Still Life with Husband

by Lauren Fox

  I drove through the city, obeyed the traffic signals, arrived, parallel parked as if I were going to buy shampoo. I pressed David Keller’s apartment buzzer, and then I spent an interminable moment in the common hallway during which I carefully examined my reflection in the plate glass and noticed a hair growing out of my chin. David buzzed me through the front door before I could do anything about that, and I made my way up the flight of stairs and down the corridor to his apartment, number six.

  And there he is. He’s standing in the open doorway, dressed in a green T-shirt and jeans, smiling awkwardly. He looks as nervous as I feel. His hands are in his back pockets, elbows jutting out at strange angles, a pose that manages to look both practiced and ridiculous. He’s barefoot. As I maneuver around him and walk through the door, he doesn’t make a move to touch me, and I keep a good ten inches of space between us. All I can think about are bodies, his body, my body, the imminent collision of the two. All I can think about is heat. I can’t look at his face; I can’t make eye contact.

  The front door leads directly into the living room, and for a minute I just stand there, taking it in: the apartment of my downfall, the den of my adultery. It smells a little bleachy. He takes my jacket, drapes it over a chair. I know as I look around that I will never forget a single detail of this place, not a lamp, not one sofa cushion. My hands are so slick with sweat I have to rub them surreptitiously up and down my jeans to dry them; my stomach is a carrot-bran knot. I can taste tinny nervousness in my mouth. I feel about as sexy as a garden slug.

  The living room looks generic, devoid of personality. It’s perfectly respectable, perfectly neat and tidy, but it looks like an apartment law offices might rent out to their summer interns. There are two black leather chairs and a black leather sofa placed artlessly around the central object, the large flat-screen television. Tastefully framed black-and-white photographs decorate the walls. The carpeting is off-white and very clean. There’s a coffee table next to the couch; it’s made out of chrome and glass. I think back to our first conversation, mine and David’s, about the astrology behind personal home decorating styles. He told me he inherited his decorating inclinations from old roommates. I wonder who his former roommates were. Actuaries? Computer programmers? This is not what I pictured David Keller’s home to look like. I imagined, in a vague, daydreamy way, that it would be as sexy as he is.

  “So,” he says. He moves a few steps closer to me, his hands still in his pockets. We’re still maintaining a distance between us that would be recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention if one of us had smallpox.

  “Um,” I say. Clearly, today’s events will not include scintillating conversation.

  “I’m happy you called,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Me, too,” I say. I’m rooted to the floor. I look around the room, my eyes resting on the black halogen floor lamp. This could take all day.

  But just then, just as I’m wondering how long I can stand here without moving before my legs finally grow numb and I collapse in a stiff, twitching heap on the floor, David Keller begins walking over to me. He’s looking right at me, and he’s smiling; he’s moving toward me, this man, soon to be my lover, this strange, warm body in a green T-shirt, and my hands are shaking, and now he’s close enough, finally, that I can smell him underneath the scent of soap, close enough that I can hear him breathe. He touches my shoulders, moves his hands slowly down to my wrists, steadies me. I lean into him, and he looks down at me, and I gasp suddenly, because it seems that I haven’t been breathing for the past few seconds. He holds my hands for a moment and then he places them on his face, like we’re playing statue. His skin underneath my fingertips is rough and not Kevin’s; this is not Kevin’s skin, not his face, and I am breaking apart, and then David kisses me, he kisses me back together, back into myself, and then he leads me into his bedroom.

  For a long time we just stand there, at the foot of his bed, kissing. And for one brief instant, that frozen, crystallized fragment of time before the long dive into the water, I think, Could this be enough? Could it stop here?

  But then. We’re on his bed, he’s undressing me, he is still not Kevin, not-Kevin, he’s throwing his own clothes onto the floor and he’s next to me, he’s on top of me, every angle of him new and amazing, every touch specifically his, all the things I already know about him and everything I’ve yet to learn and every single thing I will never know reaching up through his body and landing on mine. His fingers are like fine, fine sandpaper against my skin, skin I never knew had so many nerve endings. Here we are, being carried off, swept away, pulled under, it’s all true. He looks at me, whispers, Are you sure? and I am.

