In love, Frankie learned to lie. It was one of two new constants in her life: lying and loving Rye throughout that long, lazy summer.
She didn’t tell anyone she’d been suspended from nursing, and so she had hours when no one expected to hear from her. She lived frugally, on her savings.
Her life alternated between two worlds—one of passion and the other of guilt. Day after day, she promised herself, No more. No more pills, no more Rye. He was as much a drug as the others.
She swore each day she’d tell him to go away and not come back until he was divorced, but when he showed up at her door, wearing a smile just for her, she was lost, and as good as it felt to lose herself in his arms, the pleasure turned cold when he left her bed. Each day she was reminded of her weakness, her dishonesty, her immorality, her obsession. Over and over and over. At night, when she was alone, she agonized that he was in bed with his wife and she imagined the pain this affair would cause the innocent Joey. But as much as she despised herself, she couldn’t deny him. She was like a starving person who was given two hours a day in a bakery, and in those hours, she came fully, gloriously alive, reveled in her appetite.
“Stay the night this time,” she pleaded at last, hating the plaintive edge to her voice. She meant, Choose me, but she knew he couldn’t do it. He and Melissa were talking to a lawyer; he was looking for his own place, but he couldn’t do anything to upset his custody of Joey. He loved his daughter with abandon.
“You know I can’t,” he said, stroking her bare arm as they lay together in bed.
She couldn’t help looking at the clock. Three P.M. She felt the incipient spark of panic, the sharp sting of regret. Regret that he was leaving, or that she’d let him stay?
“I can’t wait for you to meet Joey. She’ll love you,” he said.
Frankie let herself be soothed by that. “I hope so. And we’ll have children, too, right?”
“Of course. I want a daughter who looks just like you.” He smiled. “Joey wants a brother or sister. She says it constantly.”
“I love you,” she said, rolling toward him. She traced the scars on his shoulder with her lips. Puckered burns covered his chest, created white patches of skin amid the graying blond hair.
She stretched out against his thin body, pressing into him. “I wish I’d been the one writing you letters.”
“Me, too, babe. I care for Missy, but this … you … soon we can stop hiding.”
His hand moved down her bare skin. Need pulled at her, made her move against him, made her breathing speed up.
She rolled onto her back, gave him full access to her body. His kisses awakened the part of her that belonged only to him.
* * *
By summer’s end, Frankie was a knot of nerves; all of the waiting, the hoping, the hiding was tearing her to pieces. She was lying to everyone she knew and she hated it. She’d taken off her Saint Christopher medal and hidden it away, afraid it would burn her skin while she slept.
She needed more pills to sleep and more pills to stay awake. Still, she went on with the affair, waiting every day for the moment she could announce the truth to her friends and family and unpack this terrible, oppressive guilt.
She avoided answering the phone; lying to Barb or Ethel was impossible, but neither could she tell them the truth. She returned calls when she knew they’d be gone or hung up when one of them answered.
Never had she imagined herself to be the woman that she’d become; loving Rye had transformed her into a liar.
Every night, alone in her bed, she prayed that tomorrow he would say it was done, they could be together, walk hand in hand in the sunlight, spend the night together.
Each morning, she felt another piece of her soul fall away.
In August, when she got Barb’s excited phone call that she was getting married, Frankie’s first reaction was a searing, toxic jealousy that took all her will to suppress.
Now she was in a Chicago park, on a sweltering hot late summer day, standing in front of a few guests who sat in folding chairs, already drinking champagne. The aisle had been strewn with red rose petals.
Ethel and Frankie, both dressed in brightly colored, geometric print palazzo jumpsuits and white sandals, stood by a wooden arch that had been decorated with flowers and greenery.
Next to them, under the arch, was the groom, in a brown polyester sport coat with matching slacks. His twin boys were his groomsmen. A Baptist minister held on to a Bible.
A portable cassette player with not-great speakers played Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” as guests took their seats. Ethel swayed to the music, quietly singing along.
At the end of the aisle, Barb waited impatiently; she was dressed in a flowy white jersey halter dress, her hair decorated with flowers. She held on to her mother’s arm.
When the last guest was seated, Barb gave the thumbs-up.
Ethel went to the portable tape deck, changed the music, and turned it up on “Here Comes the Bride.”
Barb and her mother walked slowly down the aisle, past the smiling collection of friends and family who were here: a few of Barb’s relatives from Georgia, some of her coworkers at Operation PUSH, Jere’s ACLU colleagues, and Ethel’s husband, Noah, and their daughter, Cecily. Barb was smiling so brightly it made Frankie’s whole life look tawdry, sinful.
There, she thought, that’s love. The way Barb kissed her mom and helped her into her chair in the front row; the way Jere looked at his bride.
Love. A thing to be shouted from the rooftops, celebrated, not cultivated in secret and clipped into shape in the dark.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister said. The music snapped off.
Barb and Jere held hands, stared at each other. The minister’s voice went on, saying the words she’d heard at other weddings and on television and in movies.
Old words. Love. Honor. Commitment.
And as much as Frankie wanted to celebrate with her friend, as much as she rejoiced in Barb’s new love and new life, she felt that toxic shame growing in her, pushing kinder emotions aside.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself beneath the arch, with Rye at her side and Joey strewing flowers …
She heard Jere say, “From now on, Barbara Sue, I am here for you, standing beside you. To paraphrase Yeats, I love the pilgrim soul in you and love the sorrows of your changing face. Always and forever.” He placed a ring on her finger.
“Barbara Sue Johnson,” the minister said, “do you promise to love, honor, and obey Jeremiah Maine, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” Barb said, beaming at him as she fit a plain gold band on his finger.
“You may kiss the bride,” the minister said.
Jere pulled Barb into his arms. She clung to him, kissed him. When they drew apart, they were both laughing.
The music changed, turned up loudly: “Let’s Get It On.”
Ethel whooped and hollered. Frankie realized a moment too late that she was crying.
Ethel put an arm around her. “It’ll happen for you, too,” she said.
Frankie wiped the tears from her eyes. “I still think about…” It took pure strength to finish. “Rye.” She looked up at Ethel, thought, Tell me it’s okay to love him. Release the shame.
“Forget him, Frank. He’s a liar. You’re too good for him.”
“But. I love him. I mean … he is my one.”
Ethel gave her a look so hard and sad Frankie felt its impact in her bones. “No. He’s married, Frank. He is a father. I know you. I know how much you cared for Jamie, but you wouldn’t even consider dating a married man. You’re a good woman. Honest. Moral to the point of ridiculousness. You couldn’t survive an affair.”
Each word felt like a nail, driving into her, breaking bones. Honest. Moral. Good.
No, she wanted to say. That isn’t me anymore.
* * *
Frankie made her decision at the reception, while she danced to music she didn’t recognize, holding Ethel’s beautiful daughter in her arms.
No more.
Enough.