Indiscretion (27 page)

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to say it so I’m just going to spit it out.”

Maddy’s eyes narrow. “Spit out what?”

“Oh god.” Claire sighs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The hairs on the back of Maddy’s neck rise. She knows what Claire is going to say almost before she says it and shuts her eyes. She doesn’t want to hear it. It’s too much.

“Maddy, Maddy. It’s me,” continues Claire. “I’m the one who ruined it all. I’m the one who’s been having an affair with Harry. I’m so sorry.”

Hearing the words makes it even worse than imagining them. Maddy’s face turns white. The muscles in her jaw tighten, and she sits there in stunned silence, not moving a muscle. Claire leans forward, fearful, anxious. Making herself smaller.

“What did you say?” Maddy asks finally.

“It’s me,” she answers, almost inaudible.

“You’re the one he bought the dress for in Paris?”

Claire nods her head and sniffs. “Yes.”

“And all those other trips?”

“Yes.”

Maddy takes a deep breath, staring at a fixed point on the wall. How do you react to something like this? The brazenness of the betrayal, the immensity of it. It offends all natural laws. This is the sort of admission that leads to anger, no, worse, to murder. It’s a stain that permeates everything. But Maddy does not reach across and strike Claire. She does not scream, she does not raise her voice. She is a woman who knows how to sit through a beating, who knows how to not give the afflictor the satisfaction of their blows, no matter how hard the belt falls.

In a measured voice she asks, “Do you love him?”

“Yes.” Again, Claire nods, not daring to meet Maddy’s gaze.

“I see. Does he love you?”

“I don’t know. I think so.” Love is, of course, even worse than sex. Sex is simply a betrayal of the body. Love is a betrayal of the heart.

Maddy stands up, walks over to a small table across the room, and removes a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. Her hand trembles slightly as she lights one. She takes a few drags, her back to Claire, staring out at the garden, watching the rain drip from the branches. Arms crossed, she turns again to face Claire and asks, “When did it happen?”

Claire blows her nose into her napkin, still avoiding Maddy’s eyes. “Last fall. When Harry came to New York. We ran into each other at a party. I invited him back to my place for a drink. And . . .”

Maddy holds up her hand. “Thank you. That’s enough. I really don’t think I want to hear any more. I just want to ask you one more question. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I wanted you to know how sorry I am, and that Harry still loves you even if you are getting divorced. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’d be furious if he did.”

“You’ve seen him?” gasps Maddy. If it is possible for her to be even more shocked, she is.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This weekend.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

Claire hesitates and then nods her head. “Yes.”

Maddy closes her eyes. “I see.”

Claire sits there expectantly. Waiting. Her cheeks moist with tears.

“Claire, thank you for coming. I can’t say that I am glad to hear what you’ve told me, but I admire your courage. I don’t know what you expected from me. And I am sorry to disappoint you if you thought I’d become hysterical or begin hurling insults or worse at you.”

“No, I . . .”

“Please. Let me finish. What I do want to say is how saddened I am that you would betray our friendship as you did. When you first entered our lives last summer, I thought you were a very different person than you turned out to be. I, we, took you in, and this is how you repay us. I don’t know how you can live with yourself. I really don’t.”

“Maddy . . .”

“I think you’d better leave now. I fell for your tears once. Please don’t insult me even more by thinking I’d do it again.”

Maddy walks toward the front door. Claire follows.

“Maddy, I, I wasn’t sure what to expect from coming here today, but I had hoped that maybe you would at least try to forgive Harry and not hate me.”

“I don’t think I can promise you either of those things. Now will you please just go.”

I
arrive that night. Maddy had called me in a fury. “That little bitch!” she had screamed into the phone. “That little bitch!”

She is already drunk when I arrive. A bottle of vodka is on the kitchen counter. Puddles of melted ice. It is hard to tell when she started. Probably not long after Claire left.

She is weeping now. Telling me about the conversation. The tea set is still on the glass Mies van der Rohe table in the living room. I notice that one cup has been hurled across the room, its obliterated remains lying in an expensive pile on the floor. Her nose is running, mouth bubbling, face slick with tears. I have never seen her like this in all the years I have known her. I offer her my handkerchief, which she takes and keeps.

