“But it’s Friday, isn’t it?” Elsa looked to Mary for confirmation, who nodded silently while scooping the leftover potatoes onto a scarred metal tray that she always set outside after dinner for the barn cats. Since the chicken butchering day, she’d said less and less to me, and nothing that mattered.
“All the more reason to get a jump on it.” I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and ducked out of the kitchen before she could inquire further. I should’ve asked Mary if I could help wash the dishes or what she wanted us to do over the weekend, anything that would tamp down the raging guilt that raced through me every time I looked at her during the last month, but she seemed to want nothing from me, as if my total incompetence as a farmer had excluded me from every other area of her life. I didn’t pursue it. I didn’t try to reach her anymore, and as I shut the door to the spare room and logged onto my computer, I actually felt somewhat justified—complete bastard that I was—because she had turned away from me first. Mary was the one who’d left our marriage for someone else, and when HollyG found me in that forum I was desperate. Every night I’d been searching for first editions, signed copies, and rare or out-of-print books. It was my knee-jerk reaction to loss, ever since my parents’ divorce when I was ten. It wasn’t only the escape that attracted me; it was the predictability. Books were finite, a world contained between two covers that could be repeated as many times as I turned the first page. No matter how much misery Tolstoy unleashed or how often Chuck Palahniuk’s characters fucked their lives up, their stories became charted, inevitable. I could count on them. Lonely and hungering for connection, I went searching for books. What I found was something else entirely.
HollyG: There you are.
Her words, always so vital and direct, able to cut through all my bullshit, appeared on the screen and erased every thought of Mary or infidelity. Everything in me came to attention, but I was surprised. She usually wasn’t online this early.
HollyG: Things are slow tonight. I’m bored and want to see your face.
LitGeek: I’ll take that as a metaphor.
I’d been a teacher for less than two months and I was already doing that speech correction crap.
HollyG: No, actually I meant it literally.
LitGeek: ??
HollyG: Do you want to meet me?
I sat bolt upright in the creaky dining room chair, scanning the words again to make sure I hadn’t misread. I typed, deleted, started again.
LitGeek: I do, but it’s not a good idea. You know my situation.
HollyG: Yes, I know. So how about we meet without meeting?
LitGeek: Again with the “??” What are you up to?
HollyG: There’s a community theater production of Jane Eyre in Rochester next week.
LitGeek: Does the wife take all in this version?
HollyG: You’ll have to come see to find out.
LitGeek: I don’t understand. You’ll be there?
HollyG: I’ll be at the Thursday matinee. I’ll wear a gray dress with white cuffs. We won’t talk or even sit near each other. Just a glance across a crowded room. We’ll meet without meeting.
LitGeek: I can’t. We’re walking a fine line already.
HollyG: Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Think about it. I’ll be there, whether you go or not.
God, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. For two straight days it tortured me. The temptation to see, to give face and form to the only person in a hundred miles who gave a shit about me was overwhelming. By Sunday night I’d all but given in. What could be less illicit than two strangers watching a play on opposite sides of a theater? And I had this hope that seeing her in the flesh would kill my demented infatuation. Maybe she’d be sixty or covered in eczema. I could dream.
Calling in sick wasn’t an option. Mary would hear about my sick day before the play even hit intermission, thanks to Elsa’s cozy chats with the principal. I wasn’t eligible for vacation time yet either, but when I walked into school Monday morning I had a plan. We were reading Jane Eyre in my senior Advanced English class, so why not take a field trip? I’d have eighteen kids with me, all eager for a day out of school with their cool, new teacher. It was the perfect cover. I got the principal’s approval, reserved a bus, and printed out permission slips, all before the first student walked into my classroom that morning.
As Mary and I got into bed the night before the play, though, my duplicity was making me nauseated.
“What’s wrong?” Mary asked.
I told her about the field trip. “I guess I’m just nervous about what could happen.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, yawning.
I flipped around to face her, seized with an idea. “Why don’t you come? You could meet us at the high school and ride along on the bus. It’d be just like Minneapolis, except I get educator rates now.”
Hope leapt in my chest, but she shook her head and fluffed her pillow before settling on her side, facing the wall.
“I’m taking Mom to the cardiologist tomorrow. Remember?”
“Reschedule it.”
“No, Peter. We’ve waited three months to see this guy. You’ll be fine.”