by Lisa Unger
I passed the inverted ziggurat of the Guggenheim, its white expanse as vast and peaceful as a moonscape. I felt a twinge of longing to be meandering its downward spiral carefree and overwarm, gazing at the Surrealists, the Impressionists, the post-Impressionists, the early Moderns. Artists gone but art remaining, peaceful and still, even if the creator’s spirit was anything but.
The neighborhood was quiet at night, the proximity of Central Park making it seem an airier neighborhood than other parts of the city. I would have felt perfectly safe on any other night. But that night I found myself looking over my shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, gazing at others on the street with suspicion. I dug my hand inside that strange tacky purse and rested it on the gun, feeling quite able to use it if necessary.
As I walked, all the events of the last—was it only twenty-four hours?—played in my mind: that horrible screaming on the phone, Fred’s blood pooling on the marble floor, the lovely Camilla, her throat cut. I had the cold realization that I was, as Trevor suspected, terribly out of my league. I thought about my sister, how worried she must be, how furious she’d be when she learned I pulled a gun on Erik. She’d know then how desperate and stupid all of this had made me. I had a moment of clarity, my footfalls sounding loud on the concrete in the quiet night; I should call Detective Crowe and tell him everything I’d learned, then call that lawyer, get in a cab and turn myself in. I should take all the good advice and help that had been offered and stop being an ass—for the sake of my family, if for not for myself. I stopped in my tracks and took Camilla’s phone from my right pocket, Detective Crowe’s card from my left. I could have dialed, ended it right then and there.
I thought of S, her mean, dead eyes and perfect body. Again, the rise of bile in my throat. Pure rage had a taste and texture that I was starting to recognize. I tucked the phone and the card away. I couldn’t let anyone else write the end to this story. I had to do it myself.
Don’t try to find me or to answer the questions you’ll have. I can’t protect you—or your family—if you do.
I could hear the sound of his voice in my head, as clearly as if he were beside me.
Protect me from whom? From your other self, this shadow that was living with me, sleeping in my bed for five years? Detective Breslow asked me if he’d had a history of mental illness. Maybe he did. How could I know? The man I saw in Camilla Novak’s apartment was my husband, the man I knew. Not some deranged madman who’d finally gone off the edge, not someone unrecognizable in insanity. It was him, perhaps merely, finally, unveiled.
I KEPT WALKING, turning left onto Eighty-eighth Street and moving past stately town houses until I reached the one I knew well. As I rang the bell, I thought, not for the first time: How in the world does he afford to live here? A three-story town home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan? The Gold Coast. Unaffordable to any but the super-rich. Even the merely rich were just riffraff in this rarefied world. I’d been crass enough to ask once before.
“You made me rich,” he said. I laughed. Without Marcus’s income, I certainly wouldn’t have been living in an Upper West Side duplex. I’d still be in my apartment in the East Village.
“I haven’t even made myself this rich.”
“You do all right.”
“Seriously.”
I didn’t recall the answer now. It’s true that when he’d moved in that it was a skeleton of what it would become, with exposed rafters and wires, sagging staircases, water stains on the ceilings. He’d spent years restoring it, doing most of the work himself. Five years after closing, it was a showplace. Every time I came to see him, he was in the middle of some element of the restoration. It always reminded me of Fred, how he spent years fixing everything that was broken in our old house.
“They say a man who feels the need to build a house believes that he hasn’t accomplished enough with his life,” Jack told me. He was laying a hardwood floor in the upstairs hallway. I was sitting in the threshold to the bedroom, my feet up on the door frame and a beer in my hand—very helpful. I’d been married a year; Marcus was away on business. Or so I believed at the time. Who knows where he really was?
“Is that how you feel?” I asked him.
He brought the hammer down hard a couple of times, the sound echoing through still mostly empty rooms.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. I remembered our night together then. It came back in a vivid flash and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I remembered his breath in my ear, I’ve always loved you, Isabel. What had I said to him in return? I didn’t remember.
“What about that woman you were seeing? An editor, right?”
“She thought I needed too much revision.”
My chuckle turned into a belly laugh and then we were both doubled over, tearing and clutching our middles.
Jack answered the door as quickly as if he’d been standing right behind it. He looked worried to the point of frantic.
“Christ,” he said by way of greeting, throwing his hands up in relief. “It’s almost eleven. I’ve been freaking out. Your sister’s been calling and calling.”
“What did you tell her?” I asked, stepping inside.
“That I hadn’t heard from you. She knew I was lying.”
He grabbed me by the arms and looked me up and down.
“You look awful,” he went on. “That bandage is bleeding through.”
I put my hand to it and realized it was wet. He dragged me down the narrow hallway to the large bathroom past the gourmet kitchen—all granite and stainless steel as if it lived in a showroom, gleamingly clean as is only possible for a man who eats takeout seven nights a week. I’d watched delivery men carry the granite in, helped Jack unwrap the appliances.
