After #2
Gretchen would never have made the connection between this peculiar delicateness of Richard’s and the situation they were in.
But he was absolutely squeamish about everything, the turkey being a perfect example.
Scotty had to carve it every year because driving a knife into even a very dead, very cooked animal’s flesh made Richard feel sick.
Also, Richard had nearly passed out at the sight of blood when Becks got stitches in middle school.
The nurse at the hospital had to get a wheelchair for him.
It seemed at odds, really, with how tall and masculine he was.
But Gretchen suspected that, like many things, this could be traced back to his father.
In addition to drawing Richard’s blood on many occasions, his father often took drunken tumbles.
Once he’d cracked his head open on the corner of a coffee table in such a way that blood had poured out of him.
Or so Richard said—he’d only been nine. He’d had to call an ambulance and apply pressure to the wound while they waited.
He’d gone ashen recounting the details to Gretchen years later.
“Of course he couldn’t have,” Gretchen said, though dread still coursed through her. “I’m just not sure the police will take that as actual proof.”
“But that’s because they’re idiots,” Hilary added with a theatrical wave of her hand. “Did you, um, ever meet her?”
“No, no. They were only on the trip together,” Gretchen lied, waiting a beat. “I don’t even know what she looks—looked like.” The second lie was unnecessary. Gretchen wasn’t even sure why she’d added it.
Hilary reached for her phone. “What’s her name?”
“Frankie something,” Gretchen said. “Something with a C.”
Frankie Callahan. Gretchen knew that, too, of course. She’d known it long before the police ever knocked on their door.
Hilary’s fingers were already flying over her phone. “That’s okay—I’ll find her.”
“How?” Gretchen leaned closer to look at the phone screen.
“Richard’s Instagram.” Hilary rolled her eyes. “You know how he is with that thing. Like a kid with a new toy.”
In point of fact, Gretchen had only the vaguest idea.
She wasn’t on social media herself. She believed it was a poisonous waste of time.
That people debased themselves by using it.
But it was a running joke among their friends and the children how many people Richard followed (everyone he met, apparently).
He had posted only twice (according to Becks)—one family photograph of them from four years ago in which all the children had their eyes closed, and a snapshot he’d taken of a stranger’s particularly adorable golden retriever in Central Park.
He still followed the dog’s owner, an eighty-five-year-old man who wore Sherlock Holmes–style caps even in summer.
He also followed several stunning younger women.
Friends joked about that, too. But in a way that made Gretchen feel like they were all in it together.
And all in it together seemed to sum up Richard just perfectly: He was a warm, bighearted person.
With a sprinkle of typical male naughtiness.
That was the way they all were. The best of them, that is.
Maybe that was what Hilary had meant when she said people talked.
Still, Gretchen had never laughed along about the social-media nonsense.
It irked her—that was the bottom line. She knew it wasn’t a good idea for her husband to be so immersed in something she had no part in.
It was dangerous, in fact—especially the bit about the women.
And, frankly, the whole thing was a bit embarrassing, watching Richard peer at his phone through his reading glasses as he tapped lightly on photos to like them as though the device might explode in his hands.
But spouses were like toddlers—the one thing you absolutely did not want to do was lay down a rule you couldn’t enforce.
It would only reveal the fundamentally limited nature of your power.
And your leverage as a wife was ultimately quite circumscribed if you knew you’d be unwilling to blow your family apart.
Even more limited if your husband knew this, too.
You had to rely on the power of love. Your husband’s love.
That he loved you enough not to do this or that thing that would break your heart.
It was paper-thin ice on which to stake your survival.
Luckily for Gretchen in this moment, Hilary was very into the whole social-media thing.
Instagram, specifically. “UWSMama” was what she called herself online.
Gretchen knew only because Cassandra had made fun of it.
And it did sound a bit ridiculous. But also harmless enough from what Hilary had shown Gretchen—photos of her in sunglasses with a glass of wine on her stoop, buying croissants at her favorite bakery, with their Pilates instructor, Ilya—ugh, Ilya.
