Child of My Right Hand (18 page)

“Genna,” Jack said, knocking. “It's me.” He slipped inside the room wearing trouble like a mask. “Simon wants to know if Rich can sleep over.”

“That'll end our sex life.” She felt her anger rising. “What did you say?”

“I'd ask you.”

“Coward.”

Jack opened the shutter covering the front window. “It's really coming down.”

“I know,” Genna said bitterly and felt herself retreating into her asexual, wife-and-mother-of-two self, the self inside which she dwelled most days. A tented camel, a curtained window. Getting shit stains out of Simon's boxers.

“What should I tell him?”

“Are you having an affair with Marla Lindstrom?”

“What?” His eyes swelled into silver dollars. “Where did that come from?”

She wanted to shout, From deep inside me. Where I am still driving around like a crazy woman. “Well?”

“Absolutely not.”

“If you do, you'll let me know, won't you?”

“Genna.”

“I know, I know. You'd never consider such a thing.” She looked into Jack's broad face she used to believe could never hide anything from her. “I want you to promise.”

“I promise.”

She heard Simon tromping down the hall. One knock, then he entered, per usual, without waiting for an answer. “Can Rich stay?”

Genna turned from Jack,
too bad
, to her son, who looked love-struck and on a mission.

“Is the driving really terrible?”

“I skidded twice.”

She turned to Jack, who nodded.

“All right,” Simon said.

“We have to call Rich's father.”

Simon shook his head. “I'll have Rich call.”

“We should, to make sure it's okay.”

“No.”

Jack said, perhaps too loudly, “I agree with Mom.”

“No!”

“Then he can't stay.”

Simon shouted, “You're always making threats, Dad. That's all you know how to do.”

“We're not going to argue about this. We speak to his father.” Jack started towards the door. “Or I drive him home.”

Simon's face registered defeat, then connivance displaced anger. “Wait, it's just.” Simon tugged at his ear, the one with two earrings. “Rich introduced me to his dad as someone else. Remember, the letters last fall?”

Jack thundered, “You want us to lie?”

“You're the ones who want to speak to Rich's father.”

“What did he call you?” Jack demanded.

“What does that matter?”

“Think about it,” Jack said, and turned to her for support.

“If we're going to do this,” Genna said, “we need to know.”

Simon raised both shoulders nearly to his ears, looking very much like the darling little boy he used to be. His shoulders fell. “Martin Long.”

Genna fought back a smile. “Let me talk to Dad in private.”

***

Jack knew in his bones that this was a bad idea, but still spinning from Genna's accusation, the wine, and coitus interruptus, definitely the coitus interruptus, he'd consent to whatever she wanted. The door closed behind Simon. Jack sat on the bed beside Genna, who still wore her bosomy, only on love-making-nights nightgown. Had Simon noticed? Of course.

“Who's calling,” she asked, “you or me?”

“If you want, I'll call, but I have an idea.”

Genna seemed to be fighting a smile. “Martin Long,” she said and guffawed, the laughter bursting out, Ha, ha, ha!

“Do you think?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think I love you, and you don't have to worry about Marla.”

“You're the only one who knows, Jack.”

He kissed her hard on the lips. “I'm so frustrated,” he whispered, “I could die.”

Her hand fell to his knee. “What are you going to say to Rich's father?”

Months later he would regret this. “Why don't we let Rich call? If anyone's going to lie, let him do it.”

“What if he asks to speak to you?”

“Then I will.”

“Mister Long?”

“Absolutely.”

“How are we going to monitor them?”

“You know, maybe we shouldn't let him stay.”

Genna, who could never deny Simon anything, shook her head.

Jack continued, “Then why don't we tell him, Rich can stay if he calls his father, and if he's in Lizzie's room, alone, by midnight. If not, he can't come over again.”

“You really don't know how to deal with Simon without threatening him.”

They stared at each other for moment, then Jack stood up, offended. “I'll send Simon in to talk to you.”

He resisted the temptation to add, You might want to change your nightgown. Instead, he threw open the bedroom door then continued down the hall. From the family room rose the sounds of television and adolescent laughter. Starting down the stairs Jack glanced out the long, vertical windows behind them. In the glow from the house, snow fell thickly, without sound.

