Infidelity (4 page)

( CHAPTER TEN )

RONNIE

I hate mangoes. Mostly because they're all work and no pay off.

Aaron has that kind of patience and I have none. I watch him cut it open in the most economical way possible—peeling so perfectly that no piece of flesh is spared. It's methodical, with no sensuality in an easily sensual act. No rebellious sticky sweetness dripping the length of his arm, no juice licked from fingertips. Just evenly carved segments lined up on a plate, his hands scrubbed antiseptically clean of any evidence of the endeavour.

That piece of fruit could be a metaphor for all of it; he peels it, cautiously, carefully, and I eat it. Consume it. He does all the work and I enjoy the results.

I have never been the kind of girl to invest, never wanted to take the time. I always want it quickly, and now. Fuck hardboiled eggs, fuck soufflés, fuck five-year terms and two-year leases,—sometimes even fuck microwave burritos.

I'm the kind of girl who wants to reach my hand into a cereal box and shove a fistful of Shreddies into my mouth. I never really understood what was wrong with that. Sometimes you just want to shove a fistful of Shreddies into your mouth and have no one give you shit about it, especially not the person who eats in your kitchen and sleeps in your bed and walks your dog. The same person who knows how to patiently peel a mango, and balance a chequebook, and what prime is right now.

Aaron and I will be stuck in traffic in our twenty-year-old Volvo station wagon and I'll be singing along with the radio, eating potato chips, like we're on a road trip, when really we're just going to his mom's house for roast beef, then he'll change the station to catch the traffic report and tell me not to get chip crumbs on the upholstery.

He does all the work and I eat cereal straight from the box, drink milk from the carton, and steal that last slice of mango.

He cleans up all my messes.

( CHAPTER ELEVEN )

At four in the afternoon on a Wednesday in the third week of January, Charlie was in a meeting with a nineteen-year-old undergrad about her 400-page opus on the transience of love. Nineteen-year-old undergrads were always writing novels about love, and Charlie was always forced to talk to them about it. Forced to lie and say he would show his agent. Forced to tell them they had “so much promise” and that they should “keep writing,” even though he thought they should look into other career choices.

This particular undergrad was pretty—unkempt and unshowered, and perhaps slightly high, but certainly pretty—and he was willing to suffer through her endless ramblings on Neruda and Winterson to fulfill the office hour requirement of his residence. If he was honest, the office made him feel powerful, less like the stuttering, clumsy fool he believed himself to be, and more like the charming writer he hoped people saw.

He had just managed to tune this particular student out while inserting the requisite uh-huhs and yeses, when there was a knock at his office door. Without rising from his chair, he called out an invitation to come in and watched the heavy wooden door slowly creak open.

Ronnie's flushed face appeared from behind it. Her hair was damp, and a heavy wool coat was pulled up to her chin. Charlie rose to his feet and maintained his composure.

“Hi Mr.—Charlie.”

“Mr. Charlie?”

The nineteen-year-old undergrad shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Charlie was quite certain if he could get close enough to her she would have smelled incapable of using the residence coin laundry.

“Shannon, I'm sorry we'll have to cut this short today as my next appointment has just shown up,” he said, gesturing toward Ronnie, who smiled in acknowledgement of his lie. “I'm very pleased with how your edits are coming along. You'll be close to publication soon.”

Shannon, despite being stoned, knew the woman at the door was too old to be Charlie's next appointment. She started giggling.

“Thanks—
Mr. Charlie
,” she finally said, smiling coyly—as coyly as a girl with dirty hair could smile.

She collected her belongings haphazardly, a pile of removed sweaters and various bags that she hung from her available limbs, and shuffled like a bag lady out the door. Ronnie moved out of her way but avoided eye contact as she closed the door behind her.

“Close to publication? Wow,” Ronnie remarked genuinely, sitting in the chair that the undergrad had vacated.

“Not a chance. I always say that. It just means I get to spend less time with them.”

“How awful.”

“More awful than destroying their dreams?”

“I suppose not.”

Ronnie crossed and then uncrossed her legs, scanning the room slowly. Books were piled haphazardly on every available surface, pushed up against walls, lying open face down on his desk. The room had the smell of damp paper.

“Your office. It's nice,” she said.

“You're being kind.”

“No. It's homey.”

“Well I've been trying to keep it tidy. Just in case.”

He was charming. Not bumbling. He was making Ronnie smile. A smile that didn't come from a place of mockery.

