Chapter Thirty-two
S
aturday. A hot, horrible, sticky August Saturday
.
The day before Doug’s birthday. Ordinarily, I would have opted to stay at home in my air-conditioned apartment—especially since I was slightly hung over—but I hadn’t seen Damion for some time—what with my being busy with Doug—and when he’d asked if I wanted to drag along on a shopping expedition, I said yes. And wore the lightest clothes I own.
We drove to the South Bay Shopping Center, not far from my apartment.
“Do you want to stop at Marshall’s while we’re here?” Damion asked when we’d parked.
“Ugh. I hate this Marshall’s. I’ll only go to the one on Boylston Street. It’s fabulous.”
“What about Old Navy?”
“Hmmm. Okay,” I agreed. “They’ve got good soundtracks. And there’s always a bargain on tops and sweaters.”
“You know those groovy soundtracks are a marketing ploy to make you spend more money.”
I gave Damion a look.
“Really! Gee, I didn’t know that. I’ll work really hard to resist—unless, of course, it’s the eighties soundtrack. There are some excellent old songs on that.”
“Fine,” Damion said. “First, we’ll spend all your money on cheap clothing. Then we need to go to Super 88 for ostrich steaks and Super Stop ’n Shop for—well, a bunch of things. I have a list.”
“You’re really going all out,” I said as we walked across the parking lot toward Old Navy. “So—it’s serious with, what’s his name, Frank?”
“Frederick. It could be. I want it to be.”
“And the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“That’s one route, yes. Maybe not the most direct ...”
By the time we got to Super Slop ’n Shop—my pet name for the massive supermarket—I was, indeed, slopping. Or was it schlepping? Anyway, I was tired of fighting my way through aisles of sweatshirts at Old Navy and frighteningly foreign produce at Super 88.
“How much do you need here, Damion?” I asked, helping him wrench a mondo shopping cart from a lineup of mondo shopping carts.
He took a neatly folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and considered. “Not much.”
“Give me half of the list and we’ll meet up later. It’ll save time.”
Damion eyed me. “Well ...”
“I know the difference between sour cream and cottage cheese,” I drawled. “The cartons are labeled.”
“Okay. But if you’re in doubt ...”
“Right. I’ll let you handle it.”
Damion carefully tore the list into two vastly uneven pieces and gave me the smaller section. It was labeled: “Misc.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. See you.”
I wandered off to find the canned soup aisle—only Progresso, if you please—but got distracted by the aisle of discount books. After a quick perusal I discovered that discount meant best-selling but shoddily written crap so I took a left out of the aisle and ...
It was her. It was Carol. It was Doug’s wife.
For a moment I panicked, darted back to the books, then my senses returned and reminded me that Carol and I had never met. Unless she’d seen a photo of me, which was highly unlikely, she wouldn’t know who I was.
The woman sleeping with her husband.
I, of course, had seen a photo of Carol. Doug kept one on his desk, along with a photo of the kids. Something about keeping up appearances, I guess.
I took a steadying breath and once again walked out of the discount book aisle and into the wide back aisle along which were arranged refrigerated cases of meats, dairy products, and fish.
Carol was still there, now looking down into a section of roasting chickens.
What was she doing at the South Bay Shopping Center? Why wasn’t she shopping in Newton, where she lived—where she belonged? I felt a surge of anger. I had so little and she had so much. She had Doug. I had to keep to my corner of the universe to protect her. Why couldn’t she keep to her corner to protect me?
Because, you idiot, Reason said, she doesn’t know about you. She belongs wherever she wants to belong. She’s the one with the ring and the title. She’s not the one skulking in the aisle, pretending to be interested in frozen tripe and Jimmy Dean sausages.
Carefully, I glanced toward Carol, who still stood examining the roasters. We were no more than ten feet away from each other. I noticed a small dark mole on her right cheek.
Objectively—as if I could truly be objective—Carol was not a striking woman. She was of average height and average build, a bit wide in the hips, but maybe that was from the two pregnancies. Her hair was medium brown and in need of a touch-up; grayish roots were visible even from a distance. She wore no makeup—at least none that translated beyond a few feet. I looked for a wedding band and caught a tiny sparkle—I guessed a thin band set with diamonds. I could see no other jewelry.
