The Affair (36 page)

“Of course. Please. It’s ancient history.” I was dying to know what had brought her around. I mean, there have been lots of
new years since high school, lots of opportunities to make amends. Why apologize now?

“You came to me in a dream,” she said. “And I put tremendous stock in my dreams. I’ve got ESP, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“I do. I dreamed the whole Kennedy thing. Not the assassination, I mean Junior’s plane going down.”

“I hope you didn’t dream about me dying or anything,” I said, trying to sound jokey. This was getting creepy.

“No, no, nothing like that! I dreamed you were me. I mean, you were all grown up and you had hired a mother’s helper just
like I’d hired you. She was gorgeous, just like you were. And you were yelling at her because you were so jealous. You thought
she was flirting with your husband. And even though she was a great sitter, you had to have her out of your house. Your face
was all twisted with anger and jealousy. Just like mine must have been. So I figure it was a sign. I’m not
sure what it means, but I knew I had to call. To say I’m sorry. And even though you’re not Jewish, I wanted to wish you a
sweet New Year … Hello?”

“I’m still here.” I gulped. “Listen, all is forgiven, Sunny. Ancient history. By the way”—I had to ask this—“how’s Barry?”

“Barry is Barry, what can I say? We split in ’89. He screwed anything that moved. I remarried in ’95, and I’ve never been
happier. It’s true what they say—it really
is
better the second time around.” She giggled girlishly. “So, how about you? Your mother tells me you’re happily married? To
a big-shot writer? And you’ve got an adorable little one of your own?”

“All true.”

“And, you’re happy?”

“Very.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. That’s just wonderful!”

I’m still stunned. I thought of that sitter—Heather? Amber? What was her name? I remember how overcome I was with the purest
jealousy. I hated everything about her: the high tits, the tight little ass, the way she fawned over my husband. I blasted
her like a cruise missile. What did Sunny’s dream mean for me? Am I now supposed to call Amber and apologize?

As long as I’m home, I figured I might as well clean. I decided to make it a research project. I went on-line and searched
“housecleaning tips.” It turned up 3,080 sites. After two and a half hours I was ready to clean. I did seven loads of laundry
and ironed a basket of Roger’s shirts, picked up Pete’s room and packed away his out-of-season clothes, reorganized the front
hall closet, cleaned the bathroom grout with a toothbrush, wiped the windows and mirrors with newspaper and Windex, cleaned
the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, tile
by tile. I put potpourri sachets in the sock drawers, refilled all the liquid soap dispensers, replaced all the dead lightbulbs,
wiped all the baseboards, and vacuumed the dust from all the air conditioning registers. I wiped the grime off the phones,
cleaned the bread machine, and reorganized the medicine cabinets.

Now I sit in my clean and shiny reorganized home and wonder, what’s next? Part of me wants to rededicate myself to my career.
Another part wants to chuck it all, stay home, and be the wife and mother Roger and Peter need me to be. But the part with
the loudest voice right now simply wants to climb into bed and pull the quilt over my head.

This morning when I went out to get the paper, I found a trail of tampons leading from the front door to the sidewalk, wrapped
but soggy from last night’s rain. I ran inside, grabbed a rubber glove from the cabinet under the kitchen sink, pulled it
over my hand, and went back to gather the tampons. There were nine. I picked up the first and examined it closely. At first
I thought it was smeared with blood, but quickly realized it was lipstick. The imprint of a kiss. In fact, every single tampon
had been marked with a kiss.

I felt like a crime victim, shaky and scared. Who could have done this? And why? I knew that some of the neighborhood houses
and trees are occasionally festooned with toilet paper, but this was different. The only clue I had was that the tampons were
slim, the kind worn by younger women and girls. I ran upstairs and woke up Roger. He rolled over and looked at me with half-closed
eyes.

“Do you know anything about this?” I asked him,
holding up one tampon in my gloved hand. Roger fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on.

He squinted. “A tampon?”

“A tampon. Size slim. Someone went to the trouble of kissing nine tampons and throwing them in front of our house.”

Roger shook his head as if to clear it. He probably thought he was dreaming this conversation. “What the hell are you talking
about?”

Until that point I had assumed it was one of his past or present lovers, but it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this
was the work of a disgruntled client of mine. It was possible. “What should we do?” I asked, not so cocky anymore.

Roger flopped back into bed, pulled the quilt up to his chin, and rolled onto his side. “Forget it. Crazy kids. Halloween.
They probably got the wrong house anyway.”

I suppose Roger might be right. But I can’t shake this feeling that whoever left the tampon is someone who knows Roger, or
me. And I’m certain we’re going to be hearing from her again.

’Til next time,

We just got back from the therapist.
I am so mad at Roger!
Moseman asked me to describe the experience of feeling rejected (familiar terrain), but just as I was about to answer, he
changed his instructions. “Wait. Do
this instead. I want you to face your husband and tell him how he might benefit if he were faithful to you. What’s in it for
him?”

The thing is, I was still caught up with his first question. Suddenly I was sobbing convulsively. I couldn’t stop. I cried
to the point of nausea. Aware that Roger and Moseman were staring at me, I shook my head and tried to apologize through the
sobs, but the therapist encouraged me to keep crying.

“Don’t shake your head! That blocks the feelings. Nod your head. Let it come. Let it out. Please.”

I’d never heard that before—that shaking the head blocks feeling—but it made sense. As soon as I stopped shaking and started
nodding, the sobs grew louder and stronger.