“Are all these books yours?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you read them all?”

“Most of them, yes.”

“I don't read that much,” she said, blushing.

“Reading's overrated.”

She shifted her weight and absently picked up a collection of Auden's poetry from his desk and flipped through it.

“Well Miss Kline, it took you a while to get here,” Charlie said, changing the subject.

“A month, yes. I've been busy.”

“Busy not reading?” he laughed.

“Just busy.”

This was actually not true. She had certainly not been busy, and she had actually been to his office much earlier than that but felt foolish when she learned that he had not moved in yet. A hairdresser was not aware that the university was still closed for the holiday break. She didn't mention this to Charlie, hoping that the distance between the party date and now would make her seem desirably casual about the visit. Desirable in general.

“I take it you got my letter?”

“No, I just followed the smell of desperation.”

“Cute. And did you bring the schnapps?”

“Yes, indeed I did. And two bologna sandwiches just in case you were hungry. I figured you'd like them given that mustard stain on your shirt the night of the party.”

“Very observant of you. Maybe you've got writer in you somewhere.”

“Doubtful.” Ronnie laughed nervously, returning the Auden to his desk to reach into her bag. She retrieved a silver flask and a plastic-wrapped kaiser roll, passing them both across his desk. It struck Charlie that a bologna sandwich was the perfect thing for a girl like Ronnie to bring. He felt comfortable, like she wasn't intimidating him. He was buoyed with confidence.

“Did you enjoy the reading the other night?” The words struck Ronnie suddenly, and she felt her stomach burn and knot with embarrassment.

“What reading?”

“My reading that you came to and ran away from before saying hello?”

“Oh, that reading,” she said, trying to be casual. “I didn't really understand it but you seemed like you knew what you were talking about.”

Charlie laughed as he unscrewed the cap of the flask. He took a swig, grimacing when the syrupy sweetness hit his lips.

“Honey, I never know what I'm talking about. God, how can you drink this?” He eyed the flask suspiciously. “Who's Aaron?”

“Excuse me?”

“Aaron. The flask. Engraved
,”
he said, holding it up and toward her. “
Sweet Rons, all my love, Aaron
.”

“You know full well who Aaron is,” Ronnie said combatively. “You sent mail to his business address.”

“Business address? You mean your apartment where the two of you live together, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“It's not hard to get people to tell me things, Ronnie.”

“Speaking of people telling me things, how's your sick child, Charlie?”

“I told you he's not sick. He has autism.”

“I hear that takes a lot of work. You must be a devoted parent.”

The accusations hung in the air. They'd transformed the conversation from playful to combative in mere seconds, gotten off to a bad start, despite the schnapps and sandwiches.

“Okay. Glad we got that out of the way. You're married with a special needs kid, and I'm living with someone. Yet, I still came to your office, didn't I?”

“Just because people have the things in their lives that they're supposed to want doesn't mean that they're happy, despite what other people may think,” Charlie said, punctuating his convoluted wisdom with another swig from the flask engraved with Aaron's name.

“Sounds like you're already drunk.”

“No, but I'd welcome it.”

Charlie took another swing and then put a framed picture of his family face down on his cluttered desk with no attempt to hide the gesture from Ronnie.

“Are we going to have an affair?” he asked her nonchalantly, unwrapping his sandwich and then licking the leaking mustard from his fingers.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A relatively simple one; are we going to have an affair?”

“Well, I'm not really sure yet.”

“You've had some time to think about it.”

Ronnie paused for a moment, looked at him thoughtfully, her expression betraying little. She noticed that Charlie had managed to get mustard on his shirt. Again. “You've got some . . .”

“So, Ronnie, what will make you sure?”

“Your shirt . . .”

“Never mind that.”

“Finish your sandwich. It's a little too early for that kind of talk.”

Charlie laughed. “Too early in the day, or too early in our relationship?”

“Now we have a relationship? I told you. Finish your sandwich.”

“Aaron didn't make it, did he?”

“Of course Aaron didn't make it. Aaron doesn't make bologna sandwiches. And Aaron doesn't know I'm here. I don't know why I'm here.”

“Take a guess.”

Ronnie paused for a moment, picking at her sandwich longingly, pulling pieces of the stale white bread bun apart with her fingers. “You're provoking me, Charlie.”

“I figure given our circumstances, we might as well get everything out on the table, no?”

