Wife Living Dangerously (18 page)

“Yes, I’m familiar with that list as well.” I start to go for my purse. Why weren’t we outside walking as planned? Why were
we sitting here in my office reading the Kama Sutra?

“Okay then.” Evan covers the page with his big hand. “Pop quiz.”

I sigh. “Do I have to?”

“Please, Julia. Humor me.”

“Fine.” I sit down again. “Women who are easily won over include the following: A woman who stands in her doorway. A woman
who looks at you sideways. A woman whose husband has taken another wife without justification.” I look at my watch. “What
else. Oh, yeah. A dwarfish woman. A sick woman. A poor woman. Blah, blah, blah. Do I pass the test, Professor?”

Evan glances down at the page. “You left out some of the big ones.” He slides his finger down the page. “Hmmm. A woman who
has been slighted by her husband.”

I fix my eyes on a spot near my feet. “Yes, that too. Can we go now?”

Evan is still reading.

“You can buy your own copy at Borders,” I say. “Seven bucks.”

“No. Wait. This, this is
intriguing.
” He is studying the page. “What do they mean by ‘the art of scratching’?”

“Scratching, biting. They considered it a mark of affection. Like a souvenir. Usually made on the cheeks, neck, back. And,
uh, more intimate places.” I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but indulge the seventh-grade show-off in me. “There are eight
different imprints. The knife, the half moon, the tiger’s claw, the lotus leaf…”

“Show me.” Evan pushes up his sleeve, exposing his powerful forearm. “Mark me.”

I hesitate, smile idiotically. “Uh.”

“Come on, Julia. I want to see what it looks like.”

I take him by the wrist and slowly turn his arm so that the tender skin is facing me. I press firmly with the thumbnail of
my left hand, first one way and then the other, to form an oval. “There.”

Evan studies his arm, traces the mark with his finger, and grins at me. He is ready to go for our walk now, but I’ve changed
my mind. I tell him I have too much work, can’t possibly spare the time, shouldn’t have bothered him. He says he understands.
He is only inches from my face now. His eyes are lingering on my lips. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks as he moves slowly
toward me. I could have backed away or turned my face but I feel myself tilt my chin and accept his lips. His hands are cradling
my face and he is kissing me and his mouth is so soft and his breath smells like spicy orange tea, and without even realizing
it I raise my hand to the back of his head to hold him tight as I kiss him back. I slip my tongue into his mouth, tentatively
at first, and then more boldly, and if I can be completely honest here, I am spurred on by one image now, the image of Edith
Berry slipping a cigarette between my husband’s lips. This image alone blots out all misgivings and pushes me along like a
great wave. Evan makes a low sound, full of pleasure. When the kiss is finally over I am nearly gasping for air. I’ve been
holding my breath the whole time, and I’m dizzy and hot. I’ve done it. I’ve kissed a man who isn’t my husband.

“You’re a great kisser,” he says, grinning.

“Likewise,” I say.

“You taste good,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“So I guess I’ll be going now,” he says.

“I guess so. I need to, you know, get some work done,” I say, wanting very much to kiss him again. I’d rehearsed this moment
a thousand times in my head and now I am amazed to see that nothing I’d anticipated matches the truth. I thought I’d resist.
I didn’t. I thought I’d feel regret. I don’t. I thought I’d promise myself that this will never,
ever
happen again. I make no such promises. I sit alone in my office feeling light-headed. I call my husband but there is no answer.

W
hen I contemplate dinner with my in-laws, I remind myself that it can’t possibly be as bad as a barium X-ray, which itself
is considerably more painful than childbirth, even Lucy’s birth, twenty-seven hours of back labor, her big head asserting
itself against my spine as I begged my obstetrician for a caesarian. The barium X-ray, designed to diagnose my chronic abdominal
pain, was worse: cold air pumped into my tender colon as a technician in a distant radiation-proof glass room used remote
controls to rotate me midair like a pig on a spit. Now whenever I have a dreaded event on my schedule, I console myself with
the knowledge that it can’t possibly be worse than a barium X-ray. I’d like you to try this sometime.

“We’re here!” Kathleen cries as she steps over the threshold. “And we come bearing gifts!”

