Four Wives (3 page)

I
N THE HOUSE NEXT
door to Love Welsh, Bill Harrison, and their unruly clan, Marie Passeti stared at her husband. In the darkness of their bedroom, she could make out little more than a silhouette of his face, but it was enough. The evidence was adequately apparent.
For the plaintiff,
she thought, her head now propped up in the palm of her hand as she leaned over him for a closer look.
Receding hairline, chubby cheeks, beer on the breath.
Evidence of the downslide, the effects of their suburban existence. Work, beer, TV, golf, not necessarily in that order. Anthony Passeti hadn’t been to a gym in three years. Beneath the covers, she watched the rise and fall of the round ball now known as her husband’s stomach.
Exhibit four.
It was confounding, really. Men were fit in this town. After all, this wasn’t some middle-of-nowhere American suburb. It was Hunting Ridge, for Christ’s sake. There were certain standards to maintain, beauty being near the top of the list. Just beneath wealth, but slightly above college ranking, breeding, and social connections.

OK.
It was time for the defense to make its argument.
Exhibit one
’
still
smart, very smart.
Marie watched his eyes flutter beneath their lids.
Where have you gone?
It had been a very long time since she’d seen exhibit one. They’d been here just under seven years, and in that time Anthony had gone from CNN to the Golf Channel, from
The Economist
to
Golf Digest.
From pondering the universe to air swings. Was it a disease? If it was a disease, maybe the twenty pounds were a good sign, a deviation from the norm that perhaps indicated some resistance to the illness that seemed to permeate the inhabitants of this quaint little village. Maybe it was Anthony Passeti’s quiet
F- Uto
the suburbs. But if he wanted to send a message of defiance, could he not have chosen one more beneficial to her? Like giving up his golf game and staying home with the kids on the weekends? Or emptying the dishwasher once in a while? No self-respecting Hunting Ridge man emptied the dishwasher. That would be a good one. Maybe he’d chosen the beer gut to drive her farther to the other side of their bed.

Go to sleep!
These midnight wakings were doing her in. She’d pass out from exhaustion just after ten. But then the panic would strike, making her pop up, open-eyed, staring at the figure lying beside her, desperate to understand what was going so wrong. Still, as much as she resented the disruption, it was in these moments, and only in these moments, that she could get some of it back’the feeling that she actually knew this man.

It was the goddamn suburbs. That was it. Life had been sailing along just fine in the city. A fierce litigator, Marie had been on the fast track in a New York law firm before having her first daughter, Suzanne. She’d had every intention of going back after her maternity leave, but the pull of her child had been too strong, and that had been that. The first mistake. For all her intelligence and two Harvard degrees, Marie had been easily seduced by suburban lore. She’d quit her job, moved the family to Hunting Ridge where the air was clean and there was grass outside their door’grass that was now littered with black spots that some fungal epidemic had claimed. Olivia came next, and after her birth Marie resigned herself to joining the ranks of her peers. For two years’time that seemed to stand still’she had endured the endless talk of toys and teething and pediatricians. She went to the playgroups, met at the park, sang “Old MacDonald” sixty million times at mommy-and-me music class. It was mind-numbing, anxiety-producing. Crazy-making. And, in hindsight, it was inevitable that she would begin “dabbling” again in the law. By the middle of her third year as a stay-at-home mommy, she had signed a lease for office space in town.

On some days, it actually made her crazy life in Hunting Ridge tolerable. Up at six, get the girls ready for school’breakfast, lunchboxes, homework, notes for field trips and play dates. Shower and dress, organize the papers she’d brought home and worked on late into the night. Then clean up after her husband who, after staying out late at the club, would sleepwalk through the morning, leaving out the cereal boxes and milk, throwing his dirty shirts on the floor near, but God forbid inside, the laundry room. Then to the office, sorting through her work, making out the assignments for her small staff’the two associates whose part-time schedules looked like a small jigsaw puzzle. There wasn’t much that got pitched her way that she couldn’t hit out of the park. Marie Passeti was the very embodiment of efficiency.

