Chapter Eleven #2
“Oh, I know. These men and their hobbies and toys. They become a bit obsessed, right?” Sharon smiled at her, squeezed her shoulder, and then gently pulled away.
Teresa gave a little smile and nodded. Sharon nodded back as if the matter was closed. If she only knew how spot-on she really is.
Later that night, Teresa couldn’t sleep, so she grabbed the Stephen King book she was reading.
After a few pages, she gave up, unable to concentrate as thoughts flashed through her mind.
She remembered the look that had come over Frank’s face when she caught him staring at Tommy and then his reaction when he locked eyes with Henry in the parking lot.
What has he been hiding? Could he be attracted to men?
And why is he spending so much time with Henry?
Could Frank be interested in Henry? Teresa gasped for breath and broke out in a sweat that made her forehead bead and her body feel clammy.
She lay in bed, waiting for the sound of Frank’s car in the driveway.
A little after midnight, Frank turned up.
Teresa heard him enter the apartment, tiptoe into the bathroom, and close the door behind him.
Teresa listened to him washing his face and brushing his teeth, sounds as familiar to her as the ring of their telephone or the heat coursing through the old radiators of their apartment.
And then he was shedding his pants and shirt and climbing in beside her in his underwear, the bedsprings squeaking slightly under his weight.
Their little Yorkie, Libby, who’d been curled up sleeping against Teresa’s back, growled.
“Shh, you little shit.”
Teresa got a sense of satisfaction knowing that Libby had growled at Frank, almost like the dog was sticking up for her. Serves him right.
“How was the city?” Teresa asked, trying not to sound like she was pouncing.
“Good.”
“Where did you go?”
“We went to Greenwich Village. Had dinner and then went to a bar for a few hours to shoot the breeze.”
Teresa’s heart raced. “A bar? You never go to bars. You don’t even drink,” she reminded him, thinking of what he’d told her about Eva’s struggles with alcohol years before and how he’d sworn off the stuff, just as she had because of her father’s addiction.
“I didn’t have a drink—of course not. You know that’s not my thing. But they were going there tonight, so I went along.” He shrugged.
She didn’t know what his thing was anymore. “So, it wasn't just you and Henry alone? Who are these other guys again? Do I know them? What are their names?”
“Wow, so many questions. What is this, the inquisition?” She heard a teasing tone in his voice and felt her demeanor soften. “We met up with Mark and Bennie. They're the ones I told you we met that time on City Island, ’member?”
Teresa recognized the names. She nodded slowly, processing Frank’s words and attitude. He seemed relaxed, devoid of any sense of wrongdoing. She wondered if she was overreacting.
Frank punched his pillow and flipped over, facing away from her in the bed.
For some time now, they’d stopped sleeping facing each other.
Despite being annoyed at him for going out, she felt herself wishing he would reach for her.
It had been months since they’d made love.
Making love used to be the way they could feel like themselves again—not some shadow of what they once were.
Teresa missed it. She felt starved for physical contact.
She missed being held, touched, desired.
She leaned over and pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him, touching his bare chest.
Frank’s voice broke across the silence. “Sorry, hon. I’m just so tired tonight. Not really feeling up to it.”
It was as if he’d slapped her. She felt stung.
His words hung in the darkness of their room.
Teresa grew still then slowly untangled her arms from her husband’s body.
She wiggled back over to her side of the bed and turned away so that she was facing the wall.
They lay in silence for a minute, the weight of everything that was unspoken sharing space between them.
Then he spoke again. “Next weekend, I don’t have to work a long shift at Drifters. I won’t be so beat.”
She felt like she no longer existed. She heard herself whisper, “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep, Frank.” They both knew she was talking about a lot more than making love.
She couldn’t voice what was really going on in her head—thoughts that felt foreign, unimaginable.
Can it really be? Could my husband, the man I created two children with, be a homosexual?
Teresa wasn’t ready to know the truth. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.
They were playing a charade, and her part was to pretend she was the clueless wife, busy with their children and her life, and didn't notice all the symptoms set before her. She preferred to ignore the signs, on the theory that what wasn’t named didn’t exist. If she didn't say her suspicions out loud or acknowledge them, it could be like this wasn't really happening.
As long as they kept up appearances, there was no need to scratch below the surface.
Teresa felt a nagging pain in her chest. Tears slipped out as she squeezed her eyes shut.
She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but her intuition was strong and almost never failed her.
She had to face the fact that this could be real.
And if it was, she had to brace herself.
Once out in the open, some things could not be unknown.
Teresa knew in her gut that they would not only change her life but would hurt for a lifetime as well.