Kathleen Flanagan is the best-dressed woman I know. She would want you to believe that she is also the luckiest bargain hunter
in America. She will tell you that she paid two dollars for her fringed pink suede belt at Marshall’s, five dollars for the
boots at T.J. Maxx, nineteen dollars for the coat on clearance at Nordstrom.

She would be lying, of course. My mother-in-law has plenty of money—her father held the patent on three medical devices and
she was the sole heir to his estate—but Kathleen doesn’t want you to know that she has plenty of money. She isn’t shy about
using her senior citizen discount card, catches the early bird specials at restaurants, and insists that everything she owns,
from her new Coach bag to the Gucci stilettos, costs no more than six dollars. The topaz ring? An amazing $4.95. The velvet
Kate Spade bag? Two dollars at a yard sale! I can’t think of the last time I paid two dollars for anything. I can’t even buy
a magazine for two dollars. A pair of shoes?

“Can you believe my luck?” she says, gesturing toward the giant Louis Vuitton tote, which probably cost as much as the down
payment on our first house. “Twenty-seven dollars on eBay.” She reaches into the bag and pulls out three gaily gift-wrapped
boxes. “Where are the kids? Nonnie has goodies!”

I summon the children, who have learned over the years not to expect much when Nonnie comes bearing gifts. While she clearly
spares no expense on herself, Kathleen is almost sadistically frugal when she spends on others. For Lucy, she has bought (or
perhaps picked out of a Dumpster) a sweatshirt bearing a character from a Disney movie that came and went long before my daughter
was born. On closer inspection I see that the character isn’t even from a Disney movie, but one of those Disney impostors,
where the animation isn’t quite right, the colors are dull, and the characters aren’t charismatic enough to penetrate popular
culture.

“Isn’t this
adorable
?” Kathleen croons, holding the sweatshirt up against her chest. “When I saw it, I just knew I had to buy it for my darling
grandbaby!”

Caitlin gets a windup fuzzy chicken that breaks when she overwinds it, and lucky Jake scores three pairs of sweat socks with
Harley-Davidson emblems. To her credit, she remembered that her grandson is interested in motorcycles. Unfortunately, the
tag indicates that these are ladies socks, size 9-11. My guess is she got them at a flea market for a buck. My kids stare
bleakly at their bounty.

“What do we sa-aay?” I prompt.

“Thanks, Nonnie,” comes the inculcated reply.

“You are so welcome!” she says. “You know how much Nonnie loves her grandbabies!”

I really shouldn’t complain. As Michael is quick to remind me, at least his parents give a damn about the kids. My mother
materializes once a year usually on her way to somewhere else and insists on being called Trina, “Never Grandma or Nana or
Mamaw. Lord knows, I don’t need to be reminded that I’m getting old.” Given my mother’s unwillingness to wear the mantle of
grandmotherhood, I try to be grateful for my in-laws.

“Hey, did you hear the one about the Polish lesbian?” Jim asks.

“No, Dad, I didn’t hear the one about the Polish lesbian.”

“She liked men. Get it? She liked
men?
”

I look around to see whether any of the kids had been listening in. But they are all back in the family room watching a TV
show about snakes, Nonnie’s gifts abandoned in a sorry little heap on the coffee table.

“Oh, Julia, you’re too serious,” my father-in-law bellows. “You need to lighten up, young lady.” (So I’ve been told, I’m thinking.
And you have no idea how far I’ve come.)

Michael shakes his head and throws a sympathetic look my way. “Give her a break, Dad.”

When I first met Michael’s parents, I was, frankly, charmed. Whereas my last boyfriend’s parents were as quiet as monks, these
two yammered all the time. I loved Jim’s earthy wit and Kathleen’s sense of style, and the way she conferred with me as if
I were her co-conspirator. “Julia,” she’d say, hauling out giant binders of fabric swatches. “I need your expert opinion.
Which of these do you like better? The floral or the stripe? Not that I can afford to reupholster now.” We’d sit on the couch
and sift through the books while Michael and his father watched the game, and I felt honored and special because she seemed
to want my opinion.

