by Cecelia Frey
In the beginning, Esther would get up and have breakfast with George before he went to the university. She would prepare a good nutritious start to the day for him and Delores. Then in high school, Delores stopped eating breakfast because she was always on one diet or another and George said he could get his own, which in those days was a bowl of granola. So there was no sense to her getting up. She was only an obstacle for the other two to stumble around as they found juice, made coffee, opened and closed the fridge door. As she told herself, her sleeping in was an accommodation to others. Now, since George had taken up jogging in the morning, which was very good for him, which the doctor had ordered, which she encouraged, often she did not see him until he came home from work. When he came in from his jog, he would go straight into the shower, shave, dress and be off to the university. He would grab something to eat at one of the many food kiosks in the students’ union building. He said that he actually liked Egg McMuffins.
Such was the state of affairs, the morning habits and routine of the Martins, on that fateful morning when Esther heard the lilting melodious song of the robin and thought, all is well with the world, and snuggled beneath the covers to doze and drift and doze again. When she finally woke up, she lay for a while basking in the stream of sunlight coming through the open window. She could smell spring — mud, moisture, young leaves, the new-mown hay of freshly cut grass. Soon George would be finished spring session. Did he plan to teach a summer session? He used to do research in the summer. When had he last given over a summer to research? She couldn’t remember, although she did think that he had said something to her about it not too long ago. She should try and listen to what he said. But he so often talked about boring subjects, politics of the office, cutbacks in funding. Well, she hoped he would have some time off. So much needed to be done to keep up a house. This room, for instance, the woodwork desperately needed repainting. She still liked the colours, the carpet and cushions and quilts and blankets and wall hangings all various shades of pink and rose, the walls a creamy white. She would have to order more paint. She had the number written down on a piece of paper in a file folder. Outside, the eaves needed paint. Perhaps she could help George, perhaps they could do it together. Usually, she left the outside upkeep to George but they really should spend more time together, relaxing as well as working on the house. They were getting to an age when they should relax more. Why not? George would be fifty this year. She could scarcely believe it.
By mid-morning Esther was coifed and dressed in a clean and crisp flowered cotton house dress. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she still wore dresses or skirts and tops around the house. She was in the kitchen, busily, happily, whipping up a cake for Saturday’s dinner party. The mixer was whirring full tilt ahead, the white batter, smelling of vanilla, swirling like cream around the beaters, when the doorbell rang. She switched off the mixer and wiped her hands on the apron that swathed her thickening middle. She went through the house to the front door, it had been the chimes rather than the bell. Likely it was a salesperson or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, someone she would have to get rid of, politely, of course, especially if it was the Witnesses for surely they were good people, only misguided.
On the step was a tall, attractive, young woman with long blonde hair, a thin face, rather strange brown eyes and a wide mouth. Esther turned her own mouth up only slightly at the corners, not wanting to give a salesperson too much encouragement, but not wanting to be rude, either, for, as she often said of those less fortunate than herself, there but for the grace of God go I.
“Are you Esther?” The young woman narrowed her eyes. They seemed to be watching her and yet not watching her. Esther briefly noticed that she was dressed in black leather, pants and coat. She wore a black leather tam on her head. She had lovely skin, very white.
“Yessss.” Should she admit it? Was this person going to charm her way into the house by false statements and then case the joint? Nowadays, according to the paper, you couldn’t trust young women any more than you could young men. She recalled things she had heard on the news as well as stories of friends. Don’t be silly, she told herself. It might be someone who knows Delores.
“We have to talk,” the young woman said.
Esther knew a moment of terror. Who was this woman? Was she from the police? A hospital? Come with terrible news? Please, please, don’t let it be Delores, she thought. “What is it?” she said.
“George.”
“George?” Esther did not comprehend. The name had come so unexpectedly out of that wide mouth, from between those full red lips.
“You do know a George?” The young woman’s lips twisted slightly.
Was it an unpaid traffic ticket? A parking infraction? Did police officers look like this? Dress like this? Perhaps, nowadays, they did. Maybe she should admit nothing. What was this person doing here, anyway, invading her home, her privacy? The onus certainly wasn’t on her, Esther, to provide answers. And as for George, she certainly wasn’t going to supply a stranger with information that might be damaging to George.
The young woman looked straight at her, took a very deep breath of the fresh sunny morning, held it in a moment, then let it all out with a rush along with the words, “George and I are having an affair.” Her voice was cold, efficient, practical.
Esther, as though hypnotized, was caught by those bold yet wary eyes. “You must have the wrong George,” she said, then thought, why am I standing at my door discussing George with this total stranger. “I don’t wish to speak to you.” She started to close the door.