That it had begun to belittle her husband, to shine an even brighter light on his domestic failings of late, was a consequence that could not be helped. Anthony Passeti was perfectly capable of dressing his children and putting away his cereal boxes. He’d done it for years, supporting her career, sharing the responsibilities at home. Then, one small task at a time, he had removed himself from the invisible chore chart Marie kept in her head. And one task at a time, Marie had picked up the slack. It wasn’t the only change that had taken place right under her nose. Not long ago, her husband had been fully present in their lives, doting on the girls every weekend, finding creative ways to please his wife’the occasional breakfast in bed, spontaneous dinner plans in the city. And when their second child had put a damper on their sex life, the reserved corporate attorney had surprised her with a series of Internet orders’small packages that arrived in the mail, discreetly wrapped in plain brown paper.
Hardware for the hard up,
he’d joked. And although most of it wound up in the bottom of Marie’s underwear drawer, it had returned a sense of mischief to their lives, a flavor that had since been diluted by Hunting Ridge vanilla.

Years had passed since she’d received a plain brown package. Now, all that came in the mail were bills and golf magazines. And while it amused her on some level that her husband had become so fond of sticks and balls, it wasn’t exactly her idea of foreplay. Still, despite his downslide, Anthony Passeti was a brilliant man, and on the days she didn’t hate him, Marie could still see traces of the man she loved so deeply.

She slid closer beside him and curled up next to the rising gut. She was an infrequent visitor to his side of the bed, and she remembered now how much warmer it was than her side where her slight body barely made an indentation. Carefully, she pulled her pillow next to his and dropped her head upon it, closing her eyes. It was important that he not wake. She was angry at him again, a far too ordinary state of affairs in their house, and snuggling would definitely be a sign of contrition. She heard him snore twice, then shift to the left.
Good.
He was out, which meant she would still have denia-bility in the morning.
Sorry, must have rolled over in the night.
She let out a deep breath and felt sleep return as she lay beside her long-lost husband.

D
REAMS TORMENTED JANIE THROUGHOUT
the night.
Waking to find two men in her bed, struggling for an explanation. Running after a stack of papers that had been blown from her hands. The feel of his rough beard on her inner thigh.

She slept in short segments, dreaming then waking, dreaming again. Each dream brought a new dose of panic or relief, tossing her back and forth like a rag doll. The sun peeking through the bedroom curtains should have been welcome, but she knew from the sickness in her stomach that the anxiety would only intensify as she moved through her day.

Daniel was still asleep next to her when she heard a noise from down the hall. The youngest of the four Kirk children was beginning to stir. Not ready to face what she might be feeling, or not feeling, she jumped from the bed without looking at her husband. In the bathroom, she checked for evidence. Clothes were in the hamper, a place with which Daniel would not concern himself. The contents of her purse were put away’compact, lipstick, comb, breath mints’the purse was back on the rack in her closet. She retraced her steps as she quickly brushed her teeth and pulled back her hair. The novel from the book-club meeting she’d ducked out of was on the kitchen counter. The remote for the garage door was in the basket by the kitchen door where such things were kept. Forgetting it there would be her reason for not pulling in the car. What else? There was nothing else, except the contents of her mind, which she knew from experience would not be detected by anyone living in this house.

She looked in the mirror, checking her neck, her breastbone. There was no trace of his lips there. Dressed in clingy cotton pj’s, no makeup on her face, hair uncombed, she would easily pass as the
mommy
and the
honey
they expected each morning’the embodiment of suburban perfection. Long hair, perfectly highlighted in shades of blond. Sculpted legs, firm ass, flattened stomach, new construction breasts’perky size Cs. And a face that was both provocative and subtle. Despite her forty-two years and four pregnancies, she looked damned close to herself twenty years ago. In fact, if she didn’t occasionally dress them up and parade them through town, there would be no visible evidence of the four children that she’d borne. And that was how Daniel liked things’just as they had always been.

