The haziness gradually lifted away, leaving me hunched in front of the bathroom vanity. A sound of cascading water splashed against the sink’s basin, but my trembling hands and face remained dry. I gradually raised my head parallel to the foggy mirror, ultimately swiping my palm across its surface to monitor my visage. I still looked dreadfully tired. No amount of sleep could’ve dissolved the plum-colored circles rimming my eyes. After a few seconds, I remembered that I needed another shirt, for the one I donned earlier was noticeably soiled.
I reentered the bedroom, keeping my eyes trained on the mattress where Rachel slept. She was still in the same prone position as when I last observed her, with her face half buried in an igloo of pillows. I once chuckled at her peculiar sleeping habits, but no longer. It’s sad how my wife’s idiosyncrasies, which I once found so innocent, now seemed tainted by suspicion. Did she have her cellular phone tucked beneath that makeshift shelter of downy fabric? At this point I didn’t know what portion of this alleged affair I detested more fervently—Rachel’s premeditated betrayal or Leon’s cardinal breach in our friendship.
Of course, the current plight within my marriage couldn’t be classified as unique, or even remotely fascinating. In the way of most acts of unfaithfulness, we were just another insipid statistic that was as ordinary as daylight fading into darkness. Even still, the initial shock of discovering infidelity was a wicked blow, and no one was fully braced for such an impact. But did I have the gall to rouse Rachel from her sleep and make such a sordid accusation? At present, my tangible proof was limited to an old woman’s testimony. Perhaps Cora Hart had only witnessed what resembled illicit behavior between my wife and Leon. What if Rachel hadn’t truly strayed? Maybe she had second thoughts on the matter. But the frequency of Leon’s car in my driveway hinted otherwise. Admittedly, common sense was the most resistant substance absorbed into the brain, but it often prompted irrefutable conclusions. A penalty for being wrong on this point, however, would’ve been as equally ruinous to our marriage. My information wasn’t yet reliable enough to jeopardize the speck of respect still lingering between us. I simply needed conclusive evidence before branding her as a cheater.
A second option seemed more permissible in my mind. Although I couldn’t boast to have a bevy of disposable friends, casting a flawed indictment against Leon proved less consequential to me. After all, even if I was playing the role of a jealous husband, he might’ve reacted sensibly under the circumstances. In hindsight, I should’ve safeguarded my wife from Leon’s charismatic tendencies. Unlike most talkers, he merited the social clout and bankroll to entice the feeble-hearted romantics among us. I foolishly embraced the notion that our friendship meant as much to him as it did to me.
During such times of personal scrutiny, it’s not uncommon for a man on the vulnerable side of an affair to recount his shortcomings. Had my own lack of enthusiasm and adventure unwittingly lured Rachel toward Leon’s magnetism? Unquestionably, he always had a white-knuckled grip on the reins guiding his life. People adored Leon for his poise, and exploited him for his money, but it never occurred to me that my wife had amorous designs for his courtship. The more I pondered it, the clearer my agony became.
No one sought to keep company with those who relied on complaints to disguise incompetence. Over the years, I had misdirected the blame for all that I failed to achieve. Until recently, I hadn’t grasped the concept that an incessant fear of rejection instigated most of my setbacks. This was most obvious in my interactions with potential book agents and publishers. Leon wasn’t the first man who informed me that I surrendered too easily when snagged by the clutches of conflict. It required patience and tenacity when presenting an idea to someone whose job was to filter through rubbish. Finding a decent manuscript was akin to unearthing a sapphire in a mountain of bluestone. Perhaps I approached the problems within my marriage with a similar shortage of grit. If this was so, how could I fault Rachel for falling prey to the infectious seductions of a man who rarely kicked his heels at the wagon of good fortune?
After returning to the kitchen and collapsing into a chair at the breakfast table, I was briefly distracted by Jolly’s tongue repetitively licking my palm. Maybe she liked the salty flavor of a nervous man’s flesh. I sat there for several minutes pining for some insight that would’ve granted me closure on this dilemma. All of the inevitable scenarios I concocted led to loneliness. Grave thoughts devoured my mind. As much as I tried to dispute the circumstances, my analytical nature disallowed any nonsensical conclusions.
Soon thereafter, a hellish energy invaded my body. I feverishly scanned the kitchen for anything out of sorts. I picked through the crammed contents of drawers and a line of cabinetry, mindfully searching for whatever seemed misplaced. Even Rachel might’ve been impressed with my vigilance in this regard, especially since she generally labeled me as aloof to all things that mattered. I’d at least prove her ignorant with that observation.
