19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Page 4

Losing the kids.

  Living in poverty.

  Having Charlotte in charge of Molly and Henry.

  Adam entered the kitchen. The lust door slammed shut. “Something smells good. What are you making?”

  “Taste,” I said, holding out a bit of sauce on a spoon.

  “So good,” he almost moaned.

  “Chicken cacciatore.” I stirred the pot, waiting for the real Adam to lecture me on the inherent problems with the dish, vis-a-vis our family fight against heart disease, even if I served it, as planned, on brown rice instead of rigatoni, my favorite, offering up a healthy heart as penance for my sins. But nothing came forth. God had chosen to punish me with my husband’s loving words and caring gestures.

  I tilted my head, and Adam kissed my lips. “Call the kids in?”

  “Sure. Just let me wash my hands.” He squeezed the swell of my hip, leaving me holding the wooden spoon coated with tomato and olive oil.

  Thanksgiving morning I dozed, grabbing a few minutes of sleep as Adam showered off our morning sexual encounter, breaking our sex record of the last five years. TV sounds let me know that Henry was watching cartoons in the den, probably curled up in his ratty Spiderman comforter.

  The alarm went off. Seven o’clock. Time to start chopping vegetables for the stuffing. My cell phone rang. Guy Peretta lit up in shaky little Nokia letters. Guy’s home number.

  “What’s wrong?” I listened for Adam and his environmentally brief shower.

  “Wait. Hold on.” I shrugged on my robe and fled to the backyard, phone hidden in the folds. “What’s wrong?” I asked again. “Thank God Adam’s in the—”

  “Isabelle.” Guy vibrated with a horrid depth of emotion. “Ah, my dear Isabelle.”

  “What?” No answer. I forced a softer tone. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to think about Adam in the shower,” Guy said. “Only you.”

  “Stop being ridiculous. You’re acting crazy.”

  “Crazy,” he sang. “I'm crazy for feeling so lonely. Crazy for feeling so blue.”

  His off-key crappy imitation of Patsy Cline scraped my nerves past the sheathing. “Stop! You shouldn’t have called.”

  “Don’t worry. I had it all planned, what to do if someone else answered. Which wouldn’t happen. You always tell me no one but you ever picks up your phone.”

  His breezy tone infuriated me. “They’d hear it ring, look, and see your name,” I said.

  He took an impatient breath. “You could tell them Kate called. For a recipe.”

  Right. Kate Peretta, no doubt the Julia Child of Newton, a woman I scarcely knew, would call on Thanksgiving morning, for a fucking gravy recipe.

  “Why are you calling?” Only fear that he’d call back kept me from hanging up on him.

  “I can’t get you out of my damn mind, baby.”

  Irish coffee, please. Right fucking now.

  “I needed to hear your voice. When I woke up, you were on my mind—”

  If he started singing again, I’d smash the phone under my foot. “I gotta go.”

  “Damn it,” Guy said, “Why the hell am I so crazy about you? You’re far from perfect.”

  “You’re starting my holiday off just right. You called to say I’m far from perfect?”

  “I couldn’t wait to tell you how fetching I find your imperfection. Kate’s been up since five so she could put the turkey in for us to eat at exactly 1:30. Who cares?”

  Was he upset because Kate rushed out of bed before he could get laid? I overcame my urge to scream and worked to find a way to soothe him off the phone.

  “You sound miserable. I wish I could be with you.” Like I wished I could drink sour milk. “But I have to go. Now.”

  “I understand. I miss you, baby.”

  “Try to have a good Thanksgiving.” Poor thing. Having to watch Kate work so hard.

  After murmuring him off, and managing not to have a cigarette, I began grating carrots. Seconds later, Adam entered the kitchen preceded by crisp lime aftershave.

  “I wondered where you were. Aren’t you showering?”

  I handed him a mug of steaming coffee lightened with cream. Thanksgiving allowed excess, even for Adam. “I thought making this for you should come first.”

  “Did I hear you on the phone? Who called so early?”

  “My brother. . .I mean my brother’s wife, rather.” I laughed. “Diana.”

  “I know who your brother’s wife is. What did she want?”

