. She was just so caught off guard. Stunned, in fact. Sarah had cheated on Kerry?

  “Don’t worry, Amanda, Kerry knows. We’re totally past it,” Sarah said. “And by ‘cheated,’ I mean I made out with Henry’s soccer coach once, for like two seconds, a few months ago.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said again, dumbly. Because she was still shocked.

  “The coach has this Irish accent, and he was always flirting with me, and I don’t know …” Sarah shrugged. “Anyway, Kerry was fairly reasonable about the whole thing.”

  “I can’t believe you told him,” Maude said.

  “Kerry and I don’t keep secrets. It’s not our style. For better and for worse,” Sarah said. “He was hurt, obviously, but he knows how much I love him. Eventually, he was like, ‘I accept your apology; let’s move on.’ And he did. I’d probably have been throwing it in his face for years. Kerry’s always been a bigger person than me.”

  “He loves you,” Amanda said, without really meaning to.

  “He does,” Sarah said. “The only time I can ever remember Kerry getting truly mad at me was when I tried to break up with him in college. He was so fucking pissed.” She smiled mischievously. “It was kind of hot.”

  “Hot?” Maude laughed. “That is twisted, Sarah.”

  “I don’t know … You want a nice guy, but not too nice, right?” Sarah said. “It was reassuring to find a lion buried in there.”

  “He drops everything to do whatever you say,” Amanda added.

  “They’re supposed to do what you say, Amanda,” Sarah said, exasperated. “They’re husbands. That’s the whole point.”

  “Please,” Maude said. “Sebe doesn’t do a single thing around the house until I’ve completely lost it on him.”

  “But Sebe is, you know, Sebe.” Sarah fanned herself. “I’d let him ignore me all he wanted. As long as he did it shirtless.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Maude laughed and tossed a balled-up napkin playfully at Sarah.

  “Hey, do you think you guys can handle this open-relationship thing because Sebe’s an OB? I mean, he is already looking at all those other vajayjays.”

  “Sarah, that’s gross!” Maude laughed some more, her cheeks pink.

  “I’m serious!” Sarah said. “That’s a serious question.”

  “One which I will ignore, thank you,” Maude said, then turned to Amanda. “What about you, Amanda? What is Zach like? I can’t believe I haven’t met him yet.”

  “I can,” Sarah snorted. “Amanda’s other half is a ghost.” But right away, she grimaced. “Oh, I’m sorry, Amanda. That was—I shouldn’t have said that. What the hell do I know? A good marriage is the one that survives. And none of us will know that until all is said and done.”

  “Survival?” Maude asked, quietly. “Is that all we’re going for?”

  “Low expectations.” Sarah winked. “They are the key to happily ever after.”

  For the first time ever, Amanda didn’t feel like offering up some well-crafted version of her marriage. After all, her friends had trusted her with the truth about theirs. Amanda could admit at least something. “Zach does work a lot. Sarah is right. Sometimes we barely see each other.”

  Maude smiled softly. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she said reassuringly. “I do hope you’ll come to the party, though. And Zach, too, of course. Regardless of what Sarah says, it’s a lot of fun even if you never go upstairs.”

  Amanda smiled. “I’ll definitely come. Thank you.”

  “Have you heard how Maude and Sebe met?” Sarah asked Amanda.

  “No,” Amanda said, turning to look at Maude.

  “This is me trying to redeem myself for debasing their marriage with my unseemly voyeurism,” Sarah said. “It is the most romantic story ever.”

  “How did you meet?” Amanda asked.

  “It is a good story,” Maude said, looking wistful. “I was getting my master’s degree in art history at Columbia, and I was at a party. Out of nowhere I collapsed, knocked my head into a bookcase, and spilled drinks everywhere. It looked, of course, like I was drunk, but I was stone-cold sober.”

  “And Sebe rescued her,” Sarah said, making a moony face. “Looking like he does and with that accent, he picked her up and carried her in his strong arms like a bride all the way to Columbia-Presbyterian, where he happened to be an intern. He saved her life.”