After rifling through the pantry with no more evidence collected than when I started, I noticed my wife’s leather handbag looped over the back of a chair in the kitchen. When scouring for clues, sometimes it’s efficient to first eliminate the most obvious places. In a traditional manner of interpretation, what I now contemplated was yet another violation of trust. Rummaging through her purse’s contents certainly was not one of my proudest endeavors, but only a man prone to idiocy rejected what was blatantly set before his eyes. Besides, as anyone who operated without secrecy understood, only those with covert agendas fortified their privacy from those closest to them.
My fingers fumbled over cosmetic cases, breath mints, and tube-ointments commonplace in a woman’s handbag, but I found nothing unordinary. I then proceeded to inspect the pouches within the purse, which contained a variety of credit cards and receipts. As my guilt intensified, I almost abandoned this quest, but not before examining a zipper case with some coinage and a few additional folded scraps of paper. I didn’t even know what I was hoping to find, but I knew my wife rarely discarded any receipts for her daily purchases, significant or trivial. Rachel was organized and methodical in almost every aspect of her life, which I deemed as an advantage in her bid to conceal any wrongdoing. But in this instance at least, her allegiance to detail provided an alternate source of proof to support my investigation.
I flipped through several pieces of valueless paper before stumbling upon a crisp receipt with a raspberry-colored stain blotched on its creased edge. The color reminded me of Rachel’s lipstick. While holding this single slip between my thumb and index finger, I sensed my hand quaking as if deprived of proper warmth. The anticipation of examining it was too gripping to ignore, but I nearly returned it to the purse without inspecting it at all. More than anything, if Rachel was culpable, I wanted her own conscience to compel her to confess the truth to me. Discovering a spouse’s affair in a clandestine pursuit was almost as demeaning as the act itself, but I had no other recourse. When clamped in the vise of deception, a man must at times resort to an instinctual urge for justice.
After I unfolded the receipt, my eyes immediately scanned the first line of blue ink. It read: “Starbucks.” This by itself was uneventful. Rachel often frequented this coffeehouse on her way back from the gym. Although I disliked most hot beverages, I accompanied her on occasion. Interestingly, I always ordered a diet soda, but this receipt showed no indication of such a sale. This order verified the purchase of two lattés, one regular-sized and another large. I examined the paper more intently to determine the date of this transaction. The receipt in hand was only two days old, printed on Tuesday at 8:34 A.M.
Matching the jagged pieces of this puzzle didn’t require a sleuth. Conversely, even an obtuse child could’ve handily reconstructed a fail-safe scenario. Rachel had either gone with or met someone at the local Starbucks. But was this likelihood synonymous with an act of adultery? My wife’s line of work often required her to interact with potential clients in agreeable settings. In fact, such exchanges were quite customary in the formalitie
s of business. But the lipstick smudge on the paper’s flipside gave me pause. According to the receipt’s hour of indicated purchase on Tuesday, Rachel’s routine would’ve placed her approximately on a return trip from the gym. She’d typically stop for a coffee before going back to the house. If I presented this logical situation to her, she would’ve explained the circumstances in a convenient fashion. Marketing real estate had afforded her an excuse to show up in public eateries with an array of men. For one predisposed to cheating, it was like brandishing a “Get-Out-of-Jail-Free” card.
If any truth was going to be exposed from a single receipt, it had to come from someone other than Rachel. The safest option for me was to simply stuff the paper back into her purse and forget I ever saw it. In other words, pretending the evidence didn’t exist almost discharged the apparent deception, perhaps to a degree where it no longer mattered to the offender. It was nothing more than a poorly designed façade for both parties. Such a tactic, I imagined, kept numerous unstable marriages malfunctioning long after they should’ve disintegrated.
Of course, this anodyne approach to life’s pitfalls had always been my first resort rather than last. However, the trauma percolating within my veins—if that’s what it truly was—disallowed such passivity on this occasion. Instead of brooding over this for the course of today, I decided to let Rachel know that I wasn’t as oblivious to her shenanigans as she might’ve perceived. My presentation of this point required just a touch of shrewdness.
I flipped the receipt over on its blank side and pressed it flat on the counter. Then, after retrieving a ballpoint pen from the nearest drawer, I thought of scripting a message with a twofold design. Firstly, since I was scheduled for a doctor’s appointment later this afternoon, I elected to write my wife a note asking her to remind me of this scheduled time. As it was with most modern couples, we presently communicated through the means of cellular data. Because of this technological convenience, my handwritten words now seemed obsolete. Yet not too many years ago, shortly before the frigid transference of texting on phones replaced the warmth of ink, I often penned pithy messages to my wife. Perhaps it was a mawkish gesture to leave tender sentiments scattered throughout the house on neon slips of paper, but I believed the absence of such exchanges pilfered the charm from a lover’s repertoire. For me, ink will always rival an electronic chat, even when the motive was overtly dubious.
