Chapter 22
22
NOW
Barb is downstairs in the kitchen with the boys, serving them dinner, and Gwen is upstairs helping herself to another glass of wine that she smuggled into her bedroom.
This Monday had been torturous. She’d stopped by the morgue to identify Anton’s body and had almost collapsed when she saw him stretched out on the cold metal slab. Detective Salazar had been there, had tried to discourage her from leaving the viewing area where she could look at Anton through a window and actually entering the room the body was in. Gwen insisted but quickly regretted it. It had been a mistake to enter the cold, lab-like room that stank of chemicals. When she got close enough to Anton to see the waxy sheen on his skin, the faint bluish tint on his lips, she thought she might be sick, and had to rush out.
Now, back at home, she wants to drink and forget it all. Forget that her husband is lying dead and cold in an industrial room. Forget that she is a widow who will have to raise her boys on her own. Forget that her marriage was built on lies.
But she can’t forget that feeling she had when she saw that pen from Le Cannu. At that moment she knew , deep in her bones, that Anton was cheating with Lisa. Didn’t she? She takes a swig of wine and goes over the little details of the past year, searching for clues. Her mind might be playing tricks on her, but she can’t recall a single incident that suggests they were having an affair. Is she in denial? Has she forgotten—or did she never notice—what was right in front of her? Maybe her mind has buried those memories deep inside the recesses of her brain in an ill-conceived effort to protect itself from going mad.
Or maybe her mother’s right, and she’s concocted the whole thing.
Then again, she thinks as she pours another glass full, her mother hasn’t read Anton’s latest fiction . Gwen picks up her phone. Every moment of their lives is documented on these things—doctor’s appointments, bills, photos, receipts. They are digital time capsules. If there is any proof to be found, it will be on the phone. She wishes she had Anton’s, but the police still have it.
Gwen scrolls through her phone, not entirely sure what she is searching for. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to remember when exactly Anton went to that writer’s conference in Tampa. Sometime in June, maybe July? She checks her phone’s calendar and finds the dates. What else was going on that weekend? She opens her Instagram and scrolls all the way back to the beginning of the summer, cross-checking the dates with texts and the photos she’s posted.
A photo of her and Aimee and all the kids at Brookside Gardens jogs her memory. They were there for Wings of Fancy, the butterfly exhibit. She looks at a photo of Noa and Benji, grinning, butterflies alighting on their arms, shoulders, heads. Lisa was out of town that weekend, and Gwen remembers her saying they should go without her because Kai wouldn’t want to go, anyway.
Out of town. Because she was with Anton.
Gwen gulps down more wine and stands up. Her mother’s words in her ears: let it die with him.
The advice seemed sensible a few hours earlier. And maybe a different woman would be able to follow it. Let her husband’s dirty secrets be buried with him.
There is no way she can let this go. It is like asking a person who’s been set on fire to stand still and be consumed. She would thrash for her life. She needs to know the truth, to confront Lisa in person. Otherwise, she will be stranded between grief and rage forever. Hatred would be easier to deal with. Purer and brighter, it could be a source of energy, whereas grief is damp and depleting.
Or maybe she just wants to hate Anton because that will make it easier to deal with his death.
Gwen reaches for the bottle and finds it empty. She grabs her phone and walks downstairs. Her mother is on the couch in the living room, the boys on the floor near the coffee table where the board game Sorry! is set up.
“I’m winning,” George says.
“That’s great, honey.” Gwen walks over and stands over them, but no one invites her to join. She’s become an outsider in her own family.
“I better take the dog out before it gets too late.” She is careful to articulate each of her words. She doesn’t want her boys or her mom to think she is drunk. Both her parents are heavy drinkers—cocktails before dinner, nightcaps, Bloody Marys at the club on the weekend. But somehow it never seems to slow them down. Not being able to hold your liquor is a sign of moral weakness to them, as though if you really put your mind to it you ought to be able to drink half a bottle of gin and still win at Bridge.
But I’m a grieving widow. I should be allowed to fall apart.
“Sounds good,” Barb says, without looking up. “One, two, three—sorry!” Barb returns one of Rafi’s pieces to his home base.
“That’s not fair!” Rafi cries.
Gwen latches Sababa’s leash and steps outside. The cool air invigorates her. She’s been cooped up all day, since yesterday, actually, breathing in the stale air of her home. If it weren’t for Sababa, she might not ever venture outside. She walks around the edge of the cul-de-sac, allowing Sababa the full length of the leash so he can sniff the curb and wander a little way up onto the lawns of her neighbors. Fall comes late to Washington, and her Argentinian neighbor still has tomatoes ripening on six-foot-tall vines in her front yard. The whole thing seems like an exercise in futility to Gwen. Could a half-dozen tomatoes really be worth all the work it takes to grow them?
Negative thoughts. They are coming fast and furious now. Anton’s death has opened the floodgates. The low-lying river of depression has threatened to swamp her before in life, most notably in college, when she had what might be called a breakdown and had to leave school for a semester to enter an eating disorder program. She can feel that pain starting to swell within her again. She needs something to focus on.
Gwen is at the end of the street now, where Nassau Court meets Barstow Road, and the lights are all blazing at Lisa and Marcus’s house. Without hesitation, Gwen strides up the walk, Sababa trotting beside her, and rings the bell.
