Richard is engaged, my mind whispers.
I hurry out the employees’ exit, barely pausing for the guard to search my purse, and lean back against the side of the store to slip on my sneakers. I consider a taxi, but what Hillary said is true. Richard got our house in Westchester and the Manhattan apartment he’d kept from his bachelor days, the one he slept in on nights when he had late meetings. The one where he hosted her. He got the cars, the stocks, the savings. I didn’t even put up a fight. I’d entered the marriage with nothing. I hadn’t worked. I hadn’t borne him children. I’d been deceitful.
I hadn’t been a good wife.
Now, though, I wonder why I accepted the small lump-sum payment Richard offered me. His new bride will set the table with china I selected. She’ll nestle close to him on the suede couch I chose. She’ll sit beside him, her hand on his leg, laughing her throaty laugh as he shifts into fourth gear in our Mercedes.
A bus lumbers past and spews hot exhaust. The gray plume seems to settle around me. I push away from the building and walk up Fifth Avenue. A pair of women carrying large shopping bags nearly crowd me off the sidewalk. A businessman strides past, cell phone pressed to his ear, his expression intent. I cross the street and a biker whips by, just inches away. He yells something in his wake.
The city is tightening around me; I need space. I cross Fifty-ninth Street and enter Central Park.
A little girl with pigtails marvels at a balloon animal tied to her wrist, and I stare after her. She could have been mine. If I’d been able to get pregnant, I might still be with Richard. He might not have wanted me to leave. We could be coming here to meet Daddy for lunch.
I’m gasping. I unfold my arms from across my stomach and straighten up. I keep my eyes fixed ahead as I walk north. I focus on the steady rhythm of my sneakers hitting the pavement, counting each step, setting small goals. A hundred steps. Now a hundred more.
At last I exit the park at Eighty-sixth Street and Central Park West and turn toward Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. I crave sleep, oblivion. Only six pills are left, and the last time I asked my doctor for a refill, she hesitated.
“You don’t want to become dependent upon these,” she said. “Try to get some exercise every day and avoid caffeine after noon. Take a warm bath before bed, and see if that does the trick.”
But those are remedies for garden-variety insomnia. They don’t help me.
I’m almost at the apartment when I realize I’ve forgotten Aunt Charlotte’s wine. I know I won’t want to go back out, so I turn and retrace my steps a block, to the liquor store. Four red and two white, Aunt Charlotte had requested. I take a basket and fill it with Merlot and Chardonnay.
My hands close around the smooth, heavy bottles. I haven’t tasted wine since the day Richard asked me to go, but I still crave the velvety fruit awakening my tongue. I hesitate, then add a seventh and eighth bottle to my basket. The handles dig into my forearms as I make my way to the cash register.
The young man behind the counter rings them up without comment. Maybe he’s used to disheveled women in designer clothes coming in here in the middle of the day to stock up on wine. I used to have it delivered to the house I shared with Richard, at least until he asked me to stop drinking. Then I drove to a gourmet market a half hour away so I wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. On recycling day, I took early-morning walks and slipped the empty bottles into neighbors’ bins.
“That all?” the guy asks.
“Yes.” I reach for my debit card, knowing that if I’d gone for expensive wines rather than fifteen-dollar bottles, the charge wouldn’t have cleared my checking account.
He packs the bottles four to a bag, and I push the door open with my shoulder and head for Aunt Charlotte’s, the reassuring heft pulling down my arms. I reach our building and wait for the arthritic elevator’s doors to creak open. The journey up twelve flights takes an eternity; my mind is consumed with the thought of the first mouthful sliding down my throat, warming my stomach. Blunting the edges of my pain.
Luckily my aunt isn’t home. I check the calendar hanging by the refrigerator and see the words D-three p.m. Probably a friend she’s meeting for tea; her husband, Beau, a journalist, passed away suddenly after a heart attack years ago. He was the love of her life. As far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone seriously since. I set the bags on the counter and uncork the Merlot. I reach for a goblet, then replace it and grab a coffee mug instead. I fill it halfway, and then, unable to wait a moment longer, I raise it to my lips and the rich cherry flavor caresses my mouth. Closing my eyes, I swallow and feel it trickle down my throat. Some of the tightness slowly eases out of my body. I’m not sure how long Aunt Charlotte will be gone, so I pour more into my mug and take it and my bottles into my bedroom.
I slip off my dress, leaving it crumpled on the floor, and step over it. Then I bend down to pick it up and place it on a hanger. I pull on a soft gray T-shirt and fleecy sweatpants and climb into bed. Aunt Charlotte moved a small television into the room when I first arrived, but I rarely use it. Now, however, I’m desperate for companionship, even of the electronic variety. I reach for the remote and flip through channels until I land on a talk show. I cup my mug in my hands and take another long drink.
I try to lose myself in the drama being played out on-screen, but the topic of the day is infidelity.
“It can make a marriage stronger,” insists a middle-aged woman who is holding the hand of a man seated beside her. He shifts in his seat and looks down at the floor.
It can also destroy it, I think.
I stare at the man. Who was she? I wonder. How did you meet her? On a business trip, or maybe in line for a sandwich at the deli? What was it about her that drew you in, that compelled you to cross that devastating line?
I’m clutching my mug so tightly my hand aches. I want to hurl it at the screen, but instead, I refill it.
The man crosses his legs at the ankle, then straightens them. He clears his throat and scratches his head. I’m glad he’s uncomfortable. He’s beefy and thuggish-looking; not my type, but I can see how he’d appeal to other women.
“Regaining trust is a long process, but if both parties are committed to it, it’s very possible,” says a woman identified as a couples therapist on the screen below her image.
The drab-looking wife is babbling on about how they’ve rebuilt trust completely, how their marriage is now their priority, how they lost each other but have found each other again. She sounds as if she’s been reading Hallmark cards.
Then the therapist looks at the husband. “Do you agree trust has been reestablished?”
He shrugs. Jerk, I think, wondering how he got caught. “I’m workin’ on it. But it’s hard. I keep picturing her with that—” A beep cuts off his last word.
So I got it wrong. I thought he was the cheater. The clues were present, but I misread them. Not for the first time.
I bang the mug against my front teeth when I go to sip more Merlot. I slide down lower in bed, wishing I’d left the television off.
What separates a fling from a marriage proposal? I thought Richard was just having some fun. I expected their affair to blaze hot and extinguish itself quickly. I pretended not to know, to look the other way. Besides, who could blame Richard? I wasn’t the woman he’d married nearly a decade ago. I’d gained weight, I rarely left the house, and I’d begun to search for hidden meanings in Richard’s actions, seizing upon clues that I thought indicated he was tiring of me.