My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher Page A

doesn't he? What kind of a bastard doesn't leave something
to his own son?"
    "A completely different kind of bastard, I suppose."
    "I'm a very specific form of bastard," he reminds me.
    I walk to his bed and lean in. My mind flashes on one
of my mother's never-cross-stitched sayings: When dealing with a belligerent hairstylist, you must embrace your inner bitch. "You know, I could smother you with a pillow in the
middle of the night and who would think I'd done it?"
    "He might," Artie says, pointing to the frightened
nurse zipping his backpack.
    "Maybe I'll let Eleanor help. She'd appreciate that. For
that matter, I wonder how many of your other goddamn
girlfriends wouldn't mind taking their turn offing you!"
    "I really don't think you should threaten me in front of
witnesses," he says, glancing sidelong at the nurse.
    "And don't buy me any more fucking flowers!" I
scream.
    I walk to the bathroom, where I recall Elspa drawing
Artie's bath. Empty. And that's when it hits me.
    "Elspa," I say. A jolt of panic shoots through me—has
Elspa felt too much, is she bleeding somewhere in the
house, is she already gone? For some reason, this only
makes me angrier, although the anger is tinged with fear.
    "What is it?" Artie asks from bed.
    The nurse freezes, his backpack tucked under his arm.
    I race downstairs, calling her name even more loudly
than before. "Elspa! Elspa!" I turn the corner at the lowboy
so wildly that I tip the vase, which thunks to the floor,
cracking wide open so that the water soaks the rug and
the stems are exposed. On its tipping way, it chips a
lamp—a lamp that I bought, finery that my mother would
have suggested that I hide. I run through the kitchen
again, where my mother has stacked the chocolate-slathered
biscuits. I open the French doors and clatter
across the patio. I stare into the corners of the yard and
then into the pool.
    There at the bottom, I see a blurred shape in the deep
end—the slow underwater billow of a shirt, the glistening
of a wet head. Elspa. No. I take a deep breath, a running
start, and dive in—fully dressed, shoes and all. The water
is cold. I swim to the bottom of the deep end, my clothes
heavy each time I glide forward. My strokes seem too
slow, the water too thick. I worry that I will never get to
the bottom.
    But then, finally, Elspa is right in front of me. Her startled
face, her eyes a little wild, her cheeks puffed. I wrap
one arm around her ribs and yank her toward the surface.
She twists in my grip as if she's trying to pull me down
with her, but I tug her back sharply. Soon we are both
paddling upward.
    We break the surface at the same moment, each gasping.
I still have Elspa by the ribs.
    "What?" she says, sputtering, trying to catch her breath.
    "What?" I ask, completely confused.
    "What are you doing?"
    I loosen my grip and she swims to the wall. "I thought
I was saving your life," I tell her. Elspa is alive and well. I
should feel relieved, happy, but instead the anger returns.
    I feel like I might choke on it.
    "I was meditating," she says.
    "In the deep end?" I ask, swimming to the other side
of the pool. "With all of your clothes on?"
    "I was sitting in the lotus position," she says, swimming
to a ladder and sitting on the top rung. "Counting
seconds. Being mindful. I learned it from this roommate I
once had."
    "At the bottom of the deep end?" I smack the surface
of the water angrily. "What were you thinking? You
scared the hell out of me!"
    "I'm sorry," Elspa says. "You scared me, too."
    I hoist myself out of the pool, my shirt and pants clinging
to me. I sit on the edge, take off my soaked shoes. I
don't look at Elspa. I can't. "And were you ever going to
tell me the truth?"
    "What truth?" Elspa asks—as if there are so many
truths and untruths to choose from.
    "That you had an affair with Artie while he was already
married to me? That he stills pays for your life? You
lied to me and just kept lying in all of