A Marriage in Four Seasons
Page 11
“I’m in the study,” he called.
Joy’s footsteps tapped around the kitchen. Soon, she came into the study and draped her arm around his shoulder, kissing the top of his head. “Tax time? Ouch.”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching back to catch the strands of blonde hair falling across his eyes. Her hair smelled faintly of her fruity shampoo, and she was wearing the Chanel perfume he bought her for her birthday. It so disarmed him that he almost wanted to set her down on his lap and confess all to her.
He sometimes wondered whether she noticed the change in his behavior, his nights of working late, his friendly distance from her; but if she did, she showed nothing. He wondered whether she would be secretly thankful to learn that he now had somebody else catering to his innermost needs.
“Have a good day?” he said.
“Just a little shopping. Feel like going to a movie?”
“What movie?” he asked, suddenly eager to get away both from the numbers in front of him and the intrusive thoughts of Belinda.
“The new sci-fi in which everyone turns green and annihilates everybody else.”
He looked up in surprise. “Let’s go!”
She chuckled. “No, silly. Actually, there’s an Italian film at the Avalon. Sweet Dreams.”
He should have known, he thought. He pictured himself sitting through one of Joy’s obscure art movies. “I just started on this, Joy.”
“Well, why not take a break? C’mon, honey. It’s my last week of vacation before school. Let’s do something fun.”
He sighed. “Let me finish a little more here. I’ll try and hurry. I can’t promise, though.”
She started to leave, then paused. “Honey?”
“Yeah?” The tone of her voice put him on guard.
“I’ve been thinking of that trip we talked about a while ago. I’m ready for a change. Maybe Italy? I can plan some time off next semester. How about you? It’s been two years since we went to Spain.”
He pursed his lips. They’d talked about making another trip to Europe. Something to get them out of their rut, but that was months ago. That was before. He couldn’t leave now, not with Belinda in his life. Besides, after hearing about Belinda’s travels, he couldn’t imagine traveling anywhere that would begin to compare with her adventures. Although he had no desire to explore in the vagabond way she did, travel had now become so synonymous with her that it was impossible to imagine going anywhere without her. He wanted to travel, but with Belinda.
“Sure, but let’s talk about it later, Joy. I’m too focused on this right now to think about anything else. But let’s keep it in mind.”
“Okay. Just thought I’d mention it.” She added, “Did you find the surprise I put in the fridge for you?”
“Surprise?”
“I left you a note. I defrosted the chili I made last week. I knew you’d be getting hungry with all that paperwork.”
“God, I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t see it.”
He loved her chili. He’d been too distracted with Belinda all morning to think of a proper lunch. Joy had obviously thought of him this morning before heading downtown while he slept in. “I didn’t even think to look. I just snacked.”
“No problem. We can have it later,” she said, shutting the door gently behind her.
He started filling in some figures. Travel now? No way, he thought, but going to a movie was a good idea. Her idea of a good movie was not exactly what he considered quality time with Joy, but they could bond over popcorn and cheese-smothered nachos. An Italian film, slightly quirky and with minimal plot, the kind she found inspiring and sometimes persuaded him to go to with her just to get him to see something besides his usual gritty thrillers—the kind Belinda might enjoy.
It occurred to him that it would be ideal if Belinda and Joy went together. Belinda had a playful streak that would challenge Joy’s intellect, and they would both be in tune with the film’s Continental flavor. In fact, deep inside he wanted them to meet. He wanted to believe that each would like and admire the other, that he somehow had brought together two compatible souls. He wanted them to understand his need for each of them. Mostly he wanted them both to forgive him. Although he’d managed to bury his guilt these past six months, occasionally when he felt weak, especially when Joy was thoughtful, like just then with the chili, his situation ate at him.
He pushed aside the tax papers and decided to take Joy up on the movie. Artsy-fartsy flick, so be it. He needed to get out of the house and out of his damn head.
“Joy?” he called, grabbing his jacket from the hall closet. “Hey, honey, let’s catch that movie!”
After they returned home, it took him until past midnight to finish compiling the tax data for Ed. When he headed upstairs, he was too tired even to drink his customary scotch. He was surprised to find Joy still awake and watching television in bed.
Usually, he was the one stretched out on the bedroom sofa watching a late-night game or the news, and she who turned in early. He’d gotten used to having the last hour or so before sleep to himself, when he could slump, dazed, in front of the television screen and fantasize about Belinda.
“All done?” Joy asked, as if she were intentionally waiting for him.
“Still up?” He pulled off his shirt.
“It’s the least I could do with you slaving away downstairs.”
Again, he smelled the Chanel, freshly applied. She was wearing a pink silk nightgown he hadn’t seen in some time. It gave him a twinge. Was this for him? Christ! He had no stomach for intimacy now. Not with Joy.