  “She wanted, um, a recipe. I came downstairs to check the ingredients.”

  “Diana’s cooking?”

  “What’s with the third degree?” I added a light chuckle to the question. “She wanted to make pumpkin pie and remembered how good mine was. From Thanksgiving.”

  “She remembered from two years ago?” He wiped a few smudges off the refrigerator. “Anyway, isn’t your recipe from the back of a can?”

  When had he become such a student of Chef Isabelle? “That’s why I came downstairs. To check my brand of pumpkin.”

  The nightmare proportions of my lie became ridiculous. The absurdity of Diana waking at seven in the morning, in my mother’s house in Texas, to bake was preposterous. Calling me for a recipe was science fiction.

  Circling his body low with my arms, I placed my hands on his lower back.

  “That was a nice way to wake up.” I stood on tiptoes and craned around the coffee mug to nuzzle his neck. Using the tips of my fingers, I walked up his spine.

  “You liked that, huh?” He put down his cup and returned my caress.

  The thing of it was, I had. Very much.

  6

  Myth: People in happy relationships don’t cheat.

  Truth: Infidelity doesn’t always mean falling

  out of love with one’s partner.

  Most men cheat because they want sex with

  someone else, despite being in love with their wives.

  Women are more likely to cheat for emotional, rather than sexual needs.

  Seven hours later the house was warm with roasting turkey. Adam, Marty, and Sidney slouched in the family room watching football with Henry sprawled at their feet. Upstairs rocked with chatter from Molly and her cousins.

  We women-folk toiled in the kitchen. Rose Stein calmly prepared vegetables—a mound of radish flowers, dark-green broccoli florets and a bowl of unblemished Boston lettuce, drops of water still clinging to the fresh leaves. Rose composed salad as though making poetry.

  Greta’s no kitchen girl, but on Thanksgiving, even she turns into a woman. She swept radish tops and carrot ends off the table with the side of her hand, careful not to chip her glass-perfect manicure. Judith, my raised-for-service sister-in-law, scraped out drippings for gravy, mashed butternut squash and measured flour, baking powder, and butter for biscuits. All with Charlotte’s sharp eyes evaluating her performance.

  Comforting if not comfortable in her chunky body, Judith, a brilliant psychologist, gourmet chef, and loving dry-witted wife and mother still washes up in her mother’s wake, though only when in close proximity.

  While careening between the stove, the table, and the sink, I basted the turkey, set the table, and put potatoes in boiling water. A typical Thanksgiving, except Adam noticed a head was attached to my cook’s body, to which he spoke and on which he planted little kisses. Were we all simply animals sniffing strength and trouble?

  Charlotte supervised between shuttling appetizers to the men.

  “We can call everyone to the table in about ten minutes.” The steamy women-filled kitchen tugged at me. We didn’t seem that different from our ancestors in the old world, bringing in the Sabbath, and for a moment I felt deeply connected.

  I reveled in the scents and tasks, in my comfort zone. I began cooking full time at age eleven—making dinner was the only way to ensure my brother and I ate more than Lean Cuisine or cereal. Occasionally my enforced early service colored my relationship with food, but mainly I found it my area to shine.


  “Are you sure the turkey’s done?” Charlotte crossed her arms. “You know the danger of undercooked poultry, right?”

  Warm moment over.

  “I’m sure Isabelle knows when the turkey’s done,” Judith said.

  “Excuse me for watching out for the family’s health.”

  Judith wiped her hands on the towel tucked into her flowing black slacks. We are twinned by Charlotte-monitoring, always noticing when each other’s Charlotte-light went on and off, with Judith’s fixed high in pacification mode, while mine is set for deflection.

  “Isabelle has yet to poison us,” Judith said. “Not to worry.”

  “Fine, do what you want to do.” Charlotte’s laser switched to the stove. “Is that gravy boiling? It will be nothing but lumps if you don’t watch it. Whisk it, Judith. Whisk!”

  “Would you whisk it for me, Mom?” Judith sent a rueful smile to her mother. “Likely I’m doing more things at once than I should.”

  “Charlotte, I could use some advice on this sweet potato dish I brought. It seems loose to me.” Rose held up her perfect casserole.

