Читать книгу What Happens in Paris - Nancy Thompson Robards - Страница 10

My first clue should have been the infestation of gold-embossed, cream-linen envelopes from various law firms. Thirty-three of them I counted in our mailbox on that otherwise ordinary Friday evening. Each one addressed to my husband, Blake Essex.

My second hint should have been the way Blake swept them out of sight, nonchalantly shrugging them off when I asked about them.

“Who knows?” he said. “If I had the money they spend on postage for the worthless junk mail I get, I’d be a wealthy man.”

That was enough for me. I mean, he was right. We did get an excessive amount of junk mail. Just never from attorneys. Still, it was Friday night and all I wanted was a gin and tonic—not a fight. I’d had enough stress at work that week. The wonderful world of marketing can take its toll.

I shoved all thoughts of the unopened lawyer letters to the back shelf in my mind—the place where I stored nagging doubts and discrepancies that didn’t quite add up but couldn’t be explained—and mixed us a drink.

We went on with our Friday-night ritual as we had for the past eighteen years, politely working together to get dinner, cleaning up afterward, watching a DVD, performing our bedtime routine, giving each other a peck on the lips, and falling asleep, back to back, on our separate sides of the big, king-size bed.

Standard MO for an old married couple.

That’s what I used to tell myself.

But now that I think about it, the letters weren’t my first clue. By the time they arrived, it was as if the universe was at its wits end and had resorted to slapping me up the side of the head and shouting, Open your eyes, you blind idiot. Can’t you see the truth?

Even so, I didn’t put two and two together until the next day when my sister, Rita, and I were on our way to Saint Petersburg to catch Le Cycle des Nymphéas—Monet’s water lilies—exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.

Rita was driving and I was reading the newspaper, skimming each page diligently to make sure the competition didn’t somehow get a leg up on the retirement company I do marketing and advertising for, scoring free press in the paper. I’d finished with the main section and moved on to the local and state when I spied mug shots of two men that gave me pause.

One man looked like Blake.

I did a double take and realized the name under the photo was Essex. The other was of a basketball coach at one of the high schools.

Every little inkling lurking in the murky shadows of my subconscious jumped to attention and my worst fears were confirmed—right there for all of central Florida to read in twelve-point type.

My husband had been arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior after being caught in a sex act with—another man?

The high-school basketball coach.

Thursday, they were caught in a secluded park in Seminole County. According to the paper, it’s a place frequented by people—especially men—who are looking to exchange sexual favors. The coach had been arrested there before, but the school had no knowledge of his run-in with the law.

That’s why the story was in the newspaper.

For everyone to read—

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I was shrieking. I couldn’t stop myself. “Rita, pull over. I’m going to be sick.”

She swerved a little bit. “What’s the matter?” She glanced at me, then back at the road as if she didn’t know what to do.

“Just pull over. Hurry!”

She veered off onto the interstate’s shoulder, and I tossed the paper in her lap as I stumbled from the car in the nick of time before upchucking my bagel.

The next thing I knew, Rita’s hand was on my back and she was handing me a bottle of water.

“Here, rinse your mouth.”

I took it without looking at her and did just that.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

“Enough to get the gist.”

I turned to face her. Hot tears of anger and humiliation and disbelief brimmed and spilled. “Oh my God! What am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? To everyone who knows us? How could he let me find out like this?” I realized I was screaming because the words scalded my throat and I started choking.

Rita took my quaking arm and led me in the direction of the car. But I shook out of her grasp and stumbled back a few steps.

“How could he do this? I hate him! How could he do this?”

I landed hard on my rump in the sparse grass, in the midst of the sharp-edged rocks and sand, sobbing with my head in my hands. In the periphery of my mind I heard my sister urging me to get in the car, then I heard the crunch of tires pulling off the side of the road.

I looked up and saw a cop. Rita confirmed that, yes, I was okay. I’d just suffered a shock after receiving some bad news and needed some fresh air.

