Enchanted Again (23 page)

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell,
and there he kept her very well.

Joyce hurried through the house, anxiously putting things in order before Peter returned from work. Having just showered, she picked up her soiled clothes and stuffed them into the washing machine, setting the cycle to presoak. Next, she sat down in front of the computer and quickly and systematically deleted all the e-mails she had received or sent that day, and then, for good measure, she purged the computer’s history file altogether. After that she made a quick detour to the kitchen, where she looked all around in the cabinet drawers for a packet of matches. Finding some at last, she took them upstairs into the master bathroom and, pulling from her pocket a collection of notes and letters, placed them along with a lit match in the small metal trash container that was kept there. She watched the paper burn thoughtfully. Had she forgotten anything?

When Peter arrived home a short time later there was nothing discernibly amiss and yet, no sooner had he stepped over the threshold than he was overcome with a sense of disorder. There was all around him the impression of unreality, and he faltered for a moment; puzzling, like a player over a game board. He dropped his keys and briefcase on a nearby table wondering where Joyce was, and in that instant she came into his view, greeting him with her usual Mona Lisa smile. Peter stared at her as she approached. Was there something different about her? Yes, as she crossed the room her eyes darted about the room, landing everywhere but directly on Peter, and he got the distinct impression that she did not want to meet his gaze. She seemed, to his heightened senses, affected.

“How was your day, darling?” she asked huskily, giving him a light peck on the cheek.

Peter didn’t answer her. Instead, he grasped her wrist before she could flutter back away from him again, causing her to look up sharply and at last meet his eyes. He searched her face for a trace of duplicity, but she merely looked back at him with mild surprise. His eyes moved over her slowly and she saw something flicker in their depths when they settled on her hair. It was still wet, and hung in damp curls all around her shoulders. His brows furrowed together in thoughtful contemplation as he reached out to pick up one of the curls. He absently stroked the moist strands between his fingers.

“You showered earlier than usual this evening,” he observed. This was not a thing of much significance but, even so, Peter felt his initial uneasiness unaccountably increasing, and a little knot of discomfort was beginning to form in his belly. He felt excessively suspicious all at once, without any clear, rational or explicable cause, except a nagging sense that everything was not exactly as it should be. Joyce did not comment on his observation, but her eyes once again shifted away from his. He knew it would be unreasonable to make an issue over the matter by questioning her further so he let it drop, albeit reluctantly, and pulled her into his arms. She was warm and soft and smelled good, but he could not get comfort from the embrace. He started up again, on a different tack.

“How was your day?” he asked in a casual tone, but there was an edge to his voice that he wasn’t able to fully suppress. He continued to play with her damp hair, caressing it between his fingers as he spoke to her.

“The same as any other,” she said, again with her strange little half smile.

“What did you do?” he persisted, trying to sound merely curious.

“Not a thing that would interest you, certainly,” she replied shortly. He had dropped her hair so that his fingers could lightly trail along the curve of her neck. He touched her with excessive gentleness. She resisted the urge to pull away from him, remaining perfectly still. His feathery-light caresses along the sensitive skin of her neck affected her more than if he choked her. “I should check on dinner,” she protested weakly, but Peter lingered another moment or two before at last releasing her from his delicate embrace, having scrutinized her face thoroughly as he held her until her cheeks turned a rosy pink. Once she was released, Joyce quickly escaped to the kitchen, trembling. A perverse thrill gripped her. She opened the oven and looked inside without thinking to notice the contents within.

Peter did not follow Joyce into the kitchen, so she supposed that he was making his way to the computer to check his e-mail, as was his habit after work. She closed the oven door and held her breath. Her heart galloped unsteadily. She busied herself with absently putting the final touches on their supper.

It wasn’t until they met a short while later at the dinner table that Peter resumed his speculative manner with her. He was even more tense and pensive as he sat down opposite her. Joyce tried to appear nonchalant as she placed before him a hearty portion of his favorite dish.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, unable to keep the tone of interrogation from his voice. Everything suddenly seemed suspect to him.

