Women Drinking Benedictine (11 page)

“I've always hated swimming,” Marybeth said. “Because of my toes. I was afraid that people would look at me and think I was a duck or something.” She did not tell him about the fourth-graders on the playground, but he said he understood how cruel people could be.

He asked if he could see her foot and she said no, but after a third round of margaritas, when her tongue was heavy with salt, she pulled off her too-big sandal—the one she bought for sixty-nine cents at the drugstore—and pulled her knee up to the table. Marco leaned across the booth to have a look, and his right hand knocked the margarita into her lap. The blended drink was cold against her bare legs; she let out a short screech. Marco apologized and went up to the bar for some rags to clean it up. Her shirt was soaked, and they left the restaurant so she could change into something dry. The streets were empty. They walked down by the marina—the long way home. It was too calm and warm for sailing and the boats were tied up, the sheets clinking against the sailing shafts. The air was heavy with heat, but they sat at the end of the dock with their feet dangling into the mosquito-infested water until the sun and the margaritas gave them a headache. When Doug came home from work he found them both asleep—Marybeth in the bedroom with the air conditioner on high, Marco on the couch using the want ads as a pillow.

Doug and Marco were jogging when Marco asked how Doug felt about Marybeth giving up on business school.

“What's this?” Doug asked.

“Marybeth,” Marco said. “Her change of heart about business school?”

“That's a surprise to me,” Doug said. It was almost midnight—the only time to exercise outdoors in Miami—but the heat was still making it difficult to breathe. Marco made a noise in his throat and this made him cough, which tired him further.

“Did she say something to you?” Doug asked.

“No,” Marco exhaled. He didn't have to pretend to be having problems with his breathing—he thought he was going to faint from lack of air.

“Has she quit studying?”

“I don't know,” Marco said.

“You must know something,” Doug said. “The two of you are there in the condo every day.”

They were at the water's edge. The ocean smelled of gasoline. Marco slowed down, then stopped altogether. Doug jogged in a tight circle around him.

“You go back, buddy,” Marco told him. “I'm beat.”

“You're stronger than this heat,” Doug coaxed his friend without much enthusiasm.

“Not tonight,” Marco said and bent over to rub his calves. “I'm dogged to the bones.” His muscles were stiff and his body felt heavy, as if he were running with ankle weights.

Doug, a much better runner, was glad to leave Marco behind. He short-cutted along Sonesta Beach and down by the Sheraton. A few people were sitting on the outdoor balcony, but most were inside in the comfort of the air-conditioned bars. He ran quickly—it felt good to move at his own pace.

Marybeth had just turned off the news when Doug came bursting into the apartment. It was the third time she had watched the news that day.

“What is it that makes you tell him things before you find the time to mention them to me?” Marybeth, thinking Marco was in the condo, asked Doug to close the door.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” Doug slammed the door.

“Of course not,” Marybeth said but her heart began beating and she felt slightly dizzy. She sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to look at her husband. He asked her if they were sleeping together, and she said no. “I wouldn't cheat on you,” she promised.

“He's my best friend,” Doug said.

“I know who he is,” Marybeth said.

Doug's running shorts were soaked with sweat, and the steady cold air from the air conditioner made him shiver. She told him to take a shower before he got sick. They continued fighting when he came out of the shower. He had wrapped himself in three towels—something that irritated Marybeth—but Doug pointed out that they had a washer and dryer two feet from their bedroom. If he wanted to use all the towels in the world, he could. He was paying for that luxury. They made up before going to bed but did not make love.

The next day Marco asked her what they had been fighting about. He knew, of course. The walls in the condo weren't soundproof, especially when he cupped his hand around his ear.

“He thinks we're having an affair.”

“He's fighting about us?” Marco asked, and Marybeth nodded.

Marco and Doug had known each other since before they were born. Their mothers were best friends who had met on a high school double date when they went on a Sea-Escape cruise to the Bahamas. The memory of that night still made their mothers laugh—it had something to do with one of the passengers jumping overboard and his friends not reporting it until they were in Freeport—a fact that seemed to bond the women. They were still close, close friends.