The young woman threw open her leather coat. She was so slim, the mound looked like a distortion, like a soccer ball covered with cloth. Esther could see that the leather pants were constructed with a stretch material across the tummy for expansion. “We’ve been having a relationship for two and a half years.”
“You can say anything,” Esther said. “It doesn’t have to be true. I don’t have to believe you.”
The young woman shrugged. “Ask George.” She closed her coat and with her hands folded across the front of her torso, as though protecting her soft underside, as Esther thought later, turned and left. She walked with long, self-confident strides down the walk and away down the tree-lined street.
A student, thought Esther. George must have given her a poor mark on an exam. She wants to cause him trouble.
For some time, she stood at the door. She could not think. She felt like she had been delivered a blow to the midsection.
She’s lying, thought Esther and kept that thought firm in her mind. For some reason, the young woman was lying. She must be lying. George wouldn’t do that. Oh, he might have an incident with another woman. Any man might do that, in a weak moment. But George would not carry on for two and a half years without telling her. George would not deceive her that way for that long. She and George were as one. How can you deceive part of yourself? How can you live with a person, share the same bed, and be living a complete lie? That was not possible. George could not possibly have done this thing, for if he had he was not George, not the George she knew, had known for a quarter of a century.
But why would the young woman lie? Esther had heard that harassment was an issue now at the university and in the work place. She had heard stories of false charges. But to come to the house! To produce that evidence, when surely everyone knew that nowadays such evidence could be clinically tested. But by that time, she could make a lot of trouble for George. She could ruin his reputation. How can you ruin another person with no evidence, wondered Esther? That young woman must have some hard facts to back up her claim. Witnesses, perhaps? To what? To a look, a smile, perhaps George’s hand on her shoulder in the classroom. She must have more than that. Pictures? Compromising situations?
What if it was true? What if George had been intimate with that young woman? What if he had looked into her eyes, a mutual understanding passing between them? What if he had sat wit
h her, put his arm around her? What if they had laughed together, smiled at each other, perhaps showered together, soaped each other down, stood together under the shower nozzle rinsing the soap from their bodies.
Esther felt a sharp pain pierce her heart, as surely as if a spear had been thrust through her. She might be having a heart attack.
Stop it! she directed herself. This is foolish. This is more than foolish. This is insane. You don’t even know that George knows this woman.
Think! Try to think clearly. The first thing to do is to find out, to ask George. With this direction in mind, she was able to close the door. She locked it, firmly, as though it were not too late to save her treasures.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the wall phone situated near the back door. She dialled George’s number. What would she say? The funniest thing just happened…. No. I’ve just had the strangest experience…. You won’t believe…. I shouldn’t even be bothering you with this, it’s so obviously mad.…
George wasn’t answering. Esther couldn’t breathe. She was breaking out in a sweat. At the same time, she felt cold. Why was she letting herself get so upset? Why was she believing a complete stranger? Why wasn’t she waiting until she spoke with George? There would be an explanation. They might even end up laughing about it. No, somehow she did not think that they would laugh about this. Likely it would be more serious than that. She looked at the clock above the sink. Ten past eleven. Was he in class? She couldn’t remember when his lectures were this term. She should try to remember those things. But nearly twenty-three years of remembering class times! Still, she should. She knew that she should.
Which day was this? Thursday? She let the phone click over into the department office. Sheila, one of the secretaries, answered. “Oh, hi Mrs. Martin,” she said. “He’s in his 301.”
“301?”
“Yes, until noon. Shall I have him call you?”
“Would you, please?” Esther held the phone a moment before hanging up. She did not want to be alone. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts. With her mind. How would she get through the next hour of her life? The next minute? She could phone Helena. She would phone Helena. But what would she say? She must not discuss this with another person before discussing it with George. She could simply chat with her sister. How’s the new apartment coming along? How’s the job hunting? But if she once opened her mouth to Helena, she knew that she would blurt out everything. She would start wailing hysterically. She must not. She must not betray George. She must not betray the loyalty of her marriage vows. She must not put her burdens on Helena, Helena who had remarkably gotten her life straightened around.
Action, Esther ordered. Do something. Keep busy. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. She marched herself to the counter. She switched on the mixer.
She must not fall apart. People were counting on her. Delores. George. Yes, she must think of George. This must be a mistake and therefore George would need her, need her strength, need her belief in him. She and George may have an ordeal ahead of them. There may be a time of trouble. If that young woman was so bold as to come to the house, she may be bold enough to go to the authorities, the head of the department. She may tell her lies to the newspapers. Every day such dreadful intimate human dramas were displayed for the entertainment of the bored and curious.
Esther suddenly saw the batter that she had been staring at for several minutes. How long had the beaters been going around? She clicked off the button, lifted the motor head, wiped the dripping batter into the bowl with her forefinger, poured the batter into the prepared pans. Her cake would be ruined, peaked in the middle. That’s what came of overmixing. Well, she would serve it anyway. Maybe she could pile it with whipped cream and no one would notice.