“Do I need an occasion to cook for my husband?” she countered pleasantly, ignoring the implication in his tone. Peter could think of no reply. He took a mouthful of the savory food Joyce had so carefully prepared for him, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth that distorted the flavor.

“Was there a problem with the computer today?” he asked abruptly, effectively reopening the never-ending matter of contention between them. He approached it, as always, with equal parts dread and anticipation. Joyce tried to appear surprised by the question.

“No,” she said, apparently considering the matter. “Why?”

“You deleted the computer’s history,” he explained. “I wondered why you did that.”

“Oh, that,” she said, appearing quite nonplussed. “I thought it might be better for the computer to clear away all that excess baggage. Less memory used…that kind of thing.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Should I not have done that?”

Peter examined her face and felt the innocent expression was contrived. The knot in his stomach was growing and it was with difficulty that he managed to swallow the food in his mouth. “But what made you think of it today?” he persisted.

“I happened to read online that it was a good thing to do from time to time,” she replied, chewing thoughtfully on food that had long since dissolved in her mouth.

“Where did you read that?” he pressed on obstinately, becoming more determined with each evasive answer that she delivered. “What were you doing online that you happened to find that information?”

Joyce stared at him with an expression of restrained exasperation. “I can’t remember,” she said. “Does it matter?”

“Think about it,” he said, ignoring her question. Her infuriating habit of answering his questions with one of her own acted like fuel on the fire that was burning up his insides. “What Web sites were you on today?”

“I don’t recall,” she insisted, still chewing and chewing.

“You must remember at least one of the Web sites you visited,” he insisted. “What were you doing online to begin with?”

“This is ridiculous!” she erupted all of a sudden, tossing her napkin down violently and rising from the table. With amazing swiftness Peter was on his feet, and he grasped her wrist from across the table before she could get away.

“Sit down,” he said in a quiet voice. His hold on her wrist was absolute without causing discomfort. He did not release her until she sat. They were both in a highly excited state. Neither made any further attempt to eat.

“What were you doing online?” Peter asked her again in a calm and determined voice that made it clear that there was no other way out of this but for Joyce to answer the question. Although he had released her wrist, his hand had remained on her arm, stroking it lightly with the tips of his fingers. His touch, at once so very gentle and utterly strong, was unsettling.

“I…don’t remember,” she insisted in a despairing tone. “I didn’t realize I would be grilled about it later.” She blinked and two small tears spilled down her cheeks as she told this lie.

“Take your time,” he said kindly. “We have all night.” He reached up to touch her cheek and captured one of the tears with his finger. Joyce’s heart felt like it was in her throat; the furious pounding of it seemed to be making it expand. She wondered if it would explode. Surely there were too many powerful emotions flooding through her for her heart to endure it. The excitement was making her giddy. She was mostly anxious—unsure of what the consequences would be for what she had done, but as well she was impatient to see what those consequences might be. She was also surprisingly aroused, and terribly afraid. In spite of her attempt to appear cool and indifferent, she was painfully aware of Peter’s every reaction and response. She watched him acutely, even when she appeared to be looking away.

The control Peter demonstrated with her throughout these proceedings enthralled her as much as it distressed her. She could see that he was frustrated and alarmed by her behavior, but he kept himself in check. She knew that he loved her and that he, too, was battling with emotions that raged within him. She could see the conflict in his eyes. His hand still lightly caressed her arm across the table, holding her there with a gentle influence that made the gooseflesh rise all up and down her arm. A painful yearning began curling its way through her entrails while her mind scrambled for logical answers.

She looked at her husband and sniffed. “I…there were some things that I was Googling,” she began, quite obviously at a loss.

“What things?” Peter encouraged. She stared at him a moment and then licked her lips.

“Well…like…seeds,” she said slowly.