Since Belinda, he hadn’t made love to Joy more than a few times. Much to Joy’s relief, he liked to assume, but he felt the signs tonight: waiting up for him, watching television, which was normally his domain, and the special nightgown and perfume. He wondered whether it was the movie, an admittedly pleasant concoction that had left them both mellow, or maybe she did feel, absurdly, that she had to repay him for working so late on the taxes. He was so completely saturated with Belinda tonight, though, that he doubted he could muster the ability to make even mediocre love to Joy.
He thought back to the start of his affair, to how smugly he was able to rebound between adultery and matrimony, to sail steadily back and forth over the calm waters of his two women; but he was too deeply moored to Belinda now, anchored in the swells of that nomadic soul of hers. He could almost see her face, a mild smirk on her lips, chiding him for his cowardice in the face of Joy’s expectations.
He took longer than usual in the bathroom, showering and brushing his teeth, even clipping his nails, all in the hopes of finding Joy asleep when he emerged. But she was still wide awake, reading. Even the cat was perched at the foot of the bed, also waiting, it seemed.
It didn’t take them long—it never did. In this way they were still, luckily, compatible. As he shifted away from Joy and drifted in and out of sleep, he was surprised at the distinct feeling of contentment that cradled him, despite the initial stab of remorse for having betrayed Belinda.
There was a calmness about Joy, a seemingly angelic serenity, her cheek flattened against her palm, mouth slightly open and trusting. He felt at ease knowing he’d done the right thing, and they had been better together tonight than they’d been in a long time, she attaining her bountiful orgasms while he sank into a welcome moment of forgetting all but the comfort of being with her in their own domain.
He was aware now of her hand reaching out to him, her fingers softly sliding over his thigh. Maybe something was changing for them, bringing them closer. His slight wonder at her touch gave way to gratitude. He was glad to be in his own bed, in his own bedroom, beautifully decorated by his wife. This was the way he’d always wanted it, the way it was meant to be. He and Joy, side by side. He did love her. This security lulled him into his dream world.
The next morning, Joy’s face was still peaceful. She was beginning to stir, her eyes moving beneath rosy closed lids as if in desperate search of something, but her breaths wer
e still even. Something in his throat caught. He held back the urge to touch her cheek.
The cat scampered and skidded ahead of him as he headed downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. He ground the coffee beans—something he enjoyed doing each morning, savoring the rich scent of the Arabica—then filled the coffee maker with water and turned it on. He placed two mugs on a tray and filled the antique sugar bowl and cream pitcher for Joy, marveling at how little it had taken to bind him to his marriage again.
He began to wonder what the hell had gotten into him these past months. How could he have ever thought he could lead a different life than this one that he and Joy had built these past years? What Belinda had said was true on some level. Joy was a perfect wife for him. She knew when to push him to be more open and when to let him revert to his innate reserve; and outgoing and cheerful, she was the force behind their social life, making new friends and introducing them to him.
He felt ashamed of the way he’d responded to her suggestion that they take a new trip together. They’d enjoyed the earlier trips they’d made to Mexico and Quebec and the trip to Spain. What made him think they wouldn’t enjoy going to Italy? He’d always enjoyed how she picked out their lodgings and the places they should visit, prodded him to be pluckier, and discovered new places off the beaten track. It was one of the things he’d admired about her from the start, her inquisitiveness. How could he have so flippantly and selfishly dismissed her desire to explore Italy?
His cell phone abruptly rang from its charger on the counter. He reached to answer it before it woke Joy.
“Richard?”
He paused, hearing that little question in her breath that almost sounded like a hiccup. There was complete silence for a moment, a vacuum of confusion as he held his breath.
“Richard?” she repeated softly.
He cleared his throat, but before he could whisper Belinda’s name, warn her that Joy would be getting up any minute, she suggested they meet on Wednesday for dinner, after her parent-teacher conferences were done. She would call to let him know what restaurant.
All at once he was enveloped in the sweet scent of coconut oil from the hair of Sri Lankan brides, the crashing African waters of Victoria Falls. He felt himself surging upward, lifted beyond the silent kitchen in his house.
He smiled and hopped onto that roller coaster again. He’d just been handed a box of luscious chocolates. Rich Godiva.
14
Belinda didn’t call on Wednesday, and when he tried to call her in the afternoon, he was surprised by the recorded message that said her line had been disconnected.
He tried her number several more times, wondering whether her phone was out of order or whether, for some reason, she’d changed her number and hadn’t yet told him. Maybe she had finally listened to him and traded in her antiquated phone for a new one. He doubted she would have changed her number, though. He considered the possibility that she had simply lost the phone and had thus canceled her line for safety purposes, but she would have let him know, he told himself. He kept trying her number, the only one he had for her, but there was always the same message: “This number is not in service.”
By Thursday afternoon he started to worry. He’d forgotten where she lived. He only drove her home once, and that was late at night and not long after they had started seeing each other. They’d always met in the city. He tried looking her up in the directory, but she was unlisted. Besides, there would be no listing if she had only a cell phone, like a lot of folks did these days. Shit! He couldn’t believe his stupidity. She lived with a family in Paramus, but she’d never given him a name or address. Not that he’d ever needed it. She’d always been accessible by phone. For all he knew, he now realized, she could be living with another man.
