by E. G. Scott
I could hear the first trickles of exasperation in his exhale. “What is this really about?” His curt tone stung. We weren’t fighters, so far, at least.
“It’s about us acting like we are so close and crazy about each other, but I know nothing about who you really are. And I want to. I want more of you.”
“What do you want to know about me, Madoo? I’ll tell you anything. I have nothing to hide.” I thought his wife might take issue with that statement.
I softened my approach. I didn’t want to provoke a fight before I said what I needed to. “I’m sorry, honey. I just feel so close to you, but sometimes I feel like we could be closer. And I want you to know everything about me.”
“Okay, babe. Well, we can talk about anything you want.”
“I need to tell you about my parents, Paul.”
He laughed. “Okay. Tell me, then. Were they religious? Hippies living on a commune? In a cult?”
I was silent while I weighed the possibility that he might pull away from me faster than I could say “I’m telling your wife.” But I needed something to change with us and he was making no moves. I was going crazy.
“My parents are both dead. When I was eleven years old. My father murdered my mother and then he killed himself. And I was there.” I wondered if there would ever be a day when I could tell him the whole truth of that night.
Paul was quiet for a long time. I imagined him grimacing, struggling to respond but not engage too much. He’d never talked in terms of feelings beyond the physical, and this was miles removed from that. He was silent long enough that I thought he flat-out hung up.
“Paul?” Regret surged. “Sorry. That was too much. I’ve never really told anyone about that. At least not anyone that wasn’t being paid to listen.” This was true.
He cleared his throat a few times. “My parents died in a car accident when I was ten. I was the only survivor.”
I couldn’t have guessed that we had this trauma in common, but once we found out, it just made sense. We recognized something very deeply in the other without knowing what exactly it was, and clicked.
“I don’t really like to talk about the past.” He was speaking much more softly and gently than I’d ever heard him. “But maybe I should, with you.”
My heart swelled with the opportunity to connect with him.
Then it started being about love.
After
The pages are hot in my hands.
I never pegged him for the type, but there’s no question that it’s his. The familiar sweep of his hand on the page drives my desire when I know I should be hating him. Our love is tricky that way. Elegant and strong, his handwriting is a font all its own. It is way too beautiful for laundry lists but perfectly suited for love letters.
I can’t stop thinking about you. You make me crazy. You preoccupy my thoughts when I should be thinking about a hundred other things.
I feel gravity changing beneath my feet.
I need to get out of this life. Everything has become stale and empty. I need to get rid of you so I can be with her. I need you gone.
I didn’t think that the love and desire I felt all those years ago would ever be a feeling I would have again.
I’ve spent so many years not really saying what is in my head. There’ve been too many lies for too long. I want a new beginning. I need to change.
Paul’s words are in his handwriting but not his voice. There is a different tenor to these pages. Something more realized and grown-up. He’s opening parts of himself that I have never seen. He’s reflecting on the man he’s been and the man he wants to become.
I want to burn down this life that I’m stuck in and get away from the guilt. I can’t keep doing this and acting like everything is okay.
I wipe away tears that come dangerously close to running the ink.
Catching my breath is a real struggle at the moment. It is clear that he’s found someone else. Wow. And he didn’t waste any time. And I’m standing in his way. His words are so hurtful I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. The pain overcoming my entire body feels so acute that I consider calling 911. My heart is slamming against my chest and I think lying down on the floor and just fucking dying makes the most sense.
That would work out perfectly for him. I need you gone. He’d be free to do whatever he wanted without the burden of me. Thankfully, the possibility of him thinking I’d died from a broken heart is enough to muscle through the panic and into deep breathing.
I slide against the counter and land on the cool floor. Duff bounds over and licks my face when I don’t move to pet him. Eventually the salt on my cheeks and my apathy drive him to the water bowl.
I’m stunned. The dates of these entries are from the last couple of weeks. After the night in our bedroom. After her. But this isn’t about her; it can’t be. I didn’t know Paul had another round in him. After everything that has happened. I’m gobsmacked.
I could leave. Start over and hope for a second act. But that would be the solution of a different sort of woman. Someone who lacks imagination beyond movie montages and memoirs. I like to think I’m more unpredictable and creative than all that. There’s a reason I wasn’t able to leave yesterday, and now I see that it is because I’m not going to let him get away with this. Half of that money is mine, and I want it. Something is tearing open in me. I want to smash every breakable thing within reach. I want to scream. I want to kill.
I call Duff over and wrap my arms around his furry neck and squeeze tightly. His heart is beating as fast as mine. I start a mental list of everything that Paul loves the most in this world and think about how satisfying it’s going to be to take those things away.
eight
PAUL
Before
WHEN I STARTED fucking around on my first wife with Rebecca, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t the first time I’d cheated. Hardly. But it was the first time it had felt like it was about more than just the sex. I had gotten married out of desperation, out of a need to have someone who wouldn’t leave me, a fact that came uncomfortably into focus almost from the moment we exchanged vows. It was like that scene at the end of The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross ride off on the bus and the terrible mistake they’ve made slowly dawns on them. I suppose I started looking for a way out before I had even settled in.