Gretchen wished he hadn’t popped into her head when she was working on erasing him and all things related to him from her memory.
Was this Xanax even working? She didn’t think so. Maybe she should take a second one. Now that she’d broken the seal, what difference did it make?
“Ah, here she is,” Hilary said. “Frankie Callahan,” she spat out, like the name was something sour. Almost as if she was jealous of Frankie herself. But that made no sense. Maybe the Xanax was working.
Hilary set the phone between them, so they could both look as she scrolled through a grid of small photos.
Gretchen hadn’t seen Frankie Callahan’s Instagram account, but she knew full well from Frankie’s website that she was a voluptuous, dark-haired beauty.
Fine features, huge (frankly, almost cartoonish) eyes—and what grown woman wore overalls?
The tiny screen filled with images of Frankie’s paintings, abstracts.
Without her reading glasses it was hard for Gretchen to see, though it was the kind of art that Gretchen could never make sense of, glasses or no.
There were some photos of Frankie, too, but they were tasteful, artistic.
There were also photos of the climb. Mostly stunning shots of the mountains, the clouds.
But in one Frankie was looking over her shoulder, smiling in the light of the setting sun.
It had clearly been taken by someone else.
Richard? Gretchen’s hands were in fists so tight her fingernails dug into her palms.
“Okay, you want me to give it to you straight—what I see?” Hilary asked, like a doctor about to deliver their diagnosis.
“Um, yes,” Gretchen said, though she did not want that at all.
“To be clear, my opinion on this whole situation hasn’t changed. This is just Richard being a man, and men—”
“Hilary, please,” Gretchen whispered.
“Okay. It’s just one tiny observation, but I did notice—and I know you won’t because you don’t know how these things work—that Richard has liked every single photo she posted since they met.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s…a lot of…attention.”
“So, he was what? Obsessed with her? Stalking her?” Gretchen began to panic. She couldn’t help it. Every rock she turned over seemed to expose something more awful underneath.
“Well, wait, let’s see…” Hilary clicked back to Richard’s account, then other people’s, moving so fast it was hard for Gretchen to keep up. Finally, Hilary exhaled in relief. “Scratch that. He likes every single one of a lot of people’s posts—men, too. It’s probably nothing except him being…weird.”
Gretchen nodded, her head feeling fuzzy. She wanted this information to be more comforting than it was. But she did feel like she cared a bit less and the world was beginning to feel a little farther away. Muted. The Xanax was definitely working. No wonder it was so popular.
“Maybe we should do some poking around and figure out what else was going on in this woman’s life?” Hilary offered with something of a mischievous smirk.
“What do you mean?”
Hilary started scanning the Instagram grid again. “A woman like this, I’m sure she had boyfriends, admirers, stalkers. Who knows? The police probably won’t bother looking for other suspects if they’ve already got Richard. You hear about that kind of thing all the time.”
Gretchen must have looked horrified, because Hilary held up her palms in mock surrender. “I mean, only if you want to look into her…if you don’t, I understand. Though personally I’d never be able to stop myself.”
Leaping into the fray with Hilary sounded ill-advised. But also irresistible. Maybe even wise. The best way to prove that Richard hadn’t done anything was to find the person who had. And Hilary was probably right about the police not looking.
“I don’t want to be in the way,” Gretchen said. “I’m sure Scotty wouldn’t want that.”
“Don’t you worry about Scotty—I know how to handle him.
” Hilary’s face turned serious. “Besides, under these circumstances—you should also find out for sure that there wasn’t anything between them.
No one is perfect. Not even Richard. You can get mad at me again, but I’m only saying this because I’m your friend and I love you.
I mean, it’s one thing to stand by him through this shitstorm if there wasn’t an affair.
But if there was?” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pack his bags for you. ”
—
A few hours later, Gretchen was seated in the living room, all three children dutifully assembled, and so quickly. Yes, Gretchen thought, looking at them—they were a good family. She and Richard had done a good job.