“I should go see that Johnny is in bed,” I say.

She waves her hand, incapable of speech.

I go upstairs. Gloria is with Johnny, reading him a bedtime story. “Hey, pal,” I say. “Your mommy wanted me to tell you good night from her and that she loves you.”

“What’s wrong with Mommy?”

“Nothing. She’s just feeling a little tired tonight.”

“Is it Daddy?”

“No,” I say with a little laugh. “Like I said, she’s just tired.” I lean over and kiss him on the forehead. It is clear he doesn’t believe me. This is how children learn to mistrust adults. “She’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Uncle Walt.”

I nod good night to Gloria and pull the door to.

Downstairs, Maddy is smoking. I make us each a refill.

“Hope you aren’t planning on eating,” she says. “Food only gets in the way of the alcohol. Fuck food. I am never cooking fucking food again. I live in New York. I can order in anything I like any time I want. You want me to order you in something? Thai maybe? Mexican? Anything you fucking like. All it takes is a telephone and a credit card and some poor bastard on a bicycle brings it right to your door. Cooking is for chumps. Took me years, but I finally figured it out. See all those fucking pans? I’m going to sell them. The cookbooks I’ll give away. What do you say, Walter? Want a fucking cookbook? Take your pick. I got a shitload of them. French, Italian, Greek, American, nouvelle, haute cuisine. You name it, I got it. I only ever started doing it for Harry. He seemed to like it so fucking much.”

“No, I’m fine,” I answer.

“Good night, Miss Maddy, Mister Walter,” says Gloria, a quarter of an hour or so later. She is wearing her coat. It is almost nine o’clock.

“Good night, Gloria,” Maddy responds cheerily. “See you tomorrow. Thank you for everything.”

After Gloria closes the door and turns the lock, Maddy says, “What I don’t get is why her?” I know who she means. This has been a steady topic of conversation all evening as she attacks the subject from different angles. “I mean, we were living in Rome. There were all those gorgeous Italian women he could have been fucking, but instead he chooses her. Where’s the sense in it?”

I say nothing. She needs to talk it out. It is the double betrayal that stings the most.

“Look at me, Walter. I mean, I’m not bad looking for my age, right? Boobs still don’t droop too much. My butt’s pretty good, and I don’t have bat wings yet, thank God.”

“You’re beautiful, Maddy. You shouldn’t have any worries on that score.”

“So what score should I have to worry on? Huh?”

“None from where I sit.”

She smiles and puts her hand on mine. “Thanks, Walter. Sweet Walter. You’ve always been there for me.”

“And I always will be.”

She pats my hand again. “You know, I think I’m just a weensy bit drunk.”

“Just a bit.”

“I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Good idea.”

She starts to stand up but stumbles. “Oopsy daisy,” she says with a big grin. “You know, I might need a little help up the stairs.”

I stand, and she puts her arm around my neck. I am just a little taller than she. Five-eleven in a good pair of shoes.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine—just don’t go anywhere, or I might fall flat on my face.”

I help her up the stairs and into the bedroom. She’s laughing all the way. “I need to pee,” she says, giggling. “Wait right here.” I help her into the bathroom, and she emerges several moments later to the sound of a flushing toilet. “All better,” she says. “Ready for night-nights.”

I pull back the covers, and she throws herself on the bed. “Help me off with my shoes, will you, Walter?”

I take off the shoes. She unbuttons her pants. “Now the pants.”

“I really don’t think . . .”

“Oh, don’t be such a poop. Put me to bed nicely. I deserve to be a little spoiled, don’t I?”

The intimacy of the moment engulfs me. I look away when I slide off her pants, conscious of my desires. Still, I cannot help but glimpse a strip of lingerie before she places her legs under the sheets. “Would you like some water?” I ask.

“Yes please.”

I go to the bathroom and return a few moments later with a glass of water. She is not yet asleep.

“I’ve got the spins,” she says. “Shit. I haven’t had the spins since college.”

“Lie on your back and put one foot on the floor,” I tell her.

She does. “That’s better. Fuck, no it’s not. I think I’m going to puke.” She stands up, pushing past me, and weaves to the bathroom, careening off the closet and slamming the bathroom door. I wait a few minutes and knock. “Are you all right?”

