"Did I ever tell you of my theory of adultery?" Edward continued.
Margaret sat rigidly in her chair. She stared at her coffee cup. It was a lovely coffee cup, part of a set given to them as a wedding gift by Edward's mother, a professor of anthropology at York University who made her own jewelry and avant-garde furniture. Did Edward's mother know he had a theory of adultery? She probably taught it to him, the old reprobate. But why was she calling Edward's mother an old reprobate? Edward's mother was old. But it was she, Margaret, who was the reprobate. Nearly. And Edward himself, of course.
"My theory is this: that with monogamy came the end of evolution for the human species. For if a male has only one mate, then the superior male cannot plant his seed hither and thither—"
"Thither?"
"Thither. And so, he cannot perpetuate his superiority in lavish numbers, if you see what I mean. As for the female, the superior monogamous female who is capable of enticing all the superior males sniffing about cannot mate with all of them, and so cannot improve the gene pool to any significant extent. Natural selection requires selection. But monogamy precludes that. Swans mate for life. We could all end up like swans, with those absurdly long necks. Enter adultery! The savior of evolution, the hero of the race!"
"My gene pool's not good enough for you? You're going to fuck around to save the world? Fuck you, Edward. That's a terrible theory. Go back to weather."
Edward looked at her, alarmed. "I didn't mean you and me, Margaret. That was my point, that we are irresponsible, you and I, thinking only of ourselves instead of the greater good. Monogamy is an indulgence. But perhaps the human race can take care of itself," he added. "And long necks are very pretty, I think. Audrey Hepburn has a lovely long neck."
"Why don't you go plant your precious seed there?"
"In her neck?"
Margaret looked at him. His eyes were almost frightening when she looked at them head on, a pale but piercing blue, unyielding, intense. They took in everything and gave nothing back, not even a clue.
"You have a lovely long neck, too," Edward said softly. "A splendid neck."
"Well," she said, "I think I feel a storm coming on." And she walked out of the room.
Edward didn't argue, he didn't scold her. But she did notice that in spite of a large reservoir of Romantic poetry on the subject of meteorological excess, she left him silent behind her, quoting nothing.
Margaret sat in the library gazing at the dancing dust, golden and airy, all around, her, from the lofty ceiling to the scuffed wooden floor. Perhaps Jove lurked in this flurry of sunlit particles, cruising for an undergraduate Io.
She was reading Hobbes, and she thought of Art Turner. "To have received from one, to whom we think ourselves equal, greater benefits than there is hope to requite," wrote Hobbes, "disposeth to counterfeit love; but really secret hatred; and puts a man into the estate of a desperate debtor. For benefits oblige, and obligation is thralldom." You can say that again, Margaret thought.
She got up to go, glancing around the room again. Adieu, Jove, adieu. And, look, there is a girl reading Leaves of Grass. An exquisite little girl with long brown hair, as smooth as silk, and that complexion that girls with silken hair always have. Was this the one? Yes, it was the girl who had come to dinner. Stick to your books, that's a good girl. But what if this was the one? Margaret stared at her, disgusted that Edward could be drawn in by such earnest innocence. Edward is a fool, she thought. Adieu to you both.
She took an empty but overheated bus home, and her anger rose until she heard a humming in her ears. This is my karma, she thought. As ye sow as a student, so shall ye reap as a faculty wife.
"You got home awfully late last night," Margaret said.
"Yes, you were asleep. I like you when you're asleep."
"I wasn't asleep."
"Ah. I like you when you pretend you're asleep."
Margaret noticed that he had changed the subject. The subject was that he had come home late. Why had he come home late? Why had he changed the subject? She thought she knew why, and she didn't like it.
"You didn't answer my question," she said.
Edward, cooking his horrible tomatoes and mushrooms for breakfast, looked at her in irritation. "You didn't ask a question," he said.
"It was implied."
"How subtle of you, Margaret. I'm so bloody literal-minded, though. I was in the library until it closed, then I went to have a drink with some students. I was home at midnight, wasn't I? What on earth are you sulking about?"
Margaret's coffee was cold, which seemed typical, symptomatic, symbolic, and Edward's fault for drawing her into this absurd situation. "My coffee is cold. Perhaps you spend too much time at your work," she said.
"Sunny von Bulow uttered just those very words to Claus. Tread carefully, Margaret."
Why did he think of Claus von Bulow? Margaret wondered. Von Bulow had been seeing another woman, hadn't he?
"Yes," Margaret said. "I will. I will tread carefully."