Rebecca was that way out. She understood the situation immediately. Our first meeting took me completely by surprise, eliminating any chance of tactfully shedding my wedding band. We locked eyes for a long moment, after which she immediately glanced at my ring finger. I can still remember the look on her face as she sized up the situation. The combination of terror and lust that I experienced in that moment is something that has stayed with me over the years.
We spent the next ten minutes walking around the yard, arm in arm, indulging each other in a conversation about one thing that was really about another and pretending that we weren’t both acutely aware of what I was wearing on my left hand.
“So, what do you think? Are you in love?” I held her stare for a split second before I nodded in the direction of the house. She made a show of coughing as if she was caught off guard, but we both knew better. The air around us was electrified. As she mentioned the size of the house, and how ill suited it would be to a single owner, I slid my hand into my coat pocket and ditched the ring. When I pulled my hand back out, Rebecca didn’t miss a beat.
“So, what about you? Are you in love?”
I stopped us and turned to her. “At first sight.”
She looked to the house, then back to me. “Wow. A guy who knows how to make a house a home.”
“If given the chance.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you’re in the habit of taking chances?”
“Only when it would seem crazy not to.”
I l
ed her around to the far side of a tall rhododendron bush, where we kissed each other hard and deep, away from the prying eyes of the broker.
Nothing about my second marriage has been particularly traditional. When we met, we were a couple of kids who were just beginning to get our bearings in the world, and I suppose we enjoyed many of the romantic notions that go along with that. Rebecca even flirted with the idea of having kids, a sweet notion even if it was impulsive, impractical, and naive on her part. We were making plans to improve our financial picture, and it was certainly apparent that we were committed to the relationship. But, if I’m being honest, I don’t know that either Rebecca or I are really the marrying kind. I’m sure that seems like a silly thing to say nearly two decades into a union, but I really believe that what’s kept this boat afloat is how well we understand each other and how perfectly matched we are in the ways that really matter. I don’t know that she or I would have enjoyed this kind of relationship success had we ended up with any other partner.
From the beginning, there was something different about Rebecca in the role of wife. She had never worn an engagement ring or wedding band before, and there was a certain charm in the way she would fiddle with them. At first, she seemed to have trepidations about having the rings on her finger. I felt self-conscious, as I hadn’t had the means back then to swing the type of rock that a woman like her deserved. But I gradually realized that her discomfort had nothing to do with that. Whereas the ring that I wore during my first marriage began to feel like a vise from the moment it slid onto my finger, Rebecca regarded hers with a sense of wonderment. I think that it may have never occurred to her that she’d actually be in such a position, and I remember occasionally catching her—even years into our marriage—seeming to marvel at the idea as she studied the shimmering bands.
Even the most conventional aspects of our life together resulted from moments of spontaneity. The average couple puts together a careful game plan. We ended up with the dog and the white picket fence on a whim. Sure, we had our long-term prospects in place—the bank account, the Cold Spring Harbor property—but time and circumstance have had their way with those well-laid plans.
Expectation confounded can be a funny thing. When one is carrying on an affair, there are certain things that can be done to minimize the chances of getting caught. The first—probably the very cardinal fucking rule—is to not get involved with someone who has less to lose than you do. It would follow that the safe bet would be to take up with someone else already in a committed relationship. I spat in the face of this logic by starting something with Rebecca, yet at no point did I ever feel as if there was the danger of her meddling in my marriage. I could tell that she wasn’t one to make a public scene, and it wouldn’t have been her style to confront my wife or leverage the affair against me. I think we both sensed where our relationship was heading and were perfectly patient to let it evolve in the time it required. And by the end of our first serious conversation, we realized why we understood each other so reflexively. The bond became clear, and it was undeniable. It was love, and there was no turning back.
Sheila presented a different dynamic, which seemed ideal at the time. I met her as a married woman, and though the heat between us was palpable, she seemed at first to have a life that she was actively pursuing. Part of the initial excitement seemed to be the fact that we were acting out a forbidden fantasy—something unsustainable but nevertheless vital. Something each of us needed for our own reasons. But the dynamic gradually shifted, and our relationship became increasingly more erratic and tempestuous. Over time, it became clear we were people who should have never embarked on this sort of endeavor in the first place. And I couldn’t help but think that my married mistress was becoming much more unpredictable than my single mistress had ever been. Funny, that.
My discovery of Sheila’s little scheme with the bookend served as the moment of clarity that brought everything into sharp focus. I knew I had made the right decision in ending things with her, and I was optimistic about the prospect of a fresh start.
* * *
AND THEN, one day, it happened.