  “I’ll check it after I help Judith with the gravy,” Charlotte said. She squared her bird-like shoulders and took the whisk from her daughter.

  Crisp white linens covered the table. Grey fading light, brightened by airy snow, was just visible through the window. Greta’s sapphire earrings caught the candle’s flame and reflected her deep blue dress. Henry kept touching his dark red tie. Silk and velvet covered the women; the men’s jackets were fine wool.

  Candlelight softened everyone. Bordeaux wine gleamed in the polished crystal my in-laws gave us for our fifth anniversary. Adam’s father, Leon, and Charlotte always put family first. I could cry, remembering Leon’s hugs and endearments, calling me “Sweetheart” and treating me like his daughter.

  Adam held a well-sharpened knife over the magazine-quality turkey. “Thank you, Isabelle. It looks beautiful, honey.”

  Molly rolled her eyes, but only a little. Henry wriggled in his seat, his eyes wide with anticipation of unlimited servings. “Slice it, Dad,” he said.

  “We need to take time, Henry and appreciate those who care for us.”

  I forgot this husband of mine who could be so dryly sweet.

  Adam lifted his glass and smiled. I blinked back the tears threatening my mascara, love for this man and the children overwhelming me.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Adam and Marty’s shouts boomed through two rooms. I stood with a dishcloth in my hand, picturing them high-fiving each other as the Patriots won.

  Rose and Sidney were home; the women folk were back in the kitchen.

  “Adam seemed relaxed tonight.” Judith swished a glass gently in the crowded sink.

  Tranquil as bloated puddles swamped in front of the TV, while we scrubbed away our full bellies. I wanted to be as non-judgmental and loving as Judith.

  “Who wouldn’t be relaxed, eating a meal like that without having to do a thing?” Greta dried a plate with her dishcloth-covered hand. “Great dinner, by the way.”

  They handled the dishes carefully. I only used the good stuff for the holiday—the gold-rimmed china, the crystal, the heavy silver, and copper-bottomed pots couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Good stuff translated into more work. Pure cotton high-thread-count sheets looked shabby without ironing, a long gaze wrinkled linen shirts, and silk underwear disintegrated in the washing machine.

  Middle-class women now had upper-class things, but we didn’t have the upper-class staff to maintain them. What we had was more work.

  My mood teeter-tottered and I hated it. I had loads of privilege and no appreciation.

  “Adam is always relaxed with me.” Charlotte pulled a full bag out of the garbage can. “Maybe he let go because he wasn’t in his usual pressure-cooker of work and worries.”

  Judith tightened her lips. I swallowed a rising gush of words.

  Hey Charlotte, Judith also works. She carries patients’ psyches and souls, 24-7. Filling teeth meant real to my mother-in-law. Judith’s career, as far as Charlotte was concerned, consisted of listening to people kvetch, people who should be counting their blessings.

  Greta appeared thoughtful as she passed an increasingly damp cloth over a plate. “Adam’s a family man through and through; I’ll give him that. He reminds me of Leon.”

  Charlotte beamed at Greta. Southern suck-up much, Greta?

  That night Adam slept peacefully, his snoring light and content. Had I so misread him for the last five years or so since he turned. . .different? Turned distant? Turned like milk gone sour? Did I mistake his worry for criticism? I needed more patience. Stop my constant me, me, me.

  Our after-dinner kitchen conversation came back as I drifted toward sleep. If Greta could give him credit, I should be able to do the same. Replaying the evening once more, I snuggled closer to Adam, edging in for the warmth and decency of matrimonial body heat.

  Monday, I got everyone to work and school, turned off my cell phone, and pretended Guy didn’t exist.

  At one o’clock, I checked my voicemail. Five Guy messages. One Guy email.

  8:30: “Isabelle, call me. Sorry for that Thanksgiving thing. I was a jerk. But at least an impassioned jerk? Okay, now I’m a corny jerk. Anyway, call me.”

  9:15: “Where are you? I want to make plans. ASAP. Needing you. Lots.”