Whatever had happened with Rich and Simon had happened, and Jack resolved to put the Valentine's Night disaster out of his mind. But it wouldn't stay put out. Details kept erupting. After all the discussion, neither he nor Genna had called Rich's father. Simon reported Rich had, but really, who knew? Not Jack. Who wanted to know? Not Jack. Sunday morning after a late breakfast, he volunteered to drive, but Simon insisted he'd drop Rich on his way to Burger King. Later, after giving county work crews enough time to clear secondary roads, Jack retrieved Lizzie at the Crapsters and drove home feeling clear-headed and refreshed, which was how time alone with Lizzie had always made him feel, and often still did: as if the sunlight ricocheting off fresh-fallen snow reflected their easy and unambiguous affection.

Now, barely three days after the storm, the thermometer outside his office window topped sixty degrees; roof-melt pattered on the ledge. Jack's thoughts had turned to California; he'd been corresponding regularly with his new best friend, Rajiv, the UCSF researcher. They'd arranged to meet his first workday in San Francisco, and had been discussing ways to co-author an article. Jack was answering Rajiv's latest email when the phone rang.

“Jack Barish.”

“Jack, it's Marla.”

“I recognize your voice.” He could have gotten off, explaining that his wife didn't want them talking, which wasn't what she'd said. Less ambiguous was that since Saturday night, there had existed between Jack and Genna a persistent, unresolved tension, emotional noise, an ambient hum of distress; they'd never gotten back to lovemaking. Instead, they climbed into bed and feigned sleep. “How have you been?”

“Neglected.” Marla trilled that girlish giggle. “I mean, neglecting my duties.”

Don't, a voice whispered.

“I revised Simon's schedule to move him into a support study hall. I'm supposed to have parental permission.”

Jack's hand warmed against the receiver. For no reason at all—it was a blind courtyard—he drew the shade. “You have mine.”

“When I spoke to Simon last week, I asked him to have you call me.”

Jack felt a palpable thrill of excitement.

“But then I said,” Marla's words spilled out, “to have his mother call because I didn't want to cause trouble.”

“How so?”

“Fishing for compliments, Jack?” He didn't reply, and she added, “It's pretty obvious I'm very attracted to you.”

Flattered, distressed, Jack felt himself falling, falling, falling, and heard himself reply, “I'm very attracted to you, too.”

“I know, I don't allow myself to be attracted to someone I don't already know is hot for me.” She giggled again, or something very like a giggle. “At our age, it doesn't seem proper.”

Proper? “Simon didn't say anything. About calling you.”

“If he could remember to tell you, he wouldn't need the special study hall. He's a really sweet boy, Simon. Sometimes makes me wish I'd had kids.”

After a nervous silence, Jack asked, “Do you know his friend, Rich? Curly hair?”

“Rich O'Brien. I'll tell you all about him. Cup of coffee?”

Jack stared through the drawn shade. It was exciting to be pursued, never happened before. And no harm, he thought, in coffee. “Love to.”

“I make a mean cappuccino.”

Alone in his office, Jack flushed. “I was thinking of someplace more public.”

“You're not afraid to be seen with me?”

“Why should I be?”

“Are you sure?”

“You want to have coffee or not?”

“Starbucks in thirty minutes, Jack, okay?”

He hung up feeling wicked.

***

Jack was early. Marla was late. Four-thirty, a bright winter's day. Jack sipped a grande cappuccino near the front window, feeling like a prize puppy in a pet store. Steven something, one of the students in his senior seminar, nodded hello walking in, and again walking out. Jack asked himself a dozen times what he imagined he was doing. The whole world could see him here. Wasn't that the point? A friend, a co-worker in the levy campaign, which had restored Latin to the high school and reduced class size in first and second grade, by golly, his son's guidance counselor, who just happened to be beautiful, or what passed for beautiful in middle age. Been around the block, no obvious signs of wear and tear, but he'd have to look under the hood. God! Jack's leg trembled under the table; it must be the caffeine. If she knew, Genna would be so offended just by the car analogy she'd slap him. Then the door opened and Marla entered wearing a gray spring coat, double-breasted. She must have been fixing her hair while she kept him waiting; it couldn't have looked this perfect at Tipton High.