  An earthquake is an awesome force of nature! What causes the earth to move under our feet? The answer is energy. Sometimes pieces of the earth’s crust may break off when they are under enormous stress. This produces vibrations, or seismic waves. These waves radiate outward from the source of the earthquake, causing the earth to shake and quake, move and vibrate, tremble, shudder, and quiver.

  An earthquake is nobody’s fault. But many earthquakes occur along fault lines! What’s a fault? A fault is a break in the earth’s crust. There are three kinds of faults: normal, thrust, and strike-slip. Normal faults occur because of tension, thrusts happen as a result of compression, and strike-slips happen in response to either of those stresses: pulling or squeezing, tension or compression.

  Even if there was recently an earthquake along a fault line, more are likely to follow.

  Earthquakes can cause serious damage, sometimes in unpredictable ways.

  “Emily,” David says, watching me from the bed as I’m getting ready to leave, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get enough of you.” And my whole body goes liquid, all my bones melt for a second and then harden again. I have my back to him; I’m buttoning my jeans, covering the body that, astoundingly, just a few minutes ago, was beneath him, next to him, on top of him. And I have to pause, midbutton, because my fingers have stopped taking orders from my brain; for a second, I don’t even belong to myself. I know that what he said is true. We aren’t going to be able to get enough of each other.

  By sleeping with David, I’ve probably sealed the deal on utter chaos. I’m sure I have. I’m not some soap opera diva; I haven’t forgotten Kevin, haven’t repressed the part of this incredible event that is nothing but treachery. Still, I can’t help but feel clear and strong and hopeful, and happier than I’ve felt in a long time. Possibly ever. Maybe that makes me a horrible person. Probably it does. But I turn, half dressed, smiling, and I see myself the way he sees me: I’m something amazing.

  David was a new song on the radio, one that gets into your head, under your skin, and you don’t even realize that your body is moving to the beat. He was a ripe mango, when all you’ve ever had before were mealy apples and watery, seedy, off-season oranges. He was electricity, when you’ve been squinting in the dark. A person can’t help but compare. Honestly, was it the best sex I’ve ever had? Well, how much sex have I had? Not that much. But, yes.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be back.” I say this in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation, which I instantly regret, since a guttural Austrian accent is something of a mood killer. Although not for Maria Shriver, I guess. But David just keeps gazing at me from the bed, surrounded by rumpled dark blue sheets and scattered pillows. I’m momentarily taken aback by the tableau of it, the sordid vision of the naked man in repose, his face still flushed, the absence of me there next to him practically a palpable presence. It’s a snapshot of sex, and the caption underneath reads, “Girl Deliberately Loses Track of Self, Commits Adultery.” My chest tightens; I recognize this feeling as remorse, an even bigger mood killer than an Austrian accent. So I repress it, a skill I hadn’t developed until recently.

  The afternoon light has already faded, and even if my imaginary errand for Dick had caused me to work late, it’s still time for me to go home. />
  Dressed now, I wait a minute for David to get out of bed and see me to the door, but for some reason he doesn’t make a move to get up. And it doesn’t seem quite right for me to go over to him and kiss him good-bye, somehow; it seems too affectionate, too familiar. I’m the tiniest bit disappointed that he’s not walking me out, but he’s probably just tired, or processing what has just occurred, and who can blame him for that? So I wave like a movie star, and then I turn and leave.

  I barely manage to get the key in the door of the car. My hands have started to shake. Inside the car, my breathing suddenly seems fast and shallow, and my stomach starts to hurt. Maybe I really do have the flu. My skin has gone clammy and I’ve begun to sweat; I can’t quite swallow. I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I pull down the visor and look at myself in the mirror: my hair is messier than usual; my face is a startling shade of gray. My lips are still swollen from kissing David. I crank up the heat, rake my fingers through my hair. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  It’s not as if I didn’t think this through. But I guess I didn’t think through: how a person feels when she’s suddenly alone in her very warm car on the street in front of her lover’s apartment after she’s just had sex with him for the first time; how a person feels when for once she’s done something, instead of always letting life do things to her, when she’s acted on her cheating heart’s desire, when she’s finally, irrevocably Done It; how a person feels when she’s only thirty and quite possibly having a heart attack. I grip the steering wheel and stare at my knuckles, at the blue veins on the backs of my hands. I have to concentrate on breathing.

