Other People's Houses, page 13
Bill came into the kitchen while Milo finished the book he was reading. Frances looked sad, which was unusual for her. But then she saw him and her face changed, smiling away whatever inner concerns she’d been contemplating.
“He’s a nice boy, Milo.” Bill smiled back at her, shaking his head at the offer of coffee. “I wish Lucas had a brother.”
“He’s welcome to borrow mine,” said Ava, who was sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework. The dogs thumped their tails on the ground, hearing her voice.
Bill looked at Frances and smiled. “Thanks for being so helpful, Frances. I needed to stay at that meeting.”
“Of course.” Frances smiled. “What are friends for? He’s very easy company, and he and Lally get on so well. It’s our pleasure.” She wanted suddenly to ask him where Julie was, but then Milo finished the book and the moment was gone.
Bill carried his son across the street, the little head nestled into the curve of his neck, and wished his wife wasn’t so far away. They tried to Skype to say good night. “Maybe she was out, Lucas, or maybe she was already asleep. Tomorrow morning, for sure.”
Bill put Lucas to bed, ate a ham sandwich standing over the sink in the kitchen, and went to bed himself. Maybe tomorrow morning would be better.
Seventeen.
The next morning Anne watched Frances drive her kids away up the street then turned and went back into her house. Walking only a little way into the kitchen she picked up her phone and jabbed at it.
Hey.
No answer, no little dots letting her know he was writing her back. Anne got herself a second cup of coffee, listened to the silence of the house. Charlie had left for work, the kids were gone, she was queen of her domain. She looked at the phone . . . dots. Then his words appeared, and she could see the familiar planes of his face as he thought of her.
Hey, you.
What the fuck were you thinking yesterday?
Sorry. I have to talk to you.
No. It’s over, please leave me alone.
I need to talk to you.
Stop, Richard. It’s over.
No. You can’t end it over text, we’re not teenagers.
I can, and I did. No more, Richard. I don’t want to hurt my family. I’m blocking your number.
No, I love you.
You don’t. Don’t contact me again.
Then she ended the conversation and put down her phone. Her face was wet with tears, unexpectedly, and she put her face in her cupped palms and wept. With grief because she would miss him, with fear because he wouldn’t go away, and with relief because it had to be done and she had done it.
Then she heard a sound in the kitchen and looked up. Charlie was holding the iPad in a trembling hand, and his face was almost green it was so white.
“What the fuck, Anne?”
She looked at him. “I thought you left for work.”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
He frowned. “Are you suggesting you’re cheating on me because I don’t go to work when you expect me to?”
“I’m not cheating on you.” Her voice was firm, despite the hot tears still dampening her palms, mixed now with cold sweat. She should have blocked Richard the other night when the world had nearly ended. Instead, she’d forgotten and now it really was ending.
“Yes, you are.” Charlie waved the iPad. “I just watched your entire conversation with Richard, someone you previously claimed not to know. How long has this been going on?”
The iPad started ringing. Charlie looked at it. “He’s calling you.”
Anne opened her mouth to say she’d blocked his number, but of course she hadn’t yet. Only in her head and heart, not in the real world.
The device stopped ringing, but then almost immediately started again. Charlie was shocked, but his decency remained. “Will you answer it, or shall I? Maybe I should. Both of us just got fucked over by the same woman.”
Anne said nothing. She had nothing to say, no appropriate vocabulary for the end of the world. This wasn’t supposed to happen, it was supposed to be over now, it wasn’t going to harm her children, she had fixed it. And yet the jarring sound of an old car horn was filling the room. The kids always fucked with the ringtones; they found it hilarious. Suddenly her husband hit speaker and answered.
“Richard?” he said.
There was a pause. “Hello?” Anne felt faint at the sound of her lover’s voice in her kitchen, just like the other day when Frances had signaled the beginning of the end, the first tear in the veil. She looked at her husband, but he was looking at the iPad, a bewildered smile of confusion and shock on his face, struggling to make sense of what the fuck had just happened to his life. It wasn’t even 9:00 a.m. yet. He had been sitting on the toilet swiping through the headlines when the conversation had popped up on his screen, presenting him with a newsflash he hadn’t expected. He was reeling, but he was pulling it together.
“This is Charlie, Anne’s husband. I’m afraid I just discovered what was going on at the exact moment my wife was trying to break up with you.”
“I was breaking up with him,” Anne said.
Charlie ignored her. “We should have a drink or something to celebrate the incredible weirdness of this moment.”
Richard sounded like he was crying. “I’m sorry. I’m in love with your wife.”