The moment that a man in my position fears, and that we delude ourselves into believing will never occur. Because we’re smarter than all of those other chumps who have the audacity to try to play up to our level.
It’s the quiet lull after the holiday season. Storefronts in town are taking down Christmas lights, and there’s a feeling of serenity in the wake of the bustle. The day is crisp but pleasant. Rebecca and I are walking down the street, hand in hand, when from a block away I see Sheila approaching. The ground underfoot shifts, my gut punches itself, my eyes sting, the inside of my skull feels as if it’s suddenly upholstered with gauze, and time melts into itself.
Sheila walks toward us. Her eyes meet mine and then flick in the direction of Rebecca’s. She smirks, before her mouth turns into something lascivious and vulgar.
Sheila walks toward us. Her eyes size up Rebecca before they sweep to mine, and she taunts me with her stare.
Sheila walks toward us. Her eyes dart away violently, defiantly.
Sheila walks toward us. She sees us, turns on her heels, and retreats.
Sheila walks toward us. As she passes us, she reaches into her handbag. She pulls out something that I don’t recognize as ceramic until she’s swinging it at my wife’s head.
She reaches into her handbag. As she draws it out, I recognize the Chinese bookend. As she swings it at my wife’s head, I grab her wrist and pry it from her hand.
As she draws it out, I don’t recognize it until it’s drawn behind her head. I watch as she buries it in the side of Rebecca’s skull.
Sheila walks toward us. Her eyes briefly meet mine as she walks past.
Everything springs back into focus. I realize that I’m holding Rebecca’s hand tighter than I was just a few moments ago. Our palms are damp. I haven’t a clue whether I’ve clasped her hand tighter or she mine. I don’t want to look at her, for fear of betraying this concern. Did she notice the exchange between Sheila and me, or are my nerves betraying me?
My brain summons the details of what has just transpired. Where was Sheila’s dog? It’s not like her to be out for a walk without Molly. Seems like an odd—Wait. Wait. Where the fuck was her wedding ring?
My mind zooms in on her left ring finger. I immediately think back to our first meeting—her trying to hide the ring—and am struck by the stark nakedness of that finger just moments ago. My stomach coils back into itself. I’m suddenly reeling, feeling more out of sorts than when she was in our presence, within striking distance. It’s something akin to a deafening silence.
And as we now know, I was right. That missing ring was a harbinger.
nine
REBECCA
Before
OUR PAIN MATCHED.
Paul was the first person I’d met who knew how bad things could get. He understood how certain life events couldn’t be unseen or erased, and how those things really fucked a person up, especially if they happened when that person was a kid. And when we told the other what we’d seen and I saw how he’d thrived in spite of it all, I was intrigued. Bordering on obsessed. I was as much in love with his sad story as I was with my own.
And while our sad stories were similar in many shades—orphans by the age of twelve, witnesses to the death of our own parents, foster care, shrinks, myriad questionable adults—the main difference was that Paul’s life started out happy. He’d had a chance to be one of those few lucky kids with parents who were loving and attentive with him and each other. It was just bad luck that it was all taken away. The irony that, between the two of us, I was the one who wanted a family was not lost on me, but it stung nonetheless.
I wondered if he and I would have looked twice at each other if we didn’t both see a similar pain in the other. Even if we didn’t identify that the magnetism was about that from the start. We didn
’t talk about our sad stories more than once or twice, and certainly didn’t dwell on the details. We didn’t have to say much to understand how badly the other didn’t want to remember.
I used to hide in the hallway closet when my parents would fight, cracked just enough to see into their bedroom. I guess part of me thought that I could intervene if things got too out of control. I often fell asleep in the small space with the winter coats brushing against my shoulders as I sat with my knees pulled in close. I’d pull on my down jacket with the hood strings pulled tight to block out the screaming.
When my parents were at their worst, I would think about how I never wanted to get married. How once I grew up I would avoid anyone who would make me so crazy. It seemed very simple; if someone made me mad enough to become that enraged, I would run the other way. Common sense.
I got older and turned it inward. If things didn’t work out with people, I stopped seeing other people’s bad behavior as the litmus, figuring it was just some deficit in me. Friendships and relationships didn’t stick. I attracted people who didn’t care about who I was, only how I made them feel when they were with me. Naturally, this was never sustainable.
Eventually, I concluded that no one would ever want to marry me. Something important was broken. Therapists had told me over the years that my sense of self-worth was barely intact because of the way I saw my parents treat each other, even before the night they died. While they were probably right, I stopped listening to how I might fix that fracture and accepted it as part of who I was.
The night they died, my parents were having the same fight they always did. It was about nothing and everything. They’d throw a lot of nasty words back and forth and then graduate to sharp objects. It was amazing we had anything breakable left in the apartment. And of course, things got much more dangerous. I could never speak about my part in that danger. Not to Paul, not to myself.