“Seeds?” he echoed. In spite of the overall dread that enveloped him he could not restrain a small smile. Somehow, no matter how many little signs pointed toward something terrible, she could always lure him back to a sense of security with only the tiniest offering of herself. That she had, at some point, gone online—or intended to go online—in search of seeds he believed, though probably not today, but nevertheless it was a pleasing diversion for him to follow this thread for the time being, and see where it would lead. For even when he held her cornered like this, poised and ready to pounce, there always remained a strong bond between them that refuted even the most obvious signs of it being otherwise.

“Yes,” she said more self-assuredly, gaining confidence from his change in demeanor. “I wanted to plant pumpkin seeds in our garden this year and so I went online to see what variety I should buy.”

“And did you find the seeds you were looking for?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she replied, but as usual, she did not elaborate about what they were. Everything must be drawn out forcibly.

“Well?” he prompted. “What kind of pumpkins will we be growing this year?”

“I forget the name of them at the moment,” she said predictably, but added, “They are the ones that don’t grow very large, but they’re the best for making pumpkin pies.” This sounded viable enough.

“Did you order the seeds?”

“No. I thought it would be quicker to get them from the nursery down the street.”

“And yet you didn’t bother to remember the name of them?” he said, convinced that she was lying. Joyce didn’t answer him, so he continued on a different thread. “And is that where you found the information about deleting the history from your computer?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I bet if we went on the computer right now we could find the name of those seeds and I could read about how deleting computer history helps your hard drive.” Peter waited patiently to see how his wife would respond to this.

“I don’t really remember which search thread I followed to get there,” she told him after another moment’s thought. “I think it was…. it may have been four or five pages in.”

Peter was now certain that she was lying. The anger that had been temporarily assuaged during the pumpkin-seed diversion returned, sending a red-hot heat through his bloodstream. He grasped hold of her arm again and pulled her up in one swift motion while he came around the table to meet her. Keeping hold of her arm, he grasped her face by the chin with his other hand, holding it firmly so that it remained very close to his and tipped back so that she was obliged to look up at him. She could feel his breath on her lips as he spoke to her, very slowly, and in a soft, low tone of voice. “I think you’re lying to me,” he said.

Joyce didn’t answer. Her hands had rested against Peter’s chest and she suddenly moved them up over his shoulders and around his neck. She tried to move her lips closer to his for a kiss, but he held her back. “I think you’re lying to me,” he said again, though it was with less certainty this time.

Joyce didn’t deny it. She whispered instead, “Let’s go upstairs, Peter. It’s late.” He stared at her in abject frustration. Her words did not appease his fears, but they fed a need. He let her lead him up.

In their bedroom, Peter watched grimly as Joyce undressed. She took her time, getting much pleasure from the attention. She moved purposefully and gracefully, easing her clothing off and away from her body as lithely as a dancer while Peter simply gazed at her, mute with a harrowing mixture of frustration and desire. At length she wandered into the bathroom with him behind her, and she stood before the mirror in her sheerest nightgown and slowly brushed her hair. Peter stood at a nearby distance and watched, spellbound by the flawless rise and fall of her breasts beneath her gown with her movements of her arm as she brushed her hair. He was torn between desire and despair. Needing something to do, he removed the hairbrush from Joyce’s hand and gently took up the brushing of her hair. His suspicions were slowly fizzling away under the heat of his desire for her. It was at all times this way, ever since the first time he set eyes on her, that his desire was ever present whenever he was anywhere near her. He knew that other men must feel the same.

Joyce closed her eyes and let her head fall back slightly. A low murmur of pleasure escaped her lips.

Suddenly Peter’s eye was captured by the contents of the wastebasket. The dark ashes and charred bits of paper sounded a conspicuous alarm in the otherwise stark pastel coloring of the little bathroom container and everything surrounding it. His suspicions returned with renewed potency. As he stared bleakly into the wastebasket, an odd sense of déjà vu rushed over him, and he remembered distinctly telling her to burn his notes and letters, all those years ago. To see his own cunning at work against him caused him no small amount of grief, and he clenched his jaw firmly in an effort to keep his mounting rage at bay.