by Nina Laurin
Not only does she look up from the tome, she puts it down altogether. “Oh. Sorry. I had no idea he had a wife.”
My mouth opens in a silent O of humiliation. Excuse me? I’m about to blurt but then steps echo behind me, loud, hurrying, and the girl is now looking past me, over my shoulder. I turn to follow her gaze, and there he is, hurrying toward me. Byron. His hair looks mussed, droplets of rain still peppering it like tiny beads.
I know it’s silly to get flustered at some obnoxious coed, because after all, I’m the one married to him. I’m the one with the ring (replacement ring, but still). But as soon as he comes close, I get on tiptoe and kiss him, throwing my arms around his neck. His body stiffens a little, and he meets the kiss—although his is much more chaste and less Bacall and Bogart.
“Honey,” he whispers in my ear, “please. I’m at work.”
You weren’t in your office, I want to say. What were you doing outside? But that would make me look insecure in front of the coed, whose pointed stare I can feel on the back of my head. It’s probably my own fault because of the public display of affection.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say instead, even though I’m not that late and not that sorry. “Let’s go?”
For the next little while, it’s like old times. He holds his umbrella over my head as we run to his car; he puts on the jazz violinist I like. He already bought the tickets to a special screening of a classic black-and-white movie at the indie theater in Columbus where we used to go in the beginning. We’re nearly alone in the cinema, rows and rows of those old-fashioned maroon velour seats all to ourselves, and we huddle over the bucket of popcorn, the warm buttery smell wafting in our faces. I let myself have more than I normally would, even though after three bites my fingertips are slick with grease. I can feel it pooling in my belly, coating my insides. We mouth along with the dialogue we know by heart.
When we emerge, it’s late, and the rain has stopped. The street is gleaming with reflected streetlights, and spare drops still fall on my arms and into my hair, out of nowhere.
“A bite to eat?” he asks. I want to say I’m full from the popcorn—I certainly should be—but for the first time in weeks I realize with surprise I actually have an appetite. Not just an appetite—a hunger for life I thought was hopelessly in the past. I want to throw the diet to the four winds and stuff my face, and then I want to stay up late and open a bottle of wine and make love till three in the morning, to hell with having to get up. So I agree, and he starts down the side street.
When I remember what exactly is just a block from here, from this theater, it’s too late. The greasy spoon’s front is lit up green and yellow, just like before. The popcorn churns in my belly.
“This?” I say, trying to sound casual. “Really?”
“I don’t want anything pretentious tonight. I just want a damn hamburger, and this place makes great ones.” His eyes gleam, his grin is impish, and for a moment, I let myself imagine that maybe, just maybe, he forgot and forgave. That the ancestral ring, gone from the family forever because of me, is not such a big deal. He’ll never be able to give it to his daughter now—not that he’s likely to ever have a daughter anyway, the way things are going with my stubborn uterus.
“I just— It’s kind of heavy, isn’t it?” I know how painfully transparent my attempt is but I go ahead anyway. “I’m in the mood for something fresher.”
“So get a Cobb salad,” he says, shrugging. His eyebrow twitches, etching a deep, dark line on his forehead. “Claire, please don’t start your killjoy routine right now. We’re having such a good night.”
I draw a breath of damp air, all my words dead on my tongue. If I say I’m sorry now, that’ll only make it worse. The only thing to do is to carry on like nothing happened, like I messed up a line in a play. The worst thing I can do is acknowledge it. The show must go on.
The smell, the light, the color scheme—everything conspires to make me queasy but I grin right through my nausea. As soon as the girl comes up to us, I order a bourbon, before she has a chance to open her mouth and try to sell us the specials. Byron gets a Jack and Coke.
“Really going for the trashy concept today, huh?” I say, working hard not to sound spiteful.
His grin almost makes me forgive him. “What? I’ve been Mr. PhD in Literature all week. Do you know how hard it is not to lose face in front of all these cool, hip types who come to my lectures? If I slip up, they’ll never respect me.”