Marcus answers in sweatpants and a Duke T-shirt. “Hey, Gwen. It’s good to see you. Come on in.” He steps back to allow her through, but she doesn’t move.
“No, no, I can’t. I just want to ask Lisa something.”
“You sure?” He frowns. Marcus has always struck her as a very straightforward guy, one of those men who ascribes to a work-hard, play-hard ethos. Gwen has never really understood what bonded Lisa and Marcus, and now she looks at him with newfound pity. He clearly has no idea his wife was cheating on him while he was hard at work, or away on one of his cycling trips.
“I’m sure. But thanks.”
“Can I give you a hug?”
She nods, stepping forward and allowing him to hug her. He smells nice, like lemon and cedar, and the thought occurs to her that she is hugging the husband of the woman who was sleeping with her own husband. Could she have had sex with Marcus? She shudders at the thought, and he releases her.
“I’ll go get her.”
Gwen stands on the step with Sababa, listening to the sounds of a typical suburban household. The TV going, Marcus calling for Lisa, Kai’s laughter ringing through the house.
Lisa shows up, wiping her hands on the sides of her yoga pants. Her long black hair falls in thick waves past her shoulders. She’s an attractive woman, Gwen cannot deny it, although she finds Lisa’s style a little vulgar. The low-cut tops, the year-round tan, the long nails.
“Hey, Gwen,” Lisa says. “Come on in.”
“No, I’m not coming in.”
The smile on Lisa’s face disappears. “Is everything okay? You seem upset.”
“The pen,” Gwen says. “From the restaurant. Where did you get it?”
“What?” Lisa blinks but doesn’t break eye contact, and in that moment Gwen knows for sure. The certainty is a hot coal in the center of her chest.
“How long?” Gwen asks.
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
“How long were you fucking my husband?”
Lisa winces at the word. She steps outside and shuts the door behind her. “Keep your voice down.”
“I will not.” Gwen steps back. “Why should I?”
“You’re making a scene. It’s embarrassing.” Lisa crosses her arms. “For you, I mean.”
“You afraid the neighbors might hear?”
“You’re making a mistake,” Lisa says. “Anton and I were just good friends. We happened to be in Tampa at the same time, and yes, we had dinner—”
“I know about the tattoo.” It is a long shot. Anton could have made up the part in his book about the ass tattoo. Or could he? It was turning out that he couldn’t make up a damn thing. But Gwen can tell by the look of horror on Lisa’s face she nailed it.
“He told you about that? I was drunk, I shouldn’t have said anything to him about my tattoo.”
“Don’t lie to me, Lisa.”
“You sound paranoid, Gwen. The stress of losing Anton must be getting to you. You’re all alone, with two young boys to raise. You’re in your early forties, no real job, no prospects, your looks fading. It must be awful. Terrifying.”
Marcus opens the door, a cautious smile on his face. “Hey, ladies, everything all right out here?”
Lisa twists her body to face Marcus. “Gwen here is a little, shall we say, upset.” Lisa turns back to Gwen and gives her a pitying look. “She’s come here to accuse me of having an affair with Anton.”
“What?” Marcus takes a few steps until he is standing beside Lisa. “Gwen, is that true?”
“Yes, because she did. I know she did,” Gwen says. “She slept with Anton. I have proof.”
“What proof?” Marcus asks, the picture of patience. He shoots a quick glance at Lisa. It’s all a joke to him. He’s in denial. She wants to scream. Instead, Gwen inhales and tries to steady her voice.
“I have the pen, for starters.”
“The pen?” A smile teases his lips.
Lisa places her hand on her husband’s forearm. “Remember how I told you I bumped into Anton in Tampa? I took home a pen from the restaurant. Gwen seems to think that’s evidence of something.”
“And I know about the tattoo.”
Lisa leans into Marcus as if having this whole conversation is exhausting. “It’s true I blabbed to Anton about my tattoo.” She sighs. “So that’s why she thinks we were, um, sleeping together .”
Those last two words hang in the air for a moment. Gwen feels like she is going mad. She is speechless, her mind frozen. Somehow Lisa has both admitted to the facts and denied them at the same time. Marcus believes her every lie. He has no inkling that Lisa is manipulating the facts. But how can she tell him without sounding crazy?
“Gwen, why don’t we take you home?” Marcus takes a step forward. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”
Gwen looks down, wobbling a little. It’s true. She’s barefoot. How did that happen? She knows she was drinking, but she is sure she put on her shoes before she left.
“I don’t need you to take me home. I was going, anyway.” She looks up at their pitying faces and witnesses the tectonic shift. They think she’s crazy, out here in the street, barefoot and throwing around wild accusations. But she knows.
Gwen pivots, yanking at Sababa’s leash. “C’mon,” she says loudly so Marcus and Lisa can hear her. “Aimee will believe me.”
She can hear the sound of footsteps coming up behind her. “Gwen, where do you think you’re going?” Lisa’s voice is sharp now.
Gwen keeps walking. “I’m going to Aimee’s, and you can’t stop me. I’m going to tell her everything.”
Lisa grabs her arm, halting her. Gwen stumbles but catches herself before she falls. “Let go of me. I’m going to tell her you were screwing my husband, right under our noses.” She glares at Lisa, inches from her face as she says this. “We’ll see what she thinks of you then.”