  “Sebe did not save my life,” Maude said. “But he did get me to the hospital. And he did carry me to a cab. He also got me seen right away.”

  “And you were okay?” Amanda asked.

  “I’m diabetic, it turns out. Probably had been my whole life, but I’d somehow never realized. It’s manageable now.”

  “And the rest, as they say, is history,” Sarah said dreamily.

  “Wow,” Amanda said, feeling unaccountably sad. “That is romantic.”

  “Right?” Sarah chimed in. “You should tell that story more, Maude, but leave in the part about Sebe maybe being a start-up billionaire soon. I’d flap it around like a flag if I were you.”

  “I don’t know. Sebe and I have been fighting so much these days.” Maude looked off into the distance. “That story barely feels like it belongs to us anymore.”

  “Fighting?” Sarah asked. “You and Sebe never fight.”

  “I know. It’s all this stuff with Sophia,” she said. “Sebe loves her, but he is so free-range. It’s that European thing. As far as he’s concerned, our daughter might as well be an adult. But she’s my baby. I don’t care how old she gets; I will always want to make her problems go away. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Sarah opened her lips, but her mouth shut immediately when Maude held up a cautionary hand. “Not tonight. Okay, Sarah?”

  “Teenagers. That was all I was going to say,” Sarah insisted. “They really do ruin everything. What about you and Zach, Amanda? How did you two meet? I have to be honest, you seem very … different.”

  “I was working for the summer as a housekeeper at a hotel in upstate New York,” Amanda began. Over the years, she had perfected the story to make it more palatable. Housekeeper was better than maid, she’d learned. Hotel better than motel. But most important had been the insertion of the word summer. It avoided the raised eyebrows and pursed lips that followed confessing she was a high-school dropout. “Zach stopped in the hotel while he was hiking in the Adirondacks before moving to California.”

  “California?” Sarah asked. “Did you guys start dating long-distance?”

  “Oh, no, when he checked out, I went with him,” Amanda said.

  “Right after you met him?” Sarah asked.

  Shoot. She didn’t usually include that part. Why today?

  “I mean, not right that second. But not long after.”

  “Love at first sight.” Maude smiled. “The most romantic kind.”

  “Hmm.” Sarah eyed Amanda doubtfully but seemed to decide to leave it alone. “Well, all I know is that Zach had better be coming to Kerry’s birthday dinner. Because I have not spoken more than five words to him, even though he is my boss.”

  “He’s not your boss,” Amanda said.

  “Sure he is!” Sarah said. “It’s his foundation. I work for you, too, obviously. And I’m fine with both, believe me. But Zach needs to make himself
available. You are one of my closest friends. He needs to come into the fold.”

  Amanda forced a bright smile. One of Sarah’s closest friends. She wanted to be that. “He’ll be there.”

  That was a lie, of course. Zach wouldn’t come. Sarah meant well, but Amanda had made clear his schedule was very demanding. Sometimes it felt like Sarah wanted to fix them. But, honestly, there was nothing to repair. Amanda and Zach’s marriage was fine. They were both getting things they wanted. Maybe those things weren’t what people were supposed to get out of marriage. But she and Zach were surviving, weren’t they?

  “So how many years have you and Kerry been together then?” Amanda asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Thirty-three, if you count from when we started dating. We were only fifteen when we met. We married twenty-six years ago, back when you were a zygote, Amanda,” Sarah said, propping her chin in her hand sullenly. “If ever there was an excuse for letting a soccer coach put his hands on your butt, I’d say that’s it.”

  “There’s something special about that history, though,” Amanda said. “I have this friend, Carolyn, who I’ve known since we were little.”

  “Yes, but time deepens friendship,” Sarah said. “Romances, eh, not so much.”

  “Does Carolyn live upstate where you grew up?” Maude asked. “What’s the place called again?”

  “St. Colomb Falls. And, no, she’s actually here in New York City.”

  “Really?” Maude asked. “She should come out with us! I’d love to meet her.”

  “I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like,” Amanda said. “She’s single and lives in Manhattan.”