“I hope you haven't been here long.”

“Just arrived.”

She glanced at his cappuccino, half-gone, froth fallen. “I like that in a man.”

“What?”

“Discretion. Or give me another word for it.”

“‘You who are so good with words.'”

“I can't believe you know that.”

“‘Your eyes were bluer than robin's eggs.'”

“Why, thank you.” Her knee brushed his beneath the table. “‘My poetry was lousy…'” She slipped the coat off her shoulders, revealing a blouse of shimmering green. “Diamonds and Rust, one of my favorites.”

Jack drained what was left of his cappuccino. “You might be right about sitting here. I've already seen one of my students.”

“Can I interest you in another cup?”

Jack recalled the affair he'd had last year, the first and only in nearly twenty years of marriage, how he'd promised himself and Genna it would never happen again, and how during the affair (he'd seen Jan twice, three times if he counted the conference at which they'd met) he'd been grateful she lived hundreds of miles away. He wondered if some rogue gene, long suppressed and only finding expression in middle age, was causing him to act against what he not only believed was moral, but against his own best interests.

“A second cup would hit the spot.”

They looked at each other for a moment, no doubt wondering, what spot would that be? Then Marla said, “Give me a ten minute head start.” She reached into her coat and passed a yellow square of foolscap. “Directions.”

Her lips pursed, too briefly for anyone to notice unless he or she were watching as closely as Jack. Then Marla slipped out the door and Jack slid the directions in his pocket realizing she'd written them out in advance. That was spooky, but also thrilling. He waited ten minutes. When the foolscap in his pocket failed to ignite, Jack exited onto Main Street, where behind the First National Bank building the sun was setting and the Ohio sky glowed pink and mauve.

He followed directions written in a neat, upright hand to a country road he'd never heard of. Marla's house was an A-frame at the end of a long driveway, no neighbors. Jack drove intentionally past before turning around at the first four-way intersection. On the passenger side, the land fell away towards the horizon which was still bright but no longer pink. Jack turned up the long drive and parked behind Marla's new Bug. It was five-fifteen, and he had to pick Simon up at the high school at six. (What a battle to get his own car for the day.) Jack hurried up the steep wooden steps. There was melting snow everywhere. Rock salt crunched underfoot. He opened the storm door. Before his hand touched the bell, the inside door opened.

He followed Marla into a large kitchen. A saxophonist, maybe Coltrane, maybe someone else, played something low and sinuous through hidden speakers. On a center island, a large white cup, piled high with foam, rested on a saucer.

“Let me take your coat.”

When he handed it to her, feeling very large and sinful—he was six-one and two twenty, she couldn't have been more than five-two and weighed who knew how little—she exited and he watched her hips swivel under the green blouse and black leggings. Everything in the kitchen looked new and expensive. Blond oak floors. Hand-painted tile counters in Southwestern colors. He wondered where the money came from; surely not her salary at Tipton High. Marla returned, sipping white wine.

“It took you an awfully long time to get here.”

“I missed the driveway.”

“It's been three months since election night.” The boldest blue eyes he'd ever gazed into. She glided to the counter, picked up the cappuccino and passed it to him. “Sugar?”

He could smell her perfume, light and floral. He shook his head, took the cup and saucer from her hands and bent to kiss her as she rose on her toes, open-eyed, to meet him. When he opened his eyes, the taste of her wine on his lips, she said, “You better put that down.”

He nodded, tongue-tied.

“How long, do you think, we can keep it up?” Marla asked.

“The double entendres?”

She nodded.

“I have to leave in twenty minutes to pick up Simon.”

“Rehearsal?”

He nodded.

“Then you better put that cup down, if you want to see the rest of the house.”