“I don't know. I guess I can't stop thinking about you. We spoke for five minutes but I can't stop thinking about you,” she said. She returned to the Auden, if only to busy herself with something while tolerating his questions.

“Well, it seems you do have some willpower. It took you over a month to get here.”

“I was at the salon on a break. I saw your picture in the paper.”

“I'm always in the paper.”

“I'm always at the salon.”

“So you saw my picture in the paper.”

“And I decided it would be harmless.”

“So far, entirely harmless.”

“It doesn't feel harmless.”

“Put down the book, Ronnie.”

“Because of your son.”

“My son's name is Noah. He's eight.”

“I was a sick child.”

“Again. He's not that kind of sick, ” Charlie sighed, looking frustrated. “Put down the book, Ronnie.”

Despite the initial awkwardness, the shame in flirting shamelessly with a married man, a father, she felt a closeness to Charlie upon hearing about Noah. It seemed strange to want a married man more because he had a child, more attachments, more reasons to stay, but she felt an immediate closeness that warmed her completely. Because she had been sick herself she wanted to tell him that she had loved her youth, regardless of the constant trips to the doctor and the endless poking and prodding. Children adapt, she wanted to tell him. Children can find beauty in a hospital room, while the rest of us are compelled to suffer and complain over hangnails and disabled Internet connections. Children love things that love them back.

She wanted to ask Charlie what it was like to have that kind of love in his life, because she was quite sure she would never have it herself.

She finally obliged in returning the book to the desk. “I know, I just meant I was sick and I turned out okay.”

“More than okay, really.”

“Do you think we're going to have an affair, Charlie?”

“Maybe we should go for a walk first.”

It was snowing movie-style snow as they walked through campus, big fat flakes that caught in Ronnie's lashes and melted on her lips, and again she pulled her navy wool peacoat high around her neck, shivering.

“Cold?” Charlie asked, putting his arm around her, the first time he had touched her since his fingers met the inside of her thigh at the party weeks ago. Her stomach twisted and dipped, sending a shiver through her that she concealed with the cold. She was amazed a man so awkward came so easily to touching her. She leaned into him ever so slightly, testing the weight of his body, testing how much he could hold of her before things fell apart. With his free hand he pushed his glasses up his nose awkwardly.

“I'm really glad you came to my office, Ronnie.”

It had just begun to get dark, the red and green Christmas lights strung across campus bursting with a sudden blink of light. She welcomed the darkness, wary that someone might see them.

“So what do you do? At the salon.”

“What most people do at salons. I'm a hairdresser. I work on Yonge Street.”

“Do you like it?”

“Enough. It's busy. What do you do? I mean, besides write poems, talk about the creative process, and tell writers they're ready for publication soon.”

“I don't do much of anything else, really. I write things and people buy them occasionally.”

“What does your wife do?”

“Why would you ask me that? Right away?”

“Well, you know that Aaron is a caterer, it only seems fair, really.”

“Yes. Fair. Tamara is an environmental consultant for one of those companies that destroy the environment.”

“Seems valiant.”

“More well-meaning than valiant. She makes most of our money, just in case you were wondering how a poet can be such a snappy dresser. And she travels a lot.”

Charlie was unsure why he added that last detail. Or maybe he knew exactly why he added it.

“Who takes care of your son when you're both working?”

“We hired someone. Amanda. Someone who understands his—”

“Special needs.”

“I always hated that term. We all have special needs. To say it's just people like my son who have them is ridiculous. His needs are easier than most.”

Ronnie nodded in agreement, as if she understood even though she probably didn't. “Does Amanda live with you?”

“Sometimes. She has a room in our house but she's at her boyfriend's house a lot in the evenings. When we're home.”

“Is Amanda pretty?”

“Why?”

“I'm trying to picture her.”

“Yes. She's pretty. Blonde. Cheerful. Kind. But not particularly interesting.”

“I assume a lot of people don't seem interesting to you.”

“That's not true.”

“Does she read books?”

“I suppose, yes. She reads books. Most people read books.”

“Have you ever fantasized about her?”

“God. Why do you ask questions like that?” he said, pretending not to be pleased.

“You're saying that like you know what kind of questions I ask.”

“I don't know. You seem . . . reckless. Like you enjoy sticking your finger in a wound or putting your hand in a fire.”

Charlie saying this, out loud, seemed to solidify to the both of them that he didn't mind that Ronnie seemed reckless. In fact, her recklessness was just what he wanted.