I hear a flush and a groan. Worried, I open the door. She is curled around the bottom of the toilet. “I think I’m going to sleep here tonight.”

The idea appalls me. “No, you aren’t,” I say. “Come on.”

“No. Staying here.”

“Honestly, you aren’t. I refuse to leave you in this position. Come on.” I grab her shoulders and attempt to hoist her to her feet, but she is too heavy. Or I am not strong enough. In any event, she remains on the floor. “Maddy, I will not leave you on the floor.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

I remember her dares from childhood. She standing on the tallest branch threatening to jump off and I pleading with her not to. Once she did and broke her leg. I had to run home and get help. Robert had to carry her back to the house while Genevieve telephoned for the ambulance.

“You’re being silly,” I say. “You don’t want to sleep on the bathroom floor.”

“Yes, I do. It’s very comfortable.”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. Watch me.”

“I won’t let you. What would Johnny think?”

“Oh, boo. You’re being boring now. Stop being so boring all the time, Walter. Walter, Walter, always so boring.”

That stung. There she was. Laying immobile, drunk on the floor. It was a challenge. Or at least I thought it was. It was impossible for me to allow her to remain in that position. After all, wasn’t she my responsibility?

So once again, I try to lift her. “Oh, Walter,” she taunts. “You’re being so manly.”

“Shut up,” I say, “and cooperate.”

To my surprise, she allows me to lift her. She is not fat, but she is a big girl, an ex-athlete, and weighs more than I thought. With effort, I haul her to her feet. She is laughing as I guide her back to bed.

“Just try to go to sleep,” I say and turn off the light. “All right?”

“Not really,” she murmurs.

“Can I do anything else?”

“Yes. Don’t leave.” She reaches out for my hand. I clasp hers.

“All right,” I say, sitting in the armchair by the bed. “I’ll wait until you fall asleep.”

“No, not there. Come here,” she says, patting the bed, her arm waving drunkenly.

“Well, I . . .” I stutter.

“Please. I think I need to be held.”

“Oh, all right.” I sit on the bed, on Harry’s side no doubt, and remove my shoes and then recline, still fully clothed. She snuggles next to me, slipping her head under my arm and resting on my chest.

“That’s much better,” she says. “No more spins.”

To my great shock, she starts to kiss me. Not sweetly, or even gently. Roughly, forcing my mouth open with her tongue. Her breath smelling of sick. Her hands slithering along my body. Surprised, I return the kiss at first. After all, it’s not every day that the thing one has dreamt of for nearly one’s whole life actually begins happening. How many nights had I envisioned this very moment? Her lips against mine, fused together in mutual ecstasy?

But it is not like that. This is not what I had dreamt about. There is nothing sweet about it. Not only is her breath bad but the whole thing feels wrong. I try to stand up. She is drunk. This is not romance. It is something coarse. I had wanted to give her choirs and rose petals.

“I should go,” I say feebly, trying to unclasp her arms.

“No. Don’t go,” she whispers, her cheek against mine. Already I feel her hand on my belt. “I want you to make love to me, Walter. Please. If you don’t, I’ll feel like no one loves me. Please. For me.”

I am torn. I feel like a classical hero, riven between what I want and what is right. She is on top of me. I sense myself becoming excited and she does too. I cannot help myself. “I know you want to stay,” she says as she kisses me. And I do.

Spring

1

W
eeks pass. The mornings are growing warmer. The more clearly one sees the world, the more it exists. Soon it will be light in the evening. The earth will renew itself.

In the city it is raining. Heavy drops, harbingers of more to come. Already puddles have formed in the street, garbage swirling in the gutter. People run by on the sidewalk, clutching umbrellas, holding newspapers over their heads.

Claire is in the gourmet market near her apartment. The aisles are crowded with people, their jackets dripping from the rain. Sausages dangle from the ceiling. The smell of fresh-ground coffee. On the shelves, bottles of truffle oil, fresh pasta, heirloom tomatoes, chocolates from Belgium. Garnet slabs of tuna, breaded veal, marbled sirloin. Men and women in white coats stand behind the counter talking knowledgeably about cheese. Offering tastes, extolling the virtues of the Bleu d’Auvergne over the Roquefort.