Skin Deep

them grow up—all of that.

But as he had paced through the rooms and watched the hours tick by, that enthusiasm iced over. She had forgotten. By eight o’clock, he had placed his seventh call to her cell phone and still no answer. Then his mind slipped to the dining-room liquor cabinet downstairs.

Around nine he thought to check her desk calendar. There was one entry for July fourth: four P.M.

Four P.M. He had said six fifteen.

Maybe it was a hair appointment. Or a pedicure. He turned back the pages. Last month there was an entry for “Philomena—2:30.” Philomena’s was her hair salon. Another box a few weeks ago said “Ped—11.” The same with other appointments: She always designated the destinations or party. That meant whatever was scheduled at four was understood, not something that would have slipped her memory. Like a date with someone other than him.

She had stood him up. And it wasn’t a night out with Lanie Walker or Jane Graham or any of her other close friends. They lived between here and town, so when they went out she always drove and picked them up on the way. And her car was out back in the garage.

He headed downstairs, feeling like an intruder. The rooms, the furniture, the wall hangings, the decorations —all the same stuff, but it was as if he were viewing it all through a warped lens. Everything had an alien distortion to it. None of it felt familiar anymore.

He moved to the dining-room liquor cabinet and opened it. The old fifth of Chivas still sat untouched as it had for half a year. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left the room and went back up to the bedroom window.

At about nine thirty, he returned and removed the bottle and laid it on the island counter in the kitchen, circling it like a vulture. But he didn’t open it. Instead he headed for the front windows and waited. He called her cell again. No answer. That didn’t make sense since she never turned it off.

At ten thirty he pulled out a tumbler and filled it with scotch. But he again talked himself out of breaking his vows to himself and to her, of yielding to a dumb, self-destructive urge—something he should be above, especially at a moment of crisis.

Stood me up. She’s out with someone else.

He again went back upstairs and stood by the bedroom window. The fireworks were over, and a dark shroud of smoke hung over the horizon.

At midnight, he went back down and without waiting for the Greek chorus to rail at him, he guzzled down the drink.

The fire burned his throat and the fumes filled his head. It was his first drink in twenty-three days. And he didn’t give a shit. But it did little to dull the hurt. He poured himself a second, then put the bottle away and went upstairs to their bedroom to wait.

Another hour passed, and Dana still had not shown.

She almost never stayed out this late when they were living with each other. Besides, she had her summer aerobics class at nine in the morning. And she never missed a session.

The thought of her overnighting at some guy’s house left his fingers a bloodless cold.

The only lights outside were from the front door, the yellow cast of the single streetlight two houses up, and the hard crystalline moon through the trees. No. His eye fell on lights flickering through the distant trees of Old Mystic Road. A car. It was heading this way. A moment later it pulled around the corner and stopped at the bottom of the driveway.

A long black Lincoln Town Car.

In the dimness he could just make out a driver, but he could not see who occupied the rear seats. Why a limo, unless Dana and Lanie had decided to hit the town in a big way?

He waited. Several minutes passed, and still no movement. The driver sat without budging, staring straight ahead as if politely waiting for his passenger to leave. Steve could hear the hum of the engine and faint strains of music. At one point the driver switched to parking lights, clearly not in a hurry.

While Steve stood there, all sorts of possibilities shot through his mind—that Dana was drunk and digging out her keys from her handbag, maybe trying to count out a tip in the scant light. Or she had passed out and he had called 911 and was sitting there like a crash-test dummy, waiting for the paramedics.

Or maybe she was injured.

Then another thought cut across the others like a shark fin: Dana was dead, and the driver was waiting for the police.

He was about to head down when the rear passenger side door opened and Dana emerged. She closed the door, and as the car pulled away she gave a little wave.

Someone was silhouetted in the rear seat, a figure Steve could not make out. He watched the car head up the street, which was not the direction one would take to Lanie’s, Jane’s, or anyone else’s. Dana walked up the driveway, dangling keys in her hand. She looked perfectly sober.

He headed downstairs. In a moment he heard her unlock the front door. Steve waited for her in the dim night-light of the kitchen. “Who was that?”

Dana screamed.

He flicked on the lights. “Who was he?” He felt crazy.

“Jesus Christ! You nearly scared me to death.” She leaned against the counter with her hand on her heart, trying to catch her breath.

“We had a date and you were out with someone else.”

“I forgot,” she stammered. “I tried to call but I couldn’t get through.”

“How could you not get through?” The words nearly died in his throat. He barely recognized her. It was the first time he had seen her since the nose job, and she looked like someone else. The flesh under her eyes was still discolored and her nose looked slightly swollen, but the aquiline hook was gone, opening her face. It was like addressing someone who only vaguely resembled Dana.

“I was out of range.”

Her mouth and cheeks were red from beard burn. “Who was he?”

She slammed her handbag onto the counter. “You have no right sneaking in here.”

“I didn’t sneak in. I’ve been waiting for seven fucking hours. We had a date.”

“I forgot and I’m sorry.” Then her eyes hardened. “And you’re drunk.”

“Who was he?”

“None of your business. Now get out.” Her arm shot out like a lance toward the door.

“It’s all over your face.”

By reflex she made a move to wipe her mouth then caught herself. Her lipstick was smeared.

The alcohol was making him reckless. It was also disorienting him. The swelling in Dana’s face, the purple shiners. The smaller, leaner nose. The wider, more open eyes. It was crazy, but for a split second he felt as if he were addressing Terry Farina.

“Did you screw him, too?” He tried not to let the images fill his head. Tried not to think that her mouth was red not just from kissing. “Did you?”

“You son of a bitch.” Her voice was scathing. “No, I did not, now get out of here.”

But he didn’t move. The alcohol was short-circuiting the wiring in his brain. He felt himself at the brink, knowing that in a moment he could yield to the heat and start tearing the place apart, smashing things, bringing Dana to a point of terror. But he also knew in some small pocket of reason that no matter how bad it got he could never physically harm her. It was one of the few absolutes in his makeup. He would assassinate the president or take his own life before he could put a hand to her. Of that he was sure. “Who was he?”

“That’s none of your business. Now get out before I call the police.”

The fury in her eyes parched any comeback. And in an absurd flash, he saw himself outside in the dark, explaining the circumstances to a patrol officer, Dana at the door with a meat cleaver. Wouldn’t that be fucking dandy? “You don’t have to call anybody,” he muttered. The heat rapidly seeped out of him and in its place, cold remorse.

“Then go.”

“You’re not wearing your wedding ring.”

Her hand shot up like an obscene gesture. “It’s on the other finger.”