American Wife

I thought with shame of kissing Joe Thayer. Already, I believed that I had kissed him less out of attraction than pity—I’d meant the kiss as a consolation prize, a way to spare him the embarrassment of having confessed to feelings that were one-sided. Under different circumstances, I’d meant to imply, and even if the implication was a lie, it seemed a decorous one, an extreme version of being a polite and considerate person. But perhaps this was only a convenient story. Perhaps I’d kissed him for more selfish reasons—simply because I wanted to—and when the experience was not as pleasurable as I’d anticipated, I’d changed my mind.

Charlie’s breathing thickened, his mouth was next to my ear so I couldn’t see his face, and then his movements slowed, and he moaned softly. He collapsed against me, and I held him. “You want me to . . .?” he murmured (he always offered when I didn’t come during penetration, he meant with his hand), and silently, I shook my head. I felt at once as if I were protecting him from and steeling myself for the destruction he didn’t yet know that I would cause.

I WOULD GO to Riley, I had decided, and I would take Ella with me, but there was one errand I needed to run before leaving Milwaukee, and it entailed stopping by my favorite bookstore in the world, which was called Thea’s. The owner, Thea Dengler, was about my age, a heavyset woman who paired loose black pants and sweaters with gauzy scarves or chunky turquoise necklaces, and her store was located in Mequon, two floors, with such tall shelves that even though it wasn’t large, you always felt like you could browse in private. Plus, there was an excellent selection, Thea read constantly (there was rarely a book I picked up that wasn’t on her radar), and if you wanted something she didn’t have, she’d enthusiastically order it, as curious herself for it to arrive as you were. She also sold periodicals, but none of that clutter that seems mandatory in bookstores today: mugs and picture frames and greeting cards, magnets, calendars, fancy chocolates.

I’d planned to buy three books for Jessica Sutton, but as I stood in the young-adult section, stacking them in the crook of my arm, I decided five would be acceptable, and soon I was holding more than a dozen, balanced so precariously that I had to steady them with my chin. I propped them one by one, face out, on the shelves so I could more easily cull: To Kill a Mockingbird (that was definite, no question); Deenie ( Jessica was twelve—how could I not give her a Judy Blume book, and this was less controversial than some of the others); Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry; A Wrinkle in Time; Anastasia Krupnik, or else Lois Lowry’s Autumn Street, which I also thought was quite wonderful; The Westing Game (I imagined she’d like this, since she liked Agatha Christie); The Outsiders; I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings; Homecoming; and then I’d grabbed the two others from the Tillerman series, Dicey’s Song and A Solitary Blue; The Diary of Anne Frank; and last, Locked in Time (I’d read Lois Duncan’s older novels during my librarian days, but this new one looked intriguing). Besides the fact that this was nine more books than I’d intended to purchase, there was already one—Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca—that I knew I wanted to get her from the grown-up section, and I’d also considered Pride and Prejudice. I stood there trying to decide, and I eventually set back the Cynthia Voigt books; I also decided to forgo Pride and Prejudice and Autumn Street (maybe those could be saved for Christmas?). Was Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry too young for Jessica? But it was so good! Then I realized I’d neglected to pull A Tree Grows in Brooklyn off the shelf, which was a must. I ended up carrying twelve books to the cash register. Eyeing them, Thea said, “That’s some ambitious summer reading for Ella.”

“No, no, they’re for a family friend who’s going into seventh grade.”

“You want them wrapped?”

I declined, and she stacked the books in a large brown paper bag with string handles. When I left the store, I sat in the parking lot peeling off the price stickers—a useless act, given that the price was also printed on the back of the books, but decorum demanded it—and then I drove to the Suttons’ house. It was Jessica who answered the door, holding Antoine. She stepped aside to let me in, and I said, “No, I’m just dropping something off. Jessica, as a former librarian, I feel compelled to introduce you to some writers other than V. C. Andrews. These are for you, but I promise you don’t have to write any book reports.” I extended the bag, holding it open to show her, and because Antoine was in her arms, I set it inside the house on the rug.

“Who is it, Jessie?” I heard Yvonne call, and Jessica called back, “It’s Ella’s mom.” To me, she said, “Those are all for me?”

“We’re so proud of how well you’re doing in school. Now, I’d love to talk about any of these books with you, but again, you’re not obligated to read them. Just if you want to, I think they might be fun.”

“That’s real nice.” Jessica appeared confused but curious. “You want to come in?”

“I’ve got to run errands.” I reached out my hand and rubbed Antoine’s calf, which was bare; he had on a yellow terry-cloth onesie. “Say hi to your mom and grandma for me.”

Walking back down the concrete steps to the car, I noticed two men sitting on the porch of the house across the street—young men, closer to Jessica’s age than mine. One wore a black mesh tank shirt and the other, who had cornrows, wore no shirt at all. They watched me, and I nodded once without saying anything as I walked toward my car, my shiny suburban white-lady Volvo. As I drove away, the automatic locks clicked on, and I felt an uncomfortable relief.

I WAITED THAT night in the den while Charlie tucked Ella in, holding on my lap a copy of The Economist that I was too preoccupied to read. When he reentered the room, he said, “Do we have any ice cream? I’ve got a sweet tooth tonight.”

“There’s some caramel left,” I said, but as he turned to go into the kitchen, I said, “Wait. Sit down.” My voice had sounded more serious than I’d meant it to, except that this was serious—possibly the most serious conversation we’d ever had. He looked expectant as he perched on an arm of the couch.

My heart pounded. When had I last felt nervous with Charlie? Not about what he’d do, how he might transgress in front of other people and I might clean up after him, but nervous about how he’d react to me. “I want us to separate,” I said.

“You what?”

Had he not heard or not understood? “A trial separation,” I said. “Not a legal one—well, not yet.”

“You want a divorce? Are you fucking kidding me?” He looked disbelieving, but this was the thing about Charlie—he also looked the tiniest, tiniest bit amused. I don’t think he was, but he had such a mischievous face and such a tendency to revert to humor, whether or not it was appropriate, that I couldn’t be sure.

“That’s not what I said. I want us to live apart. I love you, Charlie, and I hope you’ll always know that, but I can’t live like this anymore.”

There was a certain disintegration occurring in my chest, an increasing shakiness.

“I thought we were having a perfectly nice night.”