Читать книгу Out With The Old, In With The New - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 11

I remember a time when a pickup line was defined as a lustful attempt to make somebody’s acquaintance. For the past nineteen years, the only pickup line I’ve been party to is the slow-moving, after-school queue that snakes around the Liberty School parking lot.

I don’t miss being hit on. What bothers me as I sit waiting for my daughter to get out of school is the fact that I never noticed the incongruous dual usage of the term.

Pickup line.

It’s so ridiculous. How could I have missed it?

It makes me wonder what else I’ve overlooked all these years.

I trust so freely. I mean, why shouldn’t I? If a person—namely my husband—has never given me reason to doubt him, why shouldn’t I trust him implicitly? It can’t be any other way. A relationship without trust is a derailed train.

No. Worse.

It’s a yawning sinkhole that opens its greedy jaws and devours everything that once seemed stable. Without trust, you might as well end it before the relationship gets ugly.

Because it will. Without trust, sooner or later you’ll end up eating each other alive.

That’s why when Corbin pronounced the letter someone’s idea of a sick joke, I chose to believe him.

I had to.

If you could have seen him, his eyes hooded and heavy with sleep. He propped himself up on his elbow and blinked at the paper I thrust in his face. “What’s this?”

The overhead light cast shadows on his face, hollowing his cheeks, making his cheekbones appear even sharper. So handsome. What woman wouldn’t want him?

“I don’t know, Corbin. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”

The memory seems ancient, as though it happened years ago, but it still shakes me to the core. I move up three car lengths, edging closer, but not too close, to the Volvo station wagon in front of me, then pull the lapels of my navy-blue peacoat closed at my neck and wait in stone-cold silence for the pickup line to inch its way around to Caitlin. The radio’s off because every time I turned it on they were playing songs like “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” and “How am I Supposed to Live Without You.” When was the last time I heard those ditties?

I glance in the rearview mirror. The line of cars stretches back to infinity.

I’m gridlocked.

Even if I wanted to get out of this line, I couldn’t. If I were in a better mood I might make a wry comparison about how gridlock reminds me of marriage.

I can’t leave him. I mean, my God, we’ve been married for twenty years.

Half my life.

Whoa. I will not waste my energy by contemplating divorce. Corbin’s not having an affair. Period.

Last night he caved in over the note, as if someone punched him in the stomach. He held his head in his hands and said, “What the hell…? This is bullshit. Kate? You don’t think—?”

“I don’t know what to think, Corbin.”

I stood there with my hands on my hips acting like such a bitch—for about thirty seconds. Then all I wanted to do was beg him, Tell me it isn’t true, Corbin. Make me believe this isn’t true.

But I couldn’t say it because I knew I should either believe in him…or leave him. Asking him to tell me it isn’t true is like admitting I don’t trust him.

Feeling the sinkhole rumble underneath me, I sit in the midst of pickup line gridlock, stuck in my own personal gridlock because I can’t write off the letter as a hoax. I won’t let myself slide down into the what-ifs of extramarital affair investigation.

You know—A plus B plus C equals Corbin’s opportunity to cheat. Oh, and remember that time that he should have been home at six, but didn’t get in until eleven-thirty—

La! La! La! La! La! La! La! I can’t hear me! Don’t want to hear me because my husband is not having an affair.

That’s better. I lean my head against the cool window. Try on the words for size: I believe him.

I want to believe in the way he reached out last night, took my arm and pulled me down next to him on the bed.

“Kate, look at me.”

He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I jerked away and traced the burnished gold-on-gold woven into the raw silk of our duvet cover. Until he pounded the bed. “Goddamn it, Kate. Come on. This is fucking bullshit.”

I pounded the bed, too. “Don’t yell at me, Corbin! This is not my fault.”

Tell me it isn’t true. Make me believe this isn’t true.

He held up a hand. Squeezed his eyes shut. Drew in a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I’m sorry, let’s just start over. From the beginning. Where’s the envelope?”

The plain white rectangle lay kitty-corner, half on the hardwood floor, half on the Persian rug next to the bed. The white stood out like a surrender flag against a blood-orange sunset.

Corbin picked up the envelope. Flipped it from one side to the other. Snorted. “Nothing.”

A quick flick of his wrist, sent the envelope skimming across the polished wood until it dead-ended into the baseboard.

