That made him feel like something other than weeping.
When he was composed he looked through the desks in the bedroom and the drawers of all the bed tables. He glanced at his watch: it was only eight.
He walked down the hall into the sewing room, and sat at Jenny’s sewing table. The room smelled like Kodiak—an old-dog smell, a mixture of the animal and the drops he had to have in his ears. Pictures of the children and Jenny’s parents dotted the walls. Wayne’s bespectacled head peeped out of a few, too—but not very many, when you looked hard.
Larry rooted through a drawer under the table. Then he opened Jenny’s sewing basket.
He hadn’t known what he was looking for, but in the sewing basket he found it. He opened a little pillowed silk box full of spare buttons, and inside, pinned to the lid, was a slip of paper. He knew it right away from the green embossment—it was from a stationery pad he’d found, at the motel he and Jenny had sometimes used in Westover. He unfolded it. His hands shook, and he was crying now—she’d kept it, she’d kept something.
This was from a year ago, on a Thursday afternoon; Wayne had taken the boys to see his folks. Larry met Jenny at the motel after she was done at the school. Jenny wanted to sleep for an hour or two after they made love, but Larry was due home, and it was better for them to come and go separately anyway, so he dressed quietly while she dozed. He’d looked at her asleep for a long time, and then he’d written a note. He remembered thinking at the time: evidence. But he couldn’t help it. Some things needed to be put down in writing; some things you had to sign your name to, if they were going to mean anything at all.
So Larry found the stationery pad, and wrote, My sweet Jenny, and got teary when he did. He sat on the bed next to her, and leaned over and kissed her warm ear. She stirred and murmured without opening her eyes. He finished the note and left it by her hand.
A week later he asked her, Did you get my note?
She said, No. But then she kissed him, and smiled, and put her small hands on his cheeks. Of course I did, you dummy.
He’d been able to remember the words on the note—he’d run them over and over in his head—but now he opened the folded paper and read them again: My sweet Jenny, I have trouble with these things but I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t love you.
And then he read on. He dropped the note onto the tabletop and stared at it, his hand clamped over his mouth.
He’d signed it Yours, Larry—but his name had been crossed out. And over it had been written, in shaky block letters: Wayne.
December 24, 1975
If Jenny ever had to tell someone—a stranger, the sympathetic man she imagined coming to the door sometimes, kind of a traveling psychologist and granter of divorces all wrapped up in one—about what it was like to be married to Wayne Sullivan, she would have told him about tonight. She’d say, Wayne called me at six, after my parents got here for dinner, after I’d gotten the boys into their good clothes for the Christmas picture, to tell me he wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours. He had some last-minute shopping, he said.
Jenny was washing dishes. The leftovers from the turkey had already been sealed in Tupperware and put into the refrigerator. From the living room she could hear Danny with her mother; her father was with Alex in the playroom—she could hear Alex squealing every few minutes, or shouting nonsense in his two-year-old singsong. It was 8:40. Almost three hours later, she told the man in her head, and no sign of him. And that’s Wayne. There’s a living room full of presents. All anyone wants of him now is his presence at the table. And he thinks he hasn’t done enough, and so our dinner is ruined. It couldn’t be more typical.
Her mother was reading to Danny; she was a schoolteacher, too, and Jenny could hear the careful cadences, the little emphases that meant she was acting out the story with her voice. Her mother had been heroic tonight. She was a master of keeping up appearances, and here, by God, was a time when her gifts were needed. Jenny’s father had started to bluster when Jenny announced Wayne was going to be late— Jennifer, I swear to you I think that man does this on purpose—but her mother had gotten up on her cane and gone to her father, and put a hand on his shoulder, and said, He’s being sweet, dear, he’s buying presents. He’s doing the best he knows.
Danny, of course, had asked after his father, and she told him Daddy will be a little late, and he whined, and Alex picked up on it, and then her mother called both of them over to the couch and let them pick the channel on the television, and for the most part they forgot. Just before dinner was served her mother hobbled into the kitchen, and Jenny kissed her on the forehead. Thank you, she said.
