The Silent Wife (19 page)

As they work their way through the salad, the squid, and the salmon en croute, he begins to feel as if he never left. Here they are in their usual places at the table, eating their dinner off the everyday plates. Not only is she wearing her ordinary clothes, but she hasn't bothered with the crystal, the silver, or even a tablecloth. The food is good, but Jodi has always known how to cook. The table is set with candles and cloth napkins, but this, too, is normal.

And then he gets it. She's intentionally giving the occasion a commonplace twist. This is not something that can happen only once, not a special event but a staple, something to be repeated. She wants them to go on as usual, behave as if nothing has changed. Making him dinner is part of ordinary life, and routine pleasures have always been her mainstay, the crux of her happiness, the theme of her existence. A bottle of wine, a homemade
meal, the delights of the domicile, predictable diversions, dependable comforts. He sees exactly where she's coming from. It's almost like a game.

He's been guilty of underestimating her. She has an admirable practical intelligence. There's a lovely clarity about her. It crosses his mind that men are going to notice her, that maybe they already have. It could be that in the time he's been gone other men have eaten their dinner off these very plates. And it could be that these other men have loved her, slept in his bed with her, made use of the toiletries he left behind. These are not pleasant thoughts and he struggles to quell his spiralling imagination, the part of him that wants to get up from the table and rage around the room, assert his dominance, his ownership.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he abruptly asks.

“Oh, you know,” she says. “The usual things.”

“Uh-huh.” He rearranges himself in his chair. “Who have you been seeing?”

“Is this the third degree?” she asks mildly.

“Not at all,” he says.

“Ellen, June, Alison.”

He drums his fingers. “Have you been seeing anyone, you know, romantically?”

Her eyes open wide. He can tell that she's surprised not only by the question but by the very idea.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “But you're attractive. It's going to happen. Men are going to pursue you. If they haven't already started.”

She has the food on her plate triangulated: salmon—peas—squash, the dividing trenches forming a loosely drawn peace sign.

“Which men?” she asks. “I don't
know
any men.”

“Well, ha ha, the world is full of men,” he says.

“Not in my profession. Psychology is full of women.”

“Adler and Freud and Jung are men,” he says, naming the stars in her professional constellation.

“Times have changed. It's all women now.”

He ought to shut up, he knows, but can't get the image out of his head now that he's conjured it up—a nameless, faceless male standing naked in his bathroom, still wet from the shower, schlong dangling, helping himself to the towels, the toothpaste, the shaving foam he left behind.

“You've been friendly with the Carson kid from down the hall,” he says.

“Joel Carson? He's only fifteen.”

“I've seen the way he looks at you.”

“He's a nice boy. Very sweet and innocent.”

“Teenage boys are not innocent.”

“Well, maybe not. But I'm old enough to be his mother.”

“You may be old enough to be his mother, but you're not his mother. And I bet he can tell the difference.”

“Todd, you're being ridiculous.”

“When I was his age I was in love with my history teacher. Her name was Miss Larabee and she was pretty and refined but also tough-minded and a hard marker, and she really turned me on. Come to think of it she was a lot like you. I thought about
her all the time. I'd imagine calling her up, taking her out on a date. I even offered to fix her car once. But it wasn't her car I was interested in.”

“Well, if that's what's going through Joel's head he gives no sign of it. The one time he was in here he stood by the door with his hand on the knob as if he couldn't wait to escape.”

“When was he in here?”

“He came in once to borrow a magazine. There was an article on the violinist, what's-his-name, the one who did the solos for
Angels and Demons
. Joel plays the violin beautifully.” She gets up to fetch another bottle of wine, brings it to the table and opens it, refills their empty glasses. “Not that it's any of your business,” she says. “Under the circumstances.”

“When did you hear him play?” asks Todd.

“I heard him play at his school concert.”

“You went to his school concert? Man, you are really tight with this kid.”

“Yeah, right. Joel Carson and I. Well, now that you've guessed, I might as well admit it. We've been having a torrid affair for quite some time now. It started on his fifteenth birthday. Or was it his fourteenth? Or maybe it was his twelfth. Funny, I can't remember. Maybe he was only nine or ten when we fell in love.”

“Okay, I get it,” he says. “But you're attractive, beautiful, you know that, and anyone with eyes in his head is going to notice you—even a pimply kid who plays the violin.”

“Joel is not pimply.”

“Whatever,” says Todd, losing interest in the Carson boy.

“The point is that you're a knockout and you're fantastic and I've loved you from the first moment I saw you, and yes you were soaking wet and you'd just smashed up my car, but you were magnificent. And you still are.”

He sees her eyes welling up, reaches across the table for her hand, suddenly understands that he's been wandering rootless, that he woke up one day in someone else's life and couldn't find his way home. Sitting here now, clasping her hand in his, he feels that time is passing at a distance, like a train on a faraway track, that in this open-ended moment all the thoughts and feelings that he's pushed aside are gathering in force.

“I've missed you,” he says. “I've missed coming home and I've missed getting into bed with you and I've missed waking up beside you—and all I can say is that I must have been out of my mind to think I could give you up.”

She grips his hand and the tears start to flow, his and hers, watering their shrunken hearts and wilted love. They look into each other now, past the strangeness and the distance, and when at last they dry their eyes and she gets up and serves the chocolate mousse, they spoon it up like greedy children, lick out their bowls, and laugh at themselves.

After the table has been cleared and she's at the sink rinsing dishes, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair coming loose in tendrils, he approaches her from behind, slides his arms around her waist, and rests his chin on the top of her head.

“I love you,” he says.

She turns to face him, swivelling in the circle of his arms, hands clasped to her chest as if in prayer.

“I'm still getting used to the change in you,” she says. “It's not just the hair and clothes. You look younger. Have you lost weight?”