She must think of other people. She had invited the O’Haras for Saturday. They would arrive in good faith, with their bottle of wine and hostess gift. They had a right to expect a civilized gathering and decent food. She had a responsibility to them. She tried to think of Saturday evening, two days from now. She tried to focus on the details of her little party, tried to envision cloth, napkins, floral arrangement, tried to put those pleasant details in place of her terrible thoughts. But she could not keep her mind focused on Saturday evening. She could not get as far as Saturday evening. Saturday might have been next year, the next century. She could not envision that she would still be here, alive in this world, on Saturday.
She stood with her hands on the stove top and stared. She made herself breathe, out, in, out, in. I can’t keep thinking about this, she told herself. I’ll go crazy.
I have to find a way to think about this, she told herself. If it is true. Even if it is true, there are many possibilities. Maybe he was having an affair but isn’t now. Maybe he hasn’t seen her for some time. Maybe he doesn’t know she’s pregnant. Certainly, he doesn’t love her, or she wouldn’t have had to come to the house. Somehow, he got mixed up with her. These things happen. Two and a half years? part of her said. It may not have been that long, another part said. Maybe that’s how long they’ve known each other. That doesn’t mean they’ve been having an affair all that time. Perhaps he even loved her once, or was in love with her, which are two different things. But he was no longer in love with her. He couldn’t love that person. He was still her husband. They still had intimate relations. Sex, Esther told herself, sternly. Sex. Oh, perhaps not often. Esther tried to remember the last time. The occasions had become fewer over the years. But she had thought that normal; they were getting older, becoming comfortable old tabbies. It had not bothered her. Perhaps it had bothered George. So he had turned to that girl. Sex, then. Not love. A sexual affair. They happen all the time. Perhaps he tried to stop it and she kept at him. Perhaps she got herself pregnant on purpose. To hold him. If she knew anything at all about George, she would know that he would feel a sense of duty to the child. But why didn’t he share this with me? Esther howled within. Why didn’t he share his troubles? If he was unhappy with their marriage why didn’t he talk to her about it? George is a man of science, came the answer. He has always found it difficult to speak of his inner life. To speak of feelings.
Why am I thinking this way? Esther shrieked at herself. Why am I believing that girl before my own husband? George would no sooner be dishonest in his personal life than in his research. It’s simply inconceivable. It’s simply not George.
Still, there had been something about that young woman, something in her face. She had seemed honest, not pleasant, but honest.
Esther scorned this thought. Your first impressions are always and notoriously mistaken, she chided herself. Of course, a con artist appears honest. Otherwise, he, she, wouldn’t be a good con artist.
The thing to hang onto here, Esther directed herself, is George’s basic honesty. George does not tell lies. George prided himself that he did not tell lies.
With this fact firmly in mind, she felt better.
The phone rang, startling her so that she actually jumped as though hit by an electric volt. She turned her head toward it. It looked like a giant scorpion on the wall. She did not want to touch it. She did not want to talk to George. She wanted to stay in this limbo of ignorance. Even if it was an illusion, she would rather live in an illusion than face a reality in which she could not live. But I have to talk with him, she thought. I have to tell him about that girl. Even though everything may be all right and we can go back to the way things were only an hour ago, I’ll have to tell him about that young woman coming to the door. The phone rang for the third time. If it rang again, the machine would answer. She stepped quickly across the kitchen and picked up the receiver but she did not make it in time.
“This is the Martin residence,” George’s voice said, although it did not sound like the real George. It sounded like an actor in a bad movie.
“Esther?” the real George said. She could imagine him frowning.
“Please
leave a message after the beep,” George’s recorded voice said.
“I’m here,” she said.
“You phoned?” George’s voice sounded apprehensive, as though expecting bad news. But why wouldn’t it? She almost never called him at his office.
The answering machine beeped three shorts and one long. Esther waited until the long beep was finished. “I had a visitor,” she said.
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. The machine seemed to be winding off reams of tape. Then, brusquely, “Yes?”
“I don’t know her name. I forgot to ask. A tall woman, young, long blonde hair…”
There was another long pause. Has he hung up? wondered Esther wildly. Is he waiting for me to say more?
“I can’t do anything about it now,” said George. “I’m having lunch with the Appointment Committee and then I have a graduate student coming at two. I’ll try to get home as soon as possible, three-thirty or four.”
I won’t break down, thought Esther. I won’t break down on the phone. The secretary may be listening.
“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” she said.
“I can’t get out of this lunch,” said George. “It was planned a month ago.”
“Can you just tell me … if what she said is true?”
