The Friends We Keep (31 page)

94

 

Jake had been waiting for me in bed.

I hadn't even taken off my coat when Sophie appeared and everything blew up so spectacularly. Of course, she knew the truth immediately.

No point in telling her I hadn't planned on joining her son in his bed. That was the truth but she wouldn't have believed me. Besides, the damage had already been done.

John. Sophie would tell John and then I would really have no one. I was engulfed in shame. “What's wrong with me?” I cried to my empty apartment and I swear my words echoed off the blank walls, slapping me from head to foot.

I called Sophie at home, not expecting her to answer. She didn't. “It's Eva,” I said, tremblingly, into the phone. “Please, let me apologize.”

I called again later and left the same message. I called a third time and when I heard the automated voice again I hung up.

The silence of my life was profound.

95

 

“I just never thought . . . It never crossed my mind that . . .”

“Why should it have crossed your mind? It's absolutely outrageous.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“You're not stupid.”

“I feel so betrayed.” I looked up at Ben, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Neither of us had touched the tea he'd poured. I hadn't eaten anything since finding Eva with my son the day before.

“Yes,” he said, “you were betrayed. But I can't believe they acted with the intention to hurt you.”

“It's not Jake's fault,” I said, suddenly angry. What did this person know, this person who'd had sex with the woman who defiled my son! “He's young. He's not to blame.”

Ben said nothing. I stood; my chair scraped harshly against the floor but I didn't care about the noise or the damage. Nothing mattered, nothing.

“I just can't do this, Ben,” I said, looking down at this man who seemed alien to me. “I'm sorry. It's too weird. It's too incestuous. I can't.”

Ben bowed his head. Oh, please, I thought, don't let him be crying, not that, or I'll start to scream. But when he looked back up at me his eyes were dry. Pained but calm, as if he was used to accepting disappointing news.

“I wish this wasn't happening,” he said. “I wish there was something I could say or do to—to help.”

“But there isn't.” I didn't believe that there could be.

When Ben left I curled up in bed and sobbed for a long, long time. Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep. I don't remember if I dreamed.

The next morning, groggy, my head aching, I climbed wearily out of bed. My once-lovely bedroom looked dreary. The thought of dressing and going to work was impossible. I climbed back into bed and reached for the phone.

The voice mail picked up; John must already have left for his office. In a mechanical way I told him that our friend had been having an affair with my son since just after our reunion at Marino's—the night we'd toasted our friendship.

“One more thing,” I said, my voice ragged. “Ben and I. It's over.”

96

 

Acquaintances in adversity, two people brought together by disappointment in love. This was what Ben and I were, as we sat hunched over coffees a few days after I got Sophie's shocking message.

“I'm in love with her,” I told him. “I don't always admire her behavior. I don't always agree with her choices. But I love her. I think I might be insane.”

Ben smiled faintly. “You're not insane. There's something compelling about Eva. And there's a lot more to her than she lets on. It's just—”

“Just what? That she's a challenge only a glutton for punishment would take on?”

“Well, yes.”

“Assuming,” I said, “that Eva would allow me to try. How pitiful is it to be my age and suffering a case of unrequited love for a woman who eats men for breakfast and makes soup out of their bones for lunch?”

Ben gave me a reproving look. “She's not all that bad, John. I think she's more frightened than frightening. Of course, that's easy for me to say, from this safe distance.”

“I know,” I said. “About her being frightened. I realize that now. But, Jesus, what was she thinking having an affair with Sophie's son!”

“I'm not so sure she was thinking.”

“I don't want to be judgmental but I swear, she drives me to it. Then again, it's not hard for me to be judgmental. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.”

“She was wrong,” Ben said, “there's no doubt about it. But Jake was culpable, too. Not that Sophie's ready to admit that. She thinks the boy walks on water. And she's not doing him a service by idolizing him.”

“Not that you can point that out to her,” I said unnecessarily.

Ben smiled ruefully. “Especially now that I'm the ex-boyfriend.”

We sat in brooding, moody silence, sipping our ridiculously overpriced coffees. The companionship felt good.

“About whom was it said that he was ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know'?” I asked.

“Lord Byron, by Lady Caroline Lamb. She became one of his lovers. Actually, the words could have been used to describe her, too.”

