The Affair (18 page)

Dinner last night: a loaf of bread, six Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a beer. I fell asleep on the floor next to Petey’s
bed. I know I should feel happy that Roger’s gone. This could be the start of a new life, a happy life. Why aren’t I celebrating?

’Til next time,

Roger showed up Sunday morning looking like he’d slept in the gutter. His clothes were rumpled and he smelled bad. He said
he’d been sleeping in the van, parked by the lake. He begged me to talk to him.

“Not a chance, you philandering little shit,” I told him.

He laughed derisively. “Some therapist. All that money I spent on your doctorate, and that’s your response? Tell me, Doctor,
clinically speaking, is this
really the best way to handle a spouse who seems to be making an effort toward reconciliation?” The supercilious bastard!
I wanted to kick him. He tried another approach: “Look. It’s not as if you haven’t had your dalliances. Face it. We’ve both
screwed up.”

I considered this reasoning for a moment. On some level he was right, of course. But I didn’t have the energy to start weighing
his affair with Alyssa—and now his “involvements” with two other women—against my relatively sexless relationship with Eddie.
I also suspected that there might be even more “involvements” with even more women. I didn’t want to talk to him. I told him
I needed more time to be alone. And I told him he wasn’t welcome in the house.

He could have forced his way in. It is, after all, his home too—generously financed by his family’s trust fund. But Roger
was apparently remorseful enough to back off. “Fine. Whatever you say. Just let me get some of my things.” When he came back
downstairs with his clothes stuffed in a Hefty bag, he asked, “So what do we call this? A separation?”

“Yeah, Roger. A separation. For now, let’s just call it that.”

I watched him slouch his way back to the van, looking for all the world like a panhandler. He turned and waved. I realized
he wasn’t waving to me, but to Petey, who must have been watching from his window upstairs. Roger heaved himself into the
van, slumped over the wheel, and appeared to be crying.

I raced upstairs to Petey, who was now curled in the fetal position on bed, sucking his thumb. “Is Dad coming back?” he mumbled.
I felt I had to be honest with him. “Not for a while, sweetie.” His little body curled
more tightly. I hate myself and I hate Roger for what we’re putting this child through.

Other news: I obsessed all week about pregnant Patty, then finally decided to confront Eddie. I e-mailed him today at
[email protected]
.

Eddie:

Had a cancellation. My Monday is now totally open. How would you feel about me coming by to check out your new place? Are
you free?

Val

Literally forty seconds later, I got this reply:

Val:

Are you senous? If so, you are most welcome to check out my new place. How about if I get some carrot soup and fresh bread
from Water Lily? (Is carrot soup still your favorite?) Write back to confirm, please.

Eddie

I felt guilty when I read that. He was already gearing up for a cozy afternoon of soup-slurping and sex, while I was planning
my attack. He even remembered that I love carrot soup. In just this brief e-mail I could sense his urgency. God, what am I
doing? What, exactly, do I want from this man? Why stir things up when it would be far more responsible, ethical, moral, and
mature to just leave him alone? Then I remembered Patty, bulging with child number four, and I felt my chest tighten. I e-mailed
back:

Eddie:

Yes, I’m serious. But let’s skip the food. I have to talk to you.

Val

And again, seconds later, I received this:

Val:

Okay. Whatever you want. But now Ym in suspense. I can’t wait to see you.

Eddie

Today I started a high-protein, low- (make that
no
-) carbohydrate diet. I think I already lost a pound, if that’s possible. I am determined to lose weight! I wonder if it’s
possible to lose eleven pounds by Monday.

’Til next time,

The bad news is that on Monday I discovered that, not only had I failed to lose eleven pounds, but I had actually gained three.
I couldn’t face Eddie. I e-mailed him to let him know something had come up (it’s called flubber, I believe). He e-mailed
me back right away: “Damn.”

The good news is that another Thanksgiving has come and gone and we’ve all apparently survived. I’d planned to host, but my
sister Teresa knew I’d kicked Roger out and mercifully invited everyone to Milwaukee for Thanksgiving at her house.

I suppose it doesn’t matter where we gather because every Thanksgiving replicates itself year after year. Some of us are a
little grayer, some a little fatter. There’s Mom lounging on the sofa, gorgeous as always in a sleek cat suit and blazer,
halfheartedly offering to help in the kitchen. Normally we’d insist she relax (everyone
knows Mom is no worker bee), but this time Teresa calls her bluff and actually asks her to monitor and baste the turkey. Mom
becomes so flustered, and approaches the task so spastically, that my sister finally grabs the baster and snaps, “Oh, just
forget it!” Mom feigns indignation, but we all know she is relieved to be off the job.

Over there on the couch is my brother-in-law, alone and scowling at nothing and everything. In the middle of the dessert,
Ted stands up and declares that it’s time to put up the Christmas lights. We don’t see him again for the rest of the evening
until we’re backing out of the driveway and notice him teetering on a ladder outside.

