Leaving Sophie Dean

by Alexandra Whitaker

  Valerie didn’t smile back. “No, it’s just that… I won’t feel comfortable living here if it’s… underhanded. I want everything to be aboveboard. It’s only fair, to her and to me.”

  He put his arms around her. “That’s very good of you. I’ll tell you what, I’ll e-mail her this evening. Will that do?”

  Valerie nodded, then followed him up the stairs, where he opened the door to the spare room, saying, “I thought we could sleep here.”

  She leaned in and looked around. “Hmm. It’s got all the charm of a roadside motel. Isn’t there a better room somewhere?” And she went down the hall opening doors—the boys’ room, the bathroom—until she came to the master bedroom. “Ah, here we are!” She wandered around appraisingly, parted the curtains and peered out, fingered the objects on the dresser—all his now—and slid open a closet door. Women’s clothes still hung there. She sat on the bed with a bounce, testing the springs. “Yes, this will do.” Adam was still standing in the doorway, his head bowed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Not here,” he said.

  “Why not here? Why shouldn’t we have the best room?” Then, more softly, she said, “Come here,” and lay back and held out her arms to him. “I’m not going to live in a haunted house, Adam. We have ghosts to dispel. I’m your woman now. Come here and make love to me.”

  Excitement overcame his reluctance, and in the course of their lovemaking it struck him fleetingly how strange it was to see short, dark hair splayed out on Sophie’s pillow, and afterward, as they sat in the kitchen, Valerie wearing one of his shirts as a robe, belted with one of his ties, he marveled again at how exotic and thrillingly out of place she looked, lounging there with one bare knee resting on the edge of Sophie’s well-scrubbed pine table. But…

  “Valerie, I don’t want us to use that room again. It isn’t a question of ghosts, it’s me. I want to make a new start, with you, in a room all our own. It’s the least we deserve.”

  She shrugged, then sipped her coffee and grimaced. “Remind me to bring over my espresso maker.”

  “We have all weekend to ourselves,” he said. “I thought I might catch up on a little work. If that’s all right.”

  “Fine. I have to work, too. Hey, it’s sort of fun playing house, isn’t it? Even here. Oh, by the way, I have a surprise for you.” She lowered her knee from the table and leaned forward excitedly. “I’ve managed to get hold of this fantastic English nanny, and she has agreed to live in. It wasn’t easy finding someone at such short notice, let me tell you. And get this—her name is Amelia Eldridge. Honest to God. Isn’t that great? It’ll bring back your childhood.”

  “Oh, no, Valerie, that was kind of you, but no. Milagros will do for the time being.”

  “But this is a fully qualified professional from a top agency. Isn’t Milagros just a cleaning lady?”

  “The children love her. She’s very kind, very dear to us.”

  “But we need someone for nights and weekends.”

  “She can baby-sit sometimes, and Sophie has them every other weekend. No, it’s out of the question. The whole point of our arrangement—mine with Sophie, I mean—was to upset their routine as little as possible. A nanny would be a disruption. Adjusting to you will be enough for now. Believe me, we’ll be all right. Perhaps in the future…”

  In the future, Valerie thought, they wouldn’t be seeing enough of Adam’s children to warrant a nanny, but aloud she said, “Then what about having this Milagros person live in?” God, what a name.

  He shook his head. “She has a family of her own. We’ll be fine. Truly.”

  “Adam, I want to make one thing clear to you. I do not intend to wipe a single nose while I’m here. That is not part of our deal. I’ve come to darkest suburbia to help you out, but I do not wipe children—not their noses, not their asses, not their chins. Like some cleaners don’t do windows? Me, I don’t wipe.”

  “You won’t need to. They’re my children, and I’m perfectly capable of looking after them.”

  They eyed each other frostily for a moment, and then she defused the situation by laughing. “You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for, believe me.” Seeing that he wasn’t mollified, she squeezed his hand. “But I guess Daddy knows best! Okay, you win, but I won’t throw away Miss Eldridge’s number. In fact, I’ll keep it under my pillow, just in case we need to call in the middle of the night.” He managed a smile, and she stood up and stretched. “Where’s the phone? I’ll order some Japanese food. Then we can get to work.”

