The Wednesday Group (32 page)

“Here, let me take that.” She reaches for his briefcase. He doesn't let it go.

“It's fine. I can manage.”

“Long day?” she asks.

“Very. I'd really like to just relax in the study for an hour.”

“I made dinner,” she tells him.

He sighs. “The weather has left me with no appetite.”

“It's light.” Her hands clasp in front of her chest.

“May I get by?” he asks.

She's suddenly intensely humiliated. She hadn't meant to be blocking his path. She plasters herself against the wall, holding in her stomach.

“What about a nice cold glass of champagne?” she asks.

He glances at her, his light eyes panicked.

She laughs. “Don't worry, you didn't forget our anniversary.”

He places a hand on his shirt, which is coming untucked. He's such the intellectual, no care in the world about clothes or appearances.

“Why the champagne?” He walks slowly toward the staircase.

“I wanted to do something nice for us. We've both been so busy, I thought this would be a treat. Come in the dining room. Have one glass with me.”

He nods, still facing the stairs. “Let me wash up. I'll be down in a few minutes.”

She puts their salads with cranberries and goat cheese on the table, then sits. She looks at her place mat, which has a picture of Donegal Castle, another one of their destinations.

The candied pecan that sits on the top of her salad is irresistible. She picks it off and enjoys the light crunch. Then she glances around, making sure Jonah isn't in sight, and takes a pecan from his salad. They had both started with six; she wants to keep the numbers even. Ten minutes pass. She nibbles on four more pecans.

After ten more minutes, he joins her in the dining room. He's changed into a white shirt and jeans. She can't remember when she saw him last in jeans. Possibly never.

“New clothes?” she asks.

“Actually, most of the professors are wearing this type of thing. I thought I'd give it a try.” He sits at the head of the table.

“I never thought you'd be one to notice fashion trends,” she says.

“I have the occasional enlightened moment.”

“As long as it's not more than occasional,” she teases.

“No need to worry about that.” He glances at the salad. “Looks good,” he says.

“I know you're not hungry, but this is light. Would you like to open the champagne?”

“I think I'll stick with water for tonight.”

He'll change his mind after the salad. “Take a look at your coaster.” She feels like a child unable to contain her excitement.

“Nice,” he says. “Are they new?”

“I made them. Not actually made. But I found pictures and then had one of those photograph companies do it. That one is of a little bay in Inishbofin.”

“Where?”

“Inishbofin, the island we're going to. Off the west coast of Ireland.”

He picks it up, turns it over, spends more time studying the cork on the back than the picture. “It's nice,” he says.

“I can't wait to see it. Your place mat is Dingle,” she says proudly.

He moves his salad plate to the side and looks at the picture of the sea and the cliffs. “It's nice,” he says again.

“I'm so excited.” She takes a bite of her salad.

He glances at her, his gray eyes strained. “Gail,” he says, then picks up his fork and uses it to push around one of the few pecans that is left.

She wants to keep showing him all the other coasters. Under his water glass is a picture of a puffin from one of the Blasket Islands. She has different coasters for the Baileys she has planned for after-dinner drinks. But she restrains her enthusiasm and wipes her mouth with the linen serviette. The red lipstick stain is prominent.

He sighs, putting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. His round bald spot looks well polished.

“We should talk,” he mumbles.

The words themselves wouldn't be so terrible, but combined with his body language, she can't ignore the feeling that she walked right into a stomach punch.

“Go ahead.” She folds her napkin so the red lipstick is hidden.

“I don't think I can make the trip.”

She tends to steer away from ratings, but right now, on a scale of one to ten, this is about a five. He's got a conference. He's too busy working on an article. The trip will be postponed, but all will not be lost. This is manageable.

He pushes the place mat away and sighs again, this time more emphatically. “I'm sorry.” He lifts his head. His eyes are glassy with a slight blue haze that makes her wonder if he's getting cataracts.

Although her heart is heavy, it has the ability to race rapidly, knocking against her rib cage.

“Work?” she asks.

A deep breath followed by yet another sigh. He shakes his head no.

“Is someone in your family sick?” It's a silly, hopeful question, and she thinks of her demeanor in Dr. O'Reilly's office, how strong she was. But sitting here, her deepest fear near the surface, makes her feel weak and withered.

“I've been trying to talk about this for a while now. I just couldn't find the right time.”

She squares herself, holding the edge of the table. “You've had a slip?” She can manage a slip.

“I wish it were that simple.” He looks at the oil painting of the bowl of fruit. She bought it years ago in Italy. It was much too expensive.

“A relapse?” The letter from April makes a dot in her thoughts.

“No. I've been talking to my therapist, and we've decided that I'm not actually a sex addict.”

She stares at him. He's not making sense. “Of course you are. How can he say that?”

“Because my behaviors don't fit the addiction model.”

“Then what does he think is the matter?”

“I'm not sure he thinks anything is necessarily wrong with me. It's more of an identity crisis than any sort of disease.”

She picks up her glass of water, but her hand is too unsteady to bring the drink to her mouth. “He told you that you were a sex addict. How could he not know that? It's his job to diagnose people.”

“He made a mistake.”

“I hope you're thinking of switching.”

“I don't think it was entirely his fault that he misjudged. I may have led him to believe my behavior was addictive.” He looks away from the painting, scans the room, and then focuses on the place mat.

She flushes. Her heart continues its heavy pulsating. Her blood pressure must be soaring, and she didn't take her medicine today. She didn't want it to interact with the champagne.

“You're just trying to give him an easy out. If he's a good therapist, he would have picked up that you were skirting the real issue.”

He pokes his fork in the place mat. She wants to take it away from him, to tell him he's going to ruin it.

“I'm in love with April.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” she says, and waves her hand in the air. “She's a student. She's young.”