Jack set the cup on the counter and followed Marla out of the kitchen. When he left twenty minutes later, he hadn't taken a sip, but the froth on the cappuccino had subsided, leaving a half inch between the dark liquid and the rim. Jack rushed out to his car and threw it into reverse. He arrived at the high school as Simon was spilling down the auditeria steps with the rest of the cast. Jack waved. Simon caught his eye and smiled.

***

Genna called Denny Sweetwater Sunday morning, one week after Rich slept over. She could foresee a time when she would call him every Sunday, as she'd called Doris and Daddy her first year at college. She remembered those long ago Sunday nights, sitting cross-legged on her single bed, shielding her eyes and her personal affairs from Sarah, the perky freshman roommate from Des Moines she'd never much liked. Sorting laundry in the family room (perhaps she should propose a graduate seminar in cleaning products and laundry techniques; she seemed to spend more time at this than any intellectual work), she wondered if they'd have the same family tradition when Simon left for school. Or would he end up at Tipton (she hoped not), with no need for a scheduled call because he'd be home every Sunday so she could wash his clothes?

Denny said, “Call when you get to town, dear.” Such a cheerful, reassuring voice. “We'll have you and the family over for dinner.”

She'd felt a twinge of disappointment and now, folding boxers, realized she'd wanted Denny to want to see her alone and for herself.

“You don't have to cook,” she said. “We'll go out.”

“Not a problem.”

She tried to imagine what he looked like, but could only conjure her own face, older and masculine.

“Marty handles the cooking, I do dessert. I hope you like chocolate.”

“Do I ever.”

“That's my girl.”

Who knew what he'd meant, no doubt just the figure of speech. But conversation had paused before resuming much like lights flicker then come back on during an electrical storm. Instead of blinking numbers on clocks and appliances, nervous laughter had marked the bolt, and she'd gotten off, promising to call the following Sunday when she knew where they'd be staying.

Genna left the kids' laundry in the family room (they were still asleep), and walked upstairs with hers and Jack's. What a week. All that snow, then the rapid thaw. The weatherman was again predicting highs in the sixties. Then the Marla business. Just Saturday night she was accusing Jack of having an affair. A few days later Marla called at work to tell her about a special study hall she'd arranged and to suggest they get together at school, or if she had time, over lunch to discuss Simon's situation. She'd thanked Marla profusely. That sort of monitoring, what some might call nudging, was exactly what Simon needed. She arranged to see Marla the week before spring break, and to be in touch at least once this week by phone, just to make sure, as the guidance counselor said, that Simon stays on track. As if he were a train, Genna thought, who might derail.

After hanging up with the guidance counselor, Genna had been smitten by guilt. How could she accuse Jack, and on Valentine's Day! When she returned home after speaking to Marla on Wednesday, she guessed it was, or maybe Thursday, she tried to apologize for raving out, but Jack wouldn't listen. He looked annoyed or embarrassed, she couldn't decide which. It was nothing, he tried to say, though they both knew it wasn't. At best, a misunderstanding. More fallout from last winter. Then, last night, Lizzie went out early. An hour later, when Simon drove off, she waited for Jack to make some genial attempt to pick up where they'd left off last weekend when the snow fell and Simon returned home with Rich. Instead, they ended up at the dreary four-plex in town, some predictable shoot-em up starring Tom Cruise, who'd left his wife, the jerk.

She waited again for Jack to make a pass on the ride home, and then in their bedroom, growing annoyed, then angry he hadn't found some way to make it up. She'd catch him peering at her over the book he'd picked up and she over the edge of hers, nine-thirty on a Saturday night, sitting next to each other in bed like the old married couple they were, Ma and Pa Barish. He'd look away as if he were afraid or shy, although he wasn't either, until she almost burst out, Okay, Jack, you've punished me enough. I'm going to sleep.

But Genna was a modern woman, a liberated woman; she didn't have to wait for her prince to come or anyone else. In the bathroom she slipped on the green come-fuck-me nightie she'd been wearing last Saturday, returned to the bed, took Jack's book out of his hand, took his glasses off his nose and sat down beside him. She set her hand on his knee, moved his hand to her breast, that ought to give him the idea, and kissed him on the mouth. When they came up for air, his hand had slipped under her nightgown, and she was finger-dancing across his crotch.