  10:00: “Everything okay there? By the way, have I mentioned lately how perfect your body is? I thought about your body all morning. And everything I thought about was perfect.”

  Screw the ego gratification boosts. The road to hell was paved with Guy.

  12:00: “I’m eating lunch. Wish we were in the Ritz-Carlton penthouse.”

  12:30: “Okay, where are you? Call me.”

  Irritation had replaced seduction.

  I dialed the phone.

  “What?” Greta asked. “I’m working.”

  “I need to break up with Guy.”

  “We already settled that. You called. You did it. Now seal it.”

  “I need a plan. Something completely. . .I don’t know. Durable?”

  “Here’s a plan. It’s over, Guy.”

  I swung my legs up on the desk. “I can’t just—”

  “You can’t just what? Are we in high school? Call him and—”

  “You’re right. Today. Now. What are you doing Wednesday night?”

  “The baseball player is back in town. Why?”

  “I thought we could get together.”

  “Sorry. Can’t be your chastity-keeper.”

  I pushed my hair off my face. “Fine. Be that way.”

  “You had a short, stupid affair. Don’t make the break a big thing. Stay out of danger. And get back to the ballerina.”

  I made a strong cup of coffee and dialed Guy, resolute about remaining terse and distant. When his secretary answered, I felt the same anxiety her terse tone always evoked.

  “About time,” he said. “You rented my brain all day.”

  I couldn’t do it on the phone. “I need to see you. Could you try for Wednesday?”

  “I’ll make it work, come hell or high water.”

  “Forget it, Mom,” Molly shouted. “I’m not babysitting.”

  I counted to ten, a far wiser choice than throttling her. “How often do I ask you to babysit?”

  “He’s not my child, Mother. Why should I watch him?”

  “Because you’re part of this family. Because we feed, clothe and house you.”

  “That’s your job. You chose to give birth to me.”

  I eked out a tight smile and rummaged for another tactic. Greta agreed to be my cover story—agreeing only for the sake of the breakup.

  “Greta needs me to check in on the factual bones for the book we’re working on.”

  Factual bones?

  “My life matters also, Mom. I’m going with a friend to the mall, which doesn’t sound like anything, I’m sure, compared to some depressed ballerina, but she’s a new friend.”

/>   I tried to remember the book Judith gave me last year: Talk With, Never At: Communicating with Teens. The author’s mantra echoed. Hear Molly. Listen to her.

  “What are your exact plans?” I went to pour a cup of coffee, stretching for two mugs and, proving I could always reach a lower rung in parenting, held one out to her. “Coffee?”

  She looked suspicious, but went for the bait. “Thanks.”

  I added a liberal amount of milk to her cup. “So? Plans?”

  “The mall. My friend’s putting together an outfit for meeting her boyfriend’s parents and she’s clueless. She loves my clothing IQ.”

  Clothing IQ. Oh, I was going to love this new friend.

  “We’re going to go to her house afterward. Her mother said I could stay for dinner.”

  “Who is this girl?”

  “She’s from my homeroom and entirely different from Beth and Rachel. More mature. I like her. Though her taste in clothes is revolting.”

  I bit back the words evoked by Molly’s pseudo world-weariness, as this depressing conversation was warmer and closer than any in months.

  “Henry won’t be back from Davy’s house before six. Why don’t you invite your friend back here after you go to the mall? Maybe she can borrow something of yours.”

  She stirred sugar slowly into her coffee, seeming to consider my offer.

  “You can order whatever you want for dinner. I’ll leave money. Henry won’t bother you. He won’t move if you let him eat in front of the TV.”

  Time to close the deal.

  “Daddy can drive her home when he gets back from work. And since you’re doing such a huge favor, take my credit card to the mall. Find yourself something nice.”

  You can buy love. I always knew it.

  Guy waited at a back table in Romanos’. I stood in the doorway going over my speech.

  I worked at ignoring his faded denim. A Ralph Lauren work shirt was just plain ignorant cognitive dissonance, but in truth, seeing his shoulders fight the fabric knocked me out. The problem with breaking up after only two months—no matter the wisdom—is that your cold, dreary head is trying to convince your heated body to stand down at the same time as your hormones are screaming for one more.