“She's not that young. She's thirty-one.”

“You're almost fifty-five.”

He keeps poking at the place mat. There are indentations in the blue sea. “I stopped seeing her for a time. I thought maybe I did have addictive tendencies, but I kept thinking about her. She returned to Harvard and we began meeting.”

“So you lied about not knowing she was back?”

He nods.

She can't breathe. She looks at her place mat, thinking about the suite she reserved with the plush furniture and the binoculars. The simple touch of binoculars to enable guests to bird-watch convinced her to book that hotel.

“I know this is difficult. But I couldn't keep up the lies.” He touches her arm.

“But then … I mean, what about the other women? It wasn't just April.”

“There was actually only one other woman, and it was after April left the first time. I was desperately trying to figure out what was wrong. I wanted to believe I was a sex addict. I really did.” He looks at her now, his eyes clear.

“You are a sex addict,” she says.

“No, Gail, I'm not. I'm in love with April. I have been for over two years now. I've tried to stop seeing her. I wanted to make our marriage work.”

“You need another opinion. You can't just rely on this one therapist.”

“It doesn't matter what another therapist says, it matters what I know in my heart to be true.” He puts a hand on his chest.

“But it's not true. We've worked through so much. You can't just throw it all away.”

“We have worked through a lot. And you're a wonderful, intelligent companion, and I will always deeply love you.”

“But…” She feels as if she can't swallow. She puts a hand on her throat.

“Would you like me to open the champagne? Maybe you need a glass.”

That seems cruel, a glass of celebratory champagne as an elixir for her broken heart. “No, thank you.”

“Perhaps you should eat something.”

All she wants is the Hostess cupcakes that are hidden in her closet. “No, thank you.”

“Gail, I couldn't keep up the lie. I couldn't go on a trip with you when I knew that I was betraying you.”

“We can still go.” Her heart, which has continued to beat ferociously, feels lighter.

“That wouldn't be wise.”

“I have all the places booked. We'll go as friends.” She doesn't really want to have sex with him anyway. Not because she's not attracted to him, but because she always feels so ashamed of her own body. “We can have fun. Be companions.” She's convinced he'll see this is a good idea.

“I don't think you'll want to be with me once this sinks in.”

“April's a child. She's a fling. You can see her if you need to. We're meant for each other. We're equals intellectually.” She reaches for his hand. He puts it in his lap.

“No. She's not a child, and it's not a fling. I want to be with her.”

She needs to make herself clearer. “We'll share this apartment. We'll still have our life together. You'll just see April when you need to. We're compatible and that's what's really important in a relationship.”

“Gail.” He sighs. “We're not really compatible.”

“Of course we are. We like the same things. We enjoy each other's company. We don't argue.”

“I'm sorry.” He sighs again. “I can't do it. I can't live here.”

“But all your books are here. And we've decorated together…” She wants to continue, but she looks into his eyes and sees resolve. She has lost this last desperate attempt. On her lap, she unfolds her napkin and looks at the red lipstick stain.

“When I'm gone, you'll feel better,” he says. “You won't have to worry anymore about what I'm doing. You'll be free. It will be like a burden has been lifted.”

Perhaps the shade of lipstick is too red. An orange tint might be more suitable. She stretches the fabric, studies the stain.

“I understand you're upset,” he says. “But it would be terribly unfair of me to stay. You deserve to be loved.”

She moves her salad plate, places her napkin over the place mat, and compares the red to the color of the apple in the painting. The apple is more subtle.

“Gail?”

Color is so important. Color is everything. She's spent much too much time ignoring the color of things. The shades in the room have too much green. Why hadn't she seen that until now?

“I'm going to go out for a while. Let you think about this. All right?” he asks.

At least she chose her nail color wisely. Yes, peach is almost always right. Pinks can be good as well. It's just that they have the danger of seeming girlish. Someone told her mental hospitals had pink rooms. It calms people, supposedly.

“If you could become a color, what would you choose?” Her voice is curious.

“Please, Gail. Stop playing these games. It's not going to help either one of us.”

“I think you'd be blue.” She imagines him encased in a block of ice. Vine-like fissures entangle him.

“I'm not doing this.” He stands. “If you want to talk seriously, that's fine. But I don't have time for this nonsense.”

Jonah walks away. His aura isn't blue, but dirt brown. How did she manage to misjudge him so drastically?

The front door closes. She opens the champagne, pours herself a glass, and studies the liquid. It's the color of empty.

*   *   *

He's been gone for two hours and thirty-six minutes. She's eaten a box of Hostess cupcakes and three candy bars. All the sugar in the world isn't going to help, but she needs to restock. There is no possible way she will make it through the night without snacks. Actually, she can't imagine making it through the next hour. Her heart races, and as a cautionary measure, she takes out the blood pressure cuff that she bought at Walgreens a year ago. It reads 220 over 150. She stares at the numbers until they blur. Her blood pressure has never been that high. She takes four Atenolol. Twenty minutes later, the numbers are down only a few points. She takes three more pills.

She must have sounded as if she were out of her mind, talking about colors the way she did before he left. She should have negotiated, reasonably, asked for a six-month trial period, time to see a new couples' therapist, time for her to work on her weight issues, time for him to reconsider. Why does she have to become such a weak, insecure woman around him? Where does the formidable, competent Judge Larson go?

Her therapist would tell her this is the time to call someone for help, but what would she say? That her husband isn't even a sex addict? How ludicrous would that sound? She holds the banister as she descends the stairs. She wheezes. Her asthma is acting up. Why hasn't he returned yet? What if he went to April's to celebrate? Would he be that callous? She searches for her inhaler and absentmindedly picks up her car keys from the kitchen counter.