It was ironic, really, that the things she’d done to herself to please her husband had opened the door to her infidelity. She was reality on hold’no saggy tits from years of breastfeeding, no loose, floppy skin that had been stretched to oblivion again and again. What man wouldn’t want the very things he’d once had but could never have again? It was all possible now with the surgical erasing of time. Janie had no illusions as to why she’d found herself the object of pursuit.

She thought about it now, how all of this had transpired in a few short weeks. First, the typical Hunting Ridge cocktail party. Elaborate catered nibbles passed around by waiters, all dressed in white. Tendered bars set up in every room. Rented policemen parking the cars and ignoring the smell of alcohol on the guests when they returned to drive home. She’d gone to the small bar in the back of the kitchen to find a decent bottle of wine. These were friends, and she felt at home in spite of the formality surrounding her. The good stuff would be in the wine fridge, which had been her destination. But the short walk in search of a drink would only be the beginning.

“Check the bottom rack.”

The man’s voice was familiar, and she’d thought nothing of it as she turned from the fridge with a smile. She’d known him for years.

“I had my eye on a Kistler Chardonnay,” she’d said.

“Let’s break out the red.”

Stepping around her, he’d allowed his body to come closer to hers than it should have. And as they knelt next to one another to examine the bottles on the last three racks, she’d felt the jolt of a subtle, and surprising, seduction. The second step on her path to betrayal.

“Here we go,” he’d said, pulling a pinot noir from its slot. They moved back to the kitchen. He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, then handed one to her. His hand brushed against hers, and she smiled in a way that, upon reflection, was reflexively sultry. After years of nothing but benign interaction with members of the opposite sex’a suburban mandate’it had taken very little to sense the flirtation, and her body had responded as though it had been secretly training for this very moment. This was surely not the first time they had been alone in a room, but this time had been entirely different.

Whatever it was they had begun had paused there as they returned to the party, and most of her was grateful when she’d found herself safely tucked away in her bed later that night, next to Daniel, having done nothing, really, but smiled. She could see now how that smile had been the third step. Still, in spite of where that smile had led her, she would never let go of the life she had built, the security for herself and the children. What was this? Lust? The innate curiosity of sexual beings? Passion, desire? Those were nothing but the seeds of fleeting encounters, and complete anathema to the sustaining of a committed partnership. And she wanted that above all else’the companion to look after her when she was sick, when time finally claimed her body. She wanted the father who would walk her daughters down the aisle. But he had found her irresistible’and in the end, that was all it had taken. The final step.

“Mommy,” Janie’s three-year-old was there now, standing at her hip with a ragged blanket trailing by her side.

She reached down and picked her up.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Her daughter pressed her face next to Janie’s, and they watched themselves watch each other in the mirror.

Janie sighed at her angel-faced girl, then turned her head to plant a kiss on the soft, chubby cheek.

“Come on. Let’s go downstairs and start breakfast.”

Within the hour, it became clear to Janie that she’d been wrong. The anxiety was quieting, perhaps from the rhythm of the morning routine’ packing lunches, pouring bowls of corn flakes, measuring coffee. Or perhaps from the ease of hiding.

Daniel breezed in, smelling of shaving cream and menthol deodorant. Standing with her back to him, her apparent focus on the four lunchboxes laid out on the counter, Janie made a conscious effort not to greet him directly as he approached her. This was their way, the casual avoidance of married life, and she was careful not to deviate from it as she worked through the tasks.

“Morning,” he said. His face was still warm from the shower when he gave her a peck on the mouth and patted her behind. Then he reached for his travel mug from the cupboard next to the sink.

“Are you catching the train, or do you want breakfast?”

“Train. I’ve got a meeting downtown.”

Janie took the mug from his hands, filled it with coffee, then added some milk from the fridge. Only as she handed it back did she allow her eyes to meet his.

