Saturday, August 11, 2018

T

he bloody mary at Don’s Firehouse was a meal in itself—rich with horseradish, a big stalk of celery, and juicy, fat olives skewered on a toothpick. Nora checked the time on her phone. Where was Dave now? Had he finished with tennis? Was he having a beer? Calling his girlfriend? Stop it, stop it, she scolded herself. What’s wrong with you? Be with your friends.

Barbara was disheveled, having arrived late. She sat across from Nora, all harried and flushed and apologetic. Barbara stood out in the group, partly because she wore a diamond ring the size of an avocado pit and looked like a runway model, but mostly because her husband was a newly-announced candidate for the U.S. Senate. Barbara didn’t flaunt it though. If anything, she seemed to treasure the company of her run-of-the-mill suburban mom book club friends.

“Sorry.” She swung her highlighted hair behind her shoulder. “It was Oliver’s fault.”

Oliver, their new seventeen-hundred-dollar Welsh Corgi puppy, had chewed up a pair of Paul’s fifteen-hundred-dollar Italian loafers. Paul had been furious, yelling and threatening to turn the poor thing in to the SPCA. The kids had cried hysterically, and the nanny had been unable to calm them. It had been a complete meltdown with little Colin and Harry locking themselves in the bathroom with the puppy until Paul relented. He ended up promising on his mother’s life not to get rid of Oliver. After that, she’d had to fight traffic on the Schuylkill to get into Philadelphia. Barbara ordered a mimosa, thought about it, then called to the waiter to bring two.

Nora tried not to stare at Barbara or let on that she doubted her story. But she did doubt it. She didn’t know Barbara’s husband, Paul, very well—he was always out of town for business or, lately, his campaign—but she doubted that a public figure like him would so easily lose his temper. And, from what Barbara had said, Paul had been raised on a Main Line estate where he’d had menageries of animals—horses, cats, dogs. Surely, he’d know how to deal with a puppy and wouldn’t have allowed it near his good shoes. But why would Barbara go to the trouble of concocting such a story?

Nora studied Barbara’s strong cheekbones, her freckled, sunburned, surgically-perfected nose. Her sparkling, highlighted hair. Her jingling, gold bangle bracelets.

Barbara must have felt Nora’s stare. She turned to her with twinkling eyes and a startlingly cheerful smile. Nora smiled back and looked away, refocusing on the conversation, preparing to say something about this month’s book.

But no one was talking about Where the Crawdads Sing. It had been Katie’s choice, and Katie wasn’t even there. She was home with a sick kid. But it didn’t matter, because club members seemed disinclined to discuss the book. They were more interested in discussing some television series that Nora hadn’t watched. Nora positioned her lips into a pleasant smile and let go of the conversation. She scanned the half-full restaurant, looking especially at couples. Were they on dates? Married? Had one of them ever cheated? Were they cheating now? A man noticed her and met her gaze. She averted her eyes as if she hadn’t been studying him. Overhead, a huge wooden rowing shell was suspended with—she counted one, two—eight extended oars. Under it, the front walls of the restaurant had been folded back, opening the place to tables on Fairmount Avenue. Nora wondered how they kept the heat from flowing in. She thought of Dave, playing tennis in that heat. Where was he now?

“Bottom line, I just can’t stand her acting,” Patty said. “She’s totally flat. Her face never changes. She never shows emotion or raises her voice.”

“You want your lemon?” Alex plucked it from Nora’s drink before she could answer.

“That’s deliberate. She keeps a poker face so no one can tell where she stands.” Barbara spread cherry compote on a corn muffin.

Patty nodded. “Well, she’s doing a good job. You can’t tell if she’s happy or sad, telling the truth or lying, guilty or innocent, friend or enemy.”

“But that’s her character,” Barbara said. “She’s a lawyer. They’re all like that.”

Nora raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘they’re all like that’?” She looked from one face to another. They all knew her husband was a lawyer.

“She’s talking about the show.” Patty dismissed the question. “She didn’t mean real lawyers.”

“You’d get it if you’d watched the show.” Barbara crinkled her perfect nose, scrunched her shoulders. Nora didn’t understand the body language. Was Barbara trying to be cute?

Alex reached over and gave Nora’s hand a squeeze as if to say, “Hang in there, we’ll be done with television talk in a minute.”

Meantime, they discussed the upcoming series finale, predicting which plot points would be resolved and what the cliffhanger might be. Nora only half listened. She sipped another bloody mary and chomped a piece of ice. Did her friends really think lawyers were dishonest? Did they think Dave was? Was he? Would he have been more honest if he hadn’t become a lawyer, if he’d been, say, a dentist? She pictured him in a white jacket, probing a patient’s mouth with an instrument. The patient became a woman, and the instrument his tongue. Nora shut her eyes, shivered just a little. She was being irrational, beginning to obsess.

“I wish she’d dump him,” Alex said. “How many affairs has he had now?”

What? Who? Was everyone thinking about affairs? Smiles and nods.

“Too many to count.” Patty began listing the women.