His hands explore the delicate bones of her back and shoulders, relearn her subtle curves and childlike proportions. He's already grown accustomed to Natasha, her sturdy frame and padded hips, the exaggerated recess of her waist.

“It's an illusion,” he says.

She murmurs into his chest, her breath warming his skin through the cotton of his shirt. “If I'd passed you in the street I wouldn't have known you. I would have walked right by without giving you a second glance.”

“I would have stopped you and introduced myself.”

As she smiles up at him and says, “I don't speak to strange men,” he feels her letting go, collapsing against him as if she's turned to jelly.

“You need to get over that,” he tells her.

With very little effort he scoops her up and holds her bodily in his arms as if she were unconscious or a corpse. Even her dead weight is doll-like and negligible. As he carries her across the threshold to the bedroom he remembers this about Jodi, the peculiar slackness that overtakes her when she's aroused.

15

HER

She's lingering over breakfast when a call comes in from the office of Harry LeGroot. The caller is Harry's assistant, an earnest girl named Daphne, whom Jodi has met once or twice in the past.

“Mr. LeGroot has asked me to contact you,” says Daphne. “He would like to be in touch with your lawyer. If you would be so kind as to provide us with a name and phone number. Mr. LeGroot would like to get the process started.”

Jodi hears the words but they whistle around her like random gusts of wind. If Todd has some legal business that he wants to run by her, he should speak to her about it himself.

“Mrs. Gilbert? Are you there?”

“I'm here,” she says. “Tell me again. What is it you want me to do?”

“You really don't need to do anything, Mrs. Gilbert.” Daphne's tone is friendly yet businesslike. “The main thing is that Mr. LeGroot would like to get the process started as soon as possible, so we will need your lawyer's name and telephone number.”

Todd and his motives, intentions, and whereabouts have been on her mind since the night he came to dinner, the night they made a new beginning. The way it worked out she couldn't have wished for a more idyllic coming together, a more gratifying renewal of their bond. She was right to invite him, right to make the first move. She didn't like it when, afterward, he got up and left, but she could take it in stride knowing that nothing worthwhile happens overnight, that things coalesce in their own way and in their own time. It could be that they'll date for a while before he moves back home, that's what she's been thinking, and she can resign herself to that. But she doesn't understand why he hasn't called.

Still holding the phone she moves into the living room where the sun gleams off the furniture and picks out the colours in the carpet.

“Sorry, Daphne, I don't quite follow you,” she says. “Why not tell Harry to call my husband and go over the matter with him. I'm sure that would be the best solution.”

At this, Daphne exclaims as though she's been struck. “Oh, Mrs. Gilbert! I'm so sorry. I thought you knew.”

She's evidently made some sort of blunder, but instead of signing off to regroup and perhaps consult her employer, Daphne holds her ground, stumbling through an explanation that Jodi refuses to hear and offering advice that isn't welcome.

“If I were you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she concludes, “I would hire myself a really good divorce lawyer.”

Which prompts Jodi to hit the off button.

Having tidied away her breakfast things she pulls out the files on her two Friday clients and reads through her notes. First is Cinderella, a plain girl lacking in self-esteem. A night proofreader for one of the local dailies, her constant complaint is that life is passing her by. Jodi has been proactive in pointing out options, encouraging her to take small steps that could have exponential effects. She might, for example, take a course, join a gym, or do any number of things to improve her appearance, such as getting contact lenses or a good haircut. If you need to get out of a mental rut it's often easiest to change something on the outside and let the inner changes follow. When you make an effort on your own behalf, circumstance will quite often veer helpfully in your direction. Jodi believes this. She's seen it happen. It's ultimately what prompted her to take the initiative in inviting Todd to dinner.

Her second client, the prodigal son, is a young man with a trust fund whose parents routinely pay his debts. Because he's young and still finding his feet, because he hasn't yet discovered his potential or his limits, and because his parents chip away at his confidence, Jodi offers him unconditional support. He needs to find things out for himself. And if she took his parents' side he would simply shut down.

Not until late in the afternoon does she get the call from Todd that she's been more or less expecting since her conversation
with Daphne. She feels uncertain about him now and doesn't know quite what to think. But insofar as she is still holding out hope—for some sort of promise for the future—she is quickly brought to her senses.

“You know my situation,” he says. “I'm struggling to stay on top of things right now.”

“I'm confused. You need to explain to me why I need a lawyer.”

“Why does anyone need a lawyer? You need a lawyer to look after your interests. Listen to me, Jodi. This doesn't need to be personal. It doesn't have to come between us. Let the lawyers sort it out so we can still be friends.”

Her mental reckoning jams like a faulty calculator. She has failed to compute things correctly, and now she's at a loss. “Friends. Is that what we are? You'd better explain that because I don't get it.”

“Jodi, Jodi, you need to relax. We love each other. We share a history. Things change, that's all. It's healthy for people to evolve and move on. That's something
you're
always telling we.”

“Fine. People evolve. So if that's the case then what were you doing here the other night? What was that about?”

“Would you rather we didn't see each other? How does that make sense? I miss you. I'd like to see you once in a while.”

“You'd like to see me once in a while.”

“Of course I would. Don't you feel the same?”

16

HIM

Natasha is busy with plans for the wedding, which is coming up fast. Every night at dinner she monologues about flowers, menus, table settings, music, vows, favours, and cake until he wants to gag her. She's already taken him shopping for a suit, and that at least was rewarding. When he tried it on in the store he was dazzled by the elegant cut and the youthful silhouette it gave him. He didn't look at the price tag and waited outside while she paid for it with the credit card he'd given her. The wedding is costing him a fortune, and on top of everything else she's pushing for a honeymoon in Rio. This is not a good time for him to be throwing money around.