The Marriage Pact (1) (4 page)

“Not
yet,” she whined, tightening her grip on the arms wrapped around her. “Not
yet.”

 But
he kissed her bare shoulder and extracted himself. “I’ll be two minutes. And
you must promise not to move an inch, or the punishment will be severe.”

He
pulled on his khakis and the blue shirt, slipping on his loafers as he neared
the door. He looked deliciously disheveled and strangely vulnerable as he
headed out into the night. She tried not to notice that he paused to find his
cell phone on the bookshelf before exiting.

Marci
lay there for a while, battling a drowsy sleep that kept threatening to
overtake her. After some time, she heard Doug’s footsteps outside and his voice
on the phone through the thin wall. He was clearly talking to Cathy in
Beaumont, his tone familiar and casual. Of course with Cathy out of town, he
would have to check in with her at some point. Obviously he was using the trip
to the car as an opportunity to do that preemptively, so she would neither
interrupt his evening with Marci nor call an unanswered phone later.

Cathy
was apparently telling him some sort of story about her evening, because there
were long stretches of silence punctuated by, “uh-huh,” and “really?” and “What
did she say to that?” Whether it was genuine or simply to avoid suspicion, he
sounded interested in what she was saying and did not rush her off the phone.
Marci wondered whom they were talking about. Cathy’s mother? A friend? They had
been together for twenty-three years, so there must be very few people Cathy
knew that Doug did not, and vice versa.

Bitter
jealousy swept over Marci like an icy wind. Doug could not understand that
this, exactly this, was what made her feel the worst in their relationship. Of
course, it was bad enough knowing that he slept in the same bed with Cathy
every night and awoke to her each morning. She could not bear to think—much
less ask—whether he was still intimate with his wife, though his descriptions
of his marriage always led her to believe he was not, or at least, not very
often.

But
conversations like the one he was having now, familiar, with a shared history
and the sound of friendship and support that had become second nature, these
were what she envied and resented most. Doug would never meet her family, never
know Jake or Suzanne or any of her other friends. The people most important to
her could never even know he existed. Given the nature of their relationship,
the stolen moments and limited hours...would he ever just sit and listen to her
recount a conversation with a friend or complain about a fight with her mom or
Nicole? Would Doug ever stand out on a balcony and listen while she talked
about her day?

Suddenly,
Marci was sharply conscious of her nakedness and the fact that she was still
lying on the floor where he had left her. She got up, went to the bedroom,
threw on a ratty t-shirt and sweats. She felt the urge to be busy, but unsure
with what, and finally decided to turn on the computer.

Her
desktop was in the corner of the tiny living room, under the window where Doug
paced back and forth on the narrow landing a few inches away. Marci assured
herself that she had not chosen this activity to better overhear his side of
the conversation.

Even
though she had several more unread birthday messages since this morning, and
she knew exactly what it said, Jake’s e-mail seemed to draw her to open it
again. She forced herself to focus on a new message from her dad, updating her
on how his garden was coming along this spring and acknowledging that her
mother had already wished her happy birthday on his behalf. She smiled. Dad
always found a way to speak for himself.

Outside
she could hear Doug explaining the punk rock band next door. “Yeah, I have the
music on kind of loud in the garage—some demo CD Kevin wanted me to listen to.”

She
opened Jake’s e-mail.

To: 
 marci.b.thompson
From:  jakedawg96
Date:   April 8, 2004 12:01 a.m.

Subject:  
[none]

Message:  
Happy birthday, Marcella Beatrice Thompson. I’m game if you are.

Attachment:
   napkin.jpg

As
the attachment loaded, she knew what she would see. The bar napkin was at least
eight years old and obviously had been through some careless treatment since
she had signed it herself so long ago. It was discolored, either from the years
or from Jake scanning it to mail it, she wasn’t sure. But it still had the
distinctive Globe logo in the corner, a stain from some kind of pink beverage
Suzanne must’ve been drinking, and the contract, smudged but legible in blue
ink from a waitress’ pen.

I,
WE, Jacob Cartwright Stillwell and Marcella Beatrice Thompson, being of sound
mind and ^
^somewhat
sober body,
swear
hereby promise that on
April 8, 2004, when we are both 30, if we are not married or seriously involved
in a relationship, we will get married to each other.

And
there underneath, almost identical to the one on last week’s temp agency
timesheet, was her signature.

She
had forgotten this silly agreement until this morning. Thinking back, Marci
remembered Jake would occasionally bring it up jokingly when she went back to
Atlanta for the holidays or vacation. But it was never serious. Right?

The
door behind her creaked open and she jumped. Doug was looking down at his phone
and didn’t notice her alarm. “There. It’s off for the night, I promise.” 
He tossed it back on the bookshelf with finality and crossed to her.

“Oh,
so you have time for me now, do you?” she challenged, swiveling back to face
the monitor and quickly closing out the window.

Solicitously,
he began rubbing her shoulders. “Oh, come on, don’t be that way. Hey, you’re not
where I left you,” he mockingly scolded, “and certainly not wearing the lovely
nothing from before.” He ran his hands forward in one sweeping motion over her
shoulders, into her t-shirt and over her breasts.
Did he really think it was
going to be this easy?

“Well,
you were gone for a while.” She tried to sound merely cold and dismissive, but
her words came out bitter, petulant. She removed his hands from her shirt
angrily, but did not object when he replaced them on her shoulders.

“Marci,
I’m sorry,” he said, softly. She did not answer, staring at the black keyboard
as though the crumb between the G and H keys were the most fascinating thing
she’d ever seen.

He
bent down and swiveled the chair around, getting on her level as though he were
comforting a child with a skinned knee. His eyes implored her.