What I don’t need right now is to be reminded of all the cool, hip types, especially like the one with the pretentious vintage tome. I bet she wasn’t even really reading it, just showing off.
“And you could also use some greasy French fries, if you ask me. You’re all bones.”
Self-conscious, I hug my shoulders to realize he’s right. I did lose some weight; it always goes from my face and upper body first so I can’t always tell by how my jeans fit. My already nonexistent tits dwindle to nothing but my sharp-boned facial structure becomes more refined. I turn heads either way, and I know it. He would know it too, if he ever paid attention. He’s the least jealous guy I’ve ever been with, and I used to think it was a good thing.
He has never criticized my appearance either: thin, not so thin, makeup, no makeup, inch-long brown roots—he’s never made so much as one ambiguous remark. Now that I think about it, this is the first time he seems to have noticed my body in a very long while.
He waves the waitress over and orders us some fries to share, a hamburger for himself. To spite him, I do get the Cobb salad, even though the salad in this place is beyond disgusting.
The fries arrive almost immediately, the basket sitting between us, filling the emptiness with a savory smell so thick I feel myself getting fat by just breathing. I gulp my bourbon. Then catch myself twisting the replacement ring nervously around my finger. Byron reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, like he does whenever I have one of my little neurotic tics.
Any second, I half expect him to bring up the ring. At certain moments, he tilts his head just so, licks his lips, and I think, There it is, on the tip of his tongue, and any moment now it’ll slip out and ruin everything. It would be so easy. But I know he won’t. Of course he won’t.
I finish the bourbon and get another one just as the food arrives. I’ll have puffy eyes and the mother of all headaches tomorrow but who cares? I gulp from drink number two, staring wistfully at Byron’s plate—not a chance I’m touching mine. The mound of wilted oily lettuce shreds, the grayish boiled egg, the pale, watery tomato slices—it’s enough to make me want to hurl.
I know I must say something to break the infected silence punctuated only by the sound of Byron chewing, his jaws working with determination.
I polish off the rest of the bourbon. “We should try again,” I blurt. “Seriously this time.”
He doesn’t stop eating. He only gives me a look over the handful of hamburger. That look.
“Interesting how you mostly want to when you’re hammered. You realize you’ll need to lay off the wine for nine months?”
That’s a lie, so blatant I should be insulted. It’s not that I’m wishy-washy in my desire to have a baby. It’s just that my infertility fitted so neatly with Byron’s disinterest in raising children.
“You said,” I start, words jumping over one another in a hurry to get out, “you said, as you got older, you started to think about it. To want to leave something behind.”
“Thinking about it isn’t the same,” he says, lowering the burger. Meat, brown and pink, crumbling, a mess of ketchup and mayo spilling over onto his plate. “And besides…Claire, you know how much it’ll cost. Not just the IVF. Everything. Clothes, schools. Our savings won’t last forever, the way we’re going. We’d have to make serious cutbacks.”
I pretend to think. I have a solution but he won’t want to hear of it, of course. Nor will he want to give up his gourmet coffee and Scotch.
“I know,” I say acidly. “Trust me—I know. It’s
so much better to leave behind a Great American Novel than another human being with your genes. But that’s not working out so great, as you know.”
“You don’t have to go there.” He wipes his hands on a napkin and then balls it up and tosses it into his plate. Byron’s own rejected novels, from a time when I was probably in kindergarten, are still gathering dust in some drawer. We never talk about them. Just like we no longer talk about mine, the big shiny novel that sits like a brick on my hard drive and will probably never leave it.
Byron sighs. “So that’s it, then? You want a baby to give your life meaning?” His mouth twists with disdain. “How about— Have you been looking for a job, Claire?”
I sit up straight. It feels like I’ve been slapped. My head is spinning, ringing hollowly. Although it could be the bourbon.