Barbara sipped mimosa number three. “His wife is just about the only one he doesn’t screw.”

Everyone laughed, then paused to chew biscuits and corn muffins, to sip drinks.

Nora toyed with her wedding ring. “So, you’re saying she should divorce him?”

Three heads turned to her.

“Catch it on Netflix, Nora.” Patty swallowed her biscuit. “You know the actor—Steve Harding.”

Nora wasn’t sure who that was. She pictured someone tall and handsome who strongly resembled Dave.

“The guy has political ambitions, and he uses everyone,
especially his wife,” Patty said.

Nora glanced at Barbara whose husband also had political
ambitions.

“But she can’t divorce him,” Patty continued. “I mean, deep down he loves her.”

“Seriously? He doesn’t love anyone. He loves power.” Alex reached for another muffin.

“No, he loves her,” Patty insisted. “He always comes back to her.”

“Because he can. Because she doesn’t have the balls to
confront him.” Alex bit off a chunk of celery.

“She knows he’s cheating?” Nora asked.

Nobody answered. Patty munched. Alex scowled. Barbara shrugged.

“Not sure,” Alex said. “I mean, she should. But like they say, the wife is the last to know.”

“Bull,” Barbara spoke with authority. “If wives don’t know, it’s because they prefer denial to facing the truth. If your husband is cheating, you’ve got to know something’s off.”

“But on the show, she doesn’t see it even though it’s right in her face.” Patty popped the rest of a biscuit into her mouth.

“The only reason she doesn’t dump him is that it’s a television series and they need to keep the tension up for like, thirteen episodes. In real life? She’d have sent him packing three seasons ago.” Alex crossed her arms.

“Is anyone else cold? Think they’d turn the air down?” Barbara asked.

No one else was cold. Patty told Barbara that being cold was her punishment for being thin. She needed to put on weight like the rest of them. Body fat would keep her warm. Barbara gave Patty the finger. Alex gave Barbara her cardigan.

Nora finished the bloody mary and watched drops of red juice slide over the last of the melting ice. “Let’s say it wasn’t a TV show. Would you still think she should kick him out?” She
directed the question to Barbara.

Barbara blinked. “But it is a TV show.”

“Right. But in real life, should an affair end a marriage?”

“Oh God, Nora. You’re not having one, are you?” Patty gasped.

“You can tell us, if you are.” Alex lowered her voice. Her eyes seemed hungry.

The three of them leaned forward, resting their elbows on the table, blinking at Nora like starving crows. None of her friends had any idea about five years ago, what Dave had done, what Nora had forgiven.

“Of course not.” Nora made herself laugh. “I’m just asking.”

“She’s thinking about it,” Barbara told the others. “Well, take my advice, Nora. Don’t do it.”

“How can you tell her not to?” Patty grinned. “You of all
people.”

Wait, was Patty joking? Had Barbara had an affair?

“Shut up, Patty.” Barbara slapped Patty’s arm. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Seriously,” Nora pressed on, facing one friend, then another. Smiling to make her questions seem harmless. “I mean, Barbara, if Paul had an affair, would you kick him out? Patty, would you divorce Ronny?”

The women started tittering.

Patty scoffed. “Ronny? No mere woman could lure him from his beloved recliner.”

Alex said that, between his plastic surgery practice and training for marathons, Ed had no time for one woman, let alone two. “Plus, he’s too disorganized to make a haircut appointment. How could he arrange secret trysts?”

“Paul would never.” Barbara’s husband was campaigning for the Senate, so despite his good looks and opportunities, he wouldn’t risk bad publicity. Besides, he openly doted on Barbara, sending her flowers and love notes, calling her several times each day even when he was out of town.

“Fine, so none of them would cheat,” Nora said. Was she the only one whose husband had strayed? Was she a chump for
staying with him? “But what if they did?”

The others looked at her, losing their laughter as if they sensed her urgency. Patty’s eyes narrowed. Alex stared at Nora, brow furrowed. Barbara sat at attention, studying her drink.

“I wouldn’t want to know,” Patty said. “I’d hope Ronny would make sure I didn’t find out.”

“Really? You’d want to be lied to?” Nora’s chest tightened. “Because for me, the lying would be even worse than the
cheating. How could you ever trust him again?”

“If I didn’t know about it, it’d be the same as if it weren’t happening. At least as far as I was concerned. What’s the old saying? What you don’t know can’t hurt you?”

Alex shook her head. “I’d want to know. If Ed’s keeping
secrets that big, the marriage is over. Isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m asking.” Nora tried to make her voice sound playful. “I mean, could a marriage survive?”

“Not mine,” Barbara said. “Paul would never cheat. And if I did, the marriage wouldn’t survive, and neither would I. Paul would kill me.”

Alex laughed. “For sure, murder would be involved at my house too. I’d kill Ed’s ass.”

“Not me,” Patty said. “What good would Ronny be if he’s dead? I’d divorce him and take every cent he ever earns.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Barbara said. “You’d never divorce Ronny.”

Patty folded her hands and sighed. “You’re right. I’d stay with him and make his life hell. He’d spend the rest of his days trying to win my forgiveness.”