He’s an odd man, her mother said.
You’re not telling me anything new.
But loving. He is loving.
Her mother stirred the gravy, a firm smile on her face.
They’d eaten slowly, eyes on the clock—Jenny waited a long time to announce dessert—and at eight she gave up and cleared the dishes. She put a plate of turkey and potatoes—Wayne wouldn’t eat anything else—into the oven.
Jenny scrubbed at the dishes—the same china they’d had since their wedding, even the plates they’d glued together after their first anniversary dinner. She thought, for the hundredth time, what her life would be like if she was in Larry’s kitchen now, instead of Wayne’s.
Larry and Emily had bought a new house the previous spring, on the other side of the county, to celebrate Larry’s election as sheriff. Of course Jenny had gone to see it with Wayne and the boys, but she’d been by on her own a couple of times, too—Emily saw her grandmother twice a month, at a nursing home in Michigan, staying away for the weekends. Jenny had made her visits in summer, when she didn’t teach, while Wayne was at work. She dropped the boys at her folks’, and parked her car out of sight from the road. It was a nice house, big and bright, with beautiful bay windows that let in the evening sun, filtering it through the leaves of two huge maples in the front yard. Larry wouldn’t use his and Emily’s bed—God, it wouldn’t be right, even if I don’t love her—so they made love on the guest bed, narrow and squeaky. It was the same bed Larry had slept on in high school, which gave things a nice nostalgic feel; this was the bed in which Larry had first touched her breasts, way back in the mists of time, when she was sixteen. Now she and Larry lay in the guest room all afternoon. They laughed and chattered; when Larry came (with a bellow she would have found funny, if it didn’t turn her on so much), it was like a cork popped out from his throat, and he’d talk for hours about the misadventures of the citizens of Kinslow. All the while he’d touch her with his big hands.
I should have slept with you in high school, she told him, during one of those afternoons. I would never have gone on to anyone else.
Well, I told you so.
She laughed. But sometimes this was because she was trying very hard not to cry—not in front of Larry, not when they had so few hours together. He worried after her constantly, and she wanted him to think as many good thoughts about her as he could.
I married the wrong guy, was what she wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. They had just, in a shy way, admitted they were in love, but neither one had been brave enough to bring up what they were going to do about it. Larry had just been elected; even though he was doing what his father had done, he was the youngest sheriff anyone had ever heard of, and a scandal and a divorce would probably torpedo future terms. And being sheriff was a job Larry wanted—the only job he’d wanted, why he’d gone into the police force instead of off to college, like her and Wayne. If only he had! She and Wayne had never been friends in high school, but in college they got to know each other because they had Larry in common—because she pined for Larry, and Wayne was good at making her laugh, at making her feel not so lonely. At being gentle and kind—not like every other boozed-up asshole trying for a grope.
And, back home, Larry met Emily at church—he called Jenny one night during her sophomore year, to tell her he was in love, that he was happy and he h
oped Jenny would be happy for him, too.
I’m seeing Wayne, she said, blurting it out, relieved she could finally say it.
Really? Larry had paused. Our Wayne?
But as much as Jenny now daydreamed about being Larry’s wife (which, these days, was a lot) she knew such a thing was unlikely at best. She could only stand here waiting for the husband she did have—who might as well be a third son—to figure out it was family time, and think of Larry sitting in his living room with Emily. They probably weren’t talking, either—Emily would be watching television, with Larry sitting in his den, his nose buried in a Civil War book. Or thinking of her. Jenny’s stomach thrilled.
But what was she thinking? It was Christmas Eve at the Thompkins’s house, too, and Larry’s parents were over; Jenny’s mother was good friends with Mrs. Thompkins and had said something about it earlier. Larry’s house would be a lot like hers was, except maybe even happier. Larry and his father and brother would be knocking back a special eggnog recipe, and Emily and Mrs. Thompkins got along better than Emily and Larry did; they’d be gossiping over cookie dough in the kitchen. The thought of all that activity and noise made Jenny’s throat tighten. It was better, somehow, to think of Larry’s house as unhappy; better to think of it as an empty place, too big for Larry, needing her and the children—
She was drying her hands when she heard the car grumbling in the trees. Wayne had been putting off getting a new muffler. She sighed, then called out, Daddy’s home!
