All Is Not Forgotten (7 page)

I suppose. The point is, I came home crying. Greg was there. We sat on the couch and he listened to me talk for a long time. He got us each a beer. He told me everything would be okay. And I actually felt comforted by him. I let my guard down.

The rest of the story requires some graphic detail, but I believe it is important. I apologize if it is hard to read.

Greg smiled at her and stroked her hair. I imagine he had convinced himself that she wanted him as well, even behind the turtlenecks and the long pants. People believe what they want to believe. Her heart started to pound wildly, but she didn't move. He stroked her face. He moaned. It sounded like the word “ahhhh.” He studied her eyes like a lover. He reached under her shirt and touched her breast. He moaned again and she felt his hot breath on her face as he leaned in to kiss her.

Charlotte remembers feeling frozen. He had comforted her and she wanted more. Not like this. Not with her body. But that was all that was on the table, so she remained still, frozen between her need to be comforted, to be loved, and her repulsion. She said he looked like a wild animal who had caught its prey. Exactly—the impala and the wolf. He bit her earlobe, hard, and reached his hand inside her pants and between her legs. He leaned her back until they were lying together on the sofa. She could feel his erect penis against her thigh. His finger went inside her. It felt good, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Charlotte had not yet kissed a boy.

You're wet,
he said, laughing.
You're wet, you little whore.

He seemed then to have the strength of two men and the arms of an octopus as he reached for her hair and slid off her pants, so quickly, like he had superhuman abilities. His knees were between hers. His erection on her stomach. And then, slowly, he teased her thighs apart and slid down, his erection running along the inside of her thigh. She remembered the “ahhhhh.” His hip bones pressed into hers as he penetrated her. And when it was over (apparently in a matter of seconds), he pulled out of her and positioned his body so she was up against the back of the couch. He kissed her neck and moaned. Then he manipulated her clitoris with his fingers until she had an orgasm, which happened even through the repulsion. The body is a machine. We forget that sometimes.

They became secret “lovers.” The need in Charlotte that was filled by these encounters eclipsed her conscience, her morality, her will. Greg bought her gifts and took her to the movies. They exchanged looks at dinner and “made love” on the sofa when Ruthanne was working the night shift. Charlotte knew it was wrong, and she was still, in many ways, disgusted by Greg. But, as she explains it, she could not stop herself.

I am ashamed of this. But it's the truth. Feeling a human body that close to me. Feeling skin against my skin. Being kissed and hugged and held. And then there was the sexual pleasure, which I could not control. I don't know. Maybe it was about the sex. Maybe I was a little whore. But at the time, it felt like love.

It took about six months for Ruthanne to admit to herself what she was seeing and feeling when she was in their company. By that time, Greg was fully unemployed and reliant on his wife. I imagine there was never any doubt about what would happen, though to Charlotte, it felt like her heart had been torn from her chest.

Ruthanne sent her daughter to live with Aunt Peg in Hartford. Peg was older than Ruthanne by six years and had managed to land a husband in the insurance business. They had three children, all away at boarding school, and they reluctantly agreed to do the same for their niece. Charlotte never went home again.

Tom did not know about her life with her mother and Greg.

You can understand now Charlotte's need to repair her house. I imagine there are those of you thinking more of this, that perhaps Charlotte's insistence on giving Jenny the treatment was because she had something in her past that was sexually perverse. But you would be wrong. Charlotte saw that night on the sofa as a seduction, an act of desire and the beginning of a love affair. Still, she understood that her relationship with her stepfather was “unconventional” and “morally questionable.” It is for those reasons that she did not share this story with anyone—not even her husband.

But this is not the secret that Charlotte feared her mother-in law could see.

 

Chapter Six

Getting back to
Jenny and the night she sat on her bed—

Tom's employer was Bob Sullivan. Bob owned twelve car dealerships throughout the state of Connecticut and had a net worth of over twenty million dollars. His face could be seen on any number of billboards on I-95 from Stamford to Mystic, and throughout every town that still allowed them. You would remember seeing him up there, his full head of black hair, determined eyes, big white smile, and rounded nose. Bob Sullivan was a self-made man, the kind whom magazines liked to write about. The kind who was so bursting with himself, it seemed a miracle he didn't explode like a struck piñata and litter confetti across the sky. Bob Sullivan lived in Fairview. He had a “plus-sized” wife and three sons who were being groomed to run the family business. He always drove the latest model of something, BMW, Ferrari, Porsche. He ate a paleo diet and drank red wine without constraint. He was generous but also ambitious, with his sights set upon a seat in the state legislature.