Carol looked like any other overworked, fortyish woman doing the grocery shopping on a Saturday morning, stocking up for her husband’s birthday party, hyperactive kids somewhere in tow, probably raiding the candy displays. But Carol wasn’t just any woman. I felt a surge of disgust. This woman was my rival. And this woman was a mess. How could Doug ever have found her attractive? No wonder he didn’t find her attractive now. No wonder he’d turned to another woman. How in God’s name did Carol expect to keep the interest of a man as charismatic and handsome as Doug while appearing in public in baggy jeans and a gray sweat jacket?
As quickly and as violently as the surge of disgust had overtaken me, it receded and was replaced by deep shame.
I’m so sorry, I thought toward Carol. I ...
Reason was angry. Are you so screamingly insecure you have to trash a hardworking mother of two small children, a woman who’s never deliberately done anything to hurt you, a woman whose husband is cheating on her, for wearing ill-fitting jeans and a sweat jacket while grocery shopping? Erin, you have sunk to a new low. I suggest therapy is in order.
And maybe a prescription for anxiety.
Oh, God, what if Doug is here, too? I thought wildly. What ... If I saw him without Carol—what would I do? Greet him, of course, but with restraint. We’d be in public. His wife could come around the corner at any moment.
What if Doug suddenly strolled up to Carol—and then saw me? What then? Would he greet me, introduce me as a colleague? Would he ignore me? The possibility made me nauseous.
As much as it pains me to admit this, I followed Carol when she moved away from the meat and dairy cases and into the chip and snack aisle. Damion’s shopping list was forgotten. In fact, it was no longer in my hand. I didn’t know where it had gone.
A woman joined Carol then. A baby sat in the seat of her cart. Two children, about four and six, were helping her steer. Taylor and Courtney. Had to be.
“Have they been behaving?” Carol said to the woman. Her friend, I guessed. Or sister.
“Oh, sure.”
“Mommy! Look what I got!” Courtney cried. She was jumping with excitement, clutching what looked like a bag of chips.
“Let me see.” Carol peered at the bag as if she might need glasses for close reading.
“Daddy’s favorite!” Courtney’s pride in her choice was palpable.
“That’s very nice of you, honey. Put it in the cart, okay?”
Courtney did.
Daddy’s favorite. B-B-Cue flavored potato chips.
I didn’t know Doug the father at all. Or Doug the husband. Or Doug the birthday boy. Did I really even know Doug the man?
I turned away. I felt like I needed to sit down but short of collapsing on top of slabs of pork, sitting wasn’t an option. I set off, a bit wobbly, to find Damion.
As I wobbled, I wondered. Would I tell Doug I’d seen Carol and the children? The urge to make a scene came over me and I envisioned myself the scorned woman, gloriously nasty and yet, somehow, heartbreakingly sad.
Thankfully, the urge was quickly replaced by a feeling of defeat. Defeat is better than anger? Sometimes. So, I’d say nothing. What would it change for the better if I told him? I’d keep the uneasiness within myself. I’d save him the split second of panic the news might cause—a split second within which he’d wonder if I’d confronted Carol, done something horrible.
“Erin!”
I looked in the direction of the voice. Damion.
“Didn’t you find anything on the list yet?” he said as he hurried toward me, pushing his laden cart.
I shook my head.
“God.” Damion stopped and put his hand to his heart. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”
I tried to smile. “It was a goblin. Can we go now?”
Damion eyed me more closely.
“You have something to tell me,” he said. “Let’s go. You can start talking in the car.”
Chapter Thirty-three
E—still haven’t rcvd bday gift—have you forgotten your mother? Mother
It seemed a long, long week.
Damion was not happy about my relationship with Doug. Of course, I hadn’t expected him to be—I’d only told him about Doug after the unsettling experience of seeing Carol in the supermarket. Damion’s clear disapproval weighed heavily on my mind. He’d assured me he wasn’t about to abandon our friendship; he’d also said that he would do nothing to foster the affair.
Then he’d revealed something about his past I’d not known. When Damion was ten and his sister, Sarah, was seven, their up-and-coming father had had an affair with his secretary, the whole classic deal, complete with a humiliating divorce which resulted in Damion, his mother, and sister moving into cramped quarters; his unskilled mother facing a merciless job market; and Damion and Sarah becoming latch-key kids.
The whole thing had left a bitter taste in Damion’s mouth, and if he was to be believed, and Damion never lied, to that day his mother hadn’t gotten over the hurt. That made Damion mad. That and the fact that his sister, now exactly my age, was still cruising the bar scene, playing Russian roulette with her life.