The waiter delivered two Caesar salads with grilled chicken, a barbecued brisket sandwich, and Nora’s black-eyed pea soup. They ordered more drinks. Around them, the room buzzed with conversation and the clinking of utensils on plates.

As they ate, Patty told them to come clean. Had any of them ever cheated?

Nora set down her soup spoon, wondering. Her gaze moved to Patty’s familiar round face and heart-shaped mouth. She’d known Patty since high school. Patty would never cheat, could never keep secrets, especially big ones. Alex was a tennis player, a golfer, a dieter. A stickler for the rules, so she was also a no. What about Barbara? Nora wasn’t sure. Barbara was an unknown, with her perfect hair, enhanced breasts, elegant jewels, and perfectly manicured nails. She’d met Paul when she’d been a dealer at a casino, mingling with high rollers. Hmmm. Maybe.

Nobody volunteered anything.

“Okay, so no one’s admitting actual cheating,” Patty went on, “but has anybody been tempted?”

Alex sat back and straightened her arms, as if pushing the question away.

Barbara studied the remains of her salad, folding her hands on her lap. “Don’t you guys think we should talk about the book?”

“Screw the book,” Patty said. “Don’t dodge the question.”

Alex cleared her throat. “Of course, I’ve been tempted. Who hasn’t? Hot men are everywhere. I mean, have you seen the butt on our waiter?”

Laughter. Nods. Admissions. Flicks of hair and bites of lunch.

Nora put on a grin but didn’t say anything. Her friends probably wouldn’t believe her, but she’d never been tempted to cheat on Dave. Sure, there were men she considered sexy—Barbara’s husband, Paul, for example. But Paul’s sexiness was merely a fact, like his eye color or profession. It didn’t involve her.

“So, if we’re playing truth or dare,” Barbara swallowed mimosa, “I’ll need a few more drinks.”

Everyone laughed, maybe nervously.

“With Paul around, why would you ever look at anyone else?” Patty asked. “He’s a heartthrob. It’s like he stepped off a GQ cover.”

Patty and Alex listed bellies, baldness, hairy shoulders, and other reasons as to why their husbands would never adorn
magazine covers. Barbara remained silent.

They all had too much to drink. By the end of lunch, Nora was shocked to learn that Patty had lost her virginity to Mr. Kohl, their high school swim coach. Alex had had an abortion sophomore year of college. And before Paul, Barbara had partied with her share of high rollers and done lots of cocaine.

When Nora’s turn came, she searched for a secret that would match the level of their confidences. Tommy shot into her mind. “Why not tell them about me?” But Tommy was a secret she would never share. So, she had nothing.

Her other secrets were mundane—shaving her legs even though her mother had said she was too young. Or junior year of college, getting an extension on a term paper because of her dog’s death when she hadn’t had a dog. Yawn. Boring. Nora needed something juicy. But what? She thought of Dave and his secrets. He must be done playing tennis. Was he in a hotel room with another woman, his tennis racket lying beside the bed? Stop it, she told herself. Just stop.

Finally, she told a partial truth about experiencing serious post-partum depression after Ellie. Nobody seemed impressed so she embellished, telling them of a day when, exhausted, sore from breastfeeding, and drowning in diapers, laundry, and baby throw-up, she’d thought seriously of suicide.

Patty’s mouth dropped. “God, Nora. Why didn’t you call me?”

Nora’s face got hot. She’d gone too far, made her story too extreme, made herself sound over-the-top too different. Weirdo. Freak.

Patty looked stunned and hurt that Nora would have kept such a big secret from her. She promised that she would have been there and made Nora get help. Nora wanted to back up and erase her story, replace it with something more normal. But she was committed to it now. She reached across the table and took Patty’s hand, explaining that, back then, she hadn’t been able to articulate her feelings. By the time she could, her depression had lifted and there was nothing to talk about.

Patty’s face relaxed. Nora’s remained hot, flushed with shame for lying. But she’d wanted to fit in with her friends, to provide a story that made her seem as interesting as they were. And her contemplation of suicide had worked, because afterward, they started telling stories about their own lowest moments.

They shared who’d taken antidepressants, which ones, and for how long. Discussed seasonal depression, light therapy, hormones and PMS. Going to work or staying home with the kids. Nora drifted, offering occasional comments so that she’d appear to be engaged. Lifting the corners of her mouth so she’d seem light-hearted. Glancing at her phone to check the time. Eventually, Alex reminded them that they had yet to discuss the book they’d read, and everyone laughed.

“I liked it,” Barbara said.

“Me, too.”

They’d all liked it.

“Good. Anybody got anything else to say about it?” Patty asked.

No one did.

“Next time, we should stay on topic,” Alex said.

Patty reminded everyone what the next book was and where they would meet.

Nora got home around three, after three bloody marys. Dave’s car wasn’t there. The girls were still at Nana’s. Alone with floating dust particles and faint electric hums, she put her handbag on the table in the foyer. She didn’t allow her face to relax and her shoulders to slump until she was upstairs, in the privacy of her room.