“Huh.”

Ben frowned. “Wait a minute. You're not thinking of Eva, are you?”

“Well,” I said bleakly, “it had occurred . . .”

“Don't demonize her, John.”

“I'm not. I'm just being an ass. I'll get over it.” But when? And when would I be able to see Eva again without thinking of her with Jake, without wanting to shake her, without wanting to kiss her?

“I'm going to get another coffee.” Ben went up to the counter of the pretentious little shop and suddenly I wondered if he knew about my brief fling with Sophie back in college. If he did know, the news didn't seem to be troubling him. And if he didn't know, there was no point in my telling him. Sharing that information was Sophie's right. That is, it had been her right. Back when she was in a relationship with Ben.

“What are you going to do about Sophie?” I asked when Ben returned with a fresh cup of coffee. “I could talk to her if you think it would help.”

Ben shook his head. “No, but thanks. Sophie needs to work things out on her own. But she means a lot to me, John. I am going to try to talk with her again. I am going to ask her to reconsider our relationship. I have to. I can't just let her slip away. Some people you just can't give up without a fight.”

“Yeah. And the key to success is to fight smart. Pick the right strategy and employ it at the right time.”

“Yes,” Ben said with a half smile. “That would be the challenge.”

“Sophie might come around on her own, you know,” I said. “It's possible. Anything's possible.”

Ben shrugged, uninspired by my lame remark.

“I think we should be drinking something stronger than coffee.”

Ben checked his watch. “Six-fifteen. The bar at The Grille just opened.”

“Let's go.”

97

 

“John?”

I looked up from the brief I was reading to see Ellen at the door. She'd closed it behind her. “What's wrong?” I asked. “You look weird.”

“Uh, thanks. And what's wrong is that Gene's wife is here to see you.”

“Gene's wife?”

“Her name is Marie, in case you've forgotten.”

“I haven't forgotten. What does she want?”

“I don't know, she didn't say. I'm assuming she's here—actually, I have no idea why she's here.”

“Okay, well, send her in.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and Ellen? Don't eavesdrop. I'll tell you everything—if I can.”

Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper. “Wouldn't it be fabulous if she wants to hire you as her divorce attorney!”

“Leaving aside the conflict of interest, yes, in one way it would be . . . fabulous. Not that I like to see a pregnant woman dragged through a nasty court battle, and you know any divorce involving Gene would be nasty.”

“Maybe not. Guys like him are usually cowards at bottom. Notice I don't say ‘at heart' because guys like Gene don't have hearts. I bet—”

“Uh, Ellen.”

“Oh, right. I'll send her in.”

The word that came first to mind in describing Marie Patton was plain. Nondescript came next. She wasn't unattractive as much as she was . . . not noticeable. Of course, standing next to Gene she was virtually invisible. She was exactly the foil Gene required to satisfy his insatiable need for attention.

I asked if she wanted anything to drink. She said no. I indicated a guest chair and she perched on the edge of its seat.

“I know that Gene isn't in the office this afternoon,” she said. “He told me he'd be in court.”

“Okay.” I was glad Gene hadn't lied to her this time. More than once I'd heard him on the phone, telling his wife he'd be working late when I knew full well he was meeting one of his girlfriends. And spending money on booze that he should have been spending on decorating a nursery.

“I didn't want him to see me talking to you.”

“Marie, why don't you tell me why you're here?”

“I remembered,” she said. “I remembered how nice you were to me at the Christmas party last year.”

“Oh,” I said, “well, I enjoyed talking to you. It was my pleasure.”

“Mr. Felitti—”

“You can call me John.”

“Okay. John. I . . . This is very hard for me.”

Her eyes were pleading. I nodded sympathetically for her to go on.

“Mr. Felitti—John—I think my husband is cheating on me. I've thought this for some time now but, well, I've kept my suspicions to myself.”

Oh, crap, I thought. This is going to be bad.

“Go on,” I said, and my voice cracked a bit.

“I . . . I know my personal life is none of your business. I know it's not your job to get involved with the home life of your employees . . .”

“Only if problems in the home life are affecting performance in the office,” I said, more to buy time than for any other reason.