“I have to go,” I say in carefully measured syllables. I get up, pull my dress around my thighs, and storm to the bathroom. Not until the door swings closed behind me does it hit me—this is it, this exact dingy, dirty washroom, where it happened. The ring.
I slam the door of the stall and make sure the latch is turned. Hastily, I pull off reams and reams of brittle toilet paper, throw it on the floor, position my knees on top of it so my skin doesn’t make contact with the disgusting tiles. Then I lean over the toilet and, without hesitation, stick two fingers down my throat.
And watch it all come back up, this whole wretched day.
CHAPTER FIVE
Your wife didn’t even notice her keys were gone.
I wish I could say I’m such a meticulous planner that I masterminded the whole thing. But no. My plan had been much simpler but just as effective. Once again, luck was on my side.
She was at the public library near campus, where she goes every Friday, waiting for you to be finished at work. As usual, before she goes browsing, she stakes her claim on her favorite chair next to the window—see? I do know her. And you. Maybe better than you know yourselves.
She puts her coat and her purse on the armchair, coat thrown over purse as if it will fool anyone. Thinking the sort of people who go to the library are surely above swiping a wallet. I am above it, even though God knows I could use the money. And she—she throws her trendy bag with the glittery logo around like it’s nothing.
But I wasn’t going to risk ruining everything over a few bucks and a cute purse. I waited for her to disappear in the reference book section and then simply came up and rummaged through the purse like it was my own.
She has a mess in there, your wife. Lipsticks in three different colors, empty lip balm, gum wrappers, loose change clanging around the bottom. I couldn’t resist—I pocketed a lipstick, an unassuming shade of pink not so different from the color of her lips. That tube just looked so sad in there, and she’ll never notice. I opened her wallet. She had a bunch of credit cards, crumpled receipts stuffed in the cash compartment, but no photos. I rifled through the receipts and put them back as carelessly as she had, taking mental notes. It was tempting but I didn’t touch the cards. The time would come for everything; I just had to be patient.
But I did take her house keys and put them in my coat pocket. While she flipped through this or that coffee-table book, I ran to the quaint little shoe-repair place across the street and had copies made. Within fifteen minutes, the house keys were back in your wife’s purse, and she never knew a thing.
Getting into your house—well, that was another matter altogether. I waited for two more weeks, biding my time to be sure I hadn’t messed up, that she really didn’t notice anything. Once I felt safe, I could go ahead.
I skipped class that day, the day I knew for sure she’d be out of the house. I drove out to where you live. It’s such a generic McMansion; I’m surprised at you. How can a spirit like yours feel at home there, be happy there? I’ve heard you speak. Your mind can soar into the stratosphere and bring along everyone who’s listening.
I pictured you living in a beautiful Victorian that looks like it might be haunted or, maybe, in a historic ranch, tending to your own horses in your free time. Is it dumb of me to still have idols in our day and age, to imagine a life for them that transcends the boring trappings of domesticity?
It’s a beautiful house, sure. It projects the right things: money, stability, respectability—the usual garbage I know you don’t really care about. It’s so impersonal. None of it is you.
When we’re together, we will sell it and move. To another city, or another state, because why not? We’ll go someplace where you’ll be inspired, a place worthy of you, a place that will nourish this great mind of yours so you can finally fulfil your true potential.
As for me, I don’t dare suggest I’ll be your muse—I can’t be so presumptuous—but at least I’ll do everything in my power to make sure the domestic sphere doesn’t distract you from your work. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning and then fuck you on the kitchen counter.
That first visit was just that, a visit. Reconnoitering. I didn’t take or touch anything—I swear. Well, I did touch some things but I put them back the same way you and your wife left them. And, all right, I admit that I lingered longer than necessary in front of your bookshelves. I always wanted to know which books you keep at home. Which ones mean so much to you that you picked them out of millions and millions of titles and brought them into your inner sanctum, granting them the coveted spot on your personal shelf. You like obscure British novels from the fifties and sixties; you’re a John Fowles fan. I could tell because you have more than one edition of all his books. Other things weren’t as surprising: Jay McInerney, Tama Janowitz, Hilary Mantel, and, endearingly, a whole shelf at the very bottom filled with Swedish crime novels, mass-market paperback editions that look like they came from an airport.
