Jill Akkerman’s husband had been wanting to have a talk with her for weeks, and she was 200 percent sure that it was going to be an unpleasant one. The signs were subtle, but she was a psychologist. So was he; she’d been warned that this would probably be her toughest marriage. In the month before their summer holiday he was so busy that she hardly saw him at home, and when he was in she used the unofficial zoning of their household to postpone the talk. No harsh words were to be said in bed, or in the kitchen. Neither of them had made these rules, but since this had somehow become part of their code of conduct, Jill and Jacob continued to do their bit toward keeping their meals and their dreams untainted. Conversation in the bedroom and kitchen tended toward the lighthearted, so she stuck to those rooms as often as possible when she wasn’t at work. Jacob had had the house renovated to her wishes; there weren’t many changes, just the addition of a few extra doorways. She preferred rooms with a minimum of two doorways, so you had options. You didn’t have to go out the same way you came in. In the bedroom she moved from the bed to the floor and back again with her books and gadgets. Sex was out of the question. He didn’t even raise the question, just watched her with a glint of amusement in his eyes. In the kitchen she cleaned diligently and sharpened knives until they broke. Jacob bought more and presented them to her with witty asides she heard only dimly beneath the louder fear that he might add: “Can I see you in the living room for a minute?”
—
HE DID CATCH her in the living room once but she ran so fast around the edge of the room and out of the nearest door that she toppled and broke a painted jug they’d chosen together on their honeymoon.
Jill wouldn’t have minded receiving some advice but ultimately opted not to mention this situation to anybody outside of the marriage. Not to her own therapist and certainly not to Lena or Sam. Jacob was about to leave her. She didn’t want him to, but this was her third marriage and his second; she knew how these things went. She’d met Jacob’s new colleague over dinner and the colleague, Viviane, was well dressed, husky-voiced, and generally delightful company, knowledgeable on a number of topics and curious about a variety of others. Jill had found herself joining Jacob in addressing her as “Vi,” and when Vi left the table for a few moments to answer a phone call Jill whispered: “You realize she’s got a crush on you?”
Jacob laughed and leaned toward her with his lips all smoochy, but she pushed his face away with a breadstick. “Did you hear what I just said?”
He leaned in again. Not close enough for a kiss this time, but close enough for her reflection to almost completely fill his irises. Portrait of cross forty-two-year-old with, hey, really nice boobs actually. “Yes, you said you think Vi has a crush.”
“I’m two hundred percent sure about that.”
“Two hundred percent? Oh. Even if you’re right it’ll pass, J.”
J. Vi. And he still called his first wife Dee.
“Why don’t you just make the most of it, run off with her, and be half of a beautiful black intellectual couple just like you always wanted?”
Husbands one and two, Max and Sam, were white—Sam was a few years younger than Jill, but both he and Max tended to look old stood beside her. Well, not elderly. Just older than her. Whereas side by side she and Jacob looked about the same age. What age was that? If you didn’t know them you couldn’t even give a rough estimate. Jacob picked up a breadstick of his own, crunched half of it, stabbed her in the arm with the other half, and asked: “Do you really think you can do this here?”