  “Oh… I…” Adam coughed. “I’m afraid you’ll find they won’t deliver this far out.”

  Valerie covered her face with her hand and groaned, but then she laughed again. “Okay. Since we’re playing house anyway, I’ll just go and cook us something delicious. And you know, my love,” she added, taking him in her arms, “I really am happy to be here with you. Don’t let my tough-gal act fool you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

  So Adam got a foretaste of his new life after all. He spent the weekend alternating long stretches of fruitful work with spells of torrid lovemaking: the life of a sophisticated professional man—at last.

  His e-mail to Sophie did not get written.

  * * *

  “Can we feed the fish? Can we?”

  “Okay. Hang on a minute.” Sophie followed the boys into the kitchen, her arms full of the balls, bats, and skates they had brought to the park. She dumped the things down and picked up the container of fish food.

  “Here we are. Now… we open it up… and…” She was kneeling on the floor about to deal out perfectly fair and equal portions of fish food when the phone rang. “Oh, no,” she groaned.

  “We can do it,” Matthew said eagerly. “You go.”

  Somewhat mistrustfully, she handed over the food. “Remember, just a tiny pinch each, or the fish will get sick.” Shrugging off her coat, she picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Sophie, at last!” her mother said. “What on earth has been going on over there? I spoke to Adam, and he gave me this number. You haven’t really moved out, have you?”

  “Hello, Mother. Boys, it’s Granny! The boys are spending the weekend with me, and we’re feeding the fish just now. Careful now, boys, not too much! Would you like to speak to your grandma?”

  They would not.

  “Your father and I have been so worried, Sophie!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You mustn’t be. Everything’s fine. I know I should have been in touch earlier, but there’s been so much to do, and I wanted to get settled before I spoke to you. So you wouldn’t worry.”

  “But you haven’t left Adam, have you?”

  “Yes. Or rather no. He’s the one who… Listen, Mother, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’m busy with the boys, you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly that you don’t want to speak in front of them.”

  “That’s it exactly. I’ll call you back, all right? As soon—”

  “So I’ll do the talking, and you just listen. Now, my darling, whatever quarrel you two have had, just remember that communication is the key to married life.…” Sophie sighed, turned her back to the boys, and listened, fiddling with the phone cord.

  The boys were devoting all their attention to the delicate job of not overfeeding the fish. Each sprinkled in one pinch of food, but— “They still look hungry,” Hugo said after watching them closely. He tried to shake in just a tiny bit more from the jar, but— “Uh-oh.”

  He turned alarmed eyes on his elder brother, but Matthew reassured him, “It can be their lunch and dinner.” He stirred the water vigorously with his finger to try to get rid of the telltale covering of fish flakes on the surface, but they only swirled down and around, like the flakes in a snow globe. Cloudy and Fishtag darted this way and that, confused by such riches. Hugo stole a guilty glance at Sophie, who was off the phone now, frowning out the window and moving her lips. He eased off his chair, walked over, and took her h
and.

  “Why do you have those hairbrowns, Mommy?” he asked.

  “What?” she said.

  He glanced back at the fishbowl, where the excess food still clouded the water. “Let’s go water the plants,” he said, steering her toward the porch.

  Matthew followed them out, and she used the hose to refill their watering cans as they made the rounds of the plants, looking important and spilling a little water with each step. Later they sat at the table eating sandwiches and drinking juice in contented silence. It had been a satisfying weekend, now drawing to a close.

  “I like your house, Mommy,” Hugo said eventually.

  “I’m glad, honey. It’s your house, too, you know.”

  “We have two houses,” Matthew said patiently to Hugo. “Mommy’s and Daddy’s.” He looked at his mother for praise, and she smiled at him.

  Hugo drank some juice, then: “Daddy’s girlfriend is coming to live in Daddy’s house. Her name is Valerie.”

  Sophie stared at him. “You mean she’s coming to visit, don’t you, darling?”

  “No,” Matthew answered for his brother, “she’s coming to live with us. Daddy said.” He took another sandwich. “Is she nice, Mommy?”

  Sophie’s heart began to race. “Well… I… I don’t know. But if Daddy likes her… she must be… quite… okay.” Not an inspired performance, but this was ad lib and she was struggling. And then she realized they must have gotten it wrong. It couldn’t be true; Adam couldn’t be taking such an enormous step without consulting her. They’d overheard something and misconstrued it. It had to be that.