“It’s
just, when you are talking to Cathy...” She saw him flinch at the mention of
the name and immediately regretted saying anything. Why could she never just
enjoy the time they had? She had an average of twenty-three hours a day to
obsess without him; why ruin a rare evening like this one?

His
expression was fixed. He waited for her to finish. “Well, I just don’t
understand how you can be so casual and normal with her, and then two minutes later,
you’re...”

“I’m
what? Groping you?”

“Well,
yes. I was going to say ‘being affectionate with me’ or something nicer like
that, but...yeah.”

He
smiled, his lips upturned only slightly. “Always the delicate one. You know you
can always just say what you really feel with me, right?” 
Why on earth
was she nodding at him, placated and stupid?
His ability to disarm her
under any circumstances was infuriating.

“Listen,
babe,” he put his hand on her cheek, “I know you think this is easy for me, but
it’s not. I wish I didn’t have to answer that damn phone. Hell, I’d like to
throw it in the river. But you know I have to, and you know why. “

“I
know,” she conceded.

“That,
out there,” he gestured toward the landing on the other side of the wall,
“that’s me doing the right thing by her, at least...somewhat. And, if I don’t
do that, then all of this comes crashing down tomorrow and I have to come move
in here with you and the Blues Brothers.”

“They’re
punk.”

“Okay,
fine, the Punk Brothers.”

“They’re
called Plastic Utensils.”

“Fine.
Whatever. Look, Marce, I know this is hard for you, but it’s hard for me, too.
This is uncharted territory for me and I don’t know the best way of handling
it. I never, ever, planned to cheat on Cathy. I love her; I married her.”

“Stop.
Please stop.” Marci could feel tears coming from nowhere.

“No,
wait. You brought this up, okay? You asked me how I can talk to my wife, who I
promised my life to, and then touch you. Well, you make me wish my life was
still mine to promise. And the answer is either that I’m some lecherous creep
with no feelings...” He was looking at her pointedly as though to verify that
this was in fact what she’d been thinking.

She
could not speak.

“Or,
Marci, it’s that I’m just as confused as you are and I’m doing the best I can
to not hurt anyone while I figure things out.”

“Okay,”
she squeaked, deeply regretting having said anything, longing for the
playfulness to return to his voice.

“It’s
not okay. Don’t you think I know how not okay this is? I am not this guy. I know
guys who spend every other week on the road, and think nothing of taking a
waitress back to their hotel room after saying goodnight to their kids on the
phone. That’s not me. I’ve always been proud not to be that guy, always
deplored that behavior. And then you...” He stumbled; his voice cracked.

“I
don’t know how to explain this, what’s happened between us. I know the right
thing to do is walk out that door right now and go work on the car like I told
Cathy I was, but I can’t. Something happened to me that night in my office, all
those months ago, and I just honestly don’t know what to do. So I separate the
two things: marriage is marriage, and this
_...
well, I think we both
know that this is turning into love.”

Marci
looked up at him now. They had never allowed themselves to use that word.

“Maybe
it’s chicken-shit to think that I can keep from hurting her, and minimize how
much I hurt you, while I try to figure everything out. I know it’s selfish. But
I just don’t know what else to do. So I take the phone outside and talk to my
wife about her sister who has cancer.”

“I’m
sorry; I didn’t know.”

“I
try to do what a husband should do. And I absolutely
hate
that when
she’s talking about chemotherapy and radiation and whether we’ll be able to
have the anniversary party for my in-laws this summer, all I can think about is
getting back in here to you.”

Tears
now flowed freely over her cheeks. His eyes were wet, too.

“I’m
sorry,” she said again, meekly.

“Me,
too,” he said, softening. She reached for him and ran her fingers through his
hair. He pulled her close and they embraced in silence. After a minute, he
seemed to continue a previous thought. “I think that’s why it drives me so
crazy to see you with Jeremy.”

“What?”
This astonished her.
Jeremy?

“Because
anybody with eyes can see that kid’s got it bad for you. And I get so jealous
because I want to drive you home from happy hour; I want to be able to hang out
with you at the Christmas party. I want to protect you. But the reality is I
know that he would be so much better for you than me. He could give you more of
what you deserve, even if he is a whiney little douchebag.”

“He
is not!”

Doug
rolled his eyes. “Oh, you know he is. You deserve better than him, too, but
even he would be less likely to hurt you than I am.”

His
tone was sadness and playfulness and frank appraisal of reality all at once.
This odd combination attracted her to him even more. She pulled him closer,
whispered an apology, and kissed him as sincerely as she ever had.

Too
soon, light came streaming through her tiny bedroom window. Marci’s head ached
from the margaritas and total failure to eat anything substantial the day
before. She felt Doug’s warm body curled tightly behind her and had the sense
that they had been this way most of the night. She debated getting up to take
an Advil and drink some water, which would make her workday more tolerable in a
few hours, but couldn’t bring herself to move.

What
felt like ten minutes later, her eyes opened again to brighter light. She heard
footsteps coming from the living room and Doug was lying next to her again,
except this time he was fully dressed. His hair was wet and he smelled like
steam and some sort of manly body wash or deodorant. She inhaled deeply and
started to turn toward him.

He
stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. His voice was husky and gentle in her
ear. “Don’t... You can go back to sleep. It’s only seven. I have an early
meeting. And I think we both know you aren’t going to roll in until around 9:30
today at best.”

Gently,
he kissed her neck and she felt something cool around her throat. “The internet
said that the April birthstone is diamonds, but you didn’t seem like a diamond
kind of girl. It’s not as much as you deserve. Anyway, happy birthday.” 
He hesitated for a second as she turned her head to look at him and added, “You
know I love you, don’t you?”