Romance was not in the equation for my current problem. The dual nature of my memo eliminated any such possibility. I fully intended for Rachel to discover that I had written my note on the backside of her receipt, thereby tactfully letting her know that her indiscretions hadn’t gone unnoticed. I couldn’t resist employing an element of sarcasm in my penmanship. The note read as such: ‘Rachel, I have an appointment with Dr. Pearson at 2:45 this afternoon. Can you please call to remind me after lunch? I’ll be thinking of you. Enjoy your day off. Your faithful husband, Corbin.’
Perhaps it was a tad juvenile of me to taunt her in such a backhanded fashion, but I experienced no regret for this conduct. I presumed, or at least hoped, that Rachel’s conscience would’ve ushered in a tinge of compassion. If nothing else, maybe she’d be more cunning by keeping her purse locked in her car from now on. In the event that this was nothing more than a blameless misunderstanding, the note also granted an avenue of escape for me. After all, she could’ve inadvertently dropped the receipt from her purse and I then found it on the kitchen floor or table. My strategy, although hastily formulated, provided little wriggling room for her at this stage. Even if she didn’t confess to any wrongdoing, I had at least sown a seed of suspicion to root between her temples.
The proper placement of this note was almost as essential as writing it. I decided to nudge it under Rachel’s ceramic coffee mug (she consumed entirely too much of this), which she habitually stored on the countertop next to a microwave oven. I didn’t want to leave any doubt that she’d somehow overlook the message. Once satisfied with this chore, I fetched my car keys from a pegboard on the wall. In the stillness of my surroundings, I couldn’t elude a tiny voice pecking at my brain like a voracious hen. Wouldn’t it have been nobler of me to simply ask my wife of her whereabouts on the morning in question? Indeed, this was a sensible approach, but not the wisest for an insecure man. Besides, although I didn’t have access to the most recent statistics, I gathered that a majority of accused partners emphatically denied extramarital encounters.
Despite the initial satisfaction of my deed, I had no cause to celebrate. In truth, when either person strays within a marriage, there’s usually fault attributable to both sides. I knew that I hadn’t adequately responded to Rachel’s lack of fulfillment in terms of material possessions. From my perspective, it was more a matter of practicality than a genuine snub. But nevertheless, the dismissal of her whims probably caused me to appear like a callous cheapskate in her eyes. My mother once quipped that a frugal man died with more money in his pockets than kisses on his lips. Apparently, I neglected to make a connection between these two contrasting images.
For what it was worth, Leon Chase never shied away from capricious enterprises. I simultaneously envied and pitied him for his extravagance, but the man never seemed in short supply of attention. In any event, his propensity to overindulge in life’s finer effects honed my wife’s amorous ambitions. When had the first traces of mutual lust reared between them? Was it at Rounders? Admittedly, I hadn’t watched their habits closely enough, but it all seemed premeditated now. They cajoled like the old school chums that he and I once were, while I was left pontificating about the doldrums of teaching British literature in high school. In my own complacency, I had rejected an ageless rule in terms of friendship. This cliché was often uttered, but the most stable relationships were grounded in camaraderie. True lovers conversed about events more spellbinding than weather and work. Sadly, somewhere in the comfort of routine, my wife and I undermined the foundation of contentment.
My attention simultaneously shifted to the far end of the kitchen’s countertop. Among a pile of unpaid bills, I noticed my new leatherback journal. Its cream-colored pages were still unfurled and smelled like fresh wood pulp. Two weeks ago, I purposely bought an expensive journal to encourage myself to write again. Not many people other than writers willingly dished out forty dollars for a booklet of blank sheets of paper, but I was willing to try anything as a means for motivation. It had been nearly four years since I attempted my last work of fiction, but anyone who had ever described himself as a novelist knew that this period was an eternity in the realm of inventiveness.
