The War of the Roses: The Children (4 page)

Because of the destructive nature of their parent's experiences, they had amplified the essence of their marriage vows beyond merely “love and honor” and “until death do us part,” to the absolutes of honesty, openness, truth, and, above all, faithfulness. They allowed themselves to believe that such virtues, if practiced by their parents, might have avoided all subsequent horrors. Currently, most if not all of these bedrock virtues were being badly betrayed by Josh's behavior. As a result, guilt and self-loathing were eating him alive.

Before getting into the shower, he placed his cell phone in the charger to cover his story, then inspected his shirt for any telltale stains. He had contrived a costume of white cuff-linked shirts with a kind of attached shallow priest-like collar, which he wore to work under shapeless Italian jackets.

It was, he knew, a deliberate creative director's ploy to emphasize his individuality, a kind of armor to allow him the distance and mystique of eccentricity, which, in his business, translated into the perception of talent. It was, he knew, a benign form of deception, at the heart of the advertising game he played so well.

Satisfied that he had obliterated all clues, he threw the shirt in the hamper, sniffed his jockey shorts—they were brand new and slipped on after the tryst, a deliberate caution to mute the scent of any residual body fluids. He imagined a faint sign but not enough for danger and flung it after the shirt. Only then did he step into the hot shower soaping himself raw to remove any tangible signs of Angela Bocci.

God, how I hate myself, he cried in his heart, emphasizing this heavy burden of conscience by vigorously soaping the root cause of this problem. You Lobo, he whispered, slapping his penis, hoping humor might restore his equilibrium. You made me do it.

Cleansed of all microscopic evidence, he baby powdered himself, slipped into pajamas, slippers, and robe and padded down the hall to the bedrooms of his sleeping children. He watched them for a moment from the doorway, then entered and planted kisses on their cool foreheads. The act punished him further, bringing tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat.

Taking deep breaths to stem a sudden pang of anxiety, he moved downstairs to the den where Victoria lay curled on the couch. She offered him a troubled look and handed him the glass of Glenfiddich, half of which he polished off in a single gulp, hoping the surge would chase the panic.

“You look pale, Josh.”

“I'm bushed,” he replied, sinking flatly into one of the easy chairs opposite the couch. The den was spacious, with exposed beams and high ceilings. It offered a calming effect with its polished cherry wood panels and floor-to-ceiling book shelves. They were filled with his prized collection of books on advertising art and her leather-bound sets by Victorian authors. Above the bookshelves in the space between the shelves and the ceiling nestled her colorful collection of Victorian straw hats.

His wife had filled every available surface with her collection of Victoriana knickknacks, inkwells, porcelain vases, angels, and cobalt blue bells that she had lovingly acquired over the years. Lined up on the mantelpiece were more of her knickknacks.

These displays were not limited to the den. Throughout the house were framed “fashion plates” of that era. When her mother came to visit on Christmas, she would often heap vocal criticism on what she called “a pack of old junk.”

The
pièce de resistance
was the oil painting of Queen Victoria in her prime that hung over the fireplace. Josh had bought it for her on their honeymoon in England. In an odd way, he considered it a not-too-subtle attack on Victoria's mother, who had never been told about her daughter's visit to her estranged father.

Victoria was, after all, as her father had revealed, named after this long-reigning royal. No psychiatrist was needed to explain the obsession. It was a validation of sorts, a link to absent and unknown antecedents. In an upstairs closet, she had a collection of Victorian dresses, which she would occasionally try on in the privacy of her bedroom. Early in their marriage, such episodes had been a sexual turn-on, especially for Victoria. Josh viewed it as a harmless eccentricity.

Josh understood it perfectly and had his own less extensive but equally heartfelt nostalgic exercise. He had retained those few still-intact Staffordshire figures that had been his father's pride. Scattered among the books were what was left of his collection of Napoleons and Shakespeares, as well as a prized Neptune that had escaped the carnage.