All I could think was, Oh God, if the cop runs my name, he’ll know I’m married to Blake. Then it dawned on me that this was how it would be for the rest of my life. Look, there’s Annabelle Essex. She was married to Blake Essex, that guy caught having sex with another man.

I put my head on my knees until I felt a shadow block out the sun. I looked up and the cop loomed over me.

“You okay, lady? You need me to call an ambulance or something?”

I wiped a sand-gritty hand over my face and shook my head. “I—I’m fine.”

“Then get back in your car and move on. It’s not safe to loiter on the side of the highway like this.”

For a split second I contemplated that perhaps getting flattened by a large truck was preferable to getting in Rita’s car and driving back to my ruined life. But then good sense rallied and I realized I’d rather be alive to torture Blake.

He’d have hell to pay for this.

I intended to collect in full.

Having your dirty laundry aired in the newspaper feels like standing in the middle of a busy street stark naked. No, it’s more like standing in the middle of a busy intersection and not realizing the world is looking at you standing there stark naked until it’s too late and—oops, the joke’s on you.

Oh, look—I’m naked.

I’m standing here like a fool.

With that newspaper article, the whole of me was reduced to what was printed on page B–1 of the Sentinel’s Local and State section. Gee, all that and my name wasn’t even mentioned.

It didn’t have to be. Blake’s mug shot and name spoke for both of us.

I’d been oblivious to the gawks Saturday morning as I walked down the driveway to my sister’s car to begin our drive to Saint Pete; blissfully unaware that the reason Joe Phillips next door stopped mowing his lawn and stared at me wasn’t because he thought I looked hot in my new pink sweater that showed just a hint of décolletage. He didn’t speak; didn’t wave. He just stood and gaped at me across the stretch of Saint Augustine grass with a bewildered look on his face.

Ha! And I thought he was ogling my cleavage.

Later, when I realized the truth— Well, you can understand why coming to terms with Blake’s betrayal would be even harder knowing I had to face people who’d read all about it in the newspaper.

Even before I knew, others were devouring the juicy details with perverse excitement because they actually knew the guy who got caught with his pants down in the park.

Oh, and his poor wife. Didn’t she know her husband was gay? But they have a kid. Maybe it was one of “those kinds” of marriages…? What do they call it? A marriage of convenience?

How was I going to explain this to our son, Ben? He’d be wrecked.

Wait a minute. I didn’t have to explain anything. I was not the guilty party, despite the guilt-by-association factor.

Or stupidity by association.

I had to stop blaming myself, thinking this wouldn’t have happened if I’d been a better wife; a little thinner; more in touch with his needs….

More of a woman.

Or at least enough of a woman to keep my man from turning gay.

Rita and I drove to Saint Pete, but we never made it to the Monet exhibit. Good thing because I didn’t want to forever associate Monet’s water-lily paintings with Blake’s coming out of the closet.

Instead of going to the museum, we walked on the beach. We must have walked for miles, me in my low-cut pink sweater that didn’t seem so sexy anymore, and my sister with her sandals in her hand and her white pants rolled to the knee.

She let me talk.

“Ri, you weren’t surprised when you heard about Blake, were you?”

She shrugged, pushed a wisp of short blond hair out of her eyes.

“Rita? Are you saying you knew all along?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it on a sigh, and shrugged again. “Come on, Anna. He was just a little too…” She dragged out the word as if stalling for time.

Finally with a look of resignation she said, “He was a little too in touch with his feminine side. I mean, either that or you’d snagged every woman’s dream man.”

Snagged him? Was that what I did?

Blake and I never had a sweep-you-off-your-feet courtship. We met our senior year of college and dated for about two months before I got pregnant.

No snagging intended. I was as surprised as he was. I was prepared to raise the child on my own. He was the one who insisted he wanted to be a family.

Rita snapped her fingers. “Oh, I read something the other day where someone said something about a man who was ‘just gay enough.’” Rita made air quotes with her fingers. “That’s how I always thought of Blake.”

I must have made a face because she grimaced. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Afterward, we mostly walked in silence.