Then we sat side-by-side in silence. Him—crumpling the letter as if the words would disappear into the black hole of his fist. Me—needing him to say, “I love you. I haven’t been unfaithful.”

He never said it. When I finally summoned the strength to ask, big, fat, hot tears—bottled up all day—slipped from my eyes, slid down my face and washed away the words.

He held me until I stopped crying, until I murmured, “Who would do this to us?”

“I don’t know, Kate, but I’ll sure as hell get to the bottom of it.”

The Ford Excursion behind me beep-beep-beeps, and I realize the line has moved ahead at least five car lengths. I’m still sitting in the same spot. I give a little wave and pull up. I have to get a hold of myself.

To keep my mind from falling backward into the sinkhole of doubt and fear, I focus on my breathing, the way they teach us in yoga class.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Believe him. Or leave him. Believe him. Or leave him.

No! Stay present.

I drum my nails on the steering wheel. Outside my window the sun is shining through barren trees; the Volvo is still in front of me, the Ford Excursion still behind. Bundled-up children cling to their parents’ hands as they dash between cars toward the sidewalk ready for a brisk walk home; the faint warble of the three-fifteen school bell sounds, dismissing the bus riders—car riders leave at first bell.

The bell sounds remarkably similar to “Ode to Joy.” Oh. No, wait—that’s my cell phone. Caitlin probably changed the ring again. It’s one of her favorite pranks.

I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Fumble for the phone. Press Talk just before it switches to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Are your bags packed?”

It’s Alex.

“Noooooo—”

“Well get ready, I’ve booked us a room at The Breakers for the weekend of February seventh.”

“That’s only two weeks from now.”

“Right. One of the weekends we all agreed on.”

Breath in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Kate? Are you there?”

“Yes. I—I just thought you’d choose one of the other options we agreed on.”

“The Breakers is offering a fabulous spa package that weekend—you know, so close to Valentine’s Day. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”

A knot the size of Texas moves into my stomach.

“You’re still going, right?” she asks.

If I believe in my husband—if I trust him—I should have no reservations whatsoever. Just as I never had any doubt about going away with Rainey and Alex the nine previous years we’ve carried on this tradition.

“Of course I’m going. I have to let Corbin know.” I hear myself saying the words, but they sound foreign. My heart’s instinct is to protest, but I won’t let it.

“This is going to be so much fun,” says Alex.

More awkward silence crackles over the phone waves. I sense Alex searching for the words to ask what my problem is. But there is no problem. No siree. Not with my marriage. So I say, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good. Me, too. I’m going to call Rainey now.”

I hang up. Slide up two more spaces in the queue. Perform another rapid-fire cadence of steering wheel nail drumming, but it threatens to set my nerves on edge. So I turn on the radio to drown out the silence and pull from my purse the paint chips I selected today for the living room.

Five shades of beige for Corbin. One perfect blood-red sample called Scarlett O’Hara for me. He’ll never go for it, but I like it. I fan them out as if I’m ready for a hand of six-card draw, study the subtle differences of the beiges, and absently sing along with the radio until it registers that Toni Braxton is wailing about the sadness of the word goodbye and having no joy in her life after her man walked out the door.

“Unbreak My Heart.”

Ugggggggh. I used to love that song.

I swat at the radio as if it’s a hornet about to sting me. The paint chips fly, but the scan button lands on a classic rock station playing a gritty guitar riff. A song I don’t recognize.

Perfect.

I ease the car forward. Now, I can see the children waiting on the covered walkway. I bend down and retrieve the color chips.

Beige.

Beige.

Beige.

Scarlett O’Hara. Nope. He’ll never go for it, despite how he always says, “You’re the designer. Work your magic.”

He always comes back to beige. And I say, “If you want it to remain the same, then why are we bothering?”

He says, “No, go ahead. We need a change.”

I end up giving him the same old same old we’ve had since I began decorating our house twenty years ago.

Twenty years of beige.

Oh, dear God, I thought it was what he wanted.

Armed with a cocktail, Corbin’s partner, Dave Sanders, answers his front door and greets us with a hearty, “Heeeeeeey. It’s the Hennesseys. Come in.”

He takes our coats, slaps Corbin on the back, then pulls me into a tight bear hug, pressing his short, chubby body to mine in a way that makes me squirm. “Kate, you’re gorgeous, as always.”

