The Affair (16 page)

One thing I never felt, not even fleetingly, was compassion for Roger. Every detail he proffered stirred jealousy and antipathy.
I felt capable of murdering them
both. Yet I felt driven to know every detail. What did she wear that first night? How did her tongue feel in his mouth? Was
she better than me?

Once Bonita laid down the ground rules, Roger says he dropped Alyssa cold. (On this point, he was more honorable than I was;
I have yet to make a clean break with Eddie.) But Roger’s withdrawal only intensified Alyssa’s obsession. “She started with
e-mails, then progressed to phone calls,” he said. “Then she started showing up here while you were at work.” I felt my whole
body constrict as I imagined Alyssa rifling through my things, laughing. “I never let her in,” Roger said. “Not once.” By
the time Alyssa started harassing me, Roger knew his scorned lover had completely lost it. “It killed me when she began involving
you,” he said. “Involving?” I snapped back. “How about tormenting?”

Roger grabbed my hands. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.” He made a little choked noise in his throat, and I knew he was about
to cry. “I need you now. I can’t get through this alone,” he said. I pulled my hands away.

’Til next time,

It’s been two weeks since Roger moved into the guest room. After his confession, I told him, “I can’t stand having you in
bed next to me, knowing you had an affair.” He was relieved I didn’t kick him out of the house and was happy to oblige. “Separate
rooms? Of course. I understand. Completely,” he said, nodding uncontrollably like one of those dashboard dogs. “Anything.
Anything you want. Whatever you want.” Of course, I still haven’t told him about Eddie.

Roger has kept a respectful distance—I hardly see him—but he has also made all sorts of conciliatory gestures (cleaned the
house, bought flowers for the table, had my Jeep detailed). Whenever I do see him he practically bows and scrapes at my feet.
I was at first disoriented by his sudden obsequiousness. Smug is an affectation he mastered long ago; acquiescence is uncharted
territory.

But, I have to tell him about Eddie. I sent Petey to his grandparents’ house for the weekend and now wait for Roger to come
home from playing racquetball. There’s so much I want to say, and I am afraid I’ll forget—or start blubbering. So I decided
to write it in a letter:

Roger,

I never thought it was possible to be both married and lonely, yet I’ve learned over the years that it is, indeed, possible.
I have a husband, yet for most of my marriage I have felt entirely alone. I have sat on the edge of the bed, undressed, inches
away from you, waiting for some sign that you wanted me. You rarely wanted me. Do you remember when the Realtor showed us
the house and how she winked when we got to the Jacuzzi? “Plenty of room for two in there,” she said. Do you realize that
we have never taken a bath together? First me, then you. It’s always like that. Even when Td invite you in, you’d say, “Td
rather wait until you’re done.”

I suppose all this is my way of justifying what I’m about to tell you. I, too, had an affair. Unlike you and your student,
we had sex only once. But I must be honest:
my affair started long before that. It started the moment this man turned his attention toward me. I had such longing. He
filled it. Was he my soul mate? No. Was the sex good? Absolutely. The sad truth is that I probably would have had sex with
anyone who showed an interest in me, and perhaps that’s my problem, not yours. But I also believe with all my heart that if
you had paid as much attention to me as you do that damned TV, I never would have done it.

We’ve both been entangled by our misdeeds. You have this lawsuit. And I am burdened by the knowledge that a family has been
ripped apart because of my affair (he moved out last month and has tried to convince me to join him).

Roger, I don’t know where we go from here, but I’m willing to talk about it. I’ll be waiting upstairs.

—V.

I stood at the top of the stairs and listened as Roger walked toward the kitchen, opened the letter. I waited a few minutes,
expecting him to come up the stairs. But the next sound I heard were his footsteps moving back toward the door. I called out
to him, but he ignored me and slammed the door behind him. I ran to the window and watched him pull out of the driveway.

That bastard! After everything he’s done with Alyssa, how dare he walk out on me? I waited in the kitchen as long as I could,
inhaling half a frozen mousse cake before finally collapsing on the couch, doped up from all the sugar. I heard a key in the
door, checked the clock—4:30
A.M.
Roger sat on the edge of the couch. I thought I was dreaming.

“I know I’ve got no right to feel this way,” he began.
I propped myself up on my elbows. My head throbbed. Sugar hangover. “But I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help what?” I asked.

“I cannot help the fact that I’m very angry with you.” He gripped his head in his hands. “How could you sleep with another
man? How could you?”

Now I was certain I was dreaming and actually reached out to feel his sleeve to confirm it. No, Roger really was sitting there,
and this was really happening. My cheating, lying husband had the gall to say that he was angry at me. I rolled off the couch.
“Are you out of your mind? You sleep with this, this
child
for months, lie your ass off about having an affair, treat me like shit, drag our family into a sexual harassment lawsuit
that our lawyers say you have little hope of winning, and now you have the balls to say you’re angry? Screw you! If I slept
with Eddie it’s because you’ve behaved more like a roommate than a husband for years and the only thing you’ve wanted to hump
in this house is the frigging TV set!”