Blake wasn’t home when I walked into the dark house Saturday night. He slinked in rather sheepishly Sunday, late morning.

I sat in the living room trying—unsuccessfully—to distract myself with a biography on the artist Georgia O’Keeffe when he walked in.

He flinched when he saw me and shoved his hands in his pockets. Dark circles under his eyes hinted he hadn’t slept well.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking stiff and pale and a little bewildered standing there in his pressed khakis, crisp kelly green polo and navy blue espadrilles that once seemed so Palm Beach, but now just looked…

I wondered where he stayed last night and how his clothing could look so fresh given the circumstances, but I refused to ask.

His gaze darted around the living room, looking everywhere but at me. He seemed so frazzled, like if I made a loud noise or erratic gesture he’d jump out of his skin.

It took a few beats to find my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me, Blake? How could you let me find out like this?”

At least he had the decency to hang his head. “What was I supposed to say?”

“Something.” I set the book on the end table and pulled my knees to my chest. “For God’s sake, anything would have been better than letting me read it in the newspaper.”

He didn’t reply, just raked his hand through his hair—he always messed with his hair when he was anxious—and stared at his espadrilles. I worried the fabric of my pink velour sweatpants.

“I didn’t know it was going to be in the paper,” he murmured so softly I could barely hear him.

I traced a zigzag in my pants’ velvetlike texture and decided he was probably telling the truth.

The paper said his partner in crime was a high-school coach who’d been arrested twice for public indecency. The story admonished the county for its lax screening of teachers more than it focused on exposing the men who meet at Live Oak Park to exchange sexual favors.

Of course. Blake’s name and mug shot made the paper because he made the fateful choice of having sex with the wrong man.

“Was this the first time, Blake, or have there been others?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Never mind, you just did.” Tears welled in the corners of my eyes.

“Would it make a difference if I said it was just a onetime mistake?”

I gritted my teeth before I answered.

“Do you want it to make a difference?”

I didn’t hate myself for asking the question as much as I loathed the tiny spark of hope his words ignited. Was it just a onetime mistake? I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

All that followed was silence like cold water dousing an ember of hope.

Hope? Good God.

A bomb had detonated in our marriage leaving nothing but rubble; everything we’d built together blown to bits by his wanton act of selfishness. It nauseated me to think about it. More than that, it made me angry.

“We have to call Ben,” I said. “Right now.”

His gaze snapped to mine, a look of utter terror on his face.

I put my bare feet on the floor and pushed forward on the chair. “Blake, the story was in the paper, and it affects our son as much as you and me. People who know him have probably read it, and some wiseass is bound to call or e-mail him sooner or later and say, Hey, I heard about your dad. It’s better he hears it from us first.”

Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s Sunday morning. We won’t catch him in.”

I threw up my hands.

“Call his cell phone. He always carries it.”

Blake shrugged, deflated. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

I turned off the reading lamp, which left the living room with its drawn curtains sad and dark. I tried to ignore the tightening knot in my stomach as I followed him into the kitchen.

“His cell phone is number one on speed dial.”

Blake’s shoulders rose and fell on a noisy shallow breath. He kept his back to me as he picked up the phone and dialed. Every muscle in my body tensed, making me second-guess myself. Were we doing this the right way? Panic screamed and threatened to put me in a headlock. Perhaps we shouldn’t break the bad news over the phone.

Ben was in school at the University of Montana. It wasn’t as if we could drop by and tell him in person. He’d come home for spring break just two weeks ago and wouldn’t be home again until summer. What other choice did we have but to tell him over the phone?

“Hello, Ben? It’s Dad. Did I wake you?…Oh, yes, I’m fine…She’s fine, too. And you?”

He listened for a minute. I edged closer to see if I could hear what Ben was saying. I couldn’t, but I noticed Blake’s free hand shook as he raked it through his hair.

My God, he was really a wreck over this. I hadn’t realized it until then.

I turned away and straightened my Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet. Why was I feeling sorry for him? This was his fault. Facing the refrigerator, I folded my arms as if I could block out the emotions that were weakening me.

