A strange look comes over the young woman’s face. Almost satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I hadn’t thought of that.” She doesn’t make any promise to stop, though. Instead, she takes another long drag on her cigarette and releases the smoke off to the side. “Can I get you something to drink? Some wine?” I resign myself to the interruption, thinking of the importance of unpolluted balcony time. I calculate that it’s worthwhile to have a short drink.
She doesn’t wait for my reply, but disappears briefly into the kitchen. The condo is the mirror image of my own, only furnished in a modern style, with uncomfortable-looking leather furniture and bright primary colors. She emerges with two glasses of red wine. She’s finally abandoned her cigarette.
“You’re a doctor, right?” she asks, handing me one of the glasses. She gestures me into a bright red sofa.
“Yes,” I say. Then, after sitting down on the cold slippery surface, “How did you know?” Bruised as I am by the day’s events, I’m suspicious and alert.
“I’ve seen you leave the condo,” she says. But that doesn’t make sense, because I don’t put on my lab coat until I get to the office. In the morning, I resemble any urban professional. When I mention this—probably sounding a bit paranoid—she laughs and says she must have seen my name on medical magazines in the lobby. Given the large numbers of journals I subscribe to, I think that plausible.
“How’s Mr. Helen?” she asks, casually. When I look askance, she adds, “your husband. What’s his name? I’ve seen him in the hall, but we’ve never introduced ourselves.”
“John,” I say, and decide not to explain that John is no more. And really, once I think of it, he had never actually existed. Not the man, not the life I thought I had.
We both sip our wine in silence for a few minutes. Casting my mind about for something to talk about, I ask, “So what do you do, Beth?”
“Typist,” she says. As if anxious to shut down that line of inquiry, she quickly adds, “How long have you been married?”
“Six months,” I say, thinking this wasn’t too hard. Not telling lies, but omitting the truth.
I take another sip from my glass, and realize to my surprise that it’s nearly empty. “Let me fill that,” she says, and goes back to the kitchen, returning this time with the bottle. She tops both our glasses.
“So you’re still newlyweds,” she says rather than asks.
“You could say that,” I say, and find myself mimicking what’s being written about us. “Just getting to know each other. Still mostly strangers, but in an exciting way.”
I don’t recognize the person uttering these inanities, which is good because I want no connection with this woman, nothing to make me feel guilty about spinning falsehoods. I briefly wonder how a typist can afford a condo in this building, but shrug it off. She must have a well-off partner.
Another protracted silence before she attempts to speak again. “Aren’t you the doctor who’s been in the news lately?” She asks this casually, looking at her wineglass.
I shrink back and she quickly says, “I’m sorry. I heard some of the other residents talking in the elevator. You know. All the reporters hanging out at the front door.” I must cringe even more because she adds, in a warmly sympathetic voice, “It must feel terrible, to be talked about. On top of the actual betrayal, I mean.”
“Yes, pretty damn terrible,” I say. I find my glass has been filled again. I’ve spent my life running under people’s radar, only emerging to surprise them with my test scores, or my skills, or my insights. Now I’ll forever be known as that woman who was married to the guy with three wives. I contemplate where I might go to escape. New York? Chicago? Houston? I could easily find another teaching hospital, another clinical appointment. But even so, I would never escape, not fully. I know better than anyone how eagerly medical interns Google their teachers and prospective teachers—virtually stalking them to find what research grants they’ve been awarded, what publications they’ve achieved, how often they speak at medical seminars, plus any nugget about their personal lives. No, no point moving. The stain is there. It will never be erased. “I’m done for,” I say aloud, and the woman eagerly pounces. “Done for, how?”
I just shake my head without explaining. Why should I? I’m ashamed of my previous pride—my pride at living what in many ways was an austere life. Now my armor has a hole in it, and anger is leaking out.
“From what I’ve heard, you were duped,” says the young woman. She leans forward, her wine apparently forgotten, is fiddling again with her phone.
Through the fog of several glasses of wine, I hear her talking on.
“I would want to kill him,” she says.
“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind,” I say. Then I correct myself. “He was already dead by the time I discovered the truth.” I retreat onto safer ground. “I never had the chance to confront him, to ask why, to find out why me.” The girl nods, as if I’ve said something especially clever.