“He should trust me.” Marco crossed his legs. She could see the darker leg hairs on the insides of his thighs. “Especially with his wife.”

“What does that mean?” Marybeth asked.

Marco was eating a mango. It was too ripe, and he had turned the skin inside out. The juice ran down his chin, and he licked himself like a cat.

“Especially with his wife?” Marybeth said. “What does that mean?” She went to the kitchen and pulled down a section of paper towel. Her swift movements pulled the roll away from the wall.

“I mean if you were just his girlfriend that'd be something different,” Marco explained when she sat back down. “But you guys are legal and all.”

She handed him the paper toweling, and he wrapped the mango in it and wiped his chin with his T-shirt. He had jumped into the pool on his way back from the gym and his T-shirt was damp from his wet suit. The white cotton was stained slightly orange.

“He should trust us,” Marybeth said. But she did not trust herself, and two days later, it was Marybeth who made the first move. They made love on the living room floor with the radio tuned to a talk show about the upcoming presidential election. They continued commenting on the program while they were having sex, as if they could ignore what they were doing. Afterward, Marybeth was so filled with guilt and dread that she almost called Doug at work and told him what had happened. It would have been such a relief if she could call, confess, and be forgiven. She wasn't used to having secrets from Doug, and she wasn't pleased with the secret she had now.

That night she was too nervous to face him and faked a headache. She went to bed before he got home. Marco was somewhere—she didn't ask where he was going. Doug did.

“The gym,” Marybeth lied. “I think he said he was going to the gym.”

Doug went into Marco's room. She heard him click on the light. A minute later he clicked it off. “His workout bag is there,” Doug told her. “He wouldn't go to the gym without his workout bag.”

“I don't know,” Marybeth said. She didn't have to open her eyes to know that Doug was looking at her. She turned to the wall and pulled the sheet over her head.

The next morning Marybeth got up before Doug. She made him breakfast and then went out to the pool with the morning paper after Doug left for work. She pulled a red-spotted lawn chair into the deep shade of the ficus trees and sat there staring at the sky. It was hot and she would have preferred to be inside with the air conditioner, but the apartment reminded her that she had cheated on her husband.

“That's it,” she told herself. “I won't do it again.” But Marco came out sometime before ten o'clock and asked her if she was upset.

“No,” she said and shook her head.

They were silent until she suggested a swim. The water was too warm, and the dull film on top of it kept them from diving, but they stood in the shallow end, where they moved around slowly. Their hipbones touched once and Marybeth reached out to steady herself. Marco put his arms around her waist and they began to kiss. She did not tell him that the stucco wall was biting into her legs or that the water made her un-webbed foot feel weightless.

Marco pulled down the straps of her bikini top and kissed her throat. Marybeth told herself that since they had already slept together once, there was no reason not to do it again. The woman and her two kids were there. They were staring at Marybeth and Marco, not at all embarrassed by their own curiosity.

Marybeth had no answer when she asked herself why she was cheating on Doug. She was not a stupid woman. She knew sleeping with Marco was wrong. She knew that it would hurt Doug if he found out. She was bored, she reasoned. The days were long, her foot hurt, there was nothing to do, and Marco was there. He was there, all the time, every day. Instead of the soap operas she had vowed to stay away from, she was addicted to sleeping with Marco.

The goalie on Doug's soccer team wasn't the only one to see Marco and Marybeth together, but he was the first to tell Doug.

“Where?” was what Doug asked.

“Señor Frogs,” the goalie told him. “They were in the back booth, kissing. Eating tortilla chips and guacamole dip, but mostly kissing.”

“Are you sure it was them?”

“It was the middle of the afternoon,” the goalie said. “They didn't act like they were hiding anything.”

