Monday, Monday: A Novel by Elizabeth Crook

for a makeshift latch. Finally he decided to haul an old lawn mower out and prop the door shut from the outside, and had extracted it from a pile of rat-eaten storage boxes when he turned and saw Shelly. She stood in the doorway, clutching her coat tightly around herself, bouncing on her toes for warmth. The light lay on her hair.
    And he didn’t think to resist any longer. After weeks of holding himself in check, the effort simply vanished as if the wind carried it off. He walked to her, and took her into his arms, and kissed her.
    In the backseat of the car, he made love with her, the car door open, the shed door swinging open and shut in the wind, a strip of winter light sliding back and forth over Shelly’s body. He traced her scars with his fingers and kissed her wounded breast, and together they entered the dangerous love affair, feeling as if they were safe in each other’s arms.
    And then the winter light seemed to go pale. The cold contained a leaden sense of doom. Shelly wept inconsolably for what she had been given and could not keep, and Wyatt tried to comfort her, but was too remorseful and too burdened with his own guilt to say anything useful.
    “I wish it hadn’t happened,” Shelly said on the way home, wiping at her tears, “that we could undo it. I have this terrible, dark feeling I can’t get rid of.”
    It was only just past noon when he let her off on the street corner. Driving away, he turned to see if she looked at him, but her head was down and she was already walking toward campus.
    He went to the studio in the art building and mixed his paints and tried to create something. But Shelly was all he could think of. How she moved, and how she had tipped her head back and fastened her arms around his neck. Several times he walked outside and around the building, hoping to get her out of his mind. For hours, he tried to push the pictures out of his mind. And then for hours he gathered them back up.

 
    9
    BEFORE LONG
    He shuffled his marriage, even his son, to the back of his thoughts. Everything not related to Shelly was as pale as the first thin layer of paint on gesso. He arranged his days to see her and missed classes to be with her. Elaine chided him for being obsessed with his work. He neglected his friends. Shelly remained in Austin over that summer and he saw her repeatedly, even despite his intentions, as if he had no say in the matter. And she clung to him as if she had no willpower. She felt as if she didn’t even belong to herself.
    Jack suspected a love affair, and challenged Wyatt about it. “Who is she?”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about—there’s no one,” Wyatt told him.
    “You’re a fool if you screw things up with Elaine.”
    He would have left Elaine if not for Nate. He lied to her almost every day about where he was going or where he had been. At times, when he was coming home to her, or when he was trotting through the apartment with Nate on his shoulders, his duplicity filled him with self-loathing.
    Then later in a parking lot on campus, Shelly would slide into his car and look at him with her soft eyes and slip her hand into his, and he would sweep her into his arms. His intimate knowledge of the tragedy that had helped to form her made him feel as if he had been with her at the moment of her conception. It gave him the sense she belonged to him—that they belonged together. The exceptional origins of the affair seemed almost to justify it.
    Shelly knew the risks. And yet she allowed Wyatt, who was the greatest threat to her future, to become her touchstone. In the fall, she thought of leaving Austin—taking a bus and going somewhere and staying away long enough to forget Wyatt. She could get a job and support herself. Or go back home to Lockhart. But she didn’t have the resolve. She told herself that in two years she would do it. She would join the Peace Corps and leave Wyatt with his family, and distract herself in a foreign country from a