  “We can talk about things other than husbands and children, you know,” Sarah said. “And the subways run perfectly well out to Brooklyn. Cabs, too.”

  “Of course,” Amanda said. Honestly, she wasn’t sure herself why she never considered including Carolyn. “I didn’t mean—I should definitely invite her. I will.”

  “Maybe to Maude’s sex party. That’ll make us seem edgy and exciting.” Sarah smiled. “Hey, maybe I’ll even take my chances at this year’s party and ascend the forbidden stairs. If you really are done hosting after this year, Maude, it could be my last chance.”

  “Please,” Maude said. “That isn’t you and Kerry.”

  “That isn’t Kerry,” Sarah said, then winked again. “But maybe, just this once, it will be me.”

  Lizzie

  JULY 7, TUESDAY

  I stopped off at home on the way from the Brooklyn Criminal Courthouse to Zach’s house. Strictly speaking, our apartment wasn’t exactly on the way to Zach’s, but Adam’s what-marriage-doesn’t-have-its-problems comment had left me thinking about my own. Maybe I could forgive Sam for getting fired, and even for the accident, but he couldn’t backslide again. Not that I really had forgiven him, for anything. I knew that, and so did Sam. I had just buried my resentment and my rage. I was good at burying things.

  Sam cracking his head open needed to be rock bottom, though. He had to go to rehab now. Or else. An actual ultimatum—me or the drinking … I climbed our three flights sure I was ready to finally give Sam one. And then, at our apartment door, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Just like that, saved by the bell.

  “This is Lizzie.”

  “This is ADA Steve Granz,” a man said. “I got a note from Paul Hastings. He asked me to call you. But I’ve got no fucking clue why. Typical Paul.”

  Brooklyn DA’s office, I was assuming. Such was Paul’s power. He wouldn’t burn the midnight oil with me, but he was helpful in other ways.

  “Thanks so much for calling,” I said. “We’ve got a defendant charged with assaulting an officer in Brooklyn. We were hoping for some background.”

  It was my job now to pump Steve for information about Zach’s case: charges, evidence, the assigned DA, what deal they might be willing to make. Not because we were interested in a deal, but because that would give us a clue as to how tight the DA’s case was. The stronger their case, the less willing they would be to deal. Mind you, a strong prosecution case didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the truth. As a prosecutor, you never knowingly pursued something you didn’t believe in. But your job was to build cases to win. That meant the truth was sometimes a parallel, nondependent variable.

  “Gotta say, I’m surprised Paul is slumming it in state court,” Steve said. “Much less Brooklyn.”

  “Only from a safe, supervisory distance.”

  “Ah, that sounds more like Paul,” he said. “Who’s the defendant?”

  “Zach Grayson,” I said. “It was an accident. The officer didn’t even want to pursue it. Apparently somebody on the scene, an ADA possibly, pressed for the arrest. They’re holding him over at Rikers without bail.”

  “Rikers is a tough break,” Granz said casually, fingers clicking across a keyboard in the background. The fact that he didn’t bat an eye at my suggesting one of his colleagues might be overreaching spoke volumes. “Ah, here it is,” he said finally. “Oh, wait, is this that Park Slope thing?”

  “They live in Park Slope, yes.”

  “The Key Party Killing.” He sounded genuinely entertained. And, unfortunately, I had no idea why. “Or the Park Slope Perverts. You know, instead of Park Slope Parents? I came up with that one.” He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry, they were joking in the office this morning about the headlines that’ll be in the Post when they finally dig into the details of this thing.”

  Zach had mentioned a party, but a key party? It wasn’t that Zach was asexual—no, actually, Zach was kind of asexual. It was one of the reasons I’d never considered him anything other than a friend. Then again, years had passed. Maybe a wife as beautiful as Amanda had changed him into a sex addict.

  It was a risk to admit my ignorance and inquire, but I had no choice.

  “Key party?” I asked, trying to sound unfazed.