  My marriage is over. Or it’s not: it will survive and be the kind of marriage I never thought I’d have, one with a huge lie like a crater at the center of it. Or I’ll tell Kevin I slept with someone else and his heart will be smashed into tiny pieces, and he’ll be the one to decide if our marriage survives or it doesn’t. I roll down the window, but that doesn’t let in enough air, so I throw open the door, lean out over the curb on Stowell Avenue, and swallow huge gulps of fresh air like I’m trying not to drown.

  When I pull up in front of our apartment building, the familiar redbrick exterior smacks me in the face with the feeling it evokes, unbidden, of comfort and refuge. Cheaters don’t deserve refuge; adulteresses aren’t allowed comfort. I can’t go inside. So I detour across the street to Meyer’s Market, a fancy specialty grocery store. I’ll buy a few things for dinner. I’ll cook Kevin a nice dinner. If I cook for Kevin for the next month, will my debt to him be erased? How about if I do all his laundry, too, for the next forty years? I’m not that stupid. But I am that scared.

  I slowly stroll up and down the aisles of Meyer’s. The store is lush with overpriced produce and tempting displays of nine-dollar boxes of cookies. Jazz drifts softly through the aisles. Because it’s right across the street, Kevin and I shop here almost every day, but since it’s so expensive, we’re never extravagant. We buy grapefruit, cheese, bread, yogurt, occasionally something from the deli for dinner if neither of us feels like cooking. But now, I take my time, pull jars and boxes from the shelves and examine them. If I like what I see, I place it carefully in my cart. I probably look like I’m savoring this shopping excursion. I doubt a casual observer would notice my trembling hands. I’m sure I don’t look like a criminal who can’t bear to take the perp walk back up to her apartment.

  The store at 5:00 p.m. is crowded with women and young children. Strollers colonize the narrow aisles. An exasperated mother stands near the refrigerator section, her hands on her hips, and scolds, “Gwyneth Kate Metzger, if you don’t get over here right now, I Am Leaving Without You,” while Gwyneth Kate Metzger ignores the empty threat, gleefully rearranging cartons of soy milk. The line at the bakery counter is full of toddlers clamoring for cupcakes.

  I don’t mind the delay. I’m an anthropologist, observing these women—female humans, just like me—and their children. It swirls around me, warm and messy and colorful, this life I could have had. But I slammed the door on it. And now I’m alone in an expensive grocery store at the end of the day, shopping for food for the husband I’ve just cheated on. The music suddenly gets louder. Two women at the end of the canned goods aisle laugh. A small child in pink overalls bumps into my leg, looks up at me, smiles, then careens away.

  It’s only at the checkout counter, forty-five minutes later, that I realize what I’m about to take home: two cans of water chestnuts, a one-pound deli container of roasted red peppers, a box of bland-looking Scottish cookies in the shape of women drinking tea, a wet hunk of fresh mozzarella, two organic tomatoes, one jar of extra-spicy pineapple salsa, a can of chickpeas, and twelve dollars’ worth of kalamata olives. It’s too late to stash my shopping cart in a corner and turn tail and run. So I hand over my credit card and smile. The checkout girl scans my items and, I’m pretty sure, raises her eyebrow at me like I’m either insane or bulimic. I’m a professional chef, I think. Prove that I’m not.