I described the experience of trying to climb on my mother’s lap while she and my dad were locked in an embrace. I remembered
her casually elbowing me off, and I remembered trying again to climb on her lap. I could see my father scowling and telling
me, “Not now. Mommy and Daddy need time alone. Go watch TV upstairs.” And I remember stumbling to the archway between the
family room and kitchen, and watching them kiss. My father gave me one last menacing look over my mother’s shoulder and I
slouched out of the room.

Moseman passed me a full box of Kleenex and slowly I regained my composure. When I finally looked up again, spent and congested,
I found Roger glaring at me.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know
exactly
what I mean.” He smirked derisively. “Typical. So typical. Dr. Moseman’s question, as you would have known had you been paying
attention,
was to face me and tell me how you think I’d benefit if I were faithful to you. So what do you do instead? You go on and on
about you.” Roger raised his arms and mimed playing a violin. “Poor little you. It’s always about you.” My husband slumped
back into Moseman’s overstuffed couch and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Typical.”

I wanted to kill him!
I still do! Moseman squinted at Roger, then pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few words. I hope one of them was “ASSHOLE.”
My only consolation is that I’ve lost another two pounds. And still managed to eat sweets—I figured out that if I skip a few
fruits and breads, I can double my dessert portions. This makes me very happy.

Without work to distract me, I find myself fixated on the stupidest things. Like the size of Julia Roberts’s mouth. It seems
extraordinarily large and somewhat scary. I’m thinking about Jennifer Love Hewitt. She’s on every magazine cover, and yet
I don’t believe I have ever seen her in anything, which is disorienting. Then there’s Clinton. I just saw him on CNN and all
I could think about was fellatio. This man could announce that he has singlehandedly negotiated world peace, and I’d still
be thinking: fellatio. And am I the only one who thinks Lauryn Hill looks exactly like a younger, thinner version of Oprah?
Or that Leelee Sobieski is a young Helen Hunt? Or am I just going crazy from all the Soft Scrub fumes?

I’m beginning to think that what I really need isn’t a marriage counselor but a private therapist, someone
who can help me deal with the true issue:
How can I ever trust Roger again?
(Of course, he might ask the same question. Why should he trust me?)

My distrust of Roger runs like a contaminated brook under the foundation of our lives. I see betrayal, or the threat of betrayal,
everywhere, in every interaction. He’s auditioning actors now, and I’m grateful that his new play has only two female parts,
and they’re both very small, but every time he comes home from auditions I smell his clothes, searching for the telltale scent.

A few nights ago, I saw Roger chatting a little too long with the pizza delivery girl. I watched from the top of the stairs
as she moved closer toward him and my heart froze. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew she was no stranger;
she stood too close, they talked in quiet and familiar tones. I hurried down the steps and glared at them both through the
screen door. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. She had a stud in her nose and a thin ring through her lower lip.
Her long dyed red hair was parted in the middle and hung to her waist. She looked at me with huge green eyes. She wore no
makeup. Her skimpy green nylon top clung to her small, braless breasts.

Roger greeted me brightly. “Isn’t this a coincidence? Look who came to deliver our pizza. This is Julia Gottleib, Ken’s daughter.
Isn’t that something?” I watch my husband eye the girl’s nipples.

“Yeah, Roger. That’s really something.” Ken Gottleib was one of Roger’s racquetball partners. The girl hadn’t taken her eyes
off my husband. I pulled the pizza box out of her arms.

“How much do we owe you?” I turned to Roger. “Do you have the checkbook?”

“It’s inside, hon.”

“Would you please get it?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He reluctantly left me alone on the porch with Julia. I stared at her, aware of the jealousy that curdled all rational thought.
She wouldn’t look at me. She said nothing. Roger quickly returned with a check.

“There’s a little something in there for you,” he said.

As I watched my husband come alive in the presence of this young girl, I had to ask myself, How much longer can I live with
this? Even if he never fondles or kisses or penetrates another woman, how can I live with myself? How can I live with the
suspicion and rage that seems to stain every single day of my life with him?

Then I remembered the soggy tampons. I’d saved one just in case I might need it later for evidence. I asked Julia to wait
for a moment, then ran inside and grabbed the Ziploc bag from under the sink. I was breathless by the time I got back to the
porch.

“Just one more thing before you go,” I said, holding out the bag.

“Do you know anything about this?”

The girl peered at the bag. “What
is
that?”

“Just what it looks like. A tampon. With lipstick kisses,” I said, bringing the bag a bit closer to her face.

She started backing off the porch and shook her head. “Yuck.” Then she looked at me as if I might be deranged.

“Why would I know anything about
that?”

“I don’t know.”

Roger pulled the bag out of my hands. His face was purple.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I suddenly felt hot with shame. “I don’t know. I just
thought maybe Julia might know something about this.”

Roger grabbed the bag out of my hand. “Julia. Please. Go. My wife obviously isn’t feeling very well this evening. Please go.”
He pulled some stray bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. She didn’t resist. “Here,” he insisted. “Take it.
Please.”

As Julia backed her Blazer out of the driveway, Roger grabbed the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

“Would you tell me what’s going on with you?”

I tried to pull away but he held on and the fabric ripped along the shoulder seam. “Get your friggin’ hands off me,” I yelled.
“Look what you did! God! Leave me alone!”

Naturally, our neighbor Roz Eberley just happened to be putting her trash out at precisely that moment. She stared scornfully
at us. I ignored her.

The Tampon Queen has visited again. This morning when I went out for the newspaper, I found a small padded envelope, the kind
you might use to mail a book. It had no return address. I don’t know if it was meant for me or for Roger, because there was
no name, either. I decided to open it outside. Roger and Pete were eating breakfast. Whatever was inside, I was pretty sure
I didn’t want my son to see it.