to his rabbi (“A great guy, Joe!”), had heard positive comments from friends of friends. The Stollmans, her mother had learned, were solid people, well liked by the San Francisco Jewish community.
Eve knew that Joe had spent a year in an Israeli yeshiva after high school and had worked as a day trader in Brooklyn before returning to San Francisco, where he obtained his administrator’s license in a nursing home. Eve knew little about his six-month marriage. Joe didn’t like to talk about his ex-wife. All Eve knew was her name. Karen.
None of which was damning, Eve had to admit.
Eve knew what Joe would say if she told him about the woman in the dream.
That was true. But . . .
Eve got out of bed and searched through Joe’s things, first in the armoire, then in the dresser. She found nothing suspicious, no references to another woman, no photos. In Joe’s nightstand she did find every note she’d written to him since they’d met, every card she’d given him.
The door to the bathroom was open. She stepped inside. The room would be beautiful when it was finished, airy and spacious, so elegant with the white marble.
She frowned. Nails were protruding from the cement backer boards. Stepping closer, she noticed gouges in the boards. She examined the bottom of the shower. The marks and cracks on the mortar were back.
“KEN IS GOING to quit,” Eve told Joe when he returned from
Joe examined the nails, studied the mortar.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
He was quiet over lunch. When they finished dessert, he said, “I have to tell you something, Eve. You’re going to be upset, but I’m hoping you can keep an open mind. Okay?”
Eve gripped the edge of the table. He wanted a divorce. He wanted to be with the brown-haired woman in Eve’s dreams. “Okay,” she said. As if she had a choice.
“I’ve been thinking about the bathroom,” he said. “The marks, the nails.”
The bathroom. In her relief Eve almost laughed.
“Is it possible—don’t answer before you hear me out, okay?—is it possible that you’ve been walking in your sleep and doing stuff you don’t remember?”
“You bastard.” Her lips were white.
“You’re taking Ambien every night, right? Ambien makes some people hallucinate, Eve. It can make people walk in their sleep and binge without knowing what they’re doing. It was in the news, remember? We talked about it. There are cases of people who didn’t know they were driving, for God’s sake.”
Eve shook her head.
“Think about it, babe,” Joe said. “That’s all I ask.”
Eve went back to her bed. When Joe came into the room she turned on her side. A moment later he was lying next to her.
“Eve, you know I love you. The Ambien is the only thing that makes sense.”
“The floors are ruined.”
“What?”
“The hardwood floors we just paid two thousand dollars to refinish? There are tons of scratches. You probably made them when you were moving the boxes.”
Joe rolled onto his back. “You didn’t say anything.”
“Well, now I am.”
He sighed. “What is this, tit for tat?”
“There are scratches on our bedroom floor, too.”
“You helped me move the beds, Eve. We were both careful about the floors. Maybe Ken’s guys did it.”
“Why don’t you tell him that, Joe? He’ll charge us double for redoing the shower pan, again.”
Eve gazed out the window.
THAT NIGHT SHE didn’t take an Ambien. She dreamed she was at her parents’ house. Joe and the brown-haired woman—Eve hated her!—were alone in a hall. She heard Joe whispering, “You can’t imagine the hell I’ve been through, Eve was so crazy.” She heard the woman saying, “No one blames you, Joey, everyone knows she was suicidal.”
And then the voices:
Sunday morning she told Joe she hadn’t taken an Ambien.
“And?” he said.
“You were right. No nightmare, no voices.”
He grinned. “Well, now we know. I’m sorry about the floors, Eve. I should have been more careful. We’ll get them redone after everything’s finished. And don’t worry about Ken. I’ll smooth things out, guy to guy. It’ll cost us, but the main thing is you’re okay. This is great, babe, isn’t it?”
“It really is,” Eve said, trembling with hate so strong, it frightened her.
Joe would tell Ken. They would laugh about it, guy to guy,
The noises she’d heard the first night had been animal sounds. Cats or squirrels, maybe birds. But her anxiety had given Joe the idea to frighten her. He was very clever, her Joe. He’d probably made a tape that he played when Eve was sleeping.
It had taken Eve a while to puzzle out why Joe would do something so cruel and hateful. When she did, she was angry at herself for being so stupid.
Joe wanted the house. He didn’t want her. He would make her so terrified that she would beg him to sell the house. He would refuse. They would divorce. He would remain in the house and everyone would say, “No one can blame him. Eve was crazy.”
Eve tried to define the moment Joe had stopped loving her. Then she wondered if he had loved her at all. Maybe it had always been about the inheritance, which she had foolishly mentioned when they were dating.
Well, Eve had news for Joe. She wanted a divorce, too. And guess what,
Eve decided to bide her time before confronting Joe. She needed proof. She considered moving out, but she had to stay in the house, to protect her claim.
Squatters’ rights,
Of course, Joe wouldn’t leave. Oh, no. Joe would continue his campaign of fear to drive her out.
She was stronger than he knew.
A MIGRAINE KEPT Eve in bed the entire day, and the next and the next. The nightmares and voices disturbed her nights. The headaches, along with increasing fatigue and listlessness, made getting up in the morning impossible.
On Thursday the school principal called again. Eve told him she wasn’t coming back.
Joe looked genuinely worried. “Maybe a therapist can help you get a handle on this, honey. Do you want me to make some calls?”
A day earlier Eve, listening in on the phone extension on her nightstand, had overheard Joe telling Ken they had to put the project on hold. “My wife isn’t well. I’m sure you understand.”
Her mother came every day. “Tell me what’s wrong, Evie,” Ruth implored, stroking Eve’s cheek.
Eve couldn’t tell her about Joe. Her mother wouldn’t believe her. No one would. She had found no proof, not in any of his papers or on his BlackBerry, which she’d accessed on Sunday while he was out buying groceries.