In the bathroom mirror, I saw what he saw and I almost wept. Awful wasn’t the word—wrecked, defeated, that same pasty-ill look that Ivan had. I remembered the wound on his chest, how his bandage was bleeding through, too. I felt a bizarre camaraderie for the big, unstable man.
“This is infected,” Jack said with a grimace as he removed the bandage. “Stay here.”
I sank to the floor as soon as he left, sitting on the plush bath mat and leaning against the wood vanity. I heard him pound up the stairs and then come back down a minute later. He knelt on the floor beside me. I cringed when I saw the peroxide in his hand, the mass of cotton balls, gauze, and antibiotic ointment. He dabbed some of the peroxide on a cotton ball. He was in his element—he was a caretaker, the fix-it guy.
What about Jack? My sister’s favorite question, asked after every dating snafu and failed relationship. He’s such a good guy. He cares about you. It’s obvious.
It’s obvious we’re friends. There’s nothing else but that.
That’s enough for a start. It’s not all lightning bolts and shooting stars.
You sound like Mom.
“Isabel,” Jack said, poised with a dripping ball of cotton, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air. “This is really going to hurt.”
“Good,” I said. “I like consistency.”
He gave me a look that was somehow amused and compassionate and then ruthlessly went to work on my injury while I tried to be stoic, but couldn’t stop a flood of tears welling from a deep place within me.
Jack just kept saying, over and over, “I’m sorry, Iz. I’m so sorry.”
*
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here, Ben?”
Her breath came out in big clouds. She pulled her coat tightly around her.
“Get in the car,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes. “It’s cold.”
“Ben. I’m not getting in your car. My children are sleeping inside that building.” She turned around and pointed to the large white structure. She had an uncomfortable fluttering in her chest thinking of them sleeping a few stories up next to Fred’s hospital bed. Either of them could wake, walk over to the window, and see her standing in the parking lot, talking to a strange man in his car. There would be lots of questions she couldn’t answer.<
br />
He’d seen her exit the building; she could tell by the way he straightened his posture and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Did he think she’d be happy to see him here? Was he that delusional?
“Just for a minute. Please, Linda.”
She could smell the heavy, sharp odor of too many cigarettes smoked in close quarters. He looked tired, edgy, was listening to the blues. She wasn’t familiar with the song. A sad-voiced woman wailed about her lost man—her voice eerie, tinny, floating up to Linda’s ears.
“No, Ben. What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
He nodded, looking sheepish but not ashamed. Almost as if he thought she might find it funny or charming. She didn’t.
“So that means you were sitting outside my building how long?”
“Since the coffee shop.”
She saw her own reflection in the back passenger-seat window, her expression, angry, incredulous.
“That’s not okay. That’s—that is—” She paused to compose herself. “That’s weird, Ben.”
She expected him to cow, to say he was sorry, to then drive off. Tomorrow she’d tell him that they couldn’t see each other any longer. Her family was in crisis and she needed to focus on them, refocus on her marriage. He’d see that it was the right thing. Maybe he’d go back to his family. But instead his face went still, the line of his mouth looked angry. He released a bitter laugh.
“I trashed my whole life for you, Linda. The least you can do is get in the fucking car.”
His words cut through the space between them, changing everything they were to each other. His tone was such a departure from anything she’d ever heard coming from his mouth that she looked at him hard for a second, hoping in a final moment of denial that he might be joking. He wasn’t.
“I never asked you to do that,” she said gently. She didn’t want to hurt or anger him any further than he obviously was already. She could feel his tension and it unnerved her. But she wanted, needed him to go away. “In fact, quite the opposite.”
“You didn’t have to ask!” he yelled, startling her. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath. When he spoke again, he almost whispered. “In your heart, you know it’s what you want. I know that. I know you. That’s love, right? Knowing what the other person wants and giving it to them without their having to ask?”
He wasn’t looking at her. That was the weird thing. He was staring straight ahead as if she wasn’t even there. She felt the first cold finger of fear in her abdomen as he started an odd, rhythmic gripping and releasing of the wheel.
“Come on, Ben,” she said, forcing a coaxing gentleness into her voice. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
He turned his head quickly and she saw the depth of his fatigue, a frightening glimmer in his eyes. She took an involuntary step back, afraid he was going to get out of the car. How had this happened? How did they get from where they were to this place?
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t sleep at all. I need you with me.”
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, her whole body shivering with cold and fear. There was something really wrong. She’d never even seen a shade of this in him. But, she realized, they didn’t really know each other well. Sex is not intimacy. Not really. Though he seemed to think it was.
She forced a smile to soothe him, moved closer to the car and rested her hand on his arm. He seemed to relax a bit, seemed more like himself. Then: “I think she was glad, you know, relieved that the charade was over. Erik will be, too. He might be as unhappy as you are.”
She kept the smile on her face, even though his words almost made her knees buckle. She nodded. “You might be right. I’ll talk to him. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He smiled then, too, and put his hand on hers. “I’m going to make you really happy, Linda. You’ll see.”