I picked up a heavy, beautiful tome from the center of the shelf where you put your most precious possessions on display. The gilded spine spoke to me: THE MAGUS. I sat cross-legged on the floor and leafed through the pages, breathing their heady smell, my fingertips alight with their texture. I slipped my hand into my underwear, touched myself, and marked it—just the corners of the title page, christened by my wetness. When you next pick it up, you won’t notice a thing but your subconscious will rear its head like a wolf scenting fresh blood. And when I’m ready to show myself to you, then you’ll know me on a primal level. Your body and your blood will know that I’m yours.
I have now been able to fill in the blanks in my picture of you. I know your favorite coffee, your brand of cereal, your alcohol of choice, the DVDs on your shelf. I know your drawers are organized, and your wife’s closet somewhat chaotic. I know her shoes are one size smaller than mine, her bra size is 34B (statistically average), and that she has more thong panties than regular ones—surprising, because she looks like such a prude.
Isn’t it magic when you finally meet that person, the one you’re meant to be with? It’s as if they know everything about you instinctively, and all their wants and needs and likes and dislikes align with yours. And that’s when you know fate brought you together and you’re meant to be.
In time, it will happen. For now, it’s almost as if I already live here, with the two of you. Immaterial for now but growing closer, realer, more solid every day. Like becoming a ghost in reverse.
CHAPTER SIX
Another morning waking up alone in our bed.
My head is pounding, my eyes are swollen, and my breath could kill a crocodile, all of which is to be expected after yesterday. Before I attempt to make myself coffee, I go to the bathroom and take an aspirin. Next, I jump in the shower, blasting the water at the hottest setting. I scrub my skin until I’m lobster red and the steam is so thick the fan can’t clear it.
When I get out, refreshed and revived, I finally realize I forgot to be sad that he didn’t wake me to say bye. It’s Friday, and the weekend is looming in front of me, vague but menacing. Great. I just can’t wait to spend two days stewing in mutual resentment.
I make toast but realize I can’
t stomach so much as a bite so I let it sit in the toaster. With my cup of coffee and my laptop, I take up my usual spot in the living room.
My fingertips tap on the edge of the keyboard nervously as I open my emails but no more strange messages from dead people have cropped up.
However, there’s an interesting email in my writing account. Dear Claire, I’d love to read your novel. Please send me the manuscript to…
I have to look up the agent because it’s been so long since I emailed her—and written her off as a nonresponse. She’s based in the UK and has some reasonably well-known authors on her client list. I format the manuscript per her guidelines, and the moment I hit Send, another email pops up in my regular inbox.
I take one glance at it, and everything—the manuscript request, my dread of the upcoming weekend—evaporates from my head.
Re: Artwork for sale
Good morning Connie, I saw your add and I’d like to see the Colleen May. Is their a time and place we can meet?
Best, Rea
Dubious grammar aside, she didn’t leave contact info except for her email address. My skin starts to tingle, my hands trembling with excitement. I am actually getting away with this! At the same time, shame makes my face flush. Can I really, seriously get away with this?
Yes. Yes I can. I will present Byron with the fait accompli when it’s too late to turn back. He’ll be happy. He can’t not be. It’s just a painting stashed away in the storage room like some old blanket we never use. And it could help me—it could help me so much, more than anyone can imagine.
It could cover a round of IVF. Or more, depending on how I play it.
Licking my lips, I write a message to this Rea. Real name? Who knows? And who cares, as long as she can pay. Besides, look who’s talking. “Connie” was a last-second precaution in case any prospective buyers get too Google-happy.