Daddy! Danny called. Gramma, finally!
She wished Wayne could hear that.
She looked out the kitchen window and saw Wayne’s car pull up in front of the garage, the wide white glow of his headlights getting smaller and more specific on the garage door. He parked too close to the door. Jenny had asked him time and time again to give her room to back the Vega out of the garage if she needed to. She could see Wayne behind the wheel, his Impala’s orange dashboard lights shining onto his face. He had his glasses on; she could see the reflections, little match lights.
She imagined Larry coming home, outside a different kitchen window, climbing out of his cruiser. She imagined her sons calling him Daddy. The fantasy was almost blasphemous—but it made her tingle, at the same time. Larry loved the boys, and they loved him; she sometimes stopped at the station house, and Larry would take them for a ride in his cruiser. His marriage to Emily might be different if they could have children of their own. Jenny wasn’t supposed to know—no one did—but Emily was infertile. They’d found out just before moving into the new house.
Wayne shut off the engine. The light was out over the garage, and Jenny couldn’t see him any longer; the image of the car was replaced by a curved piece of her own reflection in the window. She turned again to putting away the dishes. I think he’s bringing presents, she heard her mother say. Danny answered this with shouts, and Alex answered him with a yodel.
Jenny thought about Wayne coming in the front door, forgetting to stamp the snow from his boots. She was going to have to go up and kiss him, pretend she didn’t taste the cigarettes on his breath. He would sulk if she didn’t.
This was what infuriated her most: she could explain and explain (later, when they put the kids to bed), but Wayne wouldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He’d brought the kids presents—he’d probably bought her a present. He’d been moody lately, working long hours, and—she knew—this was his apology for it. In his head he’d worked it all out; he would make a gesture that far outshone any grumpiness, any silence at the dinner table. He’d come through the door like Santa Claus. She could tell him, The only gift I wanted was a normal family dinner, and he’d look hurt, he’d look like she slapped him. But, he’d say, and the corners of his mouth would turn down, I was just trying to—and then he’d launch into the same story he’d be telling himself right now—
They had done this before, a number of times. Too many times. This was how the rest of the night was going to go. And the thought of it all playing out, so predictably—
Jenny set a plate down on the counter. She blinked; her nose stung. The thought of Wayne made her feel ill. Her husband was coming into his house on Christmas Eve, and she couldn’t bear it.
About a month ago she’d called in a trespasser, while Wayne was away in Chicago. This was risky, she knew, but she had gotten weepy—just like this—knowing she and Larry wouldn’t be able to see each other again for weeks. She’d asked if the sheriff could come out to the house, and the sheriff came. He looked so happy when she opened the door to him, when he realized Wayne was gone. She took him upstairs, and they did it, and then afterward she said, Now you surprise me, and so he took her out in the cruiser, to a nearby stretch of road, empty for a mile ahead and behind, and he said Hang on, and floored it. The cruiser seemed almost happy to oblige him. She had her hands on the dashboard, and the road—slightly hilly—lifted her up off the seat, dropped her down again, made her feel like a girl. You’re doing one-twenty, Larry said, calm as ever, in between her shrieks. Unfortunately, we’re out of road.
At the house she hugged him, kissed his chin. He’d already told her, in a way, but now she told him, I love you. He’d blushed to his ears.
She was going to leave Wayne.
Of course she’d thought about it; she’d been over the possibilities, idly, on and off for the last four years, and certainly since taking up with Larry. But now she knew; she’d crossed some point of balance. She’d been waiting for something to happen with Larry, but she would have to act even sooner. The planning would take a few months, at most. She’d have to have a place lined up somewhere else. A job—maybe in Indy, but certainly out of Kinslow. And then she would tell Larry—she’d have to break it to him gently, but she would tell him, once and for all—that she was his for the taking, if he could manage it.