I hadn’t realized that Michael’s parents were like Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em robots, bickering endlessly about one trifling thing
or another. Nothing got settled, no one apologized for anything, and sometimes neighbors called the police because they yelled
so loud. Michael told me that his parents once argued from
Love American Style
to
Johnny Carson
just because Kathleen said she’d been a size four when she got married but Jim insisted she’d been a seven. Jim didn’t like
the way Kathleen had loaded the dishwasher and insisted she watch him reload it, the “right and proper way.” They fought about
that for the rest of the night, then Kathleen barreled out the door, got herself a suite at the Best Western, and didn’t come
back until the next morning, around the same time her sons were finishing up their breakfast of root beer and Snickers. Of
Kathleen and Jim’s three boys, one grew up to be a bickering husband, now a sour divorcé; another refuses to marry; and the
youngest would rather watch TV than argue. That last one would be my husband, in case you’re wondering.

I’m clearing the dishes when the phone rings. Lucy gets to it first and I overhear her say, “My mom’s in the kitchen. Who’s
this?”

I’m no clairvoyant but I know with utter certainty that my daughter is talking to Evan Delaney. It has been only a few days
since we kissed in my office and with the exception of a few benign e-mails, we’ve had no contact. I take the phone and send
Lucy into the living room to be with the rest of the family. In the time it takes to bring the receiver to my ear I imagine
Michael picking up the upstairs phone, overhearing some intimate exchange, charging back down the stairs, ripping the phone
from my hands, and demanding a divorce. None of that happens, of course. Michael is safely locked in fierce debate with his
father—whether or not Villanova deserved to win the NCAA championship in 1985—and well out of earshot.

“I want to see you,” Evan says.

“I can’t. Not now. It’s not a good time,” I whisper. “I have company.”

“Just for a few minutes. I’ll meet you anywhere. I’m losing my mind, Julia. I have to see you.”

My hands are shaking, my face burning. “The playground in Brewster Park on the north side. Ten minutes.” Oh, shit. I’ve taken
the next step. I’ve arranged a clandestine rendezvous.

I tell Michael that we’re out of dishwasher detergent, which happens to be true. “I’m going to run to the store,” I say. “I’ll
be back in a few minutes.”

Michael jumps to his feet. “Hey. I’ll go. I’ll take my dad. He loves going shopping.” This is true. Jim Flanagan has an unusual
affection for supermarkets and never passes up the opportunity to go food shopping. He takes particular pleasure in noting
all the items that are more expensive here than at his own neighborhood grocery store. “A dollar eighty-nine for a can of
baked beans? That’s just criminal.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll go,” I insist. I notice the bewildered look on my husband’s face. It’s time to play the gender card.
“I have to, you know, buy a couple of other things.” I waved my hands vaguely around my crotch. “You know.”

“Oh. Sure, hon. You go ahead. We’ll be fine.”

For all his sophistication, Michael has only the most rudimentary understanding of female anatomy and ailments and has no
desire to augment his knowledge base. It takes me nine minutes to get to the oval parking lot at the Brewster Park playground.
There is only one other vehicle there, Evan’s black Jeep. He reaches across the seat to throw open the passenger side door.
I climb in and sit there with my hands folded in my lap. This is a big mistake. I should be back home with my husband, my
children, my in-laws.

“So. Here we are,” I say. “Hey. Nice ride. I’ve always wanted a Jeep. So rugged, so, you know, so outdoorsy. Actually, I almost
bought a Jeep in college. It was green and it was a little banged up but they were asking only—”

“You are the most compelling woman I have ever known,” Evan says.

“Compelling?” I can barely hear him over the dull roar in my head. I want to kiss him again.

“Captivating. Beautiful. Wickedly sexy.” He picks up my hand and brings it to his lips. His mouth feels so soft and warm against
my fingers. “I’ve missed you, Julia. Missed you so much it aches.”

“Listen,” I say. “I think we need to cool it. Seriously. I’m a happily married woman.”

“Happily?”

“Yes, happily, Evan. Maybe it’s not fireworks all the time, but it’s solid and predictable and—”

“Are you talking about your marriage or a bowel movement?” Evan drops his head and rubs his eyes. “That was crass. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re not wrong. But it’s still my marriage, for better or worse. And we’re working on it. But it’s hard for me
to concentrate on Michael when I’ve got you in my life, your kindness, your kisses… frankly, Evan, your body is a distraction
in itself.”

“My body is a distraction?”

“Yes. It is.”

He begins to reach for my hand again, then stops himself. “Okay. Fine. I’ll step back. You work on your marriage. But if something
changes…”

“I’ll let you know.”