Barefoot: A Novel

“Okay,” Ted said. “I quit.”

Vicki thought he meant he was quitting her, but no. He meant he was quitting the game.

“You’d quit for me?” Vicki said.

“Wel , you know what they say about hitting yourself over the head with a hammer,” he said. “It feels good when you stop.”

Now, here it was, more than ten years later: Vicki was lying in bed, nursing a hangover. She wanted to blame the malaise she felt on the chemotherapy, but the symptoms were al too familiar—the floury mouth, the fuzzy, buzzing headache, the sour stomach. She begged Brenda to take the kids for an hour, and bring her a chocolate milk, and Brenda did so huffily.

“I’m not actual y your slave,” Brenda said as she handed Vicki the milk.

Vicki nearly used the word “freeloader,” which would have been like setting a match to hairspray, but at that moment the front screen door clapped shut. There was a shuffle, some heavy footsteps, and then Ted’s voice. “Where are my little monsters?”

Vicki took a sip of her chocolate milk, then fel back into her covers. It was a little past nine; he must have gotten up at an ungodly hour to make the first boat. She listened to him horsing around with the kids. Ted Stowe, her husband. At another time, if she’d been separated from him for a week, she would have felt giddily excited about his arrival, nervous even. But now she felt the scary nothing.

He didn’t come in to see her right away. He was busy with the kids first and then with al the stuff. Vicki had her eyes closed, but she tracked his presence, his footsteps on the flagstone path, the creak of the gate, the clicks and thumps of the car doors opening and closing. She heard him teasing Melanie, and indignation bloomed in Vicki’s chest: Your wife has cancer! You might take a few seconds to check on her and say hello! By now, Vicki felt good enough to get out of bed, but she would wait (childishly?) for him to come to her.

When he did come, final y, it was al wrong. She knew it from the way he tapped on the door, from the tentative way he said her name. “Vicki?

Vicki?” He never cal ed her Vicki, only Vick. He was afraid of her now; she was a stranger to him.

And yet, they went through the motions. Ted knelt by the bed and kissed her forehead like she was a sick child. She pressed her face into his shirt and smel ed him. He had a strange smel that she hoped was just hotel soap.

“How was the rest of the trip?” she said.

He eyed the glass of chocolate milk. “Wel , I’m here.”

He was there, yes, but in the weeks since Vicki’s diagnosis, Ted had changed. He had become Mister Rogers. His voice used to boom and resonate, but now he sounded timid and supplicant, and if Vicki wasn’t dreaming, he was getting fat. He had stopped going to the gym after work.

She knew that with her and the kids gone, he worked late and either grabbed fast food from Grand Central or foraged through the freezer for one of the leftover casseroles. In the evenings he did onerous chores, things Vicki had been after him to do for years, like cleaning the attic. He did them now because he thought she was going to die. The day before Vicki left for Nantucket he threw away thousands of dol ars’ worth of Cuban cigars by ceremoniously breaking them in half over the kitchen trash. Really, Ted, Vicki had said. Is that necessary?

Their sex life had come to a halt. Ted had taken to kissing her on the forehead and cheek; he hugged her like she was his sister. That afternoon, while Porter was napping, Brenda took Blaine to the beach with a wink and a nod so that Vicki and Ted could have some privacy. Ted closed the bedroom door and kissed Vicki in a way that let her know he was trying. They fel back on the bed, Vicki reached down his shorts, and . . . nothing.

His body didn’t respond to her touch. For the first time in ten years, he could not get an erection.

He pul ed away, sunk his face into the squishy mattress. “I’m tired,” he said. “I barely slept last night.”

Vicki’s heart broke at this excuse. “It’s me,” she said.

“No,” he said. He touched her lips. She was trying, too. She had risen from bed to put on lipstick, to put on perfume and a thong—al to try to disguise the fact that she was sick. The port alone was enough to turn any man off. She felt as sexy as a remote control, as desirable as a garage door opener. There was no pretending it didn’t matter. Her husband had shown up, yes, but something vital, it seemed, had been left behind.

They fel asleep in the warm, stuffy bedroom and woke an hour later to Porter crying and the sounds of Brenda and Blaine playing Chutes and Ladders in the living room. They might have been tender with each other, apologetic—but instead, they started fighting. Ted took issue with the fact that Vicki had gone out the night before. “To the Club Car, no less.”

“What’s wrong with the Club Car?” Vicki said.

“Al those rich, divorced men on the prowl.”

“No one was prowling after us, Ted. I promise you.”

“And you got drunk,” he said.

He had her there. She drank three or four glasses of wine at dinner, two flutes of Veuve Clicquot with dessert, and a glass of port at the bar. She had become utterly intoxicated, savoring the pure defiance of it. Her spirits lifted; she felt herself leaving her body behind. Dr. Garcia and Dr. Alcott had both told her no alcohol, but she felt so fantastic, she didn’t understand why. She had even wanted to go dancing at the Chicken Box, chug a few beers and lose herself further, but Melanie had groaned and yawned and Brenda sided with Melanie.

It’s late, Brenda said. I think you’ve probably had enough.

“I got drunk,” Vicki admitted. The chocolate milk, now soured and separated, was stil on her nightstand.

“It was irresponsible,” he said.