All of a sudden I hear this low hissing sound and for a moment think it’s the teakettle even though I haven’t made tea since
last winter. Then I realize it’s Roger, crying. I’m still angry. “What the hell is wrong with
you?”
Now he’s sobbing like a child.

“We’ve made such a mess of things.” He sniffles loudly and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He peers up at me. It’s
now 5
AM.
My alarm clock is set to go off in an hour. I’m in no shape to see clients. “You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?”

Until he mentioned it, I hadn’t seriously considered leaving as an option. But once Roger had actually uttered the words,
it was as if he’d broken some kind of spell, and suddenly the prospect of leaving didn’t seem
quite so forbidding. For now I’ve decided to simply live with these feelings. I don’t have to make any decisions right away.

’Til next time,

Crazy week. It began with my new client Claire, and I’m still reeling. On the surface, Claire is a model wife and mother,
a pillar of her church and a hardworking PTA volunteer. She’s petite and rather plain-looking, wears no discernible makeup,
and speaks with a flat midwestern accent. Underneath her bland surface, though, is a woman I thought only existed in the pages
of Nancy Friday sex fantasy books.

Clarie’s husband, a respected endocrinologist, simply has no interest in sex. So in 1995, sweet little Claire decided quite
consciously that if her husband wouldn’t give her what she craved, she would find it elsewhere. And not with one lover, but
almost fifty. A different lover every month for the last four years. “I never wanted love,” she told me. “I already get that
from my husband. He’s a good man, a wonderful father, a friend. I never wanted another husband. That’s not what I need.”

At first I didn’t understand why she came to me. She doesn’t seem particularly troubled. While I’m so wracked with guilt I’m
ready to disembowel myself, Claire feels perfectly justified and appears amazingly guilt-free. But after our second session,
I understood. She simply needed to share her stories. She’d had no
one to talk to. So now she talks to me. I’m dying to tell someone, but obviously I can’t. All I can do is write.

Her first affair wasn’t planned. “We had new neighbors, and I’d baked some cranberry muffins for them,” she told me. “I rang
the bell but no one answered. I opened the door and walked in on a housepainter. Apparently the new neighbors were having
work done on the house before moving in. He was reading a dirty magazine and playing with himself in the dining room.” She
paused. “He didn’t stop when he saw me, and I didn’t leave. I just watched. After a while I helped him and before I knew it,
we were on the floor. I don’t know what possessed me, but it was the most fun I’d had in years. We kept it going for three
weeks, until he was done painting the house.”

I tried to remain expressionless, but I wanted to scream, “Are you
nuts?”
At the same time, frankly, I find this woman absolutely fascinating.

Now here’s how my crazy week ended: The phone rang as I was leaving the office. “Hi, Sweetie.” The tone was spry, playful.
I felt my adrenaline surge as I realized who it was. “Don’t hang up. Please.”

“Diana.” I had to grip the phone with two hands to keep from dropping the receiver.

“The one and only,” she responded, in a voice that seemed, unbelievably, to be more kind than cocky. “I need to see you to
make amends.”

“Please, no, that’s okay,” I told her. “Just live your life. You don’t need to make amends to me.”

“But I do. I must.” There was a long pause, and then: “Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. I really need to see you.”
She explained that she gets a day pass from prison next week and wants to stop by my office.
Against all instincts I agreed. “Fine. But I’ll only have a few minutes.”

“That’s all I’ll need,” she assured me.

Is she really coming to make amends, or is she going to blow my head off?

’Til next time,

I’ve been having my white cottage fantasy a lot lately. In this reverie I’m living alone in a small and simple white cottage
on the south side of town and everything is exactly the way I want it to be. I’ve got a Maine coon cat, a few apples in the
refrigerator, creaky wood floors, and no TV. I’m sickened by the excesses of my suburban life—the Weber grill on the deck,
the overstuffed closets, five TV sets, the flood of junk mail, the mess. For as long as I’ve been married, every decision—choosing
carpets, appliances, vehicles, wallpaper—has been made by committee. I want to be alone.

Of course, this is only a fantasy. I’m superstitious. God, if you’re reading this, please don’t punish me by killing my kid
(you can do whatever you want with Roger, however). I have this fantasy when I’m feeling totally overwhelmed. Do I really
want to live alone? Not if it means giving up Petey. He is still the love of my life. And I’m thrilled to report that he hasn’t
had an accident in weeks and he’s back in preschool!

As for Halloween, it’s a toss-up between a pirate and Barney (I vote for the pirate).

As planned, Diana came by the office today. I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show her face, but
she insisted it was part of her “recovery.” Apparently, she joined Alcoholics Anonymous when she was in jail. One of the twelve
steps is to “make amends” to everyone she has harmed. She looked smaller than I remembered her, but also happier. She hiked
up one trouser leg and showed me the electronic device strapped to her ankle. “My personal Big Brother,” she said, rolling
her eyes. “What can I say? It’s the least I deserve.”