This was it: she didn’t love her husband—in fact she didn’t much like him—and was never going to feel anything for him again. It had to be done. Larry or no Larry, it had to be done.
Something out the window caught her eye. Wayne had the passenger door of the Impala open, and was bent inside; she could see his back under the dome lamp. What was he doing? Maybe he’d spilled his ashtray. She went to the window and put her face close to the glass.
He backed out of the car, and stood straight. He saw her, and stood looking at her for a moment in front of the open car door. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand. Was he crying? She felt a flicker of guilt, as though somehow he’d heard her thoughts. But then he smiled, and lifted a finger: Just a second.
She did a quick beckon with her hand—Get your ass in here—and made a face, eyeballs rolled toward the rest of the house. Now.
He shook his head, held the finger up again.
Jenny crossed her arms. She’d see Larry next week; Emily was going to Michigan. She could begin to tell him then.
Wayne bent into the car, then straightened up again. He grinned.
She held her hands out at her sides, palms up: What? I’m waiting.
1970
When Wayne had first told her he wanted to blindfold her, Jenny’s fear was that he was trying out some kind of sex game, some spice-up-your-love-life idea he’d gotten out of the advice column in Playboy. But he promised her otherwise, and led her to the car. After fifteen minutes there, arms folded across her chest, and then the discovery that he was serious about guiding her, still blindfolded, through waist-high weeds and clinging spiderwebs, she began to wish it had been sex on his mind after all.
Wayne, she said, either tell me where we’re going or I’m taking this thing off.
It’s not far, honey, he said; she could tell from his voice he was grinning. Just bear with me. I’m watching your feet for you.
They were in a woods; that was easy enough to guess. She heard the leaves overhead, and birdcalls; she smelled the thick and cloying undergrowth. Twice she stumbled and her hands scraped across tree trunks, furred vines, before Wayne tightened his grip on her arm. They were proba
bly on a path; even blind she knew the going was too easy for them to be headed directly through the bushes. So they were in Wayne’s woods, the one his parents owned. Simple enough to figure out; he talked about this place constantly. He’d driven her past it a number of times, but to her it looked like any other stand of trees out in this part of the country; solid green in summertime and dull gray-brown in winter, so thick you couldn’t see light shining through from the other side.
I know where we are, she told him.
He gripped her hand and laughed. Maybe, he said, But you don’t know why.
He had her there. She snagged her skirt on a bush and was tugged briefly between its thorns and Wayne’s hand. The skirt ripped and gave. She cursed.
Sorry! Wayne said. Sorry, sorry—not much longer now.
Sunlight flickered over the top of the blindfold, and the sounds around her opened up, became more expansive. She was willing to bet they were in a clearing. A breeze blew past them, smelling of country springtime: budding leaves and manure fertilizer.
Okay, Wayne said. Are you ready?
I’m not sure, she said.
Do you love me?
Of course I love you, she said. She reached a hand out in front of her—and found he was suddenly absent. Okay, she said, enough. Give me your hand or the blindfold’s off.
She heard odd sounds—was that metal? Glass?
All right, almost there, he said. Sit down.
On the ground?
No. Just sit.
She sat, his hands on her shoulders, and found, shockingly, a chair underneath her behind. A smooth metal folding chair.
Wayne then unknotted the blindfold. He whipped it away. Happy Anniversary! he said.
Jenny squinted in the revealed light, but only for a moment. She opened her eyes wide, and then saw she was sitting, as she’d thought, in a meadow, maybe fifty yards across, surrounded by tall green trees, all of them rippling in the wind. In front of her was a card table, covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. The table was set with dishes—their good china, the plates at least—and two wineglasses, all wedding presents they’d only used once, on her birthday. Wayne sat in a chair opposite her, grinning, eyebrows arched. The wind blew his hair straight up off his head.
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