As a sentimental gesture, he had purchased another set of boxers, figures of the eighteenth-century combatants Cribb and Molineux, that had brought his parents together for the first time at an auction in Cape Cod. They faced each other in imaginary combat, Molineux the black man, Cribb the white, in a glass box especially made to protect them.

Periodically, Victoria would devote a day or two to dusting, cleaning, and often rearranging the various objects in her collection. She never trusted the job to cleaning ladies.

The den, which was by far the house's most dramatic and dominant room, had been chosen as their designated place of family gathering, reflection, and refuge, and so far it had served its purpose handily. It was also the central point for their stereo system, which played through speakers strategically located throughout the house. They both enjoyed classical music. At the moment he could hear the strains of Chopin's polonaise.

“Maybe you're pushing too hard,” Victoria sighed.

“I'm fine,” he said, brushing her sincere worry aside. “Now tell me what happened at Michael's school.”

Victoria had a narrative style that left no detail expunged. She described the Crespos and Mr. Tatum, mimicked their words contemptuously, and provided an analysis of her own reaction and possible scenarios for further action.

He listened patiently, watching her, marveling at her still-lovely alabaster skin, unblemished and white against her black hair, the bangs deliberately cut imperfectly, giving her a perpetually wind-blown look. He had always admired her chiseled nose, slightly off-center smile, and her almond-shaped eyes with their hazel irises, which burned as vivid as emeralds in the bright light.

She was tall, her posture straight as an arrow, with a lithe, efficient body, small breasts, and flat stomach, which miraculously resisted extra flesh. She had the movement, style, face, and figure of a young Jane Fonda lookalike, a comparison that she dismissed although he could tell it pleased her immensely. Knowing he had betrayed this lovely unsuspecting woman for the past six months made him ache with remorse. It was a violation of such enormity that the very thought of being discovered was enough to trigger the shakes and nausea. He was sick at heart.

Glenfiddich in hand, he listened to her narrative with a conscience so burdened that he felt as if a gargantuan weight was pressing painfully on his chest.

“He says the Crespo girl is lying.”

“Then let's leave it at that.”

“One would think a mother has a sixth sense about these things. I know my child and I know the atmosphere in which we have raised him. Trust is everything in this house.”

He felt his stomach tighten and a backwash of liquor singed the back of his throat. He could barely nod his agreement.

“Everything,” he managed to croak.

“Any doubt might destroy his trust in us.”

She stroked her chin and squeezed her eyes shut.

“We must never do that.”

“I will not confront him again. No more. Nor will I allow the Crespos to intimidate us. No way. Their child is obviously a border hysteric. They raised the question of expulsion, which infuriated me. Never will I let that happen. Never.”

She was obviously deeply troubled by the event at the school.

“I wish I had been there with you,” he said. “You shouldn't have to go through this alone.”

Later, lying beside her in bed, tears seeped out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He could not carry the burden of Angela any longer.

Angela was one of the most talented designers on his staff. Even in her initial job interview he could see by her samples that she had a flair for design. She had showed him some of her paintings as well, and he was astonished by her skill and imagination. He hired her on the spot. At the time, his only consideration was her work. Her gender was immaterial. He had hired both men and women, and nothing beyond their work had ever entered his mind. With regard to the women, sexual stirrings were as far away as Mars. Then why?

Angela was married, the mother of two young girls. She lived in a row house in Brooklyn with her husband Dominic, who was the manager of a men's clothing store in Queens. The Boccis were one of those very close-knit middle-class Italian families. While she worked, her mother cared for the kids. Nothing in her background could provide a clue to her subsequent behavior.

She was only marginally pretty in the conventional sense, with black curly hair cut short, a high arched Roman nose, cupid lips, and a thin earnest face. Her body was, despite birthing two children, hard and tight. Yet, no one would take her for possessing such an aggressive and explosive sexuality.

“To the whole world, I'm a nice Italian girl. I'm a good mother. I'm a model spouse. I go to church. I go to confession. On the outside I'm a very traditional breeder wife with a typical macho Italian husband whose brains are in his dick and who treats me like an entitlement. He is totally ignorant of my talent and my inner world. I play my part. Who would suspect?”