“I know,” she said. “Just get some rest now. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
She backed away from him, then turned and started walking back toward the hospital. Everything in her wanted to run. Her heart was an engine in her chest.
“Linda.” The tone in his voice—cold, dead—stopped her. But she didn’t turn around.
“You tell him,” he said flatly. “Or I’m going to.”
She started walking more quickly and heard him call after her one more time. This time she didn’t stop until she was under the bright lights inside. She ducked quickly into the bathroom and held on to the sink until the quaking in her body subsided. Then she ran to the nearest stall and vomited—bile, water, coffee. She sank to the floor and rested her head against the mental divider.
The phone in her pocket was ringing then. She didn’t recognize the number but she answered it.
“Hey, it’s me.”
She’d never been so happy to hear her husband’s voice. He was so good. So safe. She knew his failings were nothing compared to her own.
“Hey,” she said, trying to sound normal, “what’s going on? I’ve been calling and calling.”
“My phone died.”
“Where are you?”
In a whisper he told her about Camilla Novak and Isabel’s flight.
“She did what ?”
“I didn’t tell the police. She didn’t mean it. She was just trying to give me a real reason for letting her go. It’s not like she would have shot me.”
“Oh my God.” What was it with everyone coming apart at the seams? Were they all stretched that thin? Just a little adversity and everyone broke in two? “Where are you now?”
“The police brought me in for questioning. They’re treating me—I don’t know. They seem suspicious, like they think I’m holding back.”
“Are you?”
“Just about the gun. And the fact that she took Camilla Novak’s purse.”
“What? Why?”
“Um, I don’t know. She wasn’t very… communicative. She’s, you know, on a mission. She thinks she can fix everything.”
She issued a sigh that turned into a sob. It surprised her, the sheer force of it. She couldn’t have held it back if she wanted.
“Linda. I need you with me, okay?” His request echoed Ben’s demands, making her sob harder.
“Are you still at the hospital?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Take the kids to my mother’s. She’s expecting you. Then come to the precinct.” He gave her the address.
“I’ll have to leave Fred here alone,” she said. “I promised Mom I’d wait for her.”
“She’ll understand.”
She nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see her.
“Linda,” he went on, “we’re going to be okay.”
“I’ve made mistakes, too. Big ones,” she managed, wiping at her eyes, trying to catch her breath. She wanted to confess so badly, tell him everything right then. But there could hardly be a worse time.
“Just come here,” he said. He sounded strong, in control. He was always exactly what she needed him to be. “And call that lawyer.”
“Okay,” she said, standing up, pulling herself together. “I’m coming.”
She didn’t know if Ben was still idling in the parking lot, and if he was, how she’d get herself and the kids out without him seeing her. But she would.
She quickly splashed some water on her face and exited the bathroom. In the wide empty foyer, she saw a frail, worried-looking woman gazing about, confused. She wore a trim navy blue coat and was toting a suitcase on wheels. It was a split second before Linda realized it was her mother; she seemed so out of place in the context of the mess of her life somehow.
“Mom.”
“Oh, Linda,” Margie said with relief. “What in the world is going on?”
Margie seemed to take in the all the details of her daughter’s being, her tousled hair, the shadow of mascara under her eyes, the coffee stain on her coat—all the things Linda had just been focusing on in
the mirror. Margie’s brow sunk into a deep frown.
“What,” she repeated, “in the world is going on?”
17
What surprised me the most about marriage was how quickly it settled, became not mundane, necessarily, but normal. After the euphoria of finding love, the magic of courtship, the thrill of engagement, the busy fun of planning a wedding, there’s the lovely honeymoon and then all the little pleasures of setting up house, putting away the extravagant gifts, adjusting to life as married people; we, not I, us, not me. Everything shines, everything is new and fresh. And then—it’s not as if it goes bad or sour, nothing like that. It’s just that it becomes normal in a way I didn’t expect. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me. Linda was a very canny tour guide.
“When you’ve really chosen well, when you really love your spouse, it’s not as if the fire dies precisely,” she told me one time. “It just goes from being an inferno to a pilot light. If you’re not vigilant, you won’t notice it until it’s gone out completely.”
“You and Erik still have romance,” I said.
“Yes, but we work at it. The main part of our life is our children and our work. I never go to dinner or the movies without some barely conscious worry of Trevor and Emily at the back of my mind. Sometimes when we make love, I’m wondering if he remembered to paid the electric bill.”
“Linda!”
A quick shrug, a flutter of the eyelids (so like Margie). “That’s married with children. It’s not as bad as it sounds from the outside.” She smiled the smile of the older, wiser sister. “You’ll see.”
Not me, I thought. Never us.
And it never was quite that way with Marcus and me—not sexually. Though we fell into that domestic rhythm of work, dishes, laundry, bills, he always excited me; I never thought about the electric bill when we made love. But then again, we never had children, leaving us free from that special kind of fatigue I saw in Linda and Erik after months, going on years, of spotty sleep and an endless monitoring of needs.
