in the tub, jumped to the easiest conclusion: a patient who had somehow gotten hold
of their number, even though Larry kept it unlisted so that patients would have to
go through his service to reach him on evenings and weekends.
“Where is he?”
In fact, Myra could not say. She had stopped trying to keep track of Larry’s schedule.
Sometimes he arrived home in time to kiss the children good night, sometimes not.
There were women she knew from the playground who considered taming the hour of their
husband’s return home as the index of their control in the marriage, but on her end,
aside from wishing the children would get to see more of their father, it didn’t much
matter. Her evening routine with Adam and Caro, in fact, went more smoothly when Larry
came home after they were asleep. On those nights, she would sit with him while he
ate a reheated plate of whatever she’d prepared earlier for the children, her mind
already on the reading or other work she needed to do for her next day’s classes.
The woman on the other end of the line began to cry.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Myra asked.
“You can tell that prick if he doesn’t leave you, he’s going to be sorry. Real sorry.”
“Excuse me,” Myra said. Her voice was small and hollow. “I have to get my son out
of the bath.”
Myra hung up. Her heart was pounding so wildly she had to sit down on the edge of
the bed. The phone rang again. She let it ring and ring. When she finally picked up,
the woman screamed, “Eight months. Eight goddamned months.” She made a sound that
was either a sob or a laugh. “That bastard’s been screwing me for eight goddamned
months, telling me goddamned lies.”
Myra hung up again. She leaned down to unplug the phone. Already, the phone was ringing
again. The jack was behind the bed, and she had to go onto her hands and knees to
reach it. When she stood back up, she held on to the headboard to keep from blacking
out.
In the bathroom, Adam had moved on to playing with his pirate boat. At seven, he was
on the verge of becoming too old for playing in the tub. Too old for bubbles and pirate
boats. Too young to go through a divorce, but in the time she’d walked from her bedroom
back into the bathroom, she’d seen into the months and years ahead to what would happen.
She got Adam out of the tub, dried him, and sent him to get into his pajamas. Then
she knelt next to the toilet, a wave of nausea yielding the dinner she’d had with
the children. The eight months made perfect sense. It coincided precisely with the
last time she and Larry had had sex, with the polite chill that had fallen between
them. With the way that her marriage had come to occupy fewer and fewer of her thoughts,
slipping lower on her list of priorities, behind the children, behind her classes,
behind her work with Dreis on the backlog of grief she felt about the six miscarriages
which had left her afraid to try again but still longing for another child—a longing
Dreis had gently begun to show her had its origins in never having felt longed for
herself, her parents’ deaths having made finite what had never taken place.
She rinsed out her mouth at the sink. She knew women who had gone insane with jealous
rage after discovering their husbands’ affairs. When her neighbor downstairs had learned
in the ninth month of her pregnancy that her vain husband had slept with another woman
on an out-of-town business trip, she put as many of his prized Ferragamo shoes as
she could fit into the oven and roasted them until they turned into something resembling
beef jerky. Another woman from the playground tore her husband’s photographs of his
mother, who’d died when he was eleven, into confetti and then, weeping, flushed the
pieces with her wedding ring down the toilet. Afterward, she begged him to come back.
Myra washed her face. The woman had sounded thirtyish. Myra
of their number, even though Larry kept it unlisted so that patients would have to
go through his service to reach him on evenings and weekends.
“Where is he?”
In fact, Myra could not say. She had stopped trying to keep track of Larry’s schedule.
Sometimes he arrived home in time to kiss the children good night, sometimes not.
There were women she knew from the playground who considered taming the hour of their
husband’s return home as the index of their control in the marriage, but on her end,
aside from wishing the children would get to see more of their father, it didn’t much
matter. Her evening routine with Adam and Caro, in fact, went more smoothly when Larry
came home after they were asleep. On those nights, she would sit with him while he
ate a reheated plate of whatever she’d prepared earlier for the children, her mind
already on the reading or other work she needed to do for her next day’s classes.
The woman on the other end of the line began to cry.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Myra asked.
“You can tell that prick if he doesn’t leave you, he’s going to be sorry. Real sorry.”
“Excuse me,” Myra said. Her voice was small and hollow. “I have to get my son out
of the bath.”
Myra hung up. Her heart was pounding so wildly she had to sit down on the edge of
the bed. The phone rang again. She let it ring and ring. When she finally picked up,
the woman screamed, “Eight months. Eight goddamned months.” She made a sound that
was either a sob or a laugh. “That bastard’s been screwing me for eight goddamned
months, telling me goddamned lies.”
Myra hung up again. She leaned down to unplug the phone. Already, the phone was ringing
again. The jack was behind the bed, and she had to go onto her hands and knees to
reach it. When she stood back up, she held on to the headboard to keep from blacking
out.
In the bathroom, Adam had moved on to playing with his pirate boat. At seven, he was
on the verge of becoming too old for playing in the tub. Too old for bubbles and pirate
boats. Too young to go through a divorce, but in the time she’d walked from her bedroom
back into the bathroom, she’d seen into the months and years ahead to what would happen.
She got Adam out of the tub, dried him, and sent him to get into his pajamas. Then
she knelt next to the toilet, a wave of nausea yielding the dinner she’d had with
the children. The eight months made perfect sense. It coincided precisely with the
last time she and Larry had had sex, with the polite chill that had fallen between
them. With the way that her marriage had come to occupy fewer and fewer of her thoughts,
slipping lower on her list of priorities, behind the children, behind her classes,
behind her work with Dreis on the backlog of grief she felt about the six miscarriages
which had left her afraid to try again but still longing for another child—a longing
Dreis had gently begun to show her had its origins in never having felt longed for
herself, her parents’ deaths having made finite what had never taken place.
She rinsed out her mouth at the sink. She knew women who had gone insane with jealous
rage after discovering their husbands’ affairs. When her neighbor downstairs had learned
in the ninth month of her pregnancy that her vain husband had slept with another woman
on an out-of-town business trip, she put as many of his prized Ferragamo shoes as
she could fit into the oven and roasted them until they turned into something resembling
beef jerky. Another woman from the playground tore her husband’s photographs of his
mother, who’d died when he was eleven, into confetti and then, weeping, flushed the
pieces with her wedding ring down the toilet. Afterward, she begged him to come back.
Myra washed her face. The woman had sounded thirtyish. Myra
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