Wife Living Dangerously (28 page)

“Don’t say anything,” Dr. Walcowicz told us. “Just stand there and stare at that bedroom window and remind yourself of all
the reasons why you promised yourselves you would never wind up like Janet and Harry.”

Something profound and elemental has shifted in our marriage. We are kinder to each other, and we’ve managed to relocate the
companionability as well as the physical attraction that first brought us together. Michael moved back to Legal Services and
his life is no longer consumed and defined by his job. He still plays with the band, but not as frequently. He is my lover
again and he is my friend. We’ve put an offer on a house downtown, a sweet yellow bungalow that needs a little TLC.

There is one question remaining, though. Did Michael have an affair with Edith Berry? I may never know.

I’m working late tonight, the kids are sleeping at their grandparents’ house, Michael and his band are playing at a fundraiser
for the Boys and Girls Club.

I am cataloging erotic French stereoscope pictures, picking at my salad, and drinking a flat Diet Coke. A storm is gathering
to the west; the wind whips through the stand of sycamore trees outside the window, a high, dead branch comes loose and smacks
against my window. I stare at the postcard in my hands, a mostly naked woman in garters and stockings perched like a Pekinese
on a floral ottoman in a Victorian room.

I look out the window across the quad. For a moment I wonder if Evan is in his office now, then I remember he’s no longer
here. After all his efforts to be a good citizen of the academy, he was denied tenure and is now teaching at Sarah Lawrence.
I know this because he told me in his very last e-mail to me, the one in which he said he misses me, thinks of me, even dreams
of me, but understands and respects my decision to stay married. I wished him well and haven’t heard from him since.

I look at my watch. There’s still time. I shove the stereoscope cards in the drawer and find my purse. Eighteen minutes later
I’m pulling into the cramped gravel parking lot of the Boys Club. I push through the door and can hear the dull thud of the
base and faint din of a party and as I get closer I can hear Michael’s sax rise above the music as he takes a solo on “New
York State of Mind” and, actually, he sounds like a real musician. I slip into the room and see my husband onstage, wearing
my favorite jeans and his Superdad T-shirt. His face brightens like a halogen lamp when he sees me. I move deeper into the
crowd and watch him from the floor. He watches me as he plays, as if every note in that transcendent solo is meant only for
me.

The band plays the opening bars of “Color My World.” Michael puts his sax on its stand and jumps off the stage.

“Shouldn’t you be up there?”

“I’d rather be here with you.” He slips an arm around my waist. “I want to dance with you,” he says, pulling me very close
to him, and I remember how much I’d enjoyed dancing with my husband and how much I’ve missed it. He dips his head to kiss
me, and gives me a lover’s kiss, moist and deep. He holds me tighter and I can feel his arousal.

“This will probably sound strange, under the circumstances, but I really want you right now.”

“Did you fool around with Edith Berry?” I whisper, bracing myself for the answer. “Did you? Are you?”

“What? Are you kidding?” Michael stops dancing and gives me the look he reserves for my least feasible propositions (adopt
a monkey instead of having a third child, turn the backyard into an organic vineyard, buy an old school bus and convert it
to a guest house). “Absolutely not.” He spins me around slowly and kisses me on the tip of my nose, then softly on the mouth.
“I have been an inattentive husband. I’ve been a workaholic husband. And I’ve been a forgetful husband. But I will never be
a philandering husband again. I have never wanted anyone but you, Mrs. Flanagan.”

I believe him.

Now as we move around the dance floor I find myself oscillating between relief and disappointment. If he’d been fooling around
with Edith Berry, my desktop escapades with Evan would have seemed virtuously self-restrained, planting me firmly on higher
moral ground. Instead, I’m a strumpet. I flirted with Evan Delaney, I played hooky with Evan Delaney, I had sex with Evan
Delaney. I remember Annie’s entreaty to lay my cards on the table. There is no telling where a full confession might lead.
It could help us create a fresh new relationship. It could also end everything. What would I say? Michael, we’re finally even.
You had Susie and I had Evan.

I look up at the kind, open, handsome face of the man I love. “Michael?”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“There’s, uh, something I need to tell you. Something you’re entitled to know.”

“Tell me, honey.” He brings my hands to his lips and kisses my fingertips. “You can tell me anything.”

“Michael…” I can hear my blood roaring in my ears. I take a deep breath and shut my eyes. This is it. “Michael?”

“Yes?”

“It’s about Homer.”

SARA SUSANNAH KATZ
lives in the suburbs of southern Indiana with her family. She writes about love, marriage, infidelity and sexuality.