“Maybe her behavior has nothing to do with your parents’ divorce,” I said, reasonably.
“It has everything to do with their divorce.” Damion’s tone left no room for argument. “Did you know that neither of us has seen our so-called father for almost ten years? Why? No reason, other than the fact that he doesn’t give a shit about us, now that he’s got family number two. And did you know that my mother works two jobs? And that she doesn’t have the energy at the end of a long, hard day on her feet at the cash register to get out there and meet someone decent? Her life was over when her husband left. She had no current job skills, no personal savings. My father didn’t hit it big until after the divorce. So my mother had no serious alimony, no real money from him other than child support. Which, of course, is long over.”
I felt bad for Damion’s mother. I felt bad for Damion and his sister. But maybe, I thought, maybe I should also feel bad for Damion’s father. Maybe he’d been terribly unhappy at home. Maybe Damion’s mother was a horrible shrew. Maybe ...
Don’t be an ass, Reason said. You want to feel sorry for a man who hasn’t seen his children in ten years?
We don’t know the whole story, Romance said soothingly. We shouldn’t judge.
But Damion had judged and he’d found his father at fault. And he’d judged me at fault, too. Maybe I wasn’t as culpable as Doug, but I was definitely a willing—and guilty—player.
It all got me thinking, and thinking got me depressed. What had Carol done, I wondered, before marrying Doug? Before having kids and staying home with them? Suddenly, I was dying to know. I hoped she had been a lawyer or financial analayst, hoped she had the sort of career to which she could successfully return. If she had to. For some reason.
Curiosity has killed more than the inquisitive cat. It’s also killed countless good moods and otherwise pleasant rendezvous.
I met Doug Wednesday after work. It was the only time he was able to see me that week. Work was madness and his in-laws were visiting from Florida. Home duty called. I don’t know what lie Doug had told Carol to be able to meet me for an hour or two.
“First, a big family party,” he said, taking a long drink of his Scotch, “which I didn’t want. Now the in-laws’ visit, which I didn’t want. I told Carol now was not a good time for them to come but ...”
“But what?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager for the answer.
Doug set his glass down with a clank. “But it’s part of our deal, our division of labor and duties. Carol does home and family. I bring in the money to be spent on home and family.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I blurted, and wondered if I actually meant that.
“Who said anything about fair? It’s marriage. It doesn’t have to be fair. It just has to work.”
“Until one person can’t take it any longer.”
Doug eyed me warily. “I’m not saying I can’t take it any longer.”
Shit, Erin. Stupid thing to say.
“What did Carol do before she had the kids?” I asked.
We were seated at the bar. The bartender brought us our meals and Doug gestured for another Scotch.
“What did she do?” Doug repeated.
“Yeah, like, you know, career-wise.”
Doug picked at his food as he spoke.
“Not much. We got married when we were in our early twenties.”
So, Doug and Carol had been married for almost twenty years. The thought was staggering.
“Did she go to college?” I pressed.
“Of course. Everybody went to college. She just never had any real interest in a career. She worked part-time, she temped. She hung out with her sister and her nieces and nephews. She always wanted kids.”
I did a quick calculation. Doug’s children were four and six years old. That meant Doug and Carol had been married for about fourteen years before she gave birth. Another staggering thought. What did they do alone together all those years? If Carol wasn’t Doug’s soul mate, what had they talked about for fourteen years?
“Why didn’t she have kids sooner?” I said. Nothing mattered now but that I bludgeon myself with the intimate details.
Doug put down his fork and finally looked at me. “Because I didn’t want them,” he said. “I knew it would be the end for us. Not that there was much there in the first place. For me, anyway. Carol seemed happy enough.”
“What changed your mind?” I said, transfixed by this sad story.
Doug laughed harshly. “What changed my mind was Carol getting pregnant.”
“You mean ...”
“I mean she got pregnant. She said it was an accident. I don’t know. But she was ecstatic. She quit pretending to work. It was what she’d wanted all along. To be the wife and mother, that’s it. The particular husband doesn’t really matter much to her. She’s that type. She’s not very bright,” Doug said, his tone suddenly mean.
“I’m bright,” I said inanely.
Doug looked at me consideringly.
“I think you are,” he said at last, placing his hand on my knee. “Don’t let me down.”