Then the stupidest thought barreled through my mind. What if, faced with dismantling his family, Blake realized the enormity of his mistake?

I mean he screwed up—and how—but should we have talked about it a little more before we told Ben?

I’d pushed Blake to make the call, and even though I truly had Ben’s best interest at heart, part of me wanted to see Blake squirm to punish him.

He was squirming.

My God, the man was shaking.

Admitting a mistake of this magnitude to your son must be second only to confessing to God. Well, maybe it was tied for second because he seemed pretty wrecked that I knew—

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well, son—” Blake’s voice broke on the last word.

Oh…he was only human. If it was just a mistake, should he have to pay for it with his family?

Encroaching sympathy warred with the thought that Blake should have considered the cost before he dropped his pants.

I remembered a time when I was young. I tried to steal a blouse from Casual Corner, but the store manager caught me before I could leave the shop. She scared me to death, telling me that she could call the police and have me arrested. She went on and on about how this one stupid mistake could ruin my life.

In the end, she didn’t call the police or my parents. Instead, she made me promise never to steal again.

She let me go. She gave me a second chance rather than ruining my life.

I learned from that mistake, and I’d like to think I grew into a better person because of her understanding.

Maybe Blake had learned his lesson. Maybe we just needed to talk about it, get counseling. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, but perhaps if we could surmount this, it was a chance for our relationship to grow.

I reached out to touch him, to take the phone from him so I could tell Ben we’d call him back later. But before my hand fell on Blake’s shoulder, he said, “Ben, I’m calling with bad news. Your mother and I are divorcing because I’m gay.”

After Blake left, the late-morning sun streamed in through the kitchen window. It made my head hurt.

I slipped into the darkness of the living room, and lay down on the cool leather couch, flinging my free arm over my eyes.

Divorce.

He’d already made up his mind.

Ben took the news hard. I’d never heard such language from him. Called his father a bastard. Said he hated him and never wanted to see him again.

First, I was glad because I wanted Blake to hurt as badly as I hurt. Then I felt guilty because Ben was hurting. My baby. It was hard enough for me to learn the truth, but imagine finding out the person you’d looked up to your entire life had lied to you.

I’d never been homophobic and had raised my son to be tolerant of all people…. This was the ultimate test. The logical side of me knew it was ridiculous to hate an entire sub-population based on the actions of one man. Oh…but this was so personal. It hurt too bad to form any conclusions.

While I sat at the café table in the kitchen, trying to talk Ben down from the ledge, Blake disappeared upstairs.

He came back down after I’d hung up, and all he said was, “Will you water the orchids, please?”

He had about twenty-five plants in a small greenhouse in the backyard. I knew they were valuable, but I couldn’t believe he was thinking about them in the wake of what had just happened.

Selfish bastard.

“No. I won’t.” I loved flowers, but he fussed over those stupid plants like an old maid. I didn’t care if they died.

“Fine. I’ll come by and get them this week. When would be a good time?”

“Should I get an AIDS test?”

He squinted at my non sequitur. “Would it make you feel better?”

Anger sliced through me. “You are such a jackass. I don’t want an AIDS test to make myself feel better. You had sex with a stranger—with a man. And my life could be in danger because of it.”

AIDS was only one in a jumble of questions logjammed in my mind, tangled up with the likes of how many sexual partners he’d had over the past eighteen years? Did he practice safe sex. Or did he think too little of me to do so? Even though we only had sex maybe once a year over the span of our marriage it only took one time—kind of like getting pregnant.

Only AIDS killed.

Turning onto my side on the couch in the dark living room, I drew my knees up in a fetal position and listened to the sounds of the house that used to be our home—the tick of the grandfather clock, the phantom creaks and pops as the house settled; the refrigerator and air-conditioning that cycled on and off; and the full magnitude of how alone I was pressed down on me and unleashed the tears.

They came in torrents, in great heaving sobs that choked and nearly drowned me.

All the while, one single thought burned in my mind: How long would Blake have lived a double life had he not been involuntarily outted?