“There you go,” she said with a smile.

He smiled back, then looked away quickly, as he always did.

“How was the book group?”

Janie returned to the packing of lunches. “Fine. The usual.”

“Was the Rice woman there?”

“Love? No. She’s in the
other
group. The benefit committee for the clinic. And she goes by her mother’s name.
Welsh.”

“Ahh”
Daniel said, now shuffling through the morning paper on the other side of the kitchen, the wheels turning.

“We’re meeting today.”

“How is Gayle? We should see them more.” Daniel was talking, though it had that distant resonance, more like he was verbalizing his thoughts than actually addressing his wife. That was Daniel, always plotting, scheming. It was in his nature’why he was so successful on Wall Street. He knew how to work people, relationships, even friendships’and lately, his marriage. It had cost them ten thousand dollars to buy Janie a seat on the clinic board four years ago. It had been an investment, a way to get close to the Becks and the other local power couples. Of course, Gayle had been the primary draw, being a Haywood, of the New York Haywoods, the family that had made its fortune two generations before by founding its investment firm. That made them old money, the best kind, the kind that looked down on the other kinds. In fact, Gayle Haywood Beck was so far beyond the wealth of anyone in this town that she’d been disqualified from the competition. And Daniel had wanted to rub elbows with her the moment they’d bought into Hunting Ridge.

In spite of her disdain for her husband’s fixation, Janie had’as always’ complied, serving dutifully on the board and befriending Gayle. Not that it had been an unpleasant task. Gayle was warm, genuine, and among the few on the board who actually cared about helping the young girls the clinic served. Now, seven years later, they were firmly embedded in each other’s worlds within the Hunting Ridge mainstream’husbands who worked on Wall Street and wives who stayed home to care for the children and manage the help. They crossed paths at school functions, the nail salon, restaurants, and high-end boutiques. They were on the same social calendars, and belonged to the same club. And all of this made Daniel feel like a player.

“Can you set up a dinner?”

“Not at the meeting. It’s too rude. I’ll have to call her. Maybe in a few days.”

“I don’t know. You could invite the Rice woman as well. I know they live in town, but it might be fun to know a celebrity.”

Daniel was still skimming the paper as he spoke, giving his wife an opportunity to roll her eyes. What was this, rush week at the frat house? Aside from bragging rights, which Daniel exercised frequently, knowing someone in the Haywood family hadn’t changed their lives in the slightest.

“She goes by Welsh. And Marie Passeti will be there as well.”

“Ahhh. Then you’d better call Gayle in a few days.”

Exactly,
Janie thought to herself. God forbid they should waste their time on the Passetis’townies who weren’t celebrities.

Daniel checked his watch, then turned and walked to the oval table where his children sat, watching TV and spooning up cereal. “See you guys later. Be good.” His oldest son held up his hand for a high five. “See ya, champ.”

Janie waited until he was at the door leading to the garage.

“Hold on!” she said. Daniel stopped, then watched as his wife scurried to the basket on the floor beside him. She reached into the basket for the remote, then pushed the button. Daniel nodded as he heard the garage door pulling open.

“You have to keep it
in
the car, Janie.”

“I know, I know.” It wasn’t the first time she’d had to leave her Mercedes in the driveway, and Daniel always came close to clipping it when she did.

“Just be careful backing up.”

He smiled again. “I won’t be too late.”

“See you tonight.”

And that was it. Daniel, along with his coffee, his briefcase, and his social-climbing plans, was gone for the day. Janie didn’t wait for his car to pull out before closing the door. She didn’t wave good-bye, completing the fagade of normalcy. She looked at her kids, lost in their little worlds. Oblivious.

“Five more minutes, then it’s upstairs to get dressed.”

No one listened, and this made Janie smile. Her world hadn’t collapsed around her. Her children weren’t ruined, her husband wasn’t heartbroken. She still had the keys to the house, the car. And whatever was churning inside her had, for the moment, been contained.