Of course, I always wrestled with a nagging insinuation that I wasn’t a real novelist, not the kind that showed up at book signings at Barnes and Noble and Oprah anyhow. Furthermore, I was definitely not the type touted by agents and secured with monetary advances. I certainly had compiled enough manuscripts over the years to stock a small-town library, but as my father once advised me in his matter-of-fact way: “Unless someone is paying you to read it, then it’s not worth your time.” Maybe that’s why Chester Cobbs stopped writing before he ever had a chance to polish his prose. I imagine that’s why I quit writing, too, for a while. Eventually, life’s responsibilities plagued my artistic energy. Yet at times, I still experienced sparks of clarity where I envisioned words printed on a page before they actually materialized. It’s difficult to describe this phenomenon to anyone who doesn’t cherish the craft. I often reminded my students (and even my wife) that I could’ve effortlessly taught them the mechanics of writing, but I didn’t have the skill to make any of them writers. Above all, it’s essential to understand that a real writer never chose the craft. It chose him.
To suggest that I was simply ensnared in a creative rut would’ve been an arrant understatement. Lately, this black void felt more like a gulch massive enough to impound a bulldozer. A haunting voice sometimes screeched within my brain, but I permitted the echoes to fade until silence soothed me like a long-sought drug. I couldn’t accurately decla
re how much of my talent I retained, but I know I was presently suffocated beneath a mound of mangled memories.
In moments of intense uncertainty, I reflected upon my youth. In those days, words flowed from my pen as fluently as air through a bird’s feathers in flight. During this time, no boundaries shackled me to the earth. I was free to traverse the uncluttered pathways of my mind like a prowling jungle cat. I often wondered why I sculpted some of my best ideas before my twentieth birthday. The answer became evident shortly after I turned forty. As a young man, I was virtually unfettered from life’s woes, and I didn’t accept rejection from anyone. But as I aged, and my manuscripts remained mostly unread, I lost an intangible urge to maintain my focus on the craft I relished more than anything else in this world. In short, I simply surrendered my dream.
And yet while leaning wearily on the counter in my kitchen on this wretched morning, I sensed a multitude of words trickling through my head, deluging my brain’s recesses as if they had never truly forsaken me. I gradually edged closer to my journal, sneaking up on it like an old acquaintance. I then clasped the empty book between my fingers and caressed the onyx-colored leather. Why had I permitted my fondness for writing to diminish to nothing more substantial than a pastime? The finest at what they do rarely sacrificed a moment away from their chosen endeavor. If I no longer cared, how could I have ever expected anyone else to partake in my passion?
Just as an artist can’t color portraits without a brush and canvas, a writer became ineffectual minus his palate for words. In my mind’s eye, I had already penned my supreme achievement, a novel of epic proportion that rivaled anything I had attempted previously. This opus, I contended, exceeded even my loftiest expectations. But before I wrote the first word onto paper, my episodes increased in intensity. Suddenly, I was distracted again. A gloom draped over me like a pox-laden blanket. It sickened me to wonder if I would’ve ever reclaimed the stamina to compose my masterpiece. But as I already specified, this morning marked a new beginning for me. As I traced my fingertips over the journal’s clean edges, I promised to revisit the resilient voice infiltrating my imagination.
With my journal now wedged under my armpit, I moved back toward the note on the counter’s opposite side. Given my revelation, a postscript now seemed appropriate. I took a pen in hand and wrote: ‘P.S.—Today is going to be a memorable day! I’m writing again!’ Perhaps my statement was a bit premature, but she wasn’t the wiser. It felt invigorating just to make this promise to myself. Even with my heartfelt intentions in place, I knew that my episodes weren’t simply going to cease. If anything, they were becoming more frequent and unpredictable. Only a little over ten minutes had elapsed since the last occurrence, and a thin coating of perspiration already coated my upper lip; I recognized this as an early symptom of yet another spell.
Rather than falling unconscious in my home and risk being awakened by my wife, I managed to stagger into the garage and plop behind the steering wheel inside my Volkswagen. By the time I started my Beetle’s engine and pulled out onto the driveway, my vision blurred considerably. From this point, I had no way to reverse the process. I managed to engage the car’s parking brake before leaning my forehead against the door’s cool glass. Maybe my spontaneous defense would’ve mercifully stalled the onset of this spell, but it was a futile exercise. Soon enough, the morning light filtering into my eyes narrowed, almost as if I progressed steadily into a cave’s aperture.
For some reason, I depleted what remained of my consciousness on a flurry of dandelion seeds floating from Cora Hart’s poorly manicured lawn onto mine. I immediately associated the seedlings to snow and how conspicuous it would’ve appeared on my grass at this late day in April. Nevertheless, for the moment, I was content to resign my thoughts to a winter scene that existed eternally behind my closed eyelids.
Chapter 8
6:32 A.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 7