And he was having an affair with Charlotte Kramer.

We tend to think we know why people have affairs. Their marriage is bad, but they can't leave because of the kids. They have sexual needs that aren't being filled. They're victims of seduction, their self-control overcome by human desires. None of these were true for Charlotte.

Charlotte Kramer was two people. She was the Smith graduate with a degree in literature. She was the former assistant editor of
Connecticut
magazine and now the stay-at-home mother to two lovely children, the wife of Tom Kramer, whose family were scholars and teachers. She was the member of the Fairview Country Club who was known for her impeccable manners and extensive vocabulary. She had built her house carefully, and it was a good, moral, and admired house.

No one knew the other Charlotte Kramer, the girl who'd slept with her mother's husband and was forced to leave home. No one knew that her relatives were uneducated alcoholics who lived hard and died young. She was the girl who took off her clothes every night for a man nearly twice her age who smelled of cigarettes and poor hygiene. No one knew any of this—except for Bob Sullivan. Charlotte had put that girl in a cage. But over time, that girl had started to rattle the bars until she could no longer be ignored. Bob Sullivan was Charlotte's way of recognizing her, of keeping her calm in her imprisonment. It was her way of being whole as she lived half a life as Charlotte Kramer of Fairview.

When I'm with Bob, I'm that girl again. That dirty girl who gets turned on by bad things. Bob is a good man, but we're both married, so what we're doing is bad. I don't know how to explain it. I have worked very hard to live a “right” life. Do you know what I mean? To not think the bad thoughts and stop myself from having the bad behavior. But it's always there, this craving. Like a closet smoker, you know? Someone who's mostly quit and who would sooner die than have the world know she smokes, but then she sneaks one precious cigarette a day. Just one. And that's enough to satisfy the craving. Bob is my one cigarette.

You may judge Charlotte Kramer for her one cigarette. For having secret cravings that she cannot control. For not telling the whole truth. For not letting her husband know his whole wife. And for your judging of Charlotte Kramer, I shall have to judge you a hypocrite.

No one, not one of us, shows the whole self to any one person. And if you think you have, then ask yourself these questions: Have you ever pretended to like something awful your wife cooked? Or told your daughter she looked pretty in an ugly dress? Have you made love to your husband and faked a sigh as your thoughts ran elsewhere—to your grocery list, perhaps? Or praised the mediocre work of a colleague? Have you ever told someone everything would be all right when it wouldn't be? I know you have. White lies, black lies, a million lies a million times every day, everywhere, by every one of us. We are all hiding something from someone.

This may cause you to feel disheartened. Maybe it will make you pause when your wife tells you she believes you'll get that promotion, or your husband assures you that you are well liked on the PTA. The truth is, you will never know the truth, and if you did know, you would probably be fighting to save your marriage. I may appear a renegade. A miscreant. But no relationship can survive the naked truth, the whole truth. No. Once a couple have confessed their true feelings to each other, whether in private or in couples therapy or even to friends with big mouths, the game is over. Don't you see? Don't you know this in your heart of hearts? We love people for who they are and how they make us feel. We can usually tolerate their faults and even keep them to ourselves. But once we see any reflection of ourselves in their eyes that is not the one we want to see, that we need to see to feel good, the backbone of the love is broken.

Tom was never given a chance. No reflection Charlotte saw in his eyes could ever be trusted, because he knew only the one Charlotte who had been revealed to him. Bob Sullivan, and only Bob Sullivan, knew them both.

Charlotte and Bob met during the day in the small pool house at the very edge of the Kramers' yard. There was a dirt road that was used by the pool company and mostly concealed by trees. Even in the winter, it was possible for Bob to park and not be seen from the road. The yard was fenced. They had been very careful. They both had a lot to lose.