His breath reeks of Scotch. Before I can break away, his free hand slithers down my back until he cups my bottom and gives it a little squeeze.

I draw in a sharp breath. What the—? I try to pull away, but he holds on to me, staring down at my breasts.

“What are you—about a B cup? My brother can give you a nice set of Ds and then you’d be just about the perfect woman.”

I can’t believe he just said that.

“Stop it.” I push away from him, and a wave of Scotch splashes down the back of my silk blouse.

He laughs.

I dart a quick glance at his wife, Peg, and Corbin, who are finishing an air-kiss greeting, oblivious to Dave’s unconscionable antics.

Dave’s moved on into the high-ceilinged living room. I’m left pondering that surely he didn’t mean it the way I’m imagining he did. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s had a certain reputation as a ladies’ man that’s escalated to cheating louse as the practice became more successful, but that’s between him and Peg. Except for a few off-color remarks about my inadequate boobs, he’s never made a pass at me.

Tonight, he’s obviously soused. Short of causing a scene, I can do nothing but stand there with the sick feeling of having been violated, and greet Peg, who offers me the same glassy-eyed air kiss she gave my husband.

“Haaaaaai, huuuuuun,” she slurs, the unmistakable smell of gin on her breath, the dregs of a drink in the glass she holds. The ice cubes clink as she steps back, a little unsteady on her feet, and brushes a wisp of short red hair off her pale forehead.

All this and it’s only six-thirty.

It could be a very long night, except that I’ve got a theory. One of Corbin’s partners, Mac or Dave, sent the letter. They have to be the culprits. The timing is just too coincidental: The envelope arrived yesterday. The dinner party’s tonight. Hello?

These forty-something men who play doctor have never outgrown their hazing, frat-boy mentality. My husband is the worst. He had Mac’s brand-new Cadillac towed out of the parking lot to make him think it was stolen. Last year, when Dave turned forty-five, Corbin hired a stripper to come into the office and pose as a patient—feeding Dave’s obsession with big boobs.

Tonight, I sense my otherwise upright, straitlaced husband, with his Jaguar and season subscription to the opera, is about to get the mother of all paybacks.

They’re going to laugh about it at dinner. Make a big joke out of it.

Gotcha, Corb!

Well, I can take a joke as well as the next person. I don’t know if Corbin’s going to be so forgiving because this really pushes the bounds of bad taste. Will it be enough to curtail these monthly dinner parties?

Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame.

I’d much rather it be a joke than to go on worrying and wondering….

We follow Peg into the living room where Dave holds out a Scotch on the rocks for Corbin and a glass of Chardonnay for me. I can’t meet Dave’s gaze. So I’m glad when the doorbell rings again.

Dave and Peg answer the door together. A moment later they usher in Joan and Mac McCracken. I wonder if Dave gave Joan the same heinie-fondling, boob-assessing welcome he gave me?

If he did, it would make it less personal, but I’m certainly not going to say, “Hi, Joan. Did Dave grab your ass, too?”

What I’m going to do later is tell Corbin. Let him take care of it. I’m not getting breast implants. So Corbin can tell Dave not to mention it again. Not funny the first fifteen times he said it. Now, he’s just running it into the ground.

Let’s see if Corbin thinks this is as funny as his buddy’s other misdeeds.

Actually, I need to give Corbin some credit. Funny is not the appropriate word. When he’s regaled me with tales of his partners’ libidinous exploits it’s been more out of a sense of horror than amusement. It started after we bumped into Mac out with a woman-child who looked barely legal. Obviously a date. Joan was in Tuscany for the month. Alone. Well, presumably alone—who knows?

Peg, Joan and I aren’t close enough to share intimate details like that. Even if I don’t like them very much, I have to admit they’re not stupid women. They have to know their husbands. How could they not? I don’t understand how they can stay with men they know are unfaithful—turn the other cheek and jet off to Europe until the latest bimbette has lost her sheen.

I’ve always appreciated Corbin’s honesty. After seeing Mac—God, it was before Caitlin was born—Corbin opened up to me. I hated hearing the dirty details, but it made me feel closer to my husband that he would share how much Dave’s and Mac’s dalliances bothered him. As close as they are, he said it was the one area in which he couldn’t relate to them, said it disappointed him that they could look their wives in the eyes and lie.

I cling to that thought and believe in my husband.

Bring on the joke.

I can take it.