  Kevin is home when I get there. He looks the same: his fine blond hair is sticking up in strange places, as usual; his gray pants are too long. His pale, hairless chest is visible through the unbuttoned top of his shirt. I thought he might look different. A rush of affection for Kevin flows through me with such surprising force that for a second, I can’t move. He smiles and waggles his fingers at me from the living room couch, where he’s watching the news. There is a sudden, metallic taste in my mouth: if self-loathing had a flavor, this would be it. I take my shoes off, hang my coat up, take my time changing into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I sniff the clothes I wore today for traces of an unfamiliar scent, then stuff them in the bottom of the hamper. Even though it’s almost completely dark outside, Kevin hasn’t turned on any lights or closed the blinds. I can see our neighbors in the apartment building next door. The couple on the east side of the second floor are eating dinner and watching TV. The single man in the apartment next to theirs is lifting weights, wearing a muscle shirt. Even from here, I can tell that he’s red-faced and sweaty, most likely grunting from overexertion. He probably swigs protein drinks and eats raw eggs. I suddenly hate him. The single woman in the apartment below the beefy weightlifter’s doesn’t seem to be home yet. Her apartment is dark. I spy on this woman in particular as she’s going about her business, moving around her apartment. She looks like she’s my age. She goes to work in the mornings and comes home most evenings at around six, once in a while much later. I don’t think she has a boyfriend. I never see anyone but her in the apartment. I wonder if she’s lonely. She looks, at least from my window, serene.

  “Em!” Kevin calls. “Come here, will you?” He’s in the kitchen now. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d gotten up from the couch.

  I close the blinds slowly. “Coming!” I yell. Maybe the weightlifter only pumps iron to suppress his despair, and the single woman who looks so peaceful weeps silently into her cornflakes every morning. Maybe they’re soul mates, but they’ve never seen each other, never bumped into each other at the mailboxes, never realized that destiny is just a flight of stairs away. I could set them up. I could make a big sign: HEY, WEIGHTLIFTER GUY AND SINGLE WOMAN! YOUR LONELY DAYS ARE OVER! I walk from window to window, carefully smoothing the blinds to block the light from the street below. I suddenly realize that I should have jumped into the shower as soon as I walked in the door, should have scrubbed my body from head to toe. I can still feel David’s hands on me. What if I exude his raw, wrong scent? What if, like a dog, Kevin picks it up? I sense that I’m not thinking rationally. But for the millionth time today, my heart hammers in my chest.

  “What is it?” I say to Kevin as I walk into the kitchen. He’s standing with his back to the counter, leaning against it, my absurd culinary purchases arrayed next to the empty Meyer’s grocery bag. He’s tossing the can of water chestnuts up and catching it. His face registers confusion. If he has somehow psychically uncovered my deceit, it hits me that I will deny it. It flashes through my brain like fire
works: Deny! Deny! Deny! No, no, no! I suppose that in moments of crisis a person’s true self shines forth. My true self is a coward. I’m already adopting a defensive posture. I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s up?” I say again, more coldly than I mean to.

  “What’s the deal with the groceries?” he asks quietly. Slap—the can of water chestnuts lands in his palm. “Twelve dollars’ worth of olives? Tea biscuits and spicy pineapple salsa?” Slap.

  “I—” Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. It suddenly dawns on me where this is going.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asks in the same even tone. Sweet, transparent Kevin. Clueless Kevin. There’s a trace of excitement on his face, and I can see that he’s trying valiantly to mask it. I’m sunk with shame.

  “No, oh, God, no. Kev. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking, buying all this crap, but I’m not pregnant. There is no physical way I could be pregnant.” Unless I became pregnant approximately three hours ago. “No way at all!” I repeat, my voice surprising me with its decibel level. I need Kevin to know this. “I was really tired at Meyer’s, and I kind of spaced out. I guess I was preoccupied.” This, at least, is not a lie. “So I ended up with all this crazy stuff.” I try to laugh, but it comes out a sort of whinny. “I mean, it’s a good thing we both like olives, huh?”

  Kevin doesn’t laugh with me. He presses his thin lips together into hard white lines. His shoulders hunch. In the dim light of the kitchen, his blond hair is almost translucent, like a baby’s. He looks like a disappointed Muppet. The image of David Keller’s face appears for a second, superimposes itself on my husband’s. I turn toward the groceries, away from him, so that he can’t see my face. Kevin, say something, I think. I turn back to him as he places the can of water chestnuts down gently on the counter, picks up the box of Scottish cookies, and returns to the living room couch.