Jenny sat on the bed that night her mother made rosemary chicken, unable to stand herself for one more minute. She heard her mother leave to pick up Lucas. She heard them come home. She tried to wait for her parents to go to bed, but they had another one of their “talks” that would not end. She went to the stash of pills she had collected from the bathrooms of her friends' parents, and took a small white one. Those were always Xanax or lorazepam or Valium. She didn't know them by these terms, but I recognized them from the description she gave, both of their physical appearance and the effect they had on her when she took them. Twenty minutes later, she was asleep.

The next morning she went to school on the bus. Her mother waved good-bye. She went to homeroom and Chemistry and History. At lunch, she started to walk home.

I have said that Bob Sullivan was running for the state legislature. This is why his wife, Fran, hired the investigator to follow him and collect evidence. I have found that people know when something is not right. Even if the intimacy has already disappeared from the marriage, the other changes are simply too difficult to conceal. Happiness, in particular, does not like to hide in the shadows. In Bob's case, it was simply that his wife knew him too well.

That afternoon, after Jenny had walked home, Charlotte met Bob in the pool house. It was not a large structure—a twelve-by-twelve changing area with an attached bathroom. There was a sofa and tile floor, sliding doors with shades, and some shelves for towels and sunscreen and various pool things. And a small, sound-activated recording device installed by Fran Sullivan's investigator.

This is what it recorded:

[door closing, shades rattling, female voice laughing playfully]

“Shhh, come here, gorgeous.”

[kissing sounds, heavy breathing]

“How much time do you have?”

“Half an hour, so take off your clothes and get on the floor.”

[more laughter, sighs, sound of clothing being removed]

“You want my mouth today, don't you? You want me to lick you?”

“Yes.”

[female sighs, male moans]

“If you were my wife, I would eat you for dinner every night.”

[female sighs, arousal]

“Wait, stop.…” [female voice, worried]

“What?” [male voice, alarmed]

“The bathroom door … It's closed, but under the door … I think the light's on.” [female voice, whispering]

[rustling, then silence]

[loud female scream]

“Oh dear Lord! Dear Lord!” [male voice, terrified]

[female screams]

“Help her! My baby! My baby girl!”

“Is she alive? Oh shit! Shit!”

“Grab a towel! Wrap her wrists, tight!”

“My baby!”

“Wrap them! Pull! Tight! Oh dear Lord! There's so much blood—”

“I feel a pulse! Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me! Hand me those towels! Oh dear Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord!”

“Jenny!” [desperate female voice]

“Call 911! Jenny! Jenny, wake up!” [male voice]

“Where's my phone!” [female voice, shuffling]

“On the floor! Go!” [male voice]

[footsteps, shuffling, female voice speaking to 911, giving address, hysterical]

“You have to go! Right now! Go!” [female voice]

“No! I can't! Dear Lord!”

*   *   *

Charlotte had trouble speaking
about that afternoon. But, one morning, after I had found my way around the barricade, she gathered herself and managed to convey the following:

Bob was a hero when we found Jenny bleeding in that bathroom. I told him to leave after I called for help, but he refused. He didn't care. In that moment, I saw a man no one else sees. He may be greedy and whatever else people say, but he risked everything to save my child. He ripped a towel in half, slid it around her wrist. He told me to grab an end and pull. The towel was thick, and it was hard to get it tight. He screamed at me, “Pull!” and I did and finally it was tight and he made a knot. We did the same to the other wrist. God, we were both covered in blood. Soaked in it. My feet were slipping on the floor. When we had done both wrists, I called 911. I told him to leave but he refused. I cradled her head in my lap. I started to cry, not like before with the screaming cries, but just tears, you know? Bob was crying as well. He looked from my face to Jenny's face, back and forth like he didn't know which one was causing him more pain. He stroked Jenny's face and then he looked at me and stayed looking. He said, “You listen to me! She is going to make it! Do you hear me? She will!” We heard the sirens coming. I yelled at him again to leave. I begged him. He kept saying “No!” but finally he understood. I didn't care about his career or his wife or his reputation. All I cared about at that moment was Jenny and my family. He could not be there when the police arrived. He cried harder as he stood up, stepping around the blood. “I love you,” he said. And then he left.