She had said this wiping her mouth with a tissue as he hiked up his pants in his office, feeling like he had just stuck a knife in Victoria's heart. The fact that she had been the aggressor was hardly a reason to absolve himself of all blame. He had been an ardent participant.

They had been looking over her concept for a hosiery ad, sitting together on his office couch and she had reached out and rubbed his thigh.

“This is not smart,” he had told her, removing her hand.

“What has smart got to do with it?” she had said, looking at him with large Mediterranean eyes. “I want this.” Again she put her hand on his thigh.

“I'm not looking for trouble.”

“Do you think I'm looking for trouble?” She giggled. “Here's what I'm looking for.” She began to stroke him.

“Don't, Angela,” he said, but he did not remove her hand.

“You see. We've got his attention.”

“We're putting ourselves in jeopardy,” he whispered. But by then he was already yielding, feeling the pleasure take hold.

“From the moment I saw you,” she said. “This is what I wanted.”

“I can't do this,” he had protested.

“So I see.”

She lifted her skirt, pulled down her panty hose, moved to her knees and inserted him, putting her knuckles in her mouth to squelch any sound. She came before him, then came again. Her body vibrated.

“Oh my God,” he cried, feeling the pleasure start in his toes and rise in him like a geyser, exploding.

Even before he had calmed, he felt remorse.

“This can't go on.”

“Yes it can. Don't worry so much.”

It was then she made her speech again about being a good Italian girl, to which she added, “I've never done this. I swear it. Not since I've been with Dom.”

He distrusted her explanation. She had been too wildly aggressive, too uninhibited and immodest.

“Neither have I.”

That, he knew, was the absolute truth.

“Everybody knows you're a straight arrow around here, Josh, a real family man.” She pointed to a photograph of his wife and children. “She's a knockout and the kids are gorgeous.”

His reaction was to turn the picture around.

“It's only a picture, for God's sake. This has nothing to do with them. Or my family. This is about me and you, about our needs.” Her eyes glazed and seemed to be consulting some inner muse. “I need to feel. I need an outlet for my passion. Up to now I've been a very good girl. All the guys see me as untouchable. Don't I keep my public aura forbidding? Nobody would dare hit on me at this place.”

“Because it's too dangerous, Angela,” Josh muttered.

“Not with me. I promise you.” She made the sign of the cross. “Don't ask me why, but I'd like to be your whore. It's a mystery. I've been walking around here wet as hell since I first met you.”

Despite what they had just done, her language shocked him.

“Why me?”

“Call it one of life's mysteries,” she said.

“Dammit, Angela. This is crazy.”

“Tell me about it. I never thought I'd have the guts to do this.”

“Let's forget it ever happened,” he told her.

“Why do that?” she pouted. “I'm not talking involvement here. I don't want to mess up our other lives. I'm talking recreation, entertainment. Wild passion. Hot sex. I promise you no complications, no angst.” She crossed herself again. “I love hard, quick sex. It's what I've fantasized about. With you. Where's the harm? You loved it, too. Admit it.”

It was as if a satyr had lay hidden in his psyche, waiting for the moment to emerge and possess him. He found himself looking for logic in a place where it was alien. He hadn't realized he could be so vulnerable. But then such an aggressive female had never approached him.

“I'm your boss, dammit,” he said. That wasn't all. Angela's work was imaginative and multi-faceted. She could design and illustrate with a gift for articulating an idea that made her a standout at meetings. She was a recognized major asset to the creative staff, and, because of her talent, he was grooming her for bigger things. The implications of their relationship were endless.

“Makes it even safer. We work together. People around here know I'm teacher's pet. Deservedly so, right? We can pick the safest time and the safest place. No fuss, no muss, no bother. I'm on the pill. I haven't been with strange men and you haven't been with strange women. That eliminates the AIDS issue and means we can ride bareback. No misplaced condoms to worry about. We're okay as long as we keep it in the right compartment. No emotional brouhahas. Just dirty sex on demand. And this I promise. Whoever wants out, good-bye. No tears or torment.”