“Yes, of course. I wouldn't know about Gene's performance here,” she said. “He doesn't tell me much about his work.” Marie looked off, as if embarrassed. “You see, Mr. Felitti, my husband doesn't consider me very bright.”

I didn't correct her this time. Maybe the formality of my surname offered some degree of distance from or protection against the terribly personal nature of her visit.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. I wanted to say more, about how Gene was a jackass, but I didn't.

Marie sighed and the weight of her sorrow and humiliation were in that sigh. “I wonder,” she began. “I guess what I mean to say is that—I need some advice. I don't know what to do, Mr. Felitti.”

“Have you confronted Gene?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer to my question.

Marie laughed uncomfortably. “Oh, no. He's quicker than I am. He'd prove in about a minute that I was an idiot for doubting him. And I'd believe him. You see, Mr. Felitti, that's how things have always been between us.”

Lovely. An emotionally abusive relationship. But maybe the fact that Marie was aware of her situation was an indication of a change to come. Maybe. I'd seen too many victims ultimately succumb to their tormentors, even after several bold attempts at liberation.

“Marie, do you want a divorce?” I asked bluntly.

“No! Absolutely not. My parents—a divorce is impossible.”

“Would you go to counseling? If Gene would agree to go?”

“I would have to keep it from my parents,” she said. “But yes, I would go to counseling—if I could convince Gene to go with me. But he would never agree.” Marie looked at me squarely. “You know Gene, Mr. Felitti. You know what he's like.”

“Even men like Gene,” I said, “if faced with the possibility of the end of a marriage, have been known to agree to counseling.”

“You have more faith in him than I do,” Marie said.

“Marie, I'm going to ask you a very important question. Do you love your husband?”

“In spite of everything,” she said promptly, “yes. I do.”

That moron, I thought. He has no idea how good he has it.

“But you want things to change?” I asked.

“Yes.” Marie's voice took on a note of urgency. “Things have to change. Not so much because of me, because I'm unhappy—”

That, I thought, is your biggest problem right there. It should all be because of you.

“—but because of our baby. I don't want to raise our child alone, Mr. Felitti. I want our child to be proud of his father. For the sake of our family, I want Gene to stop seeing other women. If he's seeing other women!”

“You still have doubts,” I said, in disbelief.

Marie looked at her lap as she answered. “I can't help but think that maybe I'm making it all up, that all the little signs I think I see really mean nothing at all.”

Yes, I could see how years with Gene could compel an already doubt-riddled woman to consider her sanity. I withheld a sigh and asked: “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

Marie looked up. “I want you to tell me the truth. If you know Gene is seeing other women, I want you to tell me, please. Then, maybe, I'll have the courage to confront him. If I have proof then he can't tell me I'm wrong.”

“My word,” I said carefully, “wouldn't be proof. Gene could claim that I was lying. My word would only backfire on you.”

“Oh.” Marie rose abruptly from the chair. “Well, thank you, Mr. Felitti, for your time. I'm sorry I bothered you.”

This is ridiculous, I thought. Why am I protecting this bum at the cost of his wife's sanity?

“Marie, wait.” I reached for a piece of notepaper and wrote out the name and address of Gene's favorite nightspot. “Tuesday, at seven. There's a good chance Gene will be here. He probably won't be alone. If you want proof.”

Marie took the paper with a surprisingly steady hand. “How can I thank you, Mr. Felitti?”

“There's no need for thanks,” I said. “I wish I could do something more. In the future—”

“I will.”

At the door, Marie turned. “One more thing,” she said. “There's no need to tell Gene about our talk, is there?”

“Absolutely not. It will be our little secret.”

“Our little secret.”

“Take care of yourself, Marie.”

Marie smiled a bit. “I'm trying.”

When she had gone I sat alone with my guilt at having ratted out my colleague. And I sat alone with my pleasure at having helped my colleague's deserving wife.

“You got involved, didn't you?”

I looked up. Ellen.

“You could be a cat burglar, you know?” I asked.

“Stealth is useful. What just went on in here?”

I told her what Marie had said. And I told her what I'd done.

“You interfered,” she accused.

“I had to,” I explained.

“I understand. I just hope your good intentions don't lead Mrs. Patton straight to hell.”

“For just one moment can I please enjoy the fact that I screwed Gene?”

“One moment. And then you'd better start praying things don't blow up.”