Charlie snorted. “So am I. Doesn’t seem like she’s interested in either of us, though, does it?” He was looking at her, his eyes cool. “She can be remarkably unfeeling, you know. Once she’s done with someone she’s really done, I’m afraid. If I were you I’d cut your losses and find someone nicer. Are you young? You sound young.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
Charlie looked at his wife, who had started to tremble. “Robbing the cradle, Anne? You should be ashamed of yourself. I know I am.” He was pulling on the well-cut jacket of his courtroom persona; Anne had seen it before. In this mode he could handle anything and she was suddenly afraid. “Well, Richard, sadly for you I’m not going to divorce my wife because she owes my kids another decade of service even if I never want to lay a hand on her again.”
“I love her . . .” Richard dissolved into tears, and Anne suddenly hated him for his weakness, despised the person she’d welcomed into her body over and over again. She gazed at her husband, recognizing him as the strong, capable, fully adult man he was, about five minutes and six months too late. He was still speaking to the iPad, holding it up in front of him like a book.
“Well, that’s unfortunate, Richard, you have my sympathy. However, I want to make something clear, OK? I’m going to block your number, and if you call my house or come anywhere near it I’m going to beat seven shades of living shit out of you. Do you understand me? I’m about to throw Anne out of the house, so please feel free to slobber over the ice queen somewhere else, but come near me or my children and I will literally break your arm.”
“Anne?” Richard said. “Are you there?”
Charlie waited, but his wife said nothing. “Nope, Richard, she’s gone. Good luck to you, and I sincerely hope one day your beloved wife and the mother of your children fucks around on you so you can enjoy the sensation of having your balls fed into a meat grinder the way I am now.” And he hung up, took ten seconds to block the number, and then smashed the iPad on the corner of the counter repeatedly, until it was just shards on the floor. Then he looked at Anne, his mouth curved into a ghost of the smile she’d seen on it every day of their life together, and told her to get the fuck out of his house.
Eighteen.
Frances was heading home when the phone rang. It was Iris.
“Oh my God,” she said, sounding half horrified, half giggly. “Are you sitting down?”
“Yes,” said Frances. “Because I’m driving, and it’s not a chariot. Is something wrong?”
Iris took a breath. “Yes, but not for us. I just walked out to go to the store and found Charlie and Anne Porter having a knock-down, drag-out fight in the street. She was demanding he let her back into the house so she could get some clothes, and he was refusing to let her in saying she had rescinded her membership in his family and should ask her boyfriend to loan her his hipster flannel.” She laughed. “Honestly, he was hilarious and cold and terrifying, and she was a total wreck.” She paused. “I realize I shouldn’t laugh, and I honestly don’t think it’s funny, but what the fuck?”
Frances felt swoony, and looked briefly in the driver’s mirror before pulling across two lanes to take a shorter route home. “Did you just stand there and watch?”
“No! I backed slowly into the house and then took up a position by the window, ready to get involved if it got physical. But honestly, every time she got closer to him he’d step back. It was remarkably effective body language. Sara would have loved it.”
Frances asked, “Is she still out there?”
“Sara?”
“No, Anne.”
Iris paused, presumably while she peered between her curtains. “No, the street is empty. I guess the show’s over.” She waited. “I think I saw a car slow down as it went by, and I’m pretty sure there was a third-grade parent driving it.”
“Great. That’ll be around school by lunchtime.”
“Did you know she was fucking around? She’s your friend, right?”
“Yeah,” replied Frances. “She’s my friend. I’ll be home in a minute, let’s talk then. Do you have coffee?”
“Of course,” Iris said, and hung up.
Frances hit speed dial for Michael, but his line was busy. Then, a second after she hung up, his call came through. This happened all the time, they would call each other at the same moment, or she would think of him and then the phone would ring and there he was. Either they were growing alike, like dogs and their owners, or they really didn’t have an original thought between them.
“Did you hear?” His voice was low, so presumably he was at work.
“Are you at work?”
“No, I’m still at home. I was about to leave, but Charlie and Anne were fighting in the street so I hid indoors until it was over.”
Frances could hear the jingle of a dog collar in the background and knew her husband was bending slightly to scratch his beloved behind the ears. “Jesus, I leave to do carpool and all hell breaks loose. Iris just called me, she saw the fight, too. Were they selling tickets?”
Michael laughed, his voice still low. “No, they didn’t need to, you could hear it up and down the street. Who knew Charlie had so much lung power?”
“He is a lawyer, maybe they learn projection, like actors. Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not whispering, you’re going deaf. Anyway, it seems to be over, but clearly the shit has hit the fan and you might want to call Anne and see if she’s OK.”
“Did she drive away?” Frances looked involuntarily into the cars around her, as if she might see Anne making her getaway.
“Yes and no. Charlie literally wouldn’t let her take the car, said it was the family car and she was no longer in the family. He called her an Uber, and when she asked where it was going he said he’d told it to go downtown to city hall, so she could file for divorce. Then she said he’d said on the phone he wasn’t going to divorce her, and then he said he’d changed his mind and how did that feel, being blindsided by a decision someone else had made that was going to fuck up your life.” His tone shifted suddenly. “It sucked. Anne was a total mess, sobbing and begging and he was all business. It wasn’t the finest moment for either of them.”