  “I know,” Matthew said slowly in an I-have-an-idea voice. “We could play…” He paused for suspense, and the tactic worked wonderfully well on Hugo, who became round-eyed with expectation. “Hide-and-seek!”

  “Yes!” Hugo leaped in the air. “You be ‘it,’ Mommy!”

  Here was further proof, if she needed it. Sophie put her hand over her eyes and started counting aloud. If a strange woman were really moving into their home, they would have more on their minds than hide-and-seek, surely.

  “…seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” She could almost laugh now at the shock she had felt at the news, like a body blow knocking the wind out of her.

  She could almost laugh, but not quite.

  * * *

  Confirmation of the news that Valerie had moved in came at breakfast on Monday morning, when after long and insistent ringing of the doorbell, Milagros burst into Sophie’s apartment, breathless with indignation and from climbing the stairs, to announce that she had quit her job. “I’m sorry for you,” she said to Sophie, accepting a cup of coffee, “and I’m sorry for the boys, but I will not work in that house! I told him. I told him, I will not work for a fulana!” Milagros spoke triumphantly, but her hand trembled when she lifted the cup to her lips.

  “And that’s it? He just let you go?” Sophie’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “What could he do? ¡Qué poca vergüenza! Those poor boys! I’m never going back to that house, I tell you, I refuse to work—”

  But a loud crash interrupted her. Sophie had hurled her coffee cup to the floor.

  * * *

  “Hypocritical bastard!” Sophie spat the words out. “What about not upsetting the children, eh? Not changing their routine? Or doesn’t replacing me count as a change in their lives?” It was no longer Milagros she had before her, but Adam himself, pale and speechless. She had pushed past his secretary into his office, and now he crouched, half risen out of his chair, staring in shock at a woman so transformed by anger that he could barely recognize her as his wife. “What about the fucking good of the fucking children now?” Her words resonated down the hall. There’s some mistake, he thought, Sophie doesn’t say “fuck.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Odette tiptoe up and close his door, and he felt grateful to her. In a voice gravelly with rage, Sophie continued, “In spite of every cowardly, traitorous thing you’ve done to me, I still thought—I really did—that although you were a sadly inadequate human being and a shit of a husband, at least—and I consoled myself with this thought—at least you really did care what happened to our children. But it’s perfectly clear now that all you care about is fucking that woman, and if our bed is the easiest place to fuck her, then fine, you’ll fuck her in our bed—and to hell with the children and all that pious bullshit you gave me about not upsetting their lives! Adam, how dare you? How dare you bring a stranger into their home without consulting me first?”

  There was no doubt about it: Sophie had lost all sight of the fact that she didn’t say “fuck.” Adam managed to find his voice. “But that’s why I didn’t hire a nanny! I was thinking of them!”

  “A nanny? I’m talking about the woman in our bed! Or did you think they wouldn’t notice it wasn’t me?”

  “Sophie, I never—”

  She pointed menacingly into his face. “The first thing you’re going to do, you son of a bitch, is get down on your knees and beg Milagros to come back.”

  “I’ll speak to her.”

  “You’ll crawl to her, if that’s what it takes. You’ll get her back under any terms she cares to name.”

  The staccato sound of their voices, one higher, one lower, continued for some time through the closed door, while Odette nervously shuffled and reshuffled the papers on her desk, trying to catch what was being said without actually listening in. Word of what was happening had spread quickly, and more than one colleague had found reason to drift out into the corridor, where looks of concern were exchanged, as well as twitching smiles. Then Adam’s door flew open, and Odette ducked instinctively as Sophie tore back out. James pressed himself against the wall as she charged by, trying to catch her eye with a sympathetic glance, but she swept past him and out, brushing a tear from her cheek and slamming the door. A couple of sheets of paper fluttered to the floor, mute casualties of her wifely wrath. James watched them settle, then stooped and gathered them up.