All he did know for sure, and he now wondered if he could even be certain about this, was that she worked at a preschool in Paramus; but he’d never seen it, didn’t know the name, and didn’t have the address.
He started by looking up the names of all the preschools in the area and making calls to them. By the sixth one, he got lucky. Yes, he was told, Belinda Bericini had taught there for a number of years, but she’d quit two weeks ago. She had taken a six-month sabbatical. No, it wouldn’t be possible for the school to give out her home address.
Six months! He could feel his face dissolve at the news. Six months!
Perhaps she was going to tell him about the sabbatical when they next met. Perhaps that was the reason she’d been so annoyed when he’d canceled with her, and maybe her phone being disconnected had something to do with that. None of this made sense, though.
On Friday morning, he began to imagine that something terrible had happened to her. He decided to report her missing to the Paramus police precinct, but he changed his mind. He didn’t want to be on record just yet. Besides, since she had informed her employer of her leaving, the police wouldn’t consider her absence of immediate concern. Furthermore, the police might even start to wonder whether she might be purposely keeping her whereabouts from him.
Finally, on a Google search on Saturday morning, he came across a short article on preschools in Paramus, and there was a listing for the preschool teachers at her school. There was an address for her! Marigold Street. Several other streets nearby had names of flowers, as if they were all part of a subdivision. He immediately got into his car and drove there.
He vaguely recognized the house, a split-level about forty years old. He rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. He walked around to the back and found windows into what appeared to be a basement apartment with a separate door. He assumed this was where she lived. He knocked loudly on the door, but nobody answered.
He drove around a few more streets and returned to the house in an hour. This time a middle-aged woman with short brown hair opened the front door.
She looked surprised when he asked about Belinda. She seemed hesitant to divulge any information to him at first, but obviously sensing his anxiety, she relented.
“She left night before last,” she said.
“Left? Where to?”
“Africa.”
Like a madman, he drove away. Deep down he’d known all along that she had gone to someplace far away. And not alone! He was all but certain of it.
He felt the jealous rage take hold and rise inside him, ripping the breath out of him. She ran off with that bastard! Off to some cholera-infested, third world place with no toilets. It was just what turned her on, sinking into the underbelly of humanity to live life to its fullest, as she’d put it so many times. Those were times he should have taken her at her word and realized how crazy and unpredictable she was. Belinda Bericini, who didn’t give a fuck about safety, good health, or civilization.
Finally, nearing White Plains, he found a quiet street near his neighborhood and pulled over to the curb. He cut the engine and leaned against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths. A deep sadness enveloped him. He closed his eyes and wiped his tears, his shoulders going limp as he sank into his new reality.
At last, in mid-April, six weeks after she disappeared, he received a message from Belinda, a postcard inside an envelope addressed to him at his office. It showed the scene of a marketplace in Dakar, Senegal. On it she’d written simply: “I’m in Dakar for a while doing research and may end up staying even longer. Please find new happiness in your life without me, Richard. Remember, separation is an illusion. I’m with you in every moment and wish you love and peace. Be happy. Belinda.”
His head started to throb. He held on to the card, turning it over several times, smelling it, absurdly expecting to inhale the exotic scents of the pictured market. He didn’t know what had possessed her to write to him, and he resented the intrusion of this note. He had finally settled down a little, his initial pain blunted by longer days at the office and stiff drinks before bed, but it all flared up now as he read her overly slanted script and saw her face take on that pixie look it did whenever she tried to hide her emotions.
Yet each time he breathed in the card, the smells of spice and sand that were clearly of his own imagining calmed him.
He knew he had to let her go, let a part of his heart be broken and buried as it had been with Stephen. In her world, nothing was permanent, as she kept asserting. Nothing. Not your child, not your wife, lover, parent, job, nothing. The only lasting thing in life was its very transience.
Separation is an illusion. She’d said it several times. Fuck! He should have taken it as a warning.
15
Two months later, it seemed like forever since he’d read that postcard, smelled it, cried over it, tried to tear it to pieces; but unable to bring himself to destroy the card, he had stashed it in his desk drawer behind some files.
On a warm, summer night, he and Joy went out to a movie. They went to the mall theater in White Plains, so they could park indoors. She suggested they see Turning Corners, the Canadian film on failing minority schools in Quebec, but it was sold out. They looked for another film, but none of them appealed to her, and she refused to consider anything with even a whiff of violence. The discussion spiraled downward until, after several minutes of disagreeing over films, they decided to go home.
In the car, he was frustrated. “Sometimes you’re so close-minded, Joy. There were plenty of other films we could’ve seen.”
“Well, I just can’t watch all that blood and gore you’re strangely drawn to.”
“It’s not all blood and gore,” he said. “There was a mystery that looked good. Sometimes I just need to take my mind off things.”
“What is it with you these days, Rich? It’s easier for you to zone out on any inane, violent movie than to sit and have a meaningful conversation. You’re so in your own world all the time. And you’re always in a bad mood.”