Frances frowned, turning onto her block. “I’m nearly home, but I’m going to Iris’s. Do you want to meet me there?”
“No, I want to go to work. Don’t fuck around on me, OK?”
“OK, babe. Ditto.”
“Like I have the energy.”
“And again, ditto. I love you.”
He hung up, and Frances pulled into the driveway at Iris’s.
* * *
• • •
Iris already had two cups of coffee sitting on the table, and was cutting slices of banana bread as Frances walked in. She turned to look at her cousin, reading her face.
“You knew.”
Frances nodded. “Yes, but only for a couple of days. I think it had been going on for a while. I wasn’t quite sure what to think about it yet, to be honest.”
Iris sat down, sliding a piece of the sweet bread across the table. Frances broke off a corner and ate it, noting the chocolate chips. “You’re not going to tell me this is healthy, right?”
“It’s full of fruit, of course it’s healthy. The chocolate chips are for antioxidants. Who was she sleeping with? Anyone we know? Please tell me it was Mr. Carerra from school.”
“The math teacher? Why?”
“I hate him. He’s mean to Wyatt.”
Frances shook her head. “Some young guy she met somewhere. No one we know.”
“How young?”
“I don’t know. He looked in his twenties, but I only saw him for a second or two, and it wasn’t that good an angle, to be fair.”
“When did you see him?”
Frances explained her discovery, and Iris literally sat there with her mouth open, a piece of banana bread held in midair, a crumb clinging to her finger, a fleck of chocolate on her upper lip. Once Frances was done, Iris popped the treat in her mouth. “That is the best craft supply/infidelity story I’ve ever heard,” she concluded. “What a bitch.”
Frances was surprised. “‘Bitch’? Why? Because she cheated? I think she was going to break it off.”
“That doesn’t stop her from being a bitch. You don’t agree?”
Frances shrugged. “I don’t know. I think maybe she’s having some sort of breakdown or depression or something.”
“I think the statute of limitations on postpartum runs out long before your kid is six, sorry.”
“There are other forms of depression besides postpartum, you know.”
Iris looked severe. “Look, I don’t care how shitty you feel, you get married with a commitment to not cheat, and you keep it. Sleep around after the divorce, not before.”
“Don’t lesbians cheat on each other?”
“Of course. All the time, just like anyone else. Now that we’ve gained marriage equality we’re making just as much a mess of it as straight people have done for centuries. We cheat, we run off, we lie, we insult each other’s families, we get drunk at Thanksgiving and blurt out terrible secrets . . .” She popped her last chunk of banana bread into her mouth, and grinned around it.
“Wow, remind me to avoid your house at turkey time. Although,” added Frances, “your family secrets are also my family secrets, so you know . . .”
Iris got up to get more banana bread. Raising her eyebrows questioningly, she sliced another piece for Frances, too, and carried them back. “Do you think Anne and Charlie are going to get divorced?” She swept some crumbs onto the floor for Rosco, who snuffled them up.
“No clue. Would you divorce Sara if she cheated?”
“Maybe. Probably. Don’t know. She’s away a lot, you know, filming, and I imagine it’s pretty tempting when it would be so easy. If she told me, I guess I’d have to.”
“What happened to ‘stand by your woman’?”
Iris looked at her plate. “I think it went away with ‘my country, right or wrong.’ Too much wrong to overlook, you know what I mean? Also, I think women used to stand by their men because they had to. They didn’t have fuck-off money, didn’t have legal status, were worried they would lose their kids. Those days are gone, mostly.”
“For us middle-class chicks, sure. I’m sure there are millions of women trapped in shitty marriages.” Frances started on her second slice of cake. “I always felt it would be easier to kill Michael as he slept than divorce him. Less paperwork, certainly.”
“You’re a practical woman. I like that about you. Always have.” Iris grinned at her. “I’ll help you hide the body.”
“Nah, you’re good,” replied Frances. “I think he and I are beyond the murdering stage anyway. We’re like conjoined twins with two separate brains but one heart, you know, one spine. I couldn’t kill him without simultaneously eviscerating myself.” She looked at Iris, who was putting down her fork.
“You’ve put me off my cake with your hideous imagery.”
“Wow. Sorry. You’re really not going to eat it?”
Iris shook her head, then slid the plate across.
“Thanks.”
* * *
• • •
Two hours later, in a coffee shop frequented by elementary-school parents.
“Did you hear Anne Porter was fucking around?”
“No!”
“Yes. With a much younger man.”
“No!”
“Yes! Her husband threw her out. He found her sucking him off in the baby’s room.”
“She doesn’t have a baby.”
“Oh yeah. Well, must have been some other room then. But still.”
* * *
• • •
Two and a half hours later. Different coffee shop. Similar parents.