  “Or whatever they call it,” Steve said. “Maybe it’s organic, free-range fucking? I’m sure there’s some four-million-dollar-brownstone way to refer to it. All I know is that my wife would cut my dick off if I ever suggested that kind of thing.”

  “But Amanda Grayson was found dead in her own home,” I said. “Not at a party.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “It was after the party, though. They were both there earlier, that’s what I heard. There’s been trouble at that party before, too. Usually it’s only noise complaints, public intoxication, and whatnot. But last summer two guys got into a fight. This is all secondhand. I never heard of any of it before this morning. I’m in the organized crime section. But even I know there hasn’t been a murder in Park Slope, not one like this, in—I don’t know. Maybe ever. Seriously, a party like that is a bad fucking idea.”

  “Yeah, well, to each his own,” I said casually, like I knew all about such things. “Is somebody from your office somehow getting the papers to hold off on sharing all that?”

  “Come on, you know as well as I do we can’t keep the papers from doing what they want.” His tone was thick with sarcasm. “It is pretty ironic, though, you’ve got to admit. All those Park Slope Parents with their homemade organic kale baby food catching STDs from each other—” He exhaled, the sound like helium being let out of a balloon. “Ah, sorry. I’m not usually this much of an asshole. It’s been a long day, and it’s not even half over.”

  And I didn’t have time for any more small talk. “Ideally, I’d like to get ahold of the ADA assigned, so I can touch base about reasonable bail. Even unreasonable bail would be fine. Anything so my client can avoid getting assaulted again at Rikers.”

  “I’ll ask around, see if I can get you a name,” he said, notably also unfazed by the mention of Zach’s assault.

  “That would be helpful, thanks.”

  “Anything for Paul,” he said. “He’s been trying to get me over to that firm of his for years. I think he wants to build some mini criminal defense empire. You like it there?”

 
“It’s great,” I said, because that was the only right answer under the circumstances. My tone, though, was appropriately flat.

  “Right,” Steve said skeptically. “I love Paul. But I’m not sure I’d want to work for his ass.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Because that fucker is a maniac. He’ll always be five steps ahead,” he said. “And I’m not a big fan of choking on dust.”

  By the time I finally opened our apartment door, I’d completely lost my momentum. There was no longer time for some big showdown with Sam; I really did need to be getting to Zach’s to call Case’s camp. Besides, I’d already waited, what, years to draw my line in the sand. What was a few more hours?

  I expected to be greeted by the usual smell of strong coffee and the quiet lilt of the Gaelic music that Sam had taken to listening to lately. Inspiration to get him in the “writing mood,” he said. Since he’d gotten fired from Men’s Health, every few weeks it was a new genre, always instrumental, usually somewhat obscure. The Gaelic had been on tap for the past month or so, though it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Sam wasn’t banging out the pages of his book the way I’d have hoped for someone with so much free time.

  “Sam!” I called out. “Hello?”

  He wasn’t asleep at nearly two in the afternoon, was he?

  “Sam!” I called again, even louder, as I headed for the bedroom.

  When I finally pushed open the door, the bed was empty and neatly made. The sharply flattened sheets, the crisp edge of the comforter folded back, it was an obvious act of contrition: perfectly executed guilt origami.

  “Sam!” I called one last time before I turned out of the bedroom and headed down the short hall. Where was he? And what exactly had he been feeling so regretful about when he woke up and made the bed?

  When I reached the living room, there was still no Sam. But his laptop was there, open on our small, round dining table, the screen dark in slumber. I closed the top and smoothed my fingers over the round sticker at the center, a recent purchase recalling a years-ago marathon it was difficult to believe Sam had ever run. But he believed he would run another someday soon. And so in his mind at least he remained a marathoner. Such was the nature of Sam’s faith—unreasonable and intoxicating. There were some notebooks stacked to the left side of his computer and a small pack of matches to the right, with “Enid’s” printed on them. Sam hadn’t also started smoking, had he? He hated smoking. Maybe he’d just kept them as a keepsake. But a keepsake of what? Luckily, there was no name or number jotted down on the inside cover.