Marco and Marybeth were betting quarters on the final
Jeopardy
question when Doug got home that night. He walked in, kicked over the coffee table, and told them he never wanted to see them again. The ashtray holding their coins flipped onto the floor. Marybeth, wanting to be busy, knelt forward and began picking them up. Her foot bent under itself and she cried out in pain. It was a mistake. Her cry made Doug look at her, and he took the expression on her face to be one of pained guilt.

“I want you out of here by tomorrow morning,” Doug shouted at them. “Out.”

Neither Marco nor Marybeth asked him what he was talking about. They did not ask him how he found out about their affair, and Doug didn't ask them any questions.

“Everything,” Doug said before he went in the bedroom and slammed the door. “All your shit.”

Marybeth's stare was fixed on the carpet. Her heart was pounding and she thought she was going to be sick. Doug came out of the bedroom once more and told them again that he wanted them gone, ASAP. No questions, no answers, no expianations, he just wanted them out of his sight.

Marybeth agreed that Marco should move, but she felt she deserved forgiveness. She was sorry for what she had done. It had been stupid and wrong. She thought she could get Doug to understand, but he refused to speak to her. Marco moved into his brother's place, a small house in Coconut Grove, and when Marybeth understood that Doug's silent treatment was going to last as long as she was in the apartment, she went over and moved in with Marco and his brother.

Marco's brother had been bitten by a shark two years earlier when he was snorkeling in the Bahamas, and his house was filled with sharks and things that looked like sharks—pot holders, bookends, rubber rafts for the pool. The scar was bright red—the hair on his calf no longer grew. Marybeth showed him her toes and they talked about how much their scars itched when it rained. She knew he wasn't thrilled with their being there, and she tried to make herself useful around the house. She cleaned and polished the floors and did the dishes until Marco's brother found her on her knees scrubbing the toilet bowl. “I hire someone to do that,” he told her. He was polite enough, but she caught a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “They come in once a week and get paid to do that.”

The school year was about to start, and even in south Florida there was a slight change in temperature that told people the rainy season was over—it was almost fall. Marco felt the rush he used to get in college when classes started up every year. September meant sports, and he wanted to be out taking photographs.

Marybeth's period was late. She did not think she was pregnant, but she told Marco that something might be up.

“It's not mine,” Marco said in a way that reminded her of a high school boy she had approached with the same kind of news. “In case you haven't noticed, I've always used a condom. Your husband doesn't.”

“They're not 100 percent,” Marybeth said. She felt cranky and heavy and knew that she was probably going to start her period soon. She was unhappy with Marco and did not want to be living with him. She knew she should leave, but she wasn't sure where she wanted to go.

Marco was caught by surprise every time he walked in the house and saw Marybeth sitting on the couch. He never got used to being with her. Mostly, though, he missed Doug. He couldn't stand not talking to him.

His life was not something he recognized anymore. Once he had lived with an ambitious woman. He himself had once been ambitious. Now he felt like a slug. Lazy, no direction, no savings—he was ashamed of the way he was living. He did not even have enough money to go into the Grove and buy a nice meal.

One afternoon he stopped by Doug's condo on Key Biscayne with a six-pack of beer. He was so nervous that he could feel the sweat beads running down the backs of his legs. He stuttered when he said hello and stood outside apologizing for coming over. Doug acted as if Marco's visit was the most natural thing in the world. He took the beer, complained that it was cheap, that it was too warm to drink, then suggested that they go out and get something to drink.

They drove to the sports bar on the edge of Coconut Grove where a couple of Doug's soccer buddies were watching an Olympic basketball game on the big screen. They called Marco a wimp. They didn't mention Marybeth. This was how they talked when they were drunk, and Marco agreed with them—he was a wimp. He bought a round of Heinekens and after the game they threw darts for a couple of hours. By midnight they were too drunk to drive and rather than call a cab, they decided to walk.

Halfway home, Marco began to cry. Apologizing, but mostly crying, he repeated over and over how he had ruined their friendship. Under the bright lights of the EasyKwik liquor store, Doug stopped and punched Marco in the face.