9. Jeremiah
JEREMIAH
Candace says it while I’m telling her to get rid of the card.
“She didn’t physically hit me.”
The room shifts under my feet.
“What?”
“She said things she knew would hurt me. I needed you to understand how bad it was.”
I stare at her. “You told everyone she slapped you.”
She looks at the cream card on the sitting-room table. I took it out of the folder this morning, intending to call her before Zelda left for work. It is now the afternoon of December fifteenth.
“She was hateful,” she says. “I didn’t know how else to make you see how out of control she was.”
“Did she touch you at all?”
“No.”
I hear Zelda ask me to look at her.
There were pieces of pear on the board. She looked straight at me, waiting for an answer, and I remember being impatient because I had a meeting. The image is so clear that I look toward the kitchen, although she is at the library.
“I made my wife apologize to you. You stood there and watched me.”
Candace reaches for my hand. “You were just trying to help save the evening.”
I pull away. My phone is on the table. Zelda’s name is near the top of my calls. She will answer if I ring while she’s working; she always finds somewhere quiet for me.
“If you tell her now, she’ll tell everybody,” Candace whispers.
“They should know.”
“They’ll remember how you looked at her. Dax has it on video. How are they really going to believe this now?”
I stop with my thumb above the call button.
I can hear my own voice at Suri’s. What is wrong with you? Loud enough for all of them. I had wanted the room to hear me handle it.
“I didn’t know,” I say.
“Will she let you explain that? Or will she tell them you chose me while she begged you to listen?”
“You could tell her,” I say to Candace.
“She won’t take it from me.”
“You could try.”
Her eyes fill. I’m furious with her for crying now. I’m also glad to have something to be furious about that doesn’t involve calling my wife.
“You should have said it at Suri’s.”
“I know.”
“Before I asked her.”
“I know, Jeremiah.”
I lock the phone.
The tiny click is louder than it should be. I put it down and move the chair back where it belongs.
Candace sits on the sofa. “She’ll make me stand up at the dinner and say I lied. In front of clients. People who trust me with their families.”
“You did lie.”
“I’m telling you.”
“Eight days before the dinner.”
“Then we have eight days to make it all right.” She leans forward. “Everyone accepted her apology. She won’t read the card now, but if you tell her we need a clean start?—”
“You want her to say it twice?”
“I want Christmas to happen. You said you wanted to save your marriage.”
The speech on the card is short. Thirty seconds, perhaps.
Zelda apologizes for making a fuss, Candace says something gracious, and we all have the dinner we planned.
I know Zelda already said no. Yesterday she stood right here and asked me to call Candace.
I told her I had five minutes until a meeting. I remember the way she took her hand off the folder.
I turn toward the window. There is condensation at the bottom of the glass, and I wipe it away with my thumb. I could bring Zelda home, sit her down, tell her before anyone else hears it. She would ask why I hadn’t believed her when there was only her word.
There isn’t an answer I want to give.
“She said things about me too,” I say.
Candace is quick to agree. “Of course she did. She was unhappy long before the party.”
I almost ask what else Zelda told her. The question is there, ready, easier than the call. Then I see my wife’s name on the dark phone and leave it unsaid.
Candace waits.
I pick up the card. The tree in the corner is the kind Zelda likes. I hand it to the woman who knows that about her too.
“Keep it. I’ll talk to Zelda before dinner.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
I could still say yes. I stand close enough to take the card back.
“I’ll tell her we need to put this behind us.”
Candace folds it into her bag. I watch her do it. When I open the front door for her, I’m relieved the conversation is over.
The relief lasts until I hear her car leave.
I call Zelda.
For the first ring I intend to say it. Candace told me. You never touched her. I can start there and find the rest afterward.
“I was about to ring you.” She sounds breathless. “I found the book. Somebody shelved it under gardening. I was going to accuse you of inventing it.”
The name book. From the market.
She laughs, a small, pleased laugh meant only for me. I had forgotten what it was like to hear it on the phone.
“I’m bringing it home,” she says. “Then we’ll find out what terrible thing your Otto does.”
I grip the phone. She has said your Otto. As if the evening at the market is something we can still share without touching the part that followed it.
“Jeremiah? Did you need something?”
I open my mouth.
“What would you like for supper?”
“Whatever’s there.” A pause. “Was that all?”
“Yes.”
I can tell she’s still waiting. I ask what time she’ll be home. She answers, and the moment is gone.
At half past six she comes through the door carrying the book. Her bag has left a red mark on her shoulder. I reach to take it, and she hesitates before letting me.
“Did Candace leave?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak about the card?”
“We’re working it out.”
Zelda looks directly at me. I make myself hold her gaze, hoping she can’t see how badly I want her to stop asking.
“What does that mean?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Jeremiah.”
“I’ve got soup warming. Come in.”
She looks away first. I get bowls from the cupboard and begin talking about supper before she can ask again.
She has marked a page in the book with a scrap of paper bearing my handwriting. I gave it to her at the market. She puts the book beside my bowl.
I leave it closed.
When she asks whether I want bread, I say yes. She cuts it, gives me the heel because I like it, and sits across from me. I keep eating while my innocent wife tells me about her day.