And here, scuttling between the kitchen and dining room, is my other sister, Julia, skinny, earnest, dutiful. Julia and her
husband, Luke, drove in this morning from Connecticut. Both are fussing over the seven-year-old twins, Michael and David,
who won’t touch any of the ninety-seven offerings on the table. Julia whips up peanut butter sandwiches, pasta, and hot dogs
in rapid succession, none of which they eat. (They finally settle on tomato Cup-A-Soup.)

My father looks remarkably hardy for someone with cancer. As one would expect, given my family’s natural aversion to open
communication, no one mentions his illness or the upcoming surgery. I talk to him privately in the basement. I ask him if
he is scared. He smiles bravely and says, “Princess, your old dad is prepared for anything.” I hug him, and he whispers, “Sorry
about Roger. I always suspected the guy was a loser, and this just confirms it.” At that point my mother materializes (predictably),
Dad quickly extricates himself from our hug, and the conversation comes to an end.

Finally, we have Grandma Anna (ninety-seven and
still ticking), propped up at the table, clicking her dentures. She stops every so often to ask, “Where’s Elizabeth? Where’s
Elizabeth?” (Elizabeth is her sister, dead since 1977.) Toward the end of the night she shifts her query to “Where’s Roger?
Where’s Roger?” I heard my mother whisper something, to which my grandmother responded with a low, “Oh. I see.” When she came
back to the table she leaned over, winked, and squeezed my hand approvingly.

Everyone else is careful not to mention Roger, which makes his absence as palpable as if he were in the room, behaving as
he normally does when he’s among my family, bored and indifferent. At one point I was almost tempted to set a place for him,
the way Jews set out a cup of wine for the prophet Elijah during Passover. I kept expecting Roger to show up at the door,
reeking and forlorn.

Spoke to Betsy last night. She insists on driving out here next weekend from Iowa for a “girls’ night out.” She’s got it all
planned: a day of beauty and relaxation at the Bella! day spa and a night of debauchery at Swingfellows, where guys do the
lap dancing (how’s that for a switch?). I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Or maybe I am.

’Til next time,

As promised, Betsy came down this weekend, determined to minister to her newly separated best friend. Tabitha sat for Petey
(under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask my in-laws to
watch him), and Betsy and I tore out of the driveway like a couple of teenagers. First stop was Bella!, where I treated myself
to an incredible massage (she spent fifteen minutes just on my hands—sublime!), a haircut, and a manicure (silk wrap and French
tips—looks amazing).

Then we stopped at Starbucks for a cup of coffee. No sooner had we perched at the counter when Eddie appeared. He leaned close
enough for me to feel his breath on my face and cocked his head toward Betsy. “Who’s this?” He appraised her quickly in that
hot testosterone way of his, and Betsy must have felt it, judging from the sudden crimson in her cheeks.

“This is Betsy, my good friend and old college roommate,” I said. “And Betsy, this is Eddie, my …”

“Whatever,” Eddie cut in, grinning. He clasped his hands behind his head and gave us a perfect view of his flexed biceps.
I wanted to bury my face in his chest hair. I could feel my face flush with pleasure at the sight of him.

“I gotta run,” he said. “You ladies have a nice time.” He pointed a finger at me. “And I’ll see
you
later.” As he sauntered off, Betsy grabbed my arm and pulled me toward her.

“Oh my God, Valerie. You’ve got to be kidding.” She shook her head incredulously. “He’s tough, he’s coarse, he obviously spends
more time in the weight room than in the library.” Betsy grinned. “He’s perfect.”

“I know! I know!” I was squealing like a seventh-grader. “Isn’t he gorgeous? Isn’t he just delicious?”

“Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Betsy squealed back, squeezing my arm. She was wild-eyed and giddy. “Oh, please, you’ve got to get
this guy back into bed, Valerie. Please, promise me you will, promise!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, giggling. “I promise.”

The next stop was Nordstrom, where I bought three new silver rings for my elegant new fingers. Then I got myself a—drumroll,
please—Wonderbra! I’m laughing as I write this, because (a) I remember my scornful reaction when the Wonderbra debuted, and
(b) I absolutely
love
this bra!

The minute I put it on I knew my life would never be the same. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But not too much.
The cleavage! The lift! I haven’t looked like this since high school (of course, that was without assistance, but after one
pregnancy and eleven months of breast-feeding, I’ll take all the help I can get). All of a sudden, men are looking at me,
truly staring—something that would have bothered me ten years ago, but now feels like a gift from God.

Swingfellows was our next stop and it was absolutely unreal—magnificent men, ice-cold beer, grinding music, and a hundred
sixty horny surburban wives stuffing dollar bills into magnificent men’s G-strings. Even the waiters were part of the scene,
each one dressed in some macho fantasy getup: construction workers in nothing but boots and tool belts, shirtless cowboys
in leather chaps, cops and firemen in various stages of undress.