  When Sophie’s departing shadow had rippled past her translucent office door, Valerie pounced on her phone. “Our lit-tle plan is work-ing!” she trilled to Agatha. “Guess who just blew out of here like a bat out of hell?… Yep, the irate little wife herself! Now she’s speeding back to pack up her aprons and oven gloves, and soon she’ll come swooping down, screeching, all sharp talons and beak, to reclaim her nest and chicks. And welcome to them!” Valerie swiveled back and forth in her chair girlishly. “Well, I guess I’d better go and console whatever’s left of Adam. Bye now!” She hung up, laughing, and spun herself once all the way around in her chair in exuberance. Then she stood, smoothed her skirt, and arranged her face into a suitably sympathetic expression for Adam. “So undignified… How awful for you…” She stifled another laugh.

  * * *

  Valerie and Agatha had been right to assume they would goad Sophie into action, but they miscalculated the direction that action would take. Instead of packing oven gloves, Sophie began divorce proceedings. Sitting in the lawyer’s office on a slippery leather chair, she maintained an expression of polite concentration while he ground out routine legal phrases, but her mind was on other matters: lawyers’ offices, the graveyard of human hopes and aspirations. Marriages, business partnerships, so many dreams and projects, created with enthusiasm and mutual trust, came to an end here. When communication and the ability to problem-solve failed, the losers took refuge in these gleaming chrome-and-leather offices and sat listening to statements like this one: “Divorce is no-fault in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Either spouse may commence divorce proceedings whenever he or she feels that there has been an irretrievable breakdown of the marriage relationship. So-called grounds for divorce—e.g., adultery, mental cruelty, abandonment, et cetera—are not part of the law governing dissolution of marriage in this jurisdiction.”

  Riding down in the elevator, clicking past the floors, the terms “irretrievable breakdown” and “no-fault” echoed in Sophie’s head. So everything boiled down to that: It was over
, and it was nobody’s fault. That was knowable, was it? And by that stranger? Going up in the elevator, Sophie had still been a married woman, just. Coming down, she was no longer married, nor yet divorced, but cut adrift in a gray no-man’s-land of pending paperwork. The thought depressed her, and the fact that there was still a legal bond uniting her to Adam made her feel vulnerable, as though it were a channel through which he could continue to hurt her—a sort of umbilical cord transferring pain instead of nourishment. If only it could be severed immediately, she would be safe. “I’m no longer married,” she said in a loud, clear voice, just before the elevator doors rolled open. She stepped out and crossed the polished floor of the lobby. “I’m no longer married,” she said more quietly, mindful of the people brushing past her. Outside, she stood at the top of the broad flight of stone steps and said again into the wind, in a firm but neutral tone, “I am not married.” She listened carefully to the sound of that, testing it for truth. But no, it lacked conviction. She went down the steps, twisting her wedding ring automatically, unhappily, and looked up and down the street, feeling at a loss. How to continue the day… ? What time was it, anyway? Eleven-thirty. Only eleven-thirty? Go home, go to class, eat lunch; all were equally unthinkable. People crisscrossed in front of Sophie and behind her, creating one diamond-shaped island of irresoluteness in a mesh of busy lines. She peered into their faces as they hurried by, hoping for a clue of where to go and what to do, but their faces were closed, their steps quick and purposeful, as if to remind her that the whole busy world does not grind to a halt all because one man has left one woman. Only eleven-thirty, and she was standing utterly alone and purposeless on a windy sidewalk. She took three hesitant steps forward, then stopped and drifted three steps back. A man bumped into her and growled. She was in the way. She was in everyone’s way! She looked down at the pavement and saw a candy wrapper jammed in a crack. Unable to take her eyes off it, with rising panic, she realized she had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Any step, this way or that way, was equally absurd and pointless. A lanky teenaged boy bumped into her, knocking her handbag off her shoulder. Catching the strap in the crook of her arm, she scurried into the shelter of a storefront, out of the stream of pedestrians, and stared at the window display. With relief she noticed another woman looking at it, too, studying the contents critically with narrowed eyes, moving her lips as she made some calculation. Sophie inched closer to her, then closer still, hoping the woman would speak, comment on the display, include Sophie in her life for just a moment, acknowledge that she, too, had a right to be on the sidewalk. Sophie lifted her eyes shyly, prepared to speak first if the woman would not—but the woman had gone. Sophie looked back to the vast shop window and saw her reflection on its surface, in